Dial Emmy for Murder (6 page)

I’d first found Jakes very annoying, and then attractive. Paul had sensed it and become jealous. By the time Marcy’s killer was caught, I knew Jakes was interested, and the last time we’d seen each other he’d kissed me.

After that I had studiously avoided him and begun paying much more attention to Paul—out of guilt, I guess. Not really the perfect platform on which to build a relationship.

Now Jakes was back, and I was glad, very glad. Was that why I’d agreed to help him? Well, it wasn’t the only reason. I did want whoever had killed Jackson to be found. So where was the harm in helping Jakes? It wasn’t like I’d begged him to let me help. He had come to me, right?

Paul would never understand, though, and I knew it.

“I’m not sure where Paul and I are exactly,” I said, finally answering Wayne’s question. “We’re committed to each other, I guess. He’s a great guy! I care about him so much. I just don’t know why I can’t let him in more.” I looked at my friends and almost cried. “What’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing’s wrong with you, sweetie. Maybe it’s not meant to be. There’s only one way to find out, though. Help Detective Jakes and maybe you’ll see what that’s all about. Once and for all,” George said. They both looked at me, the troubled single friend, with the kind of compassion only a happily committed couple could.

“After all. You have nothing to fear but fear itself.” Wayne added.

“Didn’t FDR say that during the Great Depression?” I looked at them, grimaced and then grabbed my glass.

“I’m trying to save you from your own personal depression,” Wayne said, pouring me a little more pink fabulousness. “You could be missing out on something wonderful because of fear.”

“You’re right. I’ve been afraid to find out how I really feel because then I’ll have to do something about it. I’m going to help Jakes and figure things out.”

“Cheers!” George said.

“You go, girl!” Wayne added.

We all raised our martinis and toasted. I’m sure I appeared more confident than I really was.

Chapter 10

When I went back to work on Monday, it was obvious Jackson’s murder had affected everyone. There was a deep sense of mourning. Jackson was well liked, and you could tell people were in a state of shock. Everyone was quite solicitous toward me . . . wanting to know if I was doing all right and how I felt when Jackson’s body came tumbling down at me on stage.

Sammy Horner, known as Timber because his huge belly made him “equilibrium challenged,” was directing that day. I’d worked with him on
The Yearning Tide
. He moved around from show to show, covering for other directors on vacation or whatever.

“Okay, okay,” he yelled, “grill Alex on your own time, kids. She needs to get to hair and makeup. I know it’s a sad thing but we have to get moving. We’ve got a show to do. Jackson would want us to.”

What an idiot. Jackson would want us to? Jackson would want us to take the day off and go to the beach. That’s what Jackson would want. But I was a professional and agreed that the show must go on. So I went to my dressing room to drop off my stuff and pick up my script. Then I headed off to hair and makeup.

“Awful, just awful,” Mary, my makeup artist, said. “It was too awful! I mean, poor Jackson! And you, standing up there. It was like something out of a Greek tragedy. You in your gown. You looked beautiful, by the way. Then the blood dripping down your face. I mean, it was tragic. Truly like something out of an old Bette Davis movie. Or a Stephen King novel . . .”

“I get it, Mary. I was there, remember?” This was getting a little hard to take. I had to work today, after all, and stay focused. Thank God I was just playing one character today: Felicia. “Could you please just finish my lips?”

I looked at her in the mirror, saw a tear roll down her cheek. She was a pretty girl in her early twenties, and at that moment I wondered if she had just been another notch on Jackson’s belt.

“I’m sorry, Mary. I didn’t mean to be so harsh. This is just all getting to me.” I pulled back to really look at her. “How well did you know him?” I asked.

“Not well,” she said. “Oh, I mean, he was nice enough to me, even flirted a little, but . . . that was all. We just . . . talked while I worked on him.”

I wasn’t sure if I believed her or not. I guess it was possible she just had a lot of unrequited feelings for Jackson Masters.

“Do you know anything about his family, Mary?” I asked.

“Not really. I mean, I got the feeling he wasn’t too close to his family, you know? It’s just so sad. So, so sad. And tragic. What a tragedy . . .”

I jumped out of her chair. I couldn’t take it anymore. “I’ll finish up my face myself. Thanks.”

She was still sniffling when I left her.

My hairdresser’s name was Henri. The only thing he had in common with George was that he was gay. In fact, Henri had a very unpleasant personality, which I discovered during my first week on the show. He was good at what he did, though, so we’d developed a safe way of working together.

We hardly spoke, except to talk about my hair.

That was why I was surprised when, as soon as my fanny hit the chair, he asked, “Do you know how Jackson was killed?”

I looked at his reflection in the mirror. He was younger than George, in his early thirties, and quite good looking.

“Sorry?”

“Jackson Masters,” he said. “You were there. Do you know how he was killed?”

“From what I understand,” I said, “he was stabbed.”

His face was blank, but his shoulders slumped.

“Henri—”

“How do you want your hair today?” he asked.

We talked about it for a few minutes and came to a decision, and he went to work.

“Henri, how well did
you
know Jackson?”

“We . . . talked,” he said.

I found that odd. As far as I knew, Henri talked to hardly any members of the cast.

“Did he ever talk about his family, or maybe a girlfriend or something?” I asked.

“It doesn’t matter now, does it?”

“It might.”

He dropped his hands from my hair and stepped back. Our eyes met in the mirror.

“Come on, Henri,” I said. “What do you know?”

“You’re some kind of . . . amateur detective, right?” he asked. “At least, that’s what I’ve heard.”

