Hollywood Secrets (2 page)

I hooked my camera up to my computer, and a couple clicks later a series of shots of the vivacious Miss Jamie Lee Lancaster popped up on my flat screen.

A New York native, Jamie Lee had first hit Hollywood’s radar three years ago when she’d appeared in an independent film that had garnered a record number of nominations, including one for the unknown actress. She’d lost to a film veteran playing a nun that night, but she’d captured the hearts (and money-making eyes) of Hollywood. The following summer she’d starred in a romantic comedy that ended up being the season’s sleeper hit, and the following year she’d taken the role of her career opposite Trace in the mega-action Memorial Day opener
Die Tough
. She’d made millions and caught the attention of Hollywood’s most eligible bachelor – a status she was making short work of changing.

I scrolled through the photos I’d taken of her that afternoon. Jamie in a strapless white gown. In a spaghetti-strap ivory gown. In a snow white, puff-sleeved thing that billowed around her ankles like a chiffon cake. Fifteen dresses in all. As you can guess, she did not, in fact, settle on one today. Instead, I’d watched as she whined about the imperfections of each one, tossing aside the pricey gowns as carelessly as if they were bargain bin T-shirts in her haste to try on the next. With the wedding a mere three weeks away, you’d think she’d be a little more decisive. But in Jamie Lee’s world, dressmakers worked miracles with last-minute alterations. This decision could make or break her next film contract, and as long as photographers like myself were hounding her, we weren’t likely to see the final version of her nuptial masterpiece until the blessed day itself.

I picked out a few of the clearest shots I’d been able to get through the glass front windows of Bebe’s Bridal Salon and transferred them to my photo editing program. Then I did a little fancy enhancing – whitening up the whites, cropping out the homeless guy hanging around outside, erasing the few flyaway strands of hair around Jamie Lee’s ears – and sent them off to Felix through the
Informer
’s secure network.

Next I checked my daily to-do list from Felix. And groaned. It was twenty photos long.

My boss was wasn’t what you’d call a big spender. In fact, I was the only on-staff photographer the
Informer
currently employed, Felix preferring to buy the occasional shot from freelancers than fork out another whole salary. Unfortunately, that left yours truly with the job of cropping, editing, and formatting every picture that came through our offices. I glanced down at my watch. Twenty minutes to five. What were the chances Felix would pay for overtime?

“
Hey, Cam?”

I looked to my right to find a pair of bloodshot eyes staring at me over the top of my cubicle. They were set in a jowly face surrounded by a mess of gray hair that looked at least a month past a decent haircut. Max Beacon, the
Informer
’s only original employee. Original, as in he’d been here since the wheel was the invention de jour. I wasn’t sure of Max’s exact age, but rumor had it his liver was at least a hundred and three, having been subjected to daily toxic infusions of Jim Beam since before any of us were a glimmer in our parents’ eyes.

Max wrote the
Informer
’s obits and had his own remembrance ready to go, detailing how he’d died of cirrhosis of the liver, and tacked to the fabric walls of his cubicle right above a poster of a furry kitten clinging to a branch with a defiant, “Hang in there, baby.” To say he was a character was an understatement. Hard not to have a soft spot for a guy like that.

“
Hey, Max. What’s up?” I asked.

“
Need a photo to run with a story.”

“
Dead guy?”

Max nodded. “Gal, actually. Jennifer ‘Tootsie’ Wilson. Forties screen siren.”

“
Great name.” Though it was probably fake. Chances were she’d been born Gertrude Burnbaum or some other hideous combination. Most celebs of the time had recreated themselves with fake names the second they’d hit the West Coast, a practice that hadn’t entirely died out as P. Diddy and Lady Gaga could tell you.

“
How’d she die?” I asked.

“
She was murdered back in ’45. I’m doing a piece on the anniversary of her death.”

“
Murdered, huh? Very film noir.”

“
Think you could find me a picture of her?”

I looked down at my mile long to-do list. “Um… well…”

“
Thanks, kid. I really appreciate it.”

