Lethally Blond (15 page)

As it turned out, Landon never knocked on my door—perhaps he’d gone out early for the entire evening. I tossed one of the chicken breasts in the freezer for another night. I pounded the other one until very thin, coated it in egg and bread crumbs, and began sautéing it in olive oil. I dried the arugula, added the cherry tomatoes, and made a lemon vinaigrette. My kitchen smelled heavenly, and I sipped a glass of cold Pinot Grigio as I worked, humming to another Maria Callas CD. What more could anyone
want
? In fact, I decided, I could have been in a freakin’ documentary about single chicks who cook feasts for themselves, buy their own crystalware, and live their lives to the fullest—knowing all the while that they may want a man at some point but don’t
need
one. The problem was, I could feel myself falling into a big ugly slump.

It only got worse as I ate alone on my terrace. It was crisp enough for me to need a jacket, but gloriously clear, the kind of night that would have been nice to share. My aloneness was exaggerated by the sounds of frivolity—some of it probably naked—that wafted over from the open windows of the NYU dorm one block north; apparently, these particular students had not been informed that Sunday night was a time to buckle down, get into their jammies, and prepare for the week ahead.

Consuming my meal, with a wine-to-food ratio that was definitely more on the side of the vino, I thought of how Beau had rescued me two months earlier from the Sunday night blues. I’d been making
spaghetti alle vongole
at the time, and he’d dropped by, sucked down a bowl of it, and then seduced me in my tiny kitchen.

I wondered if Jessie’s plan would work if I tried it. There was nothing to lose by calling Beau’s voice mail—Landon had been right on that account. If he wasn’t interested and didn’t respond to my phone call, I’d be in the same exact place I was now. Except why should I bother leaving a coy little message with someone who had treated me so shabbily? That, speaking of the Bard, was the rub. No matter how much I wanted to know what Beau had been about to say, I couldn’t bring myself to suck up to him.

Jessie. I loved her, but as I poured myself another glass of Pinot Grigio, I thought of how much I’d hated what she’d said about wanting dibs on “Tad Hamilton.” I might still be pining for Beau, but I really, really liked Chris and didn’t want to consider him with another chick.

My head was pounding at nine o’clock the next morning as I hailed a cab for Chelsea Piers. In an attempt to stave off any insomnia, I’d polished off most of the bottle of wine and woke with a vein throbbing so hard in my forehead that I could see the movement in the mirror above my bathroom sink.

I’d been to Chelsea Piers a few times over the years. It’s a series of buildings constructed on four adjoining piers where the West 20s meet the Hudson River. Back in the early part of the twentieth century, it had been a thriving part of the riverfront, where some of the great ships docked in between their transatlantic crossings. In fact, according to a sign posted there, the
Titanic
had been destined to dock at Pier 59, and hundreds of people gathered there after the sinking, waiting for word of their loved ones. Eventually, the docks fell into disrepair and spent decades just sagging in the Hudson until they were finally rescued and renovated. Now there was everything from a netted-in driving range to a bowling alley to photo studios to restaurants with river views. One large warehouse-looking blue building housed the sets of several television shows that filmed in Manhattan.

Chris had told me the unmarked entranceway was at the corner of the building, and the cab had just overshot it when I yelled, “Stop here!” Slipping inside, I found myself in an empty, grungy area with a carpet that appeared to be stained with everything from gum to diesel fuel. The walls, however, were lined with posters for the shows being shot there, proving I was in the right spot. There was even a poster for
Morgue
. Locket stood boldly in the middle of a small group of people, her brow furrowed in the name of justice. Chris was just to her right, looking hunky but weirdly airbrushed. Following Chris’s instructions, I took the stairs one flight up.

On the second floor, I found a seating area with a receptionist engrossed in a Nora Roberts novel. Whereas the entranceway downstairs had been oddly quiet, up here I could hear the sounds of bustling activity emanating from the corridors that shot off in different directions. As I was about to give my name to the receptionist, someone came up behind me and asked, “Bailey?”

I spun around to find a spunky-looking girl with spiky black hair, dressed in cargo pants and a clear earpiece plugged in her ear, stepping toward me.

“I’m Cara,” she said once I’d acknowledged that I was indeed Bailey Weggins. “Chris asked me to keep an eye out for you. I can take you to him now.”

