Killer Cocktail (12 page)

Footage from the set of
A Winter's Night
5/5/96

Barry sits in his chair. The set is mostly empty. He picks up his phone and dials a number.

BARRY

Hey, CeCe, it's me. Yeah, I know, but I'm not going to be able to make it. I know, babe, I'm sorry. It's just Frank came tearing through here today and blew a gasket about some stupid prop. Huh? A Coke bottle. Yeah. I know. Anyway, Jeff and I are going to try and edit the scene if we can. Otherwise I'll have to reshoot it and that's going to set us back even further. Hmmm? I honestly don't know, but it could be a few hours. Yeah. I will. No, don't be silly. Go ahead without me. Yeah, I'm sure. Tell Dave and Macy that I'm sorry. Maybe try and set something up for next week. Okay. Okay. Yeah. I will. Okay. You too. Bye, doll.

Barry hangs up the phone. A minute later a man walks by. He is casually dressed in jeans and a T-shirt.

BARRY (to the man)

Hey, Jeff. Thanks for helping me reedit that scene today. Who knew a Coke bottle could cause so much grief ?

JEFF

Yeah, so much for having a Coke and a smile, eh?

BARRY

You said it. Anyway, thanks. You saved my ass. Have a good night.

JEFF

You too, Barry. See you tomorrow.

Jeff leaves. Barry waits a minute and then pulls out his phone and dials a number.

BARRY

Hey, babe, it's me. Yep, all set. I'll be over in about fifteen, okay? (smiling) Yeah, me too.

He hangs up the phone.

twenty-six

“I wouldn't take what
my mother says too seriously,” Christina said with an apologetic smile. “As you could probably tell, she hated Melanie. Absolutely hated her. Melanie could be difficult at times, I grant you, but she wasn't a monster.”

“Are you kidding me?” Mandy said in real surprise. “She was a first-class bitch! Why are you defending her?”

“I'm not defending her,” Christina answered. “I'm just saying that she wasn't as bad as you're making her out to be.”

“We are talking about Melanie Summers, correct?” Mandy asked.

Christina opened her mouth to reply but closed it when she noticed that her assistant had come out to the terrace. “Ms. Franklin,” the woman said in a nervous voice, “I'm sorry to interrupt, but there's a detective here to see you. He says that it's important that he speak with you.”

Christina's face paled and her eyes grew wide. She threw a worried glance at Sebastian who gave her a nod of reassurance. “Thank you, Ann,” she finally said. “Please have him come out here.”

Ann nodded and disappeared back into the house. Nigel and I took our cue to leave. “We should be going,” I said. “Thank you again for lunch and for taking the time to talk to us.”

“It was my pleasure, although I don't think I was of much help,” Christina said, rising as well. “But please keep me posted on your employee.”

“I definitely will,” I said. Nigel and I said our good-byes and were heading back into the house when Detective Brady came out onto the patio. Seeing me, he came to a sudden stop. He did not appear happy to see me.

“Good afternoon, Detective Brady,” I said with a smile. “How nice to see you again.”

“I didn't know you were here,” he said, his mouth pulling down into a frown.

“Well, we'll be sure to add that to the list,” Nigel said, as he put his hand on the small of my back and began to steer me away.

“What's that supposed to mean?” Detective Brady demanded.

Nigel paused and glanced back over his shoulder with a sigh. “Okay,” he said in an indulgent tone, “We'll add that one too, but I've got to warn you—the list of thiings you don't know is getting pretty long.”

Footage from the set of
A Winter's Night
5/7/96

Melanie is sitting at a table wearing a white robe. Her hair is arranged in a reverse roll. She is eating from what appears to be a cup of yogurt. Frank walks toward her, his expression one of forced joviality.

FRANK

Well, there you are! How's my beautiful star today?

MELANIE (holding up the cup)

“Well, I'm in the club!”

FRANK

I understand you had a rough morning.

MELANIE

I threw up, Frank. Actually, to be more specific, I threw up on
John
. How the hell do you think I am? I'll give you a hint, though. It ain't beautiful.

FRANK (faltering)

Ahh, yes. I think I heard something about that.

