Reel Murder (26 page)

I saw someone take out a camera phone and try to take a surreptitious picture of the trio. I wondered if it would make it into the
Enquirer
. I could picture the headline:
“Tempers Explode on the
Death Watch
Set! Star and Director in a No-Holds-Barred Battle of Wills!”

“I’m telling you, this is not what my character would wear!” Tammilynne was shrieking at Hank, who looked pale and distracted, as if the events of the past few days had finally caught up with him. “No one in their right mind would wear this piece of crap!”

“I’m not sure what you don’t like about it,” Maisie said, unable to keep the hostility out of her tone. She gave a world-weary sigh, along with a small eye-roll. I had the feeling this discussion had been going on for some time.

“You’re not? Well, open your eyes and take a look at it. Don’t you get it? I’ll look like a fat housewife in a Tide commercial. Who do I need to talk to around here to get another outfit? Something that my character would actually wear!”

Maisie shifted uncomfortably and cast a worried glance at Hank. After all, he was the director of the film and everyone knew that the buck stopped right here. Right now. With him.

If anyone could order a wardrobe change, it was Hank. One word from him and the dress would be history. The same as with script changes, lighting changes and crew changes, and of course cast changes. One minute Adriana was in the lead, and now Tammilynne was the star.

The director calls the shots on a film set, and that’s no pun intended.

But I knew enough about Hank to realize that he doesn’t like to override other people’s decisions. And dealing with Tammilynne was a touchy subject. Everyone on the set either knew, or suspected, that he was sleeping with her. So I suppose he had to bend over backward to give the appearance of being impartial.

“Tami, I told you to take it up with Wardrobe,” Hank said, looking hollow-eyed and weary. He had a faint stubble on his chin and looked like he hadn’t slept for days. He was still the lead suspect in the investigation of Adriana’s murder, even though Rafe had admitted there was no indictment in the works. But just being under the cloud of suspicion must have been taking a toll on him.

“Wardrobe won’t do anything about it!” Tammilynne’s voice quavered as if she was close to tears. “They think the dress is right for the scene. Hah,” she added, flicking her blond hair over her shoulder, “what do they know? They’re morons.”

“They know what they’re doing; that’s why I hired them. They’re the best in the business and I’ve worked with them for years.” Hank glared at her, his features stony.

Hank glanced at Maisie, who had turned away from the conversation and was making some notes on the script with a Magic Marker. I bet Tammilynne had interrupted them right in the middle of a story conference. Hank let his eyes stray back to the script as if he longed to go back to it and not be forced to deal with Tammilynne’s wardrobe malfunction. But Tammilynne had center stage at the moment and from the looks of things, she wasn’t going to go away.

“I’m telling you, Hank, they don’t know what they’re doing. They’re clueless. Look, I’ll prove it.” Tammilynne grabbed a rail-thin extra strolling by and held her by the elbow. “Let’s get an unbiased opinion, shall we? Will you give me a minute here?”

Maisie rolled her eyes, drumming her long fingernails against the script pages, but Hank gave a heavy sigh and turned to Tammilynne.

“Okay, you’ve got my full attention, Tami, but make it fast.” Hank put down the script and crossed his arms over his chest. I saw him take a quick peek at his watch and a look of annoyance crossed his face—everyone knows time is money on a movie set.

Round one was going to Tammilynne. A sly look crossed her perfect features; she knew she’d won just by getting his attention. “Well, that’s better,” she said snidely.

“Please just get on with it,” Maisie pleaded. “We’re going to lose the morning light.” She shaded her eyes and looked up at the bright ball of orange that was slipping behind a cloud bank. They’d predicted a hot and hazy day today, not ideal for filming.

Tammilynne gave her a cold stare. “Okay, here’s the thing. You want fast, you’ve got fast. We can settle this in two minutes.”

She smiled at the extra she’d plucked out of the crowd. Tammilyne was still holding her by the elbow and the girl was smiling back uncertainly at her. The girl was pretty but lanky, like an anorexic greyhound with silky blond hair and a lean body. She was wearing a gauzy apricot-colored smock top and white linen pants, probably the kind of outfit Tammilynne would have picked out for herself.

“What’s your name, sweetie?”

