Death in Daytime (12 page)

"Alex?"

"Oh, yes, I'm sorry," I said. "I was . . . thinking of something."

"Am I boring you?"

I was tempted to say yes, but I just shook my head.

"Okay, let's say Len--Detective Davis--is Ms. Blanchard, and you've just had your, uh, screaming match. As you leave, you grab the Emmy and . . . what? Show me."

I stared at him.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Throw it."

"Where?"

"At Len--Detective Davis."

"It--it'll break."

"You didn't worry about that the other day," Jakes said.

"Yes, I did," I said. "That's why I didn't throw it, I just . . . sort of . . . tossed it."

"Okay," Jakes said, "Show us. Toss it."

I looked at the Emmy, residing in its plastic evidence bag.

"Just pick it up with the bag," Jakes said, "and toss it."

I still stared at it. I remembered how angry I was at Marcy, and how I wanted to throw the Emmy right at her, maybe take off her head. I didn't feel that now.

"I can't--"

"Throw it!" Jakes shouted at me, galvanizing me into action. I grabbed the Emmy right in the center and tossed it at Davis, who caught it easily.

"That's it?" Jakes asked. "That's how you threw it at Marcy?"

"I told you," I said, my voice rising, "I didn't throw it."

"You tossed it."

"That's right."

Jakes looked at Davis, who seemed to give him a look that said, "See?" I guess Davis was my--or Tiffany's--champion.

"Okay, Alex," Jakes said. "You can go."

"I can?"

"Of course," Jakes said. "We're done." He perched a hip on the table, looking very relaxed.

"Am I . . . a suspect?"

"Like I told you before," Jakes said, "everybody's a suspect." "You haven't . . . um, crossed anybody off your list yet?"

"Oh, sure we have," Jakes said. "Quite a few people, in fact." Then he smiled and added, "But not you. Not yet. Don't leave town."

"Where would I go?"

"I don't know, really," Jakes said. "I just like saying that."

I looked over at Davis, who jerked his head toward the door. Was he telling me to get out while I could?

I got out.

And ran smack dab into a media frenzy.

"Did you do it, Alex? Did you kill Marcy? You hated her, right?" Flash, flash. I stopped myself from smacking one particularly annoying photographer who closely resembled a Chihuahua nipping at my heels. I jumped into my car and
really
got going.

I admit I was rattled during the ride home. For a few reasons. I almost rode up on the bumper of an SUV carrying several kids. I braked in time, thank God, and tried to concentrate the rest of the way home on both the road and my predicament--which raised many questions.

What had I proved or disproved for Detective Jakes by tossing the Emmy to Detective Davis the way I had? How much was Davis on my side--or my character, Tiffany's? Whom had Jakes eliminated as a suspect? And why had he made certain I knew I wasn't one of them?

They had released me just in time to pick Sarah up from her ballet lesson, to which my mother had driven her. I took her home, listening with half an ear to her stories about the day. I hated not giving my little girl my full attention, but what are you gonna do? I couldn't be all things all the time. Actress, mommy, detective . . . murder suspect, something had to suffer!

My mind was a jumble of thoughts and very few ideas. I needed to clear my head, but this time instead of surfing I decided to take the Speedster out for a spin.

When we got home the press had cleared out. They must have all gone to Parker Center, thank God. I took Sarah right to my mom's little house and since she knew I was still playing amateur detective, Momma took her without a word. (They loved each other so much I knew they'd have a ball together.) I really needed to get the Porsche out on the road. I eased Marilyn out of the garage, and settled into her old leather seat. (No, I didn't name my car after Marilyn Monroe. The previous owner did and despite my valiant efforts, the name stuck.) It felt so good having the gearshift in my hand. I looked over the dashboard like a pilot about to take off and pulled out onto Washington Boulevard. I was itching to put her into fourth, but I had to restrain myself and settle for enjoying the sound of her engine. Marilyn wanted to break out, too, so we headed off to Ocean Boulevard, passing the old craftsman houses and the occasional homeless person. In a few minutes I was cruising down PCH. I decided to take her to Malibu even though this time of day would mean traffic. There is a stretch of PCH north of Zuma Beach that is less congested. Maybe you've heard of it? Some guy a year or two ago took a Ferrari out and raced it against a Mercedes. He ended up crashing his car, then running away. I would try to be more careful.