MELANIE

You
think
you heard something about that? Really, Frank? You're not sure? ‘Cause, I got to tell you, if I heard about someone not only puking in front of the entire crew, but also all over her leading man, I
think
I might remember it. But then, I guess that's just me. I've always been pretty good about remembering things. I guess it's what makes me such a good actress.

FRANK

You're upset.

MELANIE (laughing)

Frank. Upset doesn't begin to even remotely cover it.

FRANK (soothingly)

Well, I'm here to help. Tell me what I can do. You know I'll do anything for you.

MELANIE (stares at him for a beat)

Really? Like what?

FRANK

Come on, Melanie. I'm here for you. You know that. Tell me what you need so we can get you back to work. Remember, we have a picture to make. And this role, honey, it's going to put you back on top.

MELANIE (scoffs)

Yeah, Frank. So you keep telling me. But if it's all the same to you, I'm not sure if I want to be back on top.

FRANK (indulgent tone)

That's crazy talk. You've just got that stomach bug that's going around. Everything feels worse when you're sick. Take the rest of the day off, and I'm sure you'll feel better by tomorrow. These things usually run their course in twenty-four hours or so.

MELANIE

Actually, Frank. There is something you can do for me.

FRANK (smiling)

See? I knew I could help. Just name it.

MELANIE (turning her back to him)

Don't let the door hit your ass on the way out.

twenty-seven

“Mr. Martini,” I said,
linking my arm through his, “I have a proposition for you.”

“I'll do it,” Nigel said immediately.

“Don't you want to hear what it is first?”

“Mother said never play hard to get.”

I laughed. “Your mother said no such thing.”

Nigel cocked his head. “You might be right about that. Now that I think about it, it was dark and I….”

“Don't be ridiculous. I was going to suggest that you make me your dirtiest martini, we finish watching the tapes, and find what we're looking for.”

“In the tapes or in the martinis?” he asked.

“Both if you're lucky,” I answered.

Nigel grinned at me. “I do like the way you think, Mrs. Martini.”

An hour later, Nigel and I were comfortably settled in our home office, with martinis, a remote, and notepad all within easy reach.

The footage was what you'd expect from a fourteen-year-old with her first handheld camcorder. There were a lot of jerky shots and segments when it was apparent that Danielle was looking at something with her own eyes and not through the camera lens. Not surprisingly, most of Danielle's footage was of John Cummings. There could be no doubt that she had a massive crush on the then twenty-three-year-old actor; she kept him in the focus of her lens as much as possible. It wasn't hard to see why. John was a good-looking man, but at age twenty-three he still had that non-threatening puppy-dog quality that made him a safe crush for teenage girls.

I was well into my second martini when Nigel picked up the remote and paused the tape. “You know what I think?”
he said.

“What?”

“I think Melanie was pregnant.”

“Because she threw up?”

“Well, that and what she just said to Frank. I don't think that's yogurt she's holding up there. I think it's pudding.”

I frowned at him. “Pudding?”

He nodded. “‘In the pudding club' is slang for being pregnant. I think that's a cup of pudding Melanie is holding when she says, ‘I'm in the club.'”

“Wait. It is? Seriously?”

He nodded again. “Seriously.”

“Do I even want to know how you know that?” I asked.

“I was in the Hasty Pudding Club at Harvard. Among other things, I learned how to make a mean pot of hasty pudding.” He paused and added, “Of course, my Spotted dick was something of a legend.”

I shook my head. “I don't know why I always assume you're kidding.”

I paused the tape and rewound it. “It seems someone else knew what it meant, too.” I pointed to the figure just visible on the left side of the screen. Eyes round with understanding slowly morphed into an expression of furious disgust.
Nigel sat back and looked at me with surprise. “Well, I'll be
damned,” he said with a low whistle.

“Probably,” I agreed, leaning over and kissing him lightly on the mouth. “But first let's have dinner. How do omelets sound?”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Good,” I said. “I'll have mine with onions.”

Nigel laughed. “Fine. I'll make you an omelet, but no onions.”