“Sherry. My name is Sherry Hawkins, Miss Cole.” Her voice quavered a little as if she wasn’t quite sure why she’d been plucked out of the crowd. “I’m in the party scene.”

“Oh honey, everyone’s in the party scene,” Tammilynne said with heavy patience. “Look, I need you to tell the truth. Can you do that? All I want is your honest opinion.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll be glad to tell you what I think.” She brightened a little and glanced at the extras behind her. Maybe she was happy to be singled out, thinking a little attention from the lead actress might lead to a speaking part. She unconsciously touched her hand to her heart like she was taking a solemn oath.

“Okay, Sherry, it’s truth time. What do you think of when you see this dress?”

Tammilyne held up a floral wraparound dress; the skirt was a little long, what they used to call “tea length.” It wasn’t anything you’d see Julianna Rancic wearing on the red carpet, but it wasn’t the worst dress in the world, either. The color wasn’t my favorite, a mixture of sky blue and royal blue on a white background.

It was a little retro, something like the iconic Diane Von Furstenberg wrap dress from the seventies. It’s what they call “figure flattering” but with a knockout figure like Tammilynne’s, you don’t need any extra help. Tammilynne wanted to flaunt her body, not hide it.

The truth is, the dress was a little “old” for Tammilynne, who could look fifteen with the right lighting and makeup.

“What do I think of it?” Sherry gave a nervous giggle.

“Yes, just say the first thing that comes into your mind.”

“Really, Tammilynne, we need to get these scenes nailed down—” Maisie began, but Hank raised a hand in the air to silence her.

“Give her a minute. I want to hear what she has to say,” Hank said, his expression grim.

I had the feeling he was used to dealing with temperamental actresses and he probably knew damn well that Tammilynne being his mistress made the whole situation much more complicated. The only sign that he was annoyed was a muscle twitching lightly in his lower jaw and his right hand clenching and unclenching lightly at his side.

Interesting. I raised my eyebrows, but I doubt anyone else noticed these giveaways, these “tells.” Funny how body language can be your undoing, even if you’re a trained actor.

To paraphrase Freud, the unconscious gives you away every time. (Okay, Freud didn’t say it exactly that way, but do you really want to plow through
The Psychopathology of Everyday Life
or
The Complete Introductory Lectures on Psychoanalysis
? Hah. I thought not. That’s why I’m giving you the CliffsNotes version.)

“You want to hear what I think?” Sherry asked. Her voice was soft with a slight Georgia accent.

“You bet. We’re standing here waiting for it,” Maisie said tartly. She glanced at the sky and frowned. The sun had already slipped behind the clouds and all the magic had disappeared from the scenery. No more sun-dappled water and vivid colors; now it was just a cloudy, humid day at a south Florida pond.

Sherry ran her hand lightly over the fabric of the dress, picked up one of the long sleeves, and let it fall back in place. “It reminds me of my aunt Vivian,” she said slowly.

“Your aunt Vivian?” Tammilynne hooted. “This dress reminds you of your aunt Vivian?” She turned to Hank Watson. “What did I tell you? This looks like something Aunt Bea would wear to a gardening club luncheon back in Mayberry.”

“Yes, it does,” Sherry agreed, not aware that she was fueling the fire. “In fact, my aunt Vivian has a dress a lot like this, except it’s in lime green and white.” She brightened suddenly, turning a high-beam smile on Tammilynne. “And she wears it to church socials—”

“Church socials?” Even Maisie looked aghast.

“Or maybe potluck suppers. But I think it might be a little dressy for a potluck supper,” she added. She cocked her head to one side like Tim Roth playing Dr. Cal Lightman on
Lie to Me
.

“And how old is your aunt Vivian?” Tammilynne asked, her chest thrust out, one hand on her bony hip.

“Oh, I’d say early sixties. Somewhere around there. Maybe sixty-two.”

“Wow, that was a little awkward, wasn’t it?”

I whirled around to see my reporter friend Nick Harrison standing behind me, rubbing the back of his neck. He was dressed in a Cypress Grove casual outfit—a white golfing shirt, khakis, and loafers with no socks.

“I didn’t know you were on the set today,” I said in a low voice. “How much did you hear?”