After securing me a visitor’s pass from the receptionist, she led me down one of the long corridors, nodding as she walked to various people we encountered along the way. There were lots of doorways along the hall, which I assumed must be dressing rooms, but based on the spacing between them, they couldn’t be very big. A door to one opened, and as a man emerged dressed in a cop uniform, I saw that a fake leather reclining chair ate up most of the narrow room.

“These are the dressing rooms for day players, who have just a few lines,” Cara said, seeing me check out the room. “Chris is around this way, with the regulars.”

He wasn’t in his dressing room, however. After knocking once, Cara entered, and when she saw the room was empty, she motioned me in with her shoulder.

“He said that if he was in makeup, you should just have a seat. Why don’t you make yourself comfortable. I doubt he’ll be that long.”

His dressing room here was larger than the one in the honey wagon, and though one chair was strewn with clothes, the rest of it was orderly—neat stacks of books and magazines, a brand-new looking Bose CD player, and a row of water bottles. There was a Rubik’s Cube on a tabletop, and I picked it up, turning it over a few times in my hands.

“Please, take that,” I heard Chris say behind me. “It’s driving me insane.”

“I didn’t picture you as a Rubik’s Cube man.”

“My mother sent it to me when I told her the TV business is all about hurry up and wait.”

He was dressed in jeans and a button-down Oxford shirt, and he was wearing a touch of makeup, just as he’d been when I’d visited him on location last week. He leaned down and kissed me hello. “How you doing this morning, anyway?”

“I finally feel as if that drug is out of my system—except I’ve got this killer headache. I overdid the vino last night.”

“Do tell,” he said, looking at me quizzically.

“Oh, just me alone on the terrace,” I said quickly, “losing track of how much I was imbibing as I watched all the city lights come on.” I felt oddly guilty, perhaps because so many of my thoughts had been focused on Beau. And also because I was planning to withhold Locket’s revelation. I’d given my word to her.

“Well, maybe I can get out early enough tonight so you won’t have to drink alone,” he said. He was grinning, but he seemed slightly preoccupied. I knew he must feel wired up about shooting, and the last thing he needed was me on the premises.

“I like the sound of that,” I said. “Now, tell me what’s happening this morning.”

“I’m doing a scene with Locket—in our offices. Cara is going to be your escort. She’ll make sure you don’t trip over any wires—or accidentally get placed in one of the morgue drawers.”

“What?”
I exclaimed.

Chris laughed. “When the drawers are pulled out during a scene, there are real people on them—they use extras. They just look a lot more realistic as dead people than dummies do. . . . Look, though it’s fine for me to have visitors, you should try to be as inconspicuous as possible this morning. Alex is around, and we don’t want him to wonder what you’re doing here.”

“Will do. Though I’m dying to watch you shoot a scene, my main goal is to ask Deke about the loan—to see how he reacts. Where will
he
be?”

“He’ll be around, mostly on the periphery. He’s a grip, in charge of scenery. Everything’s already set up, but if they decide to change anything, he’s got to be standing by, ready to do it.”

“I’m not looking forward to chatting with him, but it has to be done.”

“Just try to keep it low-key. If Alex gets wind of—”

“I know, I know.”

There was a light tapping on the door. After Chris called, “Come in,” Cara poked her head inside the room.

“They’re ready for you, Chris.”

“Okay, be right there.” He waited for her to close the door. “Get this—shows
insist
on escorting the stars from their dressing rooms to the set. It makes you wonder if a few actors have panicked over the years and bolted out a side door.”

“Have
you
ever had the urge?”

He glanced to the left wistfully and then returned his gaze to me, smiling. “Nah. I mean, there are moments these days, now that success seems within my grasp, that the pressure feels freaking intense, and I wonder if I’ll look back with any regrets. But there’s no urge to bolt. That’s why I couldn’t believe Tom had just taken off.”

“So do I come with you now?”

“No, Cara will bring me down and get me settled and come back for you in a few minutes.”

“Well, break a leg. Just one thing before you go. Do you know when and where Tom performed
Taming of the Shrew
?”

“What makes you ask that?” he asked, his eyes squinted in puzzlement.

“Just a funny little lead I’m pursuing.”