I smiled at him. “Deal.”

twenty-eight

We had just finished
dinner when the phone rang. It was Mandy. Her voice was shaking. “What's wrong?” I asked.

“That idiot detective is what's wrong,” she said. “I think he thinks Christina attacked DeDee!”

“Why? What did he say?”

“Oh, nothing
specific
, but I could tell. You have to help her, Nic, I know Christina, and she wouldn't harm a fly.”

“What do you want
me
to do?” I asked.

“I want you to help me prove that she didn't do it!” Mandy wailed.

I paused. “I don't think Detective Brady wants me involved.”

“I don't give a rat's ass what that cheap suit wants!” Mandy exclaimed. “I
know
Christina is innocent. Please, Nic, you've got to help her. She's been through enough lately. This will kill her.”

I refrained from pointing out that this was an unlikely occurrence and asked, “What do you want me to do exactly?”

“I don't know! You're the detective!”

“Ex-detective,” I corrected.

“Whatever. Just talk to people. See what you can find out.”

I sighed before answering. “I'll see what I can do,” I finally said. “But how do you propose I do this? I have no legal authority to just start interviewing people.”

“I've already figured that part out,” said Mandy. “I can get you to see whomever you need; starting tomorrow, in fact.”

“What's tomorrow?” I asked.

“Barry is getting his Star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. Afterward, the studio is throwing him a party downtown at the
Beverly Wilshire Hotel. Everyone will be there. I already spoke with Barry, and he wants you and Nigel to come.”

I considered the offer. “All right,” I said. “We'll be there. Text me the details.”

Mandy let out a sigh of relief. “Thanks, Nic. I owe you.”

“Well, I want to find out who attacked DeDee, too. In the meantime, you might be able to help me find someone. Sara Taylor.”

Mandy was quiet a moment. “Who?” she asked.

“Sara Taylor,” I repeated. “Melanie Summers's personal assistant.”

“Oh, that's right. Now I remember.” She paused and then said, “I don't know where she is off the top of my head, but let me see what I can find out.”

“Thanks, Mandy. I appreciate it.”

“Are you kidding? I'm the one who should be grateful. Tell Nigel I'll give him and his parrot all the airtime he wants next year.”

“If you're really grateful,” I warned, “you'll do no such thing.”

Within an hour, Mandy texted me Sara Taylor's address and the details about Barry's event. The former was still living in LA, not too far from us. Nigel called and introduced himself, saying that he needed to get her consent to publish the videos. She agreed, although reluctantly. We arranged to meet at her house around nine the following morning.

Nigel and I then retired for the night. In hindsight, it was a good idea to skip the onions.

twenty-nine

The next morning, Nigel
insisted that Skippy accompany us, claiming that ever since the break-in he'd been skittish. “Are we talking about you or Skippy?” I'd asked. I was subsequently advised that I was unattractive when I was snide.

For the most part, I have gotten used to the stares Nigel and I receive when we go out with Skippy. It's the ones we get when we take him out in the car that are a little harder to adjust to. Nigel drives a c
ream-colored vintage 1968 DB6 Aston Martin convertible. When Skippy sits in the back, we appear to be a parade float that has drifted o
ff course.

Sara Taylor lived a few miles north of downtown LA in a remodeled Venice Craftsman bungalow in the affluent beachside community of Marina del Rey. We left Skippy happily curled up on the backseat and made our way to the door. Our knock was promptly answered by a woman who bore little resemblance to the one on the tapes. Gone was the woman who hid in drab, shapeless outfits. This Sara was slim and fashionably dressed. Her long caramel-colored hair was expertly highlighted and hung in soft curls over her shoulders. Large blue eyes regarded us without the aid of thick glasses. Quiet confidence had replaced the nervous tension I'd witnessed on the tapes.

“You must be Nigel and Nicole Martini,” she said with a gracious smile. “It's lovely to meet you. Won't you please come in?”

We followed her through a comfortable living room with wainscoting boxed ceilings, beadboard wall coverings, all tastefully decorated in various hues of blue and cream. From there we walked out onto the private back patio. Nigel and I sat on a cushioned wicker loveseat and accepted Sara's offer of coffee. “You have a lovely house, Ms. Taylor,” I said.