“No,” I said, “I was—No, I’m not any kind of detective.”

“But last year, there was a murder and you were involved.”

“I was involved in the murder
investigation
. That’s true.” I could tell he was itching to say something but I needed to tread lightly. “You can talk to me, Henri. I mean, if you need to.”

He looked around. For the moment we were alone, but that could change in an instant. “All right. I do need to talk to someone . . . but not here.”

“Why not?” I asked. “There’s no one—”

“Not here,” he said. “We should meet later, at the end of the day.”

Obviously he had too much to say to risk being interrupted or overheard. I just hoped it would be something useful.

“Okay,” I said. “Where?”

It surprised me when he asked if I would come to his apartment that evening, and he wrote down the address for me. It was in West Hollywood. I agreed.

After he finished my hair, I got out of the chair to go to wardrobe, and he called out to me. “Hey.”

“Yes?” I turned to face him.

“Don’t tell anybody, all right?” he said. “No cops?”

“No cops,” I said. “Promise.”

Chapter 11

My scenes that day were pretty good actually, considering everything that was going on. Felicia was in the midst of trying to figure out who had stolen her identity and was wreaking havoc with her credit cards and such. Of course, it would be revealed later that it was her evil twin, Fanny, who was trying to discredit her. My scenes were with Jerry Thomas, who played my husband, Dmitri. Nice enough guy. A little full of himself but that was nothing new. We worked well together, and the day went quickly. But not quickly enough for me. No matter how much I fought it, I found myself excited about going to see Henri. I had hoped that the whole Marcy murder had taken the amateur detective right out of me, but Nancy Drew was alive and kicking . . . hard. What I should have done was call Jakes and tell him that Henri apparently knew something, and then let Jakes go and get it out of Henri. But I hadn’t. How could I? After all, I had made Henri two promises. One, that I would go to his apartment, and two, that I would not call the cops.

So I drove out of the studio lot and headed over to West Hollywood to have my conversation with Henri, a man who—until today—I had exchanged barely ten words with that didn’t have something to do with hair.

What, I wondered on the way, could Henri have possibly had in common with Jackson Masters? They certainly hadn’t exchanged conquest stories, had they? Everybody knew Henri was gay. But he didn’t look gay. In fact, if you had stood Henri and Jackson side by side and asked people to pick out which one was gay . . . Wait a minute.

The thought struck me, and I shook my head. Was it possible that Jackson was gay? And that he and Henri were lovers? Jackson had a big rep as a womanizer. But he could have been bi. Stranger things have happened. Maybe he just liked sex and didn’t much care who he was with when the urge struck.

Henri had an apartment in an old Spanish style stucco fourplex in West Hollywood. It was probably built in the twenties and was very well maintained. There was a time in the 1970s when West Hollywood resembled Hollywood and became rundown. The buildings were dilapidated, and drugs and prostitution were on the rise. But no more. West Hollywood had become home to a large gay community and was clean, safe and beautiful because of it.

I climbed the concrete steps and looked at the four doorbells. Next to one was the name Henri Marceau. I rang the bell, but there was no answer. I rang again. At that point a man rushed out the door and down the steps without looking back. I barely registered his green T-shirt and jeans before I caught the door and went inside. The tag next to the doorbell said Henri was in 2B. I went up to the second floor and found 2B. The door was ajar.

I knocked. “Henri?”

No answer. Had he forgotten I was coming?

The smart thing for me to do would have been not to go inside but to pull out my cell phone and dial 911. I never said I was smart.

I could feel that old familiar feeling. Adrenaline. Here I was, déjà vu all over again.

“Henri,” I called. This time I pushed the door open and stepped inside. The apartment was a mess. Somebody had been fighting or maybe looking for something. I listened but couldn’t hear anyone moving around. It looked to me like a three-room apartment. I was in the living room, and I could see a small kitchen. There was one other doorway, possibly to a bedroom. There were also French doors opening to a small balcony. No one was out there. I walked to it and found it locked.

Okay, I thought, the bathroom.

I moved to the other doorway and looked inside. The bed was made, dresser drawers were hanging out, no laundry in sight. I moved inside and crossed to a closed door I felt sure led to the bathroom.

“Hello? Henri?” I knocked on the bathroom door. No answer. “Henri?”

That was when I started to become concerned. I had three choices: Get out, call 911 or open the bathroom door.

I opened the door.

Of course.

 

When Jakes walked in, he stopped to talk to the two cops before coming over to me. I was sitting on Henri Marceau’s sofa. He was dead in the bathtub, where I had found him about an hour before.

“Let’s go out on the balcony,” Jakes said.

“Okay.”

He slid the door open for me, stepped out after me and closed it. The balcony overlooked the front of the building.

“What the hell, Alex?”

“What? You asked me to help.”

“Don’t play stupid. What are you doing here?”

“Henri does—did—my hair on the show.”

“So you came to his apartment for . . . what? A haircut?”

I gave him a look.

“Okay,” he said, “why don’t you just tell me what you were doing here.”

“Henri wanted to talk to me,” I said, “only he said he couldn’t talk at the studio. He wanted to talk in private, so he asked me to come here.”

“Talk to you about what?”

“Jackson Masters.”

His eyebrows went up. “He knew somethin’ about Jackson Masters?”

“I suppose so.”

“And he wanted to tell you?”

“He wanted to tell somebody.”

“Did you think to recommend the police?”

“He didn’t want to talk to the police.”

“He might have a record,” he said. “I’ll check on it. So you came here and . . . what? How’d you get in?”

“His door was ajar.”

“No, I mean how’d you get into the building?”