“
Sure.” I pulled up a Hollywood archive site on my computer. “So, who killed her?” I asked, typing the year into the site’s search engine. “Jealous husband? Lover?”

Max shrugged, his shoulders kissing his jowls. “Don’t know. The police never solved it.”

I did a low whistle. “That’ll sell copy.”

“
Let’s hope. Felix keeps threatening to cut me back to weekly. He says the only reason people in Hollywood read the tabloids is to see if they’ve been mentioned. My guys? They’re not reading much anymore.”

“
Ouch. Sorry.”

He shrugged again. “I’ve survived worse.”

“
I’ll email a pic of your murdered starlet as soon as I find her,” I promised.

Max nodded, then ducked back out of view, lumbering off to his own cube.

I typed Tootsie’s name into the search field, coming up with a half dozen shots of the actress in question. I clicked the first one, a black and white deal, enlarging it to full screen. She was a slim woman, her sleek forties ‘do curling under at her shoulders in a flattering wave. She was posing on a divan, a gauzy curtain flowing behind her. Exactly the type of scene that screamed old Hollywood glamour. She had smooth, pale skin and dark lips I could only assume were swathed in the popular blood red lipstick of the time. A strand of pearls was carelessly hung around her neck, her blonde hair pinned and tucked to perfection. I could easily see her playing opposite Cary Grant or Clark Gable without missing a beat. And her eyes sparkled with a quiet confidence that said she knew it, too.

Compared to Jamie Lee, she practically oozed sophistication.

I typed my username and password into the site and paid my usage fee. In return, I was shuttled to a page with a non-watermarked, high-res version of the photo. I quickly downloaded it and did a little cropping to get in close on her face, then sent the photo off to Max.

That task done, I dug into Felix’s to-do’s. An hour later, I finally had them whittled down to an impressive spread for tomorrow’s paper. I did one last email check before leaving, scanning for any time-sensitive tips on celebrity happenings that night. One party in the hills, attended by all the usual suspects. Nothing really newsworthy there. A rumor that Courtney Cox was sporting a baby bump, which I filed away to check up on later. If it were true, I’d catch her at the farmer’s market that Sunday. And one reported sighting of Joan Rivers’ latest nose. Though, honestly, how you could tell one version from the next, I wasn’t all that sure. But I made a note to do the plastic surgeon rounds soon anyway. Those post-op, bandaged-like-a-mummy shots always sold well.

I was just doing my due diligence as an
Informer
employee by updating my Twitter followers with the latest on the Wedding Watch, when I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked up to find a purpled-haired woman in a pink, skull-printed baby tee hovering over my desk.

“
She pick a dress yet?” she asked, squinting at my tweet on the screen.

Tina Bender was the
Informer’s
gossip columnist extraordinaire and reigning goddess of dishing dirt on everyone who was anyone in this town. Trace and Jamie Lee included. Tina and I had bonded immediately when I’d come on board two years ago. Not that we had much in common looks-wise, but I’d immediately admired her brash, tell-it-like-it-is style. Most days I wished I had half the guts Tina did.

“
Nope. The dress is still up in the air. But you’ll be the first to know.”

“
Damn. I’m short today and was hoping to pad my column.”

I cocked an eyebrow at her. “How about a top shelf actor caught swimming in the nude?”

Tine punched me in the shoulder. “Get out! Seriously? Who?”

“
Trace Brody.”

“
Dude.” She leaned in close. “You saw Trace’s wee willy winkie?”

I nodded. Not able to wipe the stupid smirk off my face as I recalled his picture-perfect body cutting through his picture-perfect swimming pool. True art, I tell ya.

“
So dish.”

“
What do you want to know?”

“
Quarter roll or Kaiser roll?”

I choked back a laugh. “Um, definitely Kaiser.”

“
Jamie Lee is so lucky.”

No kidding. I glanced at my desk clock. “I’ll tell you all about it over dinner? Chinese?”

Tina bit her lip. “Oh, I wish I could. But I’ve actually already got plans tonight.”

I tossed an eyebrow. “Hot lead?”

She shook her head. “Nope, tickets to the gun show with Cal.”