I started to relax as I purred past the multimilliondollar beach houses. This part of California is as beautiful as any in the world. If you didn't know better, you would think you were somewhere on the Italian coast. I took a deep breath and finally began to process my situation.

I couldn't even believe that I was seriously considered a murderer. It still boggled my mind. Ultimately, I was wondering what it meant. I mean how did I attract this situation into my life and why? Was I supposed to learn something from it? (I mean other than the fact my cast mates thought I could kill?) I was a firm believer in the "everything happens for a reason" mentality. I'd lived in LA long enough that some airy "fairiness" was bound to rub off. But if God or the universe or the "whatever" was trying to make a point, couldn't they just spit it out? Why be so vague? Take out a billboard for God's sake!

Before I knew it, traffic had cleared out and I had a stretch of PCH basically to myself. I smoothly moved the shift into fourth and let her rip. For about ten seconds. Not that long but long enough for me to get a taste of what Marilyn was built for. I pulled over to the side of the road and watched the sunset. Perspective. I had to have faith this would all work out and make sense eventually. Just keep putting one foot in front of the other.

I had my cell with me and suddenly decided to try to call Lisa Daley. She'd been with the show a long time, so I had her in my directory.

"Alex, hi," she said. "You caught me coming in the door. I just left the studio."

"Hello, Lisa."

"Let me put a few things down . . . there. How are you? It must be hell catching flack in the press over this Marcy business." "I'm weathering the storm, Lisa," I said, wondering how to approach her. "I know the police are looking at some other people, so I'm not that worried."

"Other people?"

"You know, people connected with the show who might have had a grudge against Marcy."

"Well, they've spoken to me, of course, but I thought . . . um, I thought they were satisfied with what I told them. . . ."

"Lisa, I'm sure if you told them the truth--"

"I didn't," she said, suddenly. "I didn't tell them the truth. That's going to be bad for me, isn't it?"

I could see her in my mind's eye gnawing on a nail. She did that when she was nervous, or stressed. The directors hated it.

"Lisa, whatever you held back, I'm sure . . ."

"Sure what? Somebody else will tell them?"

"Well, it happened to me," I admitted. "I didn't tell them about my fight with Marcy, but they found out."

"Oh God," she said, "you know what she was doing to me, don't you? Treating me like a gopher . . . a . . . nobody?"

"I'd heard something about that."

"I hated that mean, conniving bitch, Alex," Lisa said, "but I didn't kill her. I could never do . . . what someone did to her. I could dream about it, but not do it, you know, with my own hands."

I could see what my problem was going to be with this amateur-detective gig. I was believing everyone.

"I'm sure you didn't, Lisa."

"What should I do?"

"Why don't you just wait for the police to ask you about it," I said. "They might not feel that it's enough of a motive for murder."

"But I think it is, Alex."

"What?"

"I think if she was treating someone else like this, they might have killed her. Someone . . . stronger than I am."

"Just because you didn't kill her doesn't make you weak."

"Thank you, Alex. Listen, I--I have to go. . . . Thanks."

"Sure," I said. "Bye."

It was pretty close to dark when I drove Marilyn back onto PCH and headed south.

I was still more inside myself when I pulled the car into the garage and hit the button to close the door behind me, so I guess I could be forgiven--or taken to task?--for what happened next.

The lights went out.

Well, they didn't really go out. That's the way I've seen it put in books, and the movies. What actually happened was I opened the car door, stepped out and got hit on the head. Instant pain, then blackness, and the rest of it was a jumble. . . .

I felt somebody grab me under the arms, drag me. . . .

My eyes wouldn't focus. I saw a bulky figure, but couldn't make out the face. . . . If the person spoke to me I never heard a voice because there was a ringing in my ears. . . .

Then came a smell. I knew it well, and knew that it was bad, but I couldn't move. . . .

Coughing woke me up, and I wondered who was choking up a lung, and then realized it was me. . . . Still couldn't move. . . .

I didn't see any white lights, but I either dreamed or hallucinated . . . I was surfing, all the time wondering why it smelled like I was driving. . . . The ocean didn't smell like that. ... There was no salt, just...fumes. . . .