“Please, call me Sara. But thank you,” she said as she poured out three cups of coffee.

“How long have you lived here?” asked Nigel, as he accepted his cup.

“Oh, I guess it's close to seventeen years now,” she said.

“Do you still work in Hollywood?” I asked.

Sara took a sip of her coffee and shook her head. “No. After Melanie's death, I guess you could say I lost my taste for the film industry. It destroys too many lives.”

“I see.” I said as I glanced around the plush surroundings. “Well, you certainly seem to be the exception to that rule.”

A wary look crept in her eyes. “Melanie left me a little bit of money in her will. I made some wise investments and they paid off.” She put her coffee cup down on the table with a decided clank. “You mentioned something about paperwork on the phone…?” she prompted.

“Oh, yes,” said Nigel. “It's just a standard release form giving us permission to use your image. Obviously, we won't include any footage that could prove embarrassing.”

Sara raised an eyebrow. “I don't recall doing anything embarrassing.”

“Oh, no, of course you didn't,” Nigel said easily. “I meant that more as a universal term; not in regards to you.”

She smiled slowly. “I see. Well then from what I can remember, you may find yourself having to cut out a lot.”

Nigel flashed his most engaging smile. “Yes. There does seem to have been a certain amount of…shall we say ‘tension' among certain people on the set?”

Sara nodded. “Yes, I believe it would be safe to say that. Hollywood egos are a breed unto themselves.”

“Melanie and John Cummings seemed to especially butt heads,” I said.

Sara laughed softly. “They certainly did,” she agreed. “But that was them. Fire and Ice, I used to call them. To them, fighting was a kind of foreplay.”

“So, you think that they would have gotten back together had Melanie not died?” I asked surprised.

Sara gave an adamant nod. “Without a doubt. It was just a matter of time.”

“But from the footage, it seemed that Johnny had moved on and was with Christina Franklin,” I said.

Sara shrugged. “He wouldn't have stayed. Not while Melanie was still around. She was in his blood. It was as simple as that. Those two couldn't stay away from each other if they tried.”

“It sounds like you knew her very well,” I said. “How long did you work for her?”

Sara paused. “Seven years,” she said quietly.

“I'm sorry if we're bringing up a painful subject,” Nigel began, but Sara waved him off.

“No, it's fine,” she said. “It was difficult for me at the time, of course. We'd been quite close in our own way.”

“Did you have any idea that she was using drugs again?” I asked.

Sara shook her head. “None at all. I was as surprised as anyone. I really thought she'd beaten it.” She idly swirled her coffee with her spoon.

“From the footage we've seen, it appeared that she wasn't feeling well,” I said.

Sara stopped swirling her spoon and glanced up at me. “What do you mean?” she asked.

“Nothing,” I replied. “I just noticed that Melanie was sick to her stomach a few times.”

“Was she? I don't really remember. It was so long ago.” Lifting the silver coffee urn, she asked. “Would you like more coffee?”

“Yes, please,” I answered, holding out my cup for her to fill.

As Sara poured I said, “It almost seems like she was coming down with something or maybe she was …”

Hot coffee spilled on my wrist. “Oh, I'm so sorry!” Sara said as she put down the urn. Handing me a napkin, she added, “I can be so clumsy at times. Did I burn you?”

“Not at all,” I said, taking the napkin. “I'm fine.”

“Oh, I know what you're thinking about,” Nigel said to me. “Wasn't Melanie allergic to fish or something? Didn't she have a reaction?”

Sara's face cleared. “Oh, yes! That's right! Now I remember. She ate a salad that turned out to have been made with lobster in the dressing. Poor thing was horribly allergic to shellfish. She'd break out in hives, which as you can probably understand isn't optimal when you're in the middle of making a movie.”

“No, I imagine not,” I said.

Sara took a sip of her coffee. “That's why I always made sure I had an EpiPen on the set. You never knew what you were going to get from the craft table.”

I stared at her. Nigel opened his mouth, but I stepped on his foot. Hard. Thankfully he took my meaning and said nothing.