Picture Perfect (29 page)

“Rebecca,” I say, as I approach her, “are you all right?”

“I’m in a state,” she replies, fumbling with the white satin purse hanging from a silver chain at her wrist.

“Sit down,” I urge her.

Sally pulls out a chair and Rebecca plops down on it so hard she practically bounces right off it. I’ve never seen her such a mess. Even the day we found out Alan had been killed, she was only
slightly
off-kilter, and understandably so.    

“Oh, Lauren,” she begs, “please help me find my speech. I’m the guest speaker. I can’t go up there unprepared.”

I look to Sally, who shrugs in return.

“Where do you last remember seeing it?” I ask her.

She thinks for a moment, her blue eyes crinkling with concern. “The office,” she finally says, lifting her fist into the air triumphantly. “Yes, I sent Jennifer to retrieve it.”

“Sally, call Rebecca’s assistant to see if she’s found it,” I say, and Sally scoots off in search of a quiet spot to make her phone call.

Rebecca pats my hand, and I sit down next to her. “Timeless isn’t the same without you,” she says. “And Alan.”

I squeeze her hand, and all hopes I’d had of confronting her about giving my job to Jennifer flees from my mind. The woman is clearly in no fit state to discuss business.

“Timeless will be just fine without me,” I say. For some reason, I no longer feel so desperate to get my job back. I don’t know if it’s the hell I’ve been through the past few days finally wearing me down, the shrimp gurgling in my belly, or simply a true desire to move on.

“Oh, but it won’t,” she says, turning her cool blue eyes to mine. “I had plans for you. I wanted you to have every opportunity that I didn’t.”

“What are you saying, Rebecca? You’re the president of the network. You made Timeless what it is today.”

“But what I had to give up to do it, dear, you’ll never understand.”

“Lauren! What are you doing here?” Jennifer’s shriek pierces my eardrum, and I turn to find her red-faced and huffing like she just finished the LA Marathon in second place. Sweat beads on her forehead and several strands of hair have escaped the neat French twist she obviously spent much time corralling her long blond strands into. I wonder for a second if Giles had a hand in helping with that.

“Don’t worry,” I say. “I’m not trying to sabotage your career.”

She flashes a worried grin at Rebecca.

“I was just leaving,” I say. I turn back to my mentor, her frail visage a shadow of the woman I’ve worked under for the past six years. “Jennifer will take care of you.”

“Yes, she will,” Rebecca says, giving my hand another pat. “I’ll see to it.”

As I move back through the ballroom, weaving around tables and tipsy women, I spot Sally rushing toward Rebecca’s table. I catch her by the arm as she sprints by me and we practically twirl around each other like swing dancers doing the Lindy Hop.

“Jennifer’s back,” I say, once we’re both face to face.

Sally’s forehead wrinkles in worry.

“It’s fine,” I assure her. “She can have the damn job. I don’t want it anymore.”

“You don’t?” she demands, incredulous. “But everything we’ve been through…everything I’ve done for you. And you don’t want it?”

“Everything you’ve
done
?” I say, wondering what all she’s gotten up to on my behalf.

“I just wanted to fix things.” She drops her gaze, and I don’t know if it’s regret or sorrow that has her so acting so grim.

I flick through the memory files of my mind, trying to remember all that she’s said and done over the past several days, and it occurs to me that perhaps she isn’t as innocent as she would have me believe. All those months she spent coordinating secret rendezvous between Alan and Jennifer, conspiring with them to oust me, only to switch teams when she realized Alan was never going to do anything for her career.

Maybe when she saw that siding with me wasn’t going to get her anywhere if I got fired, she decided to take things into her own hands. Maybe she confronted Alan. Maybe out of some misplaced loyalty she…
killed Alan?

Chapter 23

“Let’s get to our table,” I say to Sally, now obsessing over the idea that she may have done a lot more than just spy for me. Perhaps even
kill
for me.

I drag her across the carpet, her feet practically tripping over themselves as she tries to keep up. I see Justine chatting with a woman in a bright yellow pantsuit at our table, and I pick up the pace. I’m sure she’s as eager for a distraction as I am to get to the bottom of Sally’s involvement in the disaster that has been my life for the past week and a half.

“Lauren!” Justine gasps as I slam into the seat next to her. “Is everything all right?”