Tammilynne had won her argument over the wrap dress and had flounced away to wardrobe with a triumphant smile plastered on her perfect features. Hank Watson and Maisie were bent over the script, presumably still working out the kinks in a scene.

“Only the tail end, but that was enough,” Nick admitted. He edged over to the craft services table and I tagged along next to him. “I don’t know how Hank deals with these people every day. I was afraid he might take a swing at her; did you notice he had his fists clenched?”

“You picked up on that? I’m impressed.”

“You’ve taught me well, master.” Nick gave me a mock bow. “I try to watch for body language clues now. And judging from that murderous look I saw on his face, it seems like Hank isn’t as laid-back as I’d thought.”
But is he capable of violence?
I wondered.
Being uptight is one thing. Being capable of murder is something else.

“You’re suggesting that he was actually angry enough with Adriana to kill her?”

“According to the Cypress Grove PD, he’s still the number one suspect,” Nick said easily. “They can’t seem to finger anyone else for it, even though she pissed off a lot of people.”

“This wasn’t a crime of anger, though,” I said slowly. “It doesn’t have any of the earmarks of a crime of passion. It certainly wasn’t impulsive—it took a lot of thought and planning to rig that prop gun.”

“That’s true.” His eyes scanned the breakfast spread laid out on the long table. I smelled bacon cooking somewhere but they hadn’t put it out yet. “This place is a hotbed of intrigue, isn’t it?”

“Tammilynne is making things much worse,” I said. “Adriana was bad enough, but everyone was used to her and knew what to expect. Tammilynne is like a tornado; she’s volatile and unpredictable. She’s making Hank’s life a living hell. He’s probably regretting giving her the lead role, but now it’s too late.”

“Funny,” Nick said thoughtfully, “I thought she was gorgeous when I first saw her, but now I don’t even find her attractive.”

I quirked an eyebrow. Was he kidding me? Even a celibate monk would find Tammilynne attractive. “Really? You’re probably the only man in America who isn’t salivating over her. She’s a supermodel—that blond hair and knockout body compensates for a lousy personality.”

Nick shook his head. “Not for me, it doesn’t. She’s either a diva or a certified nut case, in my book.” He reached for an iced coffee and looped his pinky finger through two doughnuts. “Or maybe she’s both.”

I watched, fascinated, as Nick spread a paper napkin on top of his coffee cup, balanced the doughnuts on top, and then reached for a bear claw. Reporters and free food go together like corned beef and sauerkraut, but Nick raises mooching to an art form. I’ve seen him make a whole dinner out of crab cakes, Vienna sausages, and chocolate-covered strawberries. And do it while juggling a glass of wine in one hand and a notebook in the other. I always threaten to secretly film him and put the video up on YouTube.

“Do you have any idea what all that saturated fat is doing to your arteries?”

“Probably clogging them,” he admitted through a mouthful of a glazed jelly doughnut. “I’ll worry about it later.”

“Later?”

“When I’m forty. You know, when I hit middle age, somewhere around your age, Maggie.” He flashed me a boyish grin and went right on scarfing down the pastries.

Nick knows very well that I’m only thirty-two, but he likes to tease me about being over-the-hill. Nick is only a couple of years out of college, and there’s enough of an age difference between us that he thinks of me as a big sister. Definitely not girlfriend material. So I guess snide remarks and friendly teasing go with the territory.

And of course I tease him right back and pretend I see an imaginary bald spot on the back of his head. It’s amazing how sensitive guys are to things like that. I’ve caught Nick touching the back of his head worriedly a couple of times, when he doesn’t know I’m watching.

“You’re here on assignment, I guess. But I thought you’d already wrapped up the ‘Live on the Set’ series?” There’s been so much interest in the
Death Watch
production that Nick’s editor told him to extend his original “Live on the Set” piece into a four part series, featuring interviews with Hank Watson, the principals, the tech crew, and even the extras.

He nodded carefully, trying not to make any sudden movements. One false move and his Eiffel Tower of sugary treats would come crashing down. “I did, but I want to tie up a few loose ends with Sandra Michaels. Are you seeing her today?”

“I hope to. I was going to look for her this morning and see if we can work on the script a little more.”

“You’re really getting into it, aren’t you? Being a script consultant.”