Picture Perfect (19 page)

I’m not surprised in the least that she got canned, but if I were Rebecca, I would’ve fired her last week while she was busy costing the network thousands of dollars in scheduling delays. Perhaps Timeless’ matriarch was waiting for me to get back to take over the reins before lopping off heads. Still, she’s managed to clean house before the work day officially got underway, seeing how it’s only a few minutes after nine. I gotta admire that.

“It’s over,” Jennifer says, folding the tissue neatly in her lap. “Alan, I mean. We’re through.”

Interesting. I wonder if this is some calculated move on Alan’s part. Dispatch the tart quickly and cleanly so that he can deny any involvement, any breach of our pre-nuptial contract. I wouldn’t put it past him. What does he care who he hurts?

“Okay,” I reply, curious as to why she’s bothering to share her heartbreak with me.

“I just wanted you to know,” she says with the kind of tone that tells me she’s looking for some sort of reassuring platitudes. Hell if I’m going to comfort her. She didn’t seem to worry about my welfare when she took up with my husband and set out to steal my hard-earned position at Timeless.

“Okay,” I repeat, giving her nothing.

Silence hangs in the air, and I notice that she has twisted the tissue into a tight little ball.

“I was wondering,” she says, lifting her chin in a show of courage, “if you could give me a letter of recommendation. I always did a good job for you, didn’t I?” The last of her words barely trickle out.

Yeah, right up until you stabbed me in the back.           

“I don’t think so, Jennifer,” I say flatly. 

Her chest deflates as she sighs, “Right.”

“Good luck,” I offer as she scoots out of my guest chair and grabs another tissue on her way to the door.
And good riddance
, I think to myself as she exits, her blond ponytail listlessly hanging from a loose knot at the nape of her neck.

As thrilled as I am to see her go, I know that there’s a very real chance I will find myself working with her again in some capacity. She may have gotten her ass handed to her this time, but she’s young and wily. Just the type to resurface a year from now as some junior development executive at a big studio with a production budget twenty times what Timeless’ meager cable venue can muster.

“Everything all right?” Sally asks, padding into my office, her face bright and hopeful. She’s wearing a pink cardigan and black pencil skirt with Mary Jane pumps. She looks like an extra from the cast of
Mad Men
. The only thing missing is the torpedo-shaped bra and bouffant hairdo. I guess Giles wanted to play up the sexy secretary angle. At least it’s better than the Amish-in-the-city look she was sporting before he got his hands on her.

“Yes, thanks,” I reply. “Can you call the production manager, the director and the line producer for
A True Heart
? Set up a meeting for this afternoon. I need to get this thing back on schedule.” 

“You got it!” She turns on her heels and practically skips back to her desk. All is right in her world again.

Mine, not so much. Despite Jennifer’s timely departure, I still have to deal with Alan.

And Jack.

I haven’t heard from him since he left my apartment yesterday evening, on the hunt to verify some hunch of his. I’ve texted him twice, but have gotten no response. I wonder if he’s giving me a taste of my own medicine. But then, he’s not the type to do that, is he? I can’t imagine that he would partake of any relationship games like others might, namely Alan. Or me. He’s honest. Painfully so. Putting his feelings front and center regardless of how inappropriate they are.

I reach into my bag and pull out my iPhone, checking to see if he’s left me any new messages. Nothing. Worry tickles at the back of my mind, but for what, precisely, I’m not sure. Worry that he’s uncovered something ghastly about Alan? Worry that his involvement will get him hurt? Worry that he’s going to end up making things worse? Maybe all of the above. Or maybe it’s just that I’m now the one wondering what’s going on in
his
head. Why he’s bothering to try to help a woman he only started dating a week ago.

God, are we
dating
?

Sally appears at my door again. “I’ve set up a meeting for one o’clock today in the executive conference room. Everyone will be there.”

“Great.”

Sally waits for further instructions. Springy on the balls of her feet, I can almost see the energy bubbling up inside her. Excitement over her first experience working on a film. I remember that feeling well. It’s like finding out the cute guy you’ve been ogling during eleventh grade Spanish class thinks you’re hot. In the beginning, it’s all butterflies and giggly daydreams. But when reality sets in, you realize there’s a lot more grunt work involved than you ever imagined. And when you work behind the scenes like Sally, there’s little glamour or recognition. But she’ll discover that soon enough on her own.