And then there was a crash, and a bright light, and once again someone was grabbing me beneath the arms, lifting me, taking me into that light. . . . Was this the way it happened? I'd heard the stories about bright lights and spirits who helped you cross over. . . .

Someone slapped my face, and suddenly I could move. I swiped at the hand as it slapped me again, and then I heard Paul saying, "Alex, Alex, can you hear me? Alex!"

"Damn it, Paul," I heard myself say, "stop slapping me!"

The paramedics came and strapped an oxygen mask over my face. I could see dark fumes drifting out from the open garage.

I tried to talk, but the mask was an impediment, so I tried to remove it.

"Leave that on, miss," a paramedic said. As I continued to struggle to get the mask off, I saw my mother, and Paul, but not Sarah.

"Sarah," I said, into the mask.

Paul understood me.

"Sarah's fine," he said. "Don't worry. She's at your mom's with a policewoman."

"Police--," I said, looking around. Sure enough, there were some uniformed police wandering around, peering into the garage. The door seemed to be hanging at an odd angle.

"Nice car," I heard one say.

"Messed up this garage door, though," another one replied.

I looked up at Paul and asked, "What happened?"

Although it sounded like "Wha-hoppen?"

"When can we take that off her?" Paul asked the paramedic.

Before he could answer, someone else said, "How about now, so we can find out what the hell happened here?"

I craned my neck to see who was speaking and saw Detectives Jakes and Davis standing there.

"Who are you?" Paul demanded.

"Jakes," Jakes said, "and my partner, Davis. LA Homicide Desk. We had a talk with Ms. Peterson just this morning, and then heard this call come over the radio a few hours later." Jakes pointed and Davis walked over to the garage. "And you?"

"Paul Silas."

"Oh, you're the forensic boyfriend, right?"

"What did you talk to her about this morning?"

Paul asked.

"Just some aspects of the Marcy Blanchard case,"

Jakes said. He looked at the paramedic. "Can we take that mask off now? For a few minutes?"

"Just a few," he said. "She inhaled a lot of that crap. She should go to the hospital."

"She will," my mom said. "I'll make sure of it."

"And you are . . . ," Jakes asked.

"Her mother."

"Nice to meet you," Jakes said, and dismissed her. The paramedic took the mask off and I noticed that he looked like someone who wasn't old enough to even shave yet.

"How old are you?" was the first thing I said when the mask came off.

"I think she's all right," the kid said. "I'm thirty, ma'am, but I look young for my age."

"Excuse me," Jakes said, and the paramedic stepped aside.

I realized I was lying on a stretcher and, thankfully, he stepped between me and the sky. The sun wasn't high, but it was still pretty bright.

"Alex, can you tell me what happened?" Jakes asked.

"I--I don't know," I said. "I went for a drive, came back, pulled into the garage . . . the rest is a blur. . . ."

"I'm afraid you're gonna have to do better than that," he said.

"I can't . . . I don't even know . . ."

"Okay, that's enough," Paul said, stepping between me and Jakes. "She's disoriented and can't answer any questions."

"Well, she's gonna have to--," Jakes started, but Paul wasn't having any.

"She's going to the hospital to be checked over,"

Paul said. "If you want to talk to her, you'll have to wait for visiting hours."

Jakes and Paul were standing nose to nose, but suddenly I was no longer privy to their argument. I heard the paramedic say, "She's going under. . . ."

"Suicide."

I woke up with a start, then looked around to see where I was. A hospital room, and I was in semidarkness. Over by the door I saw Paul talking with two nurses; he seemed to be scolding them.

I tried to speak but nothing came out. There was the most foul taste in my mouth I'd ever experienced. I lifted my arm and waved until one of the nurses saw me. She said something to Paul and her coworker; then they came over to the bed while the first nurse walked away.

"Hey, sweetheart," the nurse said. She was probably close to my age but looked about ten years older.

"How you doin'?"

"W-water," I managed to rasp.

"I got it," Paul said. He poured some from a plastic pitcher into a plastic cup, then put in a straw and held it to my mouth. It was the best thing I'd ever tasted. I nodded and he took the cup away.