“We’ll see,” I say, yanking Sally down into the chair on my other side.

The woman in yellow astutely turns her attention away from us, and I scoot back from the table, pulling Sally and Justine into a huddle.

“What’s going on?” Justine asks.

“Yes, what’s going on?” I say to Sally. “What exactly have you been up to? What have you been
fixing
?”

“Nothing,” she says, retreating into herself like a turtle would its shell.

“Did you have something to do with Alan’s death?” I demand.

“What? Are you crazy?” she balks.

“Did you go back to the house Sunday night?” I ask, latching onto the notion that she may be some second cousin of Alan’s or some other equally ridiculous suggestion that would explain why a relative’s DNA was found on the murder weapon.

“The house?”

“The Malibu house. Did you argue with Alan?” I say, grabbing her wrist as if to twist the truth out of her.

“No, I wasn’t there. I swear to you!” she claims, her eyes filled with worry.

Justine reaches across me and pries my hand from Sally’s arm. “This is not the way to do this,” she says in that stern professorial manner of hers. “Save it for after the lunch.”

“Fine,” I huff, whipping my arm free.

“Maybe I should go,” Sally says, rising.

“Sit!” I order her, and she sheepishly falls back into her chair.

“I don’t know why you’re so upset,” she says, her chin quivering just a little.

“Both of you shut the fuck up,” Justine hisses at us like we’re two unruly kids in the back seat on a cross-country road trip. “We’ll discuss this later.”

I lean back into my seat and fold my arms across my chest as a chorus line of waiters enter the ballroom. The ambient sound rises an octave as all the women twitter at each other over the plates swooping onto the tables before them. A dish of steaming
moules frites
lands in front of me, and I dig my fork into one of the shells, popping the meat out and sucking it down like a seal. 

I peek at Sally’s plate. Chicken fettuccine. Figures. Her diet is as bland as her wardrobe was before I put Giles on the case. She pushes the noodles around, her head hanging low, and I wonder if she feels I’ve bullied her, or if her quiet demeanor is something more sinister, like guilt masquerading as melancholy.

We eat in silence as the other ladies laugh and gab over their pricey plates. Waiters dip in and out of the teaming mass of women, replacing entrees with desserts, filling wine glasses, and pouring coffee. Finally, when I stuff the last bite of chocolate lava cake in my mouth (delicious!), one of the Women in Pictures committee members heads up onto the stage and stands before the podium, tapping on the microphone.

“Hello, ladies,” she says cheerfully. “I’m Wendy Richards, your devoted Promotions Coordinator for Women in Pictures. We’re so happy to see so many of our esteemed colleagues joining us for our quarterly luncheon. I have a feeling the great turn out is due in no small part to our guest speaker, the one and only Rebecca Walters. I’m sure you’re all familiar with Rebecca from her ten-year reign as president of Timeless Television. But did you know that she started out as a secretary at CBS Studios in 1957?”

The room buzzes with the sound of all the women quickly calculating Rebecca’s age. It is fairly remarkable, after all, that Rebecca has been able to sustain a career for so long and climb so high in a male-dominated industry. Of course, she didn’t make it to president until she was already retirement age. She’s probably the oldest woman working in showbiz today. Well, except maybe for Betty White.

“Rebecca spent several years typing letters and making coffee for TV executives, talk show hosts, and even worked in the writers rooms on several hit CBS shows before she hopped on the cable network train. And that train has taken her far, ladies. Today, Rebecca is here to talk to us about the future of niche networks and the role women play in bringing quality programming to our future generations. Please welcome Ms. Rebecca Walters to the podium!”

  All eyes turn as Rebecca’s white head emerges from the sea of brunettes, blondes and redheads. I love that she isn’t one of those older women who dies her grey hair a ridiculously brash color. Who do those ladies think they’re fooling? Last time I checked, burgundy wasn’t a hair color easily found in nature.

As Rebecca ascends the stairs, she misses a step and nearly bangs her head on the stage. Luckily, Jennifer, apparently her new mentee, swiftly rushes to her aid and helps her up to the podium. Wendy goes in for a hug, but Rebecca seems surprised by that and their embrace looks something like two drunk guys in drag patting each other on the back. Once that awkwardness is over, both the committee lady and Jennifer exit the stage and Rebecca stares out at the audience, a deer-in-the-headlights look on her face.

