Soap Opera Slaughters (7 page)

“Did you show the clothing to the police?”

“No. I got rid of them.”

“You did
what?
”

Her eyes snapped open. “Don’t bark at me. I was frightened. I knew I had no alibi for Saturday. I didn’t want the police to find the clothes in my room.”

“How
did you get rid of them?”

It’s not important.”

It took all the reserve I had not to call her a string of names. Instead, I merely pointed out that what she’d done might be viewed as an obstruction of justice, maybe worse. Then I really zinged her. “Has it occurred to you that the police already may know the clothing was in your dressing room?”

“How could they?”

“You can bet they searched the studio from roof to basement What makes you imagine a team of professionals would miss something you saw immediately?”

“They told the public—”

“Just what they intend the public to know, nothing more. Maybe they wanted to see what you’d do with the clothing.”

“Oh, God!” Her went white. She raised her hands histrionically and pressed knuckles to temples, wincing.
“Oh, my God!
It was not her most impressive performance.

Up to then, Lara hadn’t said a word, but now she stood up and asked me to join her in the hall. McKinley was too caught up in her private
angst
to object.

I followed Lara into the corridor. When we were out of earshot she turned
so
suddenly I almost bumped into her. “Gene,” she snapped, “I asked you to help me calm her down. You’re upsetting her worse than ever.”

“Look, this whole business is poison. I can lose my license if I don’t report what she did with his clothes.”

“Surely
you won’t get in any trouble if you don’t report it tonight?” In her anger, her resemblance to Hilary was more pronounced than ever.

“I’d love to let it rest. I’m worn out and hungry as hell.”

Her manner softened at once. “Why? Didn’t you eat?”

“I didn’t have time. After you called, I showered and shaved and hopped in the car.”

“Poor baby!” She touched my cheek gently. “All to please Hilary’s cousin.”

“Correction—as a favor to you.”

“All right, let me atone. Say something comforting to Florence, then come home with me and I’ll fix you a light supper.”

The stuff of fantasy...a quiet tête-à-tête with a dream girl. Except I couldn’t. “Lara, that’s the best offer I’ve had all month, but I’ve still got to drive back to Philly tonight.”

“Absolutely not. I won’t hear of it, I can see you’re exhausted. If you had an accident on the road, I’d never forgive myself. And neither would Hilary.”

“But—”

“Hush, no arguments! You can use my sofa bed.”

I tried to convince myself that going home with Lara would solve nothing, but at that moment, my common sense decided to take a leave of absence.

I eased Florence’s mind on the subject of the police knowing about the clothes. No talk now about what I’d charge, she insisted I take her on as my client. I hedged on committing myself, but promised I’d at least look into the matter on her behalf.

“One condition, though...I want to see your dressing room immediately.”

“Tomorrow morning?”

The sooner the better. And while I’m there, I need to ask a few discreet questions around the studio.”

“I’ll make arrangements so you can,” Florence assured me, suddenly seized with the spirit of cooperation.

I waited at the hall entry while Lara fussed over her friend, plumping up the pillows of the armchair nearest the aquarium, turning off the air pump for the night—presumably to save Florence a few pennies in electricity—tuning in
WQXR
, bringing her enough Valium to sedate a horse.

“That’s how she gets ready for bed,” Lara explained. We said good night and left Florence McKinley staring peacefully at her fish while the strains of “The Perfect Fool” played over her
FM
.

S
TARLIGHT AND CHAMPAGNE CAN’T
hide an insult to the stomach. I’m quoting Hilary. A lot of men would have been glaucous with envy at the prospect of my late supper with Lara in her Riverside Drive penthouse, but the reality of thawed quiche, wilted salad and stale croissants only would have been marginally palatable if washed down with large drafts of Veuve Clicquot or at the very least, a few pints of Watney’s Red Barrel. I got mineral water, uncarbonated.