“Bring in the lead actors, too,” I say. “We probably need to mend some fences since Jack ran out on the production last week.” And perhaps I can get him to tell me what the hell he is up to in person since he seems to have an aversion to communicating via technology at the moment.

“Will do,” she trills. I half expect to see her cartwheel over to her desk.

I could mend a fence or two of my own, as well, I decide, recalling how I behaved at Rebecca’s yesterday. I wasn’t exactly gracious when interrogating her about her involvement in my relationship with Alan. I was half out of my head with thoughts of him threatening to destroy me and his assertion that he only married me because Rebecca told him to, but that’s no reason to abandon decorum. With the executive meeting not for another forty-five minutes, there’s plenty of time to make nice.

“I’m going to see Rebecca,” I say to Sally as I glide by her desk. The phone is cradled at her neck, and she gives me a cheery nod.

I make my way up to Rebecca’s office, passing cubicles of assistants as I go, all of them doing their best not to gape at me as I walk by. Less than a week ago, I was traipsing behind our stalwart leader, following her to what they believed was surely my demise. But today, I’m back and walking tall. Sure, things are still a mess in my personal life, but at least Jennifer’s colossal cock up proved that I deserve to be where I am. I may have been the topic of gossip last week, and I probably still am this week, but now the rumors are not about my ruin, but of my rise from the ashes.

As I approach Rebecca’s office, I see that her door is closed.
Probably smoking
, I think to myself.

“Is she in?” I ask of her assistant parked at a cubicle outside her office, tearing through piles of envelopes.

“She’s unavailable.”

Oh. Can you please let me know when she becomes available?”

“Sure. You are?”

Seriously? How can the assistant to the president of the network not know who the hell all the executives are by sight? I made sure Jennifer could spot every damn employee on the roster from a block away by her second day. “Lauren Tate, Senior Vice President of Long-Form,” I say with a stern tone to let her know exactly how poorly I believe she is doing her job.

“Cool,” she responds, making no effort to jot down my information.

I drum my fingers along my hip impatiently as I wait for her to do something that indicates she will actually follow through on my request.

“So?” I finally say. “Are you going to write it down?”

“Write what?”

“My name.”

“Oh. Sure. What was it again?”

“Lauren Tate,” I reply, coolly.

She searches on her desk for a scrap of paper, finally deciding to write my name on the back of an envelope. I can’t believe this girl still has a job. Were she my assistant, she’d be out on her ass before she was able to cross the “T” in my last name.

“Please tell Rebecca I stopped by.”

“She’s unavailable,” she says again.

“Yeah, I got that.” I ready myself to launch into her and her unprofessional manner when Rebecca’s door flies open.

“Lauren,” Rebecca says, “Can you please come in to my office?”

“Of course,” I reply, giving her oblivious assistant a cold stare before following Rebecca into her office. “I wanted to apologize for yesterday,” I say once the door is closed behind me. “This whole business with Alan. It’s nothing to concern you, and I was out of line.”

“Mrs. Tate,” I hear a male voice say. I turn to find two men in dark suits seated on the sofa tucked in the lounge area of Rebecca’s grand office.

“Oh.” I’m taken aback. “I didn’t realize you had…guests.”

“These are detectives. They’re here about Alan,” Rebecca says.

“Detectives? Oh, for Christ’s sake. What is it now?” I say exasperated.

“I’m Detective Fallbrook with the Los Angeles County Sherriff’s Department,” one of the men says as they both rise and extend their hands. “And this is Detective Wilson.”

I disregard their outstretched arms and demand, “What’s going on?”

“Ma’am, when was the last time you saw your husband?” Detective Fallbrook asks. He’s tall and imposing, and I can tell that underneath his Men’s Wearhouse suit, he’s got a very muscular build. Despite greying temples and eyes crinkled by the sun and years, he’s a good-looking man. If I were casting a cop drama, he’d be the perfect lead.

“Yesterday afternoon. Why?” I respond.

“Would you mind telling us what transpired between you two?” the other one, Detective Wilson, questions. He’s younger, but no less attractive. His dark skin contrasts starkly with the crisp white collar of his dress shirt, and I can guess that he buys his suits from high end retail stores. Perhaps, being so much younger than Detective Fallbrook, he has more disposable income. Still, I can’t imagine he makes enough money to afford a closetful of Armani labels. Maybe he donned his Sunday best just for this special trip to Timeless?