Fumbling with the microphone, Timeless’ matriarch looks less like the ironfisted head honcho I labored under for six years and more like a poor doddering old woman. What is wrong with her? This can’t just be nerves. She’s given hundreds of talks over the years.

Finally, Rebecca appears to have gotten her pages laid out on the podium and the mic adjusted to her short stature.

“Thank you for having me,” Rebecca says. “I’m so honored to be here with all of you wonderful women.”

A smattering of applause fills the room, then quickly dies down.

“She looks like she’s going to pass out,” Justine whispers into my ear.

“I know. She’s gotta be really drunk or on drugs or something. I’ve never seen her like this.”

“I started out my career,” Rebecca continues, “working long hours, for the head of programming at CBS. I was just one of many young women in the typing pool when I was promoted to secretary, and I knew early on that I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life answering phones and typing letters. I was hungry to learn, and luckily, I had a great teacher who showed me the ropes and helped me succeed in my career.”

Rebecca pauses and shuffles her papers, looking lost. She presses a finger to her lips and closes her eyes, swaying just a little. I see Jennifer pop up from her table, but she hesitates, apparently waiting to see if Rebecca will recover on her own.

“Shit,” Sally says. “This is not good.”

“Has Rebecca been acting like this all day?” I ask her, more concerned at the moment for my mentor than whether or not Sally is a murderer.

“I haven’t seen much of her since Monday morning. Jennifer’s spent a lot of time with her, though.”

“I don’t like this,” I say, gazing up at the stage and finding Rebecca’s hand to her forehead.

The room begins to hum with the mumbles of the women present. Their heads bend toward one another as they natter about the apparent drunken condition of my former boss. I feel an overwhelming urge to run to her side, to protect her from the inevitable onslaught of rumors bound to emerge after this luncheon.

Finally, Rebecca speaks. “I’m so sorry,” she says. “I seem to have lost my place.”

Jennifer launches from her spot on the floor and is at the podium in seconds, flipping through pages as Rebecca shakes her head.

“They’re all here,” I can hear Jennifer say. She isn’t close enough to the mic for it to pick up her voice, but her words have managed to travel all the way to the back of the room anyway. 

“No, this isn’t the right one,” Rebecca claims. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

Wendy makes her way up to the stage and joins in the ruffling of the pages.

“Maybe you should go up there,” Sally suggests.

“I don’t know,” I say. “Surely, adding to the confusion isn’t going to help matters.”

“But she’ll listen to you.”

“You think?”

Sally nods.

“Okay,” I say, scooting away from the table and making my way to the front of the ballroom.

Rebecca spots me as I step onto the stage. “Lauren,” she calls, extending her hand to me.

“Is everything okay, Rebecca?”

“No, no it isn’t okay. My speech is wrong.”

I look at Jennifer who rolls her eyes. Obviously, she thinks Rebecca has lost her marbles, not her speech. I take the papers and sift through them. They do appear to be in order. 

“What’s wrong with it?” I ask. “It looks all right to me.”

“Oh, dear. Oh, dear,” she says. “You have to forgive me.”

“It’ll be all right. Would you like to go back to your seat?” I ask her.

“No, no. I need to tell you this. I wrote it for you.”

“You wrote your speech for me?” I ask, bewildered.

“I didn’t know I would feel this terrible,” she says.

“Come on. Let’s get her back to her table,” I say to Jennifer, who reaches for Rebecca’s arm.

“No!” Rebecca shouts, pulling away from Jennifer and grabbing the mic. “I want you all to know something.” This last she directed to the audience. 

“I think you need to sit down,” Jennifer says in a very strict tone.

Rebecca flashes her an icy stare, one I’ve seen cut a man to his knees, and Jennifer backs down.

I stand aside as Rebecca turns to address the crowd that is now utterly silent and slack-jawed in awe of the humiliating display on stage. My poor mentor will never live this down. She’ll be branded a senile old fool, and if she doesn’t lose her job, she’ll definitely lose all her authority.

“When I started my career,” Rebecca says into the microphone, “I knew I wasn’t going to be the kind of woman who baked cookies and went to PTA meetings. I knew I had to sacrifice those desires in order to compete with the men in this business. Working until nine o’clock on weeknights, coming in on Saturdays to type teleplays, foregoing holidays and vacation days, all just to be considered their equal.”