Lara’s apartment was lofty and slightly sumptuous. Florid floral arrangements graced polished mahogany bureaus, hand-woven straw placemats held down with sparkling silver service rested on a great curved glass dining table. Delicate crystal figurines danced motionless in carved shadow boxes on textured-paper walls that matched the deep-pile carpeting. The obligatory actor’s stock-in-trade of Stanislavski, Herman, Spolin, Corson and innumerable softcover playscripts filled the shelves of a tall lacquered oriental bookcase next to a beige armchair adjacent to a Lucite magazine caddy neatly stuffed with the latest numbers of
Cosmopolitan, Vogue, Glamour, People, Variety
and
Back Stage.
In the foyer, beside a pink-and-gold designer telephone placed on a butterfly-shaped end table, I saw the most recent issue of
Ross Reports,
the TV industry’s indispensable monthly update of the whereabouts of all major producers, casting personnel and talent agents.

Admittedly, interior design isn’t my long suit I suppose my tastes are still small-town Ohio, but Lara’s glossy, sleek apartment reminded me too much of one of those never-been-lived-in model rooms you see in the furniture department at Gimbel’s.

I nibbled at my feast as Lara nervously chatted about anything that occurred to her. She seemed determined to mention Hilary’s name at least once every minute. Her eyes kept glancing away from mine. When I was done eating, she asked me what I thought about her friend Florence’s predicament. Leaving the table, I chose the beige chair near the bookcase and sat down.

“Well, she’s in a jam,” I conceded. “How bad I can’t say. If she’d tell me the truth—”

Lara frowned. “You think she’s lying?”

“She’s certainly holding back information. Like the name of the woman she thinks Niven was seeing on the side. And what she did with his clothing. And why she thinks she’s being set up.

“Surely,” Lara interposed with a flip of her hand, “that’s because she feels the mysterious woman deliberately put the clothing in her room.”

“But there’s a two-way discrepancy. Number one—why didn’t the police find the garments if they’ve been there all weekend?”

“You told Flo they might’ve been left there by the inspector to trap her.”

“I said that to rattle her into divulging what she did with them. Lou Betterman’s style isn’t subtlety. If he suspected her, he would have hit her with it when he questioned everybody this morning at the studio.”

“So you don’t think the police
are
watching Florence?”

Her inflection made me look up. “Why?”

“This afternoon she thought someone was spying on her.”

“Where? When?”

“Outside her house in Brooklyn Heights. I rode there with Florence in the limo. We went straight from the studio. On the way up the front steps, she turned around and claimed there was a man in a dark coat watching her.”

“Did you see anyone?”

“No. When I turned, she said he’d concealed himself in a doorway across the street I couldn’t spot him, though.”

“Maybe,” I suggested drily, “it was one of Florence’s loyal fans.”

The ghost of a smirk on Lara’s lips. “All right, what’s the other discrepancy that makes you think she wasn’t telling the truth about finding the clothes this morning?”

“Presumably,” I said, “discovering his things frightened Florence into thinking they were planted deliberately to cast suspicion on her. Isn’t that the impression she gave you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, if that’s the case—and if she really
did
find the clothing early this morning—how come she already thought someone was trying to frame her
yesterday
afternoon?”

Lara’s forehead furrowed, then she realized what I meant “My God, she told me that on the phone when I called her long distance from your place!”

“Exactly. Roughly fourteen hours before she allegedly saw his 7½ triple Es beneath her makeup table.”

We pondered it, but came up with nothing of any particular value. Lara brushed aside a strand of silky hair from her eyes, put her chin in her hand and regarded me thoughtfully.

“A penny?” I suggested.

“You know, Gene, I have a good idea who this hypothetical other woman is. Want to exchange secrets?”

“Hmm?”

“I’m curious what Flo thought so important she had to send me out of the room to tell you.”

“Sorry, Lara, that’s privileged information.”

“Then I suppose it has something to do with the ‘Riverday’ ‘Bible.’”

I tried to act casual but Lara laughed and as she did, a deep dimple appeared in her left cheek, the mirror image of Hilary’s. “Better take acting lessons, love, you don’t exactly have a poker.”

“Why do you think we were discussing the ‘Bible’?”

“The context just before she hustled me into the kitchen. It’s a commonly known fact she holds plenty of behind-the-scenes clout when it comes to the developing storyline. If Flo takes a disliking to a new actor, chances are the character she plays will catch a fatal disease just before her contract comes up for reoption.”

“Which suggests another line of speculation,” I said. “How did Florence feel about Kit Yerby? She said she was fired recently.”