“We were discussing a personal issue. A private issue,” I say. “Is this about that bogus ‘assault with a deadly weapon’ charge that Alan levied against Jack Ford?”

The two detectives look at each other, their thoughts inscrutable. “No, ma’am,” Detective Fallbrook replies. “But we’ll be sure to look into that in the course of our investigation.”

“What investigation?” I ask, now getting annoyed at how they keep dodging my original question.

“Lauren,” Rebecca, who has been conspicuously quiet, says, “Alan is…he’s been…Oh, my.” She places her hand over her mouth, her eyes squeezing shut as a strange howl emanates from deep within her.

“Rebecca, my God. What is it?” I plead, hurrying to her side, placing one careful hand on her shoulder. I’ve never known her to need any sort of comforting, and I’m not sure if she’d want it now. Though what on earth she needs consoling for, I have no idea.

“What’s going on? What’s happened?” I beg. But she is unable to speak. Her legs nearly buckle beneath her and both detectives rush to her aid, escorting her to the sofa.

I sit beside her and take up her hand in mine. It’s cold, and feels paper thin, the veins like a roadmap leading to her heart. Detective Wilson hands her a handkerchief from his pocket. She waves it away, suddenly returning to the stiff demeanor she always wears. She pulls her hand out of mine, bumping her large emerald ring along my bandaged palm, causing me to wince slightly.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m fine now. It just hit me all of a sudden. The news. The shocking nature of it.”

“What news? Will someone please tell me what happened?” I demand of the detectives.

“Ma’am,” Detective Fallbrook starts, “I’m afraid your husband has been killed.”

Chapter 15

“Killed!” I shriek. “What the hell? Was he in an accident? But he didn’t even have his car with him. He’d given it to Jennifer.” I realize I’m rambling, and when I look at Rebecca, I find her cold blue eyes staring at me, a mix of grief and fear evident beneath their heavily wrinkled lids.

“He wasn’t in an accident, Mrs. Tate,” Detective Wilson says. “He was murdered in his home. The housekeeper found him at six this morning. But you say he’d given his car to this
Jennifer
? Who is she? How do you know this?”

“Because I was there when he gave her—Jennifer, his girlfriend—the keys and told her to take it home,” I explain, momentarily losing sight of the fact that Alan’s been murdered.
Murdered
. That’s a whole hell of a lot different than being
killed
. Jesus! Alan is dead!

I start to hyperventilate as the weight of the news sinks in. “Alan? Murdered? I don’t understand how this happened,” I wheeze between quick breaths. 

“We understand that you and Mr. Tate were divorcing, is that correct?” Detective Fallbrook asks, abandoning all pretense.

“We were,” I confirm, aware that their investigation surely places me as the lead suspect in the crime. “But we were working things out.”

“How so?” Detective Wilson prods.

“I was going to sign the divorce papers. I even discussed it with my best friend, Justine, about it over the phone yesterday.”

I suddenly feel exhausted and slump back into the sofa, the weight of my head as heavy as an Oldsmobile. Rebecca rises and crosses to a bar cart nearby where she pours a clear liquid from a crystal decanter into a tumbler. She plucks two cubes of ice from a small bucket and drops them into the glass. When she places the beverage into my hand, I smell the gin, and nausea quickly sweeps over me.

“Excuse me. I need some air,” I say, setting the liquor on the coffee table and hurrying out of Rebecca’s office.

I rush up the stairs to the roof of the building and heave open the heavy door. Bright morning sunlight temporarily blinds me as I stumble over the threshold and out onto the rooftop. Cool wind whips my hair as I make my way to a bench, sucking in deep lungfuls of air laced with secondhand smoke as I gather my senses. A couple of people smoking nearby gawk openly at me, but make no effort to inquire as to my curious behavior.

I pull my jacket tight around my body, lean over my folded legs and stare at the red peep toe shoes I carefully selected this morning. According to Giles, they scream “sophisticated yet spunky.” Words no one could use to describe me right at this moment. Still gazing at my pedicured toes, I hear the heavy roof door open and several feet pad over to me. The detectives.