I grinned. “Gun show? Is that what you kids are calling it these days?”

Cal was the built bodyguard Tina had recently started seeing. And when I say “seeing,” I mean they spent every waking moment together, fawning over each other like a couple of teenagers. Most of the time it straddled that fine line between incredibly romantic and downright nauseating. But Cal was the first guy I’d ever seen Tina get serious about, so I cut her a little slack.

“
No,” she clarified. “I mean an actual gun show. Cal wants me to start carrying. He’s going to help me pick out something.”

“
You ever shot a gun before?”

She shrugged. “There’s a first time for everything. I’m just hoping they have one in pink.”

I grinned. “Good luck,” I said. “I’ll email you the Brody pics.”

“
Awesome! And, hey do me a favor…” Tina looked over both shoulders for eavesdroppers before continuing. “If any leads come in overnight, forward them to me, huh? Allie’s been scooping me lately and making me look bad.”

Allie Quick was the newest edition to the
Informer
’s staff and had somehow landed herself in the position of Tina’s arch nemesis. Which, I guess looking at the two side by side would be inevitable. Allie was blonde, bubbly, and had the body of a
Playboy
bunny – basically the embodiment of everything Tina wasn’t. Personally, I had no beef with New Girl, but, then again, I wasn’t competing for page space with her either.

“
Will do,” I promised as Tina sauntered off with a wave.

Which, I supposed, left me eating Chinese for one.

Again.

* * *

After picking up a carton of broccoli bean curd at the vegetarian place around the corner, I pointed my Jeep toward home. Which for me was a studio loft above a surf shop in Venice. While we were at least a block from the beach, my third-floor studio was high enough above the trendy shops and tourist attractions to afford me a prime view of the ocean at a bargain price. Okay, well from the bedroom, I had a view of a corner of the ocean if I stood on tiptoe and craned my neck around the head shop across the alleyway. But, if I climbed onto the roof, the view was priceless.

Which was what I did as soon as I got home.

I dropped my camera bag inside the door, extracting my Nikon and taking it with me into the kitchen. I stuck a fork in my back pocket for the bean curd and dug in the fridge for a bottle of chardonnay. Forgoing a glass, I kicked off my shoes and padded barefoot out onto the fire escape. Carefully juggling my takeout and my wine, I climbed up the short flight to the roof, plopping myself into a folding chair near the AC vent.

I dug into my dinner, then took a long sip of chardonnay, the cool liquid a perfect contrast to the spicy tofu as it warmed my insides. I leaned my head back on the chair, watching the sun paint pink, purple, and golden hues along the ocean’s surface. I inhaled deeply, catching just the faintest whiff of saltwater over the eau de car exhaust from the PCH.

I’ll admit, I hadn’t always been a fan of the California lifestyle. When I’d first moved here from Montana ten years ago, the city had thrown me into total culture shock. I was used to our family ranch, horses, skies so clear they looked like artists’ paintings, air so clean it smelled like fresh rain all the time. And quiet. Something that you could never find in L.A. It drove me nuts those first few weeks and made me so homesick I’d cried myself to sleep every night.

Of course, I was only sixteen then, dreams of gracing glossy magazine covers anchoring me in the city even as my heart broke for the quiet hills of home.

I’d been discovered by Hal Levine of the Levine Modeling Agency when, after a nervous breakdown over a
Cosmo
shoot, his therapist had suggested a nice, quite vacation at a Montana dude ranch. Hal had reluctantly agreed and spent the next three weeks getting saddle sores and mosquito bites. I’d taken a summer job at the ranch caring for the horses, who, after being ridden all day by overweight tourists, I had much more sympathy for than the saddle-sore city slickers. Hal had picked me out right away and handed me his card. At first, I’d chucked it. I mean, how many times have we all heard the stories of the “agent” luring the teenager into the city, only to see her face weeks later on the ten o’clock news? Besides, I was not what you’d call a girly girl. While the California girls had played with Barbie and taken ballet lessons, I’d been making mud pies in a pair of hand-me-down overalls. Being a supermodel was the last thing I’d envisioned for myself.