“True. And Flo didn’t like her, Kit was too friendly with Ed. Or tried to be.”

“So you think Florence suspects her?”

“I’d say no. Ed didn’t encourage Kit. But on the other hand, Kit was written out rather abruptly.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning Florence may have had her fired.”

“How could she do that?”

“A star has a lot of clout, Gene,” Lara explained. “And Florence loves to dig up interesting little facts about everyone she can, just in case she needs extra leverage with Ames. I’m probably the only person in the entire cast she doesn’t keep a file on or talk about behind my back.”

“I wouldn’t bet on that,” I remarked drily. “When you were out of the room, she couldn’t resist a little slap at you, either.”

“Oh?”

“According to our dear Ms. McKinley, you are not the soul of discretion.”

Lara suddenly yawned. “Excuse me, Gene. I’ve had about enough of Flo’s neurotic friendship for one evening. It’s getting close to my bedtime.”

“Spare just one more minute, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Might Kit Yerby have blamed Ed for losing her role?”

“Enough to push him off a roof?” She gave me a sardonic smile. “Gene, normal soap actors don’t go crazy when they’re written out. It happens too often, a normal business risk. Kit’s agent already got her on another show...in fact, Ed helped arrange it.”

“I see. Then who
do
you think Florence’s other woman is?”

“No question about it, Gene, it’s Joanne Carpenter. She and Flo hate each other.”

“Why?”

“The story is that Flo took Ed away from Joanne a long time ago.” She put her hand over her mouth and yawned again. “Gene, I’ve really got to get some sleep. The limo arrives early.”

I followed her to the linen closet and she handed me bed things. I would have kissed her good night, but Lara backed off and I found myself two inches from her cheek. We agreed on an arm’s-length handshake, but I could have sworn she felt the same as I did at that moment “Sleep well, love,” Lara murmured, then hurried to her room.

1:45
A.M
. The apartment was dark except for the dim amber glow of a digital alarm clock near me. Through filmy window curtains I saw the cool light of remote stars beckoning me to a party I could never attend.

I couldn’t sleep. The hardness of the sofa bed did not place my spine in a state of grace. Yet in the past I’ve tolerated army cots and sleeping bags. It was my brain that refused to switch off. Unanswerable questions played tag in my head, repeating over and over again like an endless loop of tape. I tried to lull myself by meditating on the subtle variances of Hilary’s and Lara’s faces, but that was not conducive to rest. I cast about for another topic and hit upon Joanne Carpenter, Florence’s supposed Nemesis.

Joanne was one of the few remaining cast members of “River-day’s” original lineup of actors. She portrayed Eloise Savage, a semivillainous manipulator of securities and lives who loved power almost as much as she longed for Dr. Matt Jennett, older brother of Roberta, played by Lara—

Why was it so hard to get her out of my mind? It was more than mere libido. The ghost of an idea almost surfaced, only to be exorcised by the recollection of Lara’s frank, appraising smile.

Damn.

I concentrated with renewed determination on Joanne Carpenter, re-creating in my mind’s eye her physical appearance as she last looked on “Riverday”: thin, graceful, smartly dressed in a kelly green suit that complemented her copper hair and hazel eyes. Her low-drooping lids—rather reminiscent of Lauren Bacall’s—made her appear slightly dissipated. And very sexy.

I mused on my oversusceptibility to women’s eyes. I see too much in them. Hilary’s alleged vulnerability, masked by flint. The frightened waif deep within Florence McKinley who assumed regal airs and lied with that guileless innocence actors share with children.
But what if she’s really a cobra?

Lara—
thinking about her again—
was different, at least. Her eyes were direct and frank and if they said things she wasn’t ready to act upon, that was her prerogative as a woman, I supposed. At least she didn’t look at me as if she wanted to make me over in her father’s image.

I told myself I was being as foolish about her as I’d been in the past over Hilary. Too quick to equate good character with good looks. Obliterating reality instead of relishing its blemishes.
A subtler sort of sexism.

A feeble ray of light stole across the living room as I lay in darkness. Sitting up like the old man in a Poe story, I saw Lara standing in the chiaroscuro created by the lamplight spilling through her bedroom door. The glow penetrated her filmy gown.