“He did so many plays—some at that little theater company I mentioned, but others all over the place.” Absentmindedly, he glanced in the mirror along one wall and smoothed down his shirt.

“Does he have an agent I could talk to?”

Chris froze. “An agent?” he asked. “Why would you need to talk to an agent?”

“To find out about the play.”

“He didn’t have a regular agent—just used a few people freelance. Look, I better go, okay?”

He left the dressing room seeming even more distracted than when he’d first come in. I realized I probably shouldn’t have bothered him about the case right before he’d been about to shoot a scene.

For the next few minutes, I cooled my heels in the dressing room, and then, out of boredom, I stepped just outside the door. A few crew types dressed in jeans and grungy T-shirts ambled up and down the corridor, and then a woman who appeared to be a makeup artist—with a large fanny pack around her waist—sprinted down the hall as if she were answering a code blue. Maybe one of Locket’s lips had exploded. I watched her run and as I turned back, I spotted none other than Deke, making his way down the corridor. I saw a flash of recognition in his eyes, but he completely ignored me. As he passed in front of me, he hoisted a can of Diet Coke to his mouth and took a swig.

“Hey, Deke,” I called out after him, knowing this might be my only chance. “Have you got a sec?”

“Not really,” he said, turning in his tracks and eyeing me surlily.

“It’s really important. Really.”

“You got exactly thirty seconds. What is it?” He stepped closer to me and let his slate-colored eyes bore into me. I noticed, to my disgust, that he had a bunch of coarse hairs hanging from his nostrils.

“Remember how we were talking about Tom? I found out you borrowed a huge chunk of money from him and then didn’t pay it back.” I was stirring things up big-time, yet if Deke were the one who’d poisoned my drink, he already had plenty of suspicions about me, and I wasn’t going to be any worse off than before.

He kept his hard eyes steady, but the edge of his tongue escaped involuntarily, flicking at the corner of his mouth like an ugly red lizard.

“You really are a little Miss Marple, aren’t you?”

“Just trying to help,” I said.

“Well, to put it politely, it’s none of your f-ing business. But if you
must
know, I paid Tom back the week before he died. Everything was nicey-nice with us.”

“Is that right?” I asked incredulously. “So it would be indicated by a deposit to his bank account?”

“He didn’t ask me to manage his finances,” he said, smirking.

I tried to figure out where to go next, but before I had a chance, Cara called out my name from the end of the corridor and motioned me to hurry with her. I wanted to keep poking at Deke, but it wasn’t going to be possible now.

Cara and I double-timed it down the corridor, made another turn, and then descended a staircase. Once on the lower level, she led me to a door with a red alarm light to the right.

“Your cell phone off?” Cara said, stopping.

“Good point,” I said, and fumbled for it in my purse. After I’d switched it off, she pushed open the door and we entered a dim, cavernous space bustling with at least thirty people. There were plenty of crew, dressed in the standard uniform of jeans and T-shirts and some with tool belts about their waists, but there were also a few businessy types hovering around the edges.

To my left was a huge three-sided morgue, with gleaming stainless-steel tables, sinks, hanging scales descending from the ceiling, and even, oddly, the smell of disinfectant. Maybe they added that for true verisimilitude, to make the actors really believe they were in the world of death. The only thing not totally real were the windows. Behind each one was a fake backdrop of brick city buildings, though I assumed they would look real enough when you saw them on TV.

With me two inches behind her, Cara proceeded to the next section on the floor, which featured a stage—this one brightly lit—with a shabby-looking bullpen area of a dozen work desks. Chris was sitting on one of the desks, staring into space. Locket stood right in front of him, studying a small white script packet, while a hairstylist used his palm to flatten her flyaway hairs. A few crew members fussed on the set, apparently following the orders of a fortysomething guy standing among them. While the scene in the park had been shot with handheld cameras, this one involved two cameras on dollies.

Cara parked me on the sidelines in a small cluster of crew who at the moment seemed to be just waiting around. There was a large group of people farther down, all sitting on director chairs in front of several monitors. I caught a glimpse of Alex in the mix, but he was involved in a discussion with someone I assumed must be the director. And suddenly there was Deke, too. He must have come from a different direction. Trying to be less conspicuous, I stepped back a couple of feet, deeper into the shadow created by a wall on wheels beside me.