Celebrity Sudoku (19 page)

“It wasn’t our entire discussion,” Liza said. “He held back on the fact that Ritz and Chick were an item—and that he was paying Ritz to set people up for ambush journalism.”

“If you can characterize what
The Lowdown
does as ‘journalism.’ ” Michelle’s tone remained acid, but at least she’d stopped directing it solely at Liza.

“I didn’t tell Lowe anything I hadn’t already told Detective Quigley,” Liza tried to defend herself.

“But Quigley wasn’t likely to syndicate it all over the country,” Michelle responded. “Not to mention this market. It’s like advertising your investigation to the murderer.”

Liza’s shoulders slumped a little. “Not that we’ve had all that many people to try and pin the murder on,” she admitted. “Every time we get someone, they turn out to have an alibi.”

Turning to Buck, she said, “Please tell me you’ve managed to get something on Don Lowe. Then he’d have a real reason to try to screw up the investigation.”

But Buck shook his head.

“Lowe was having a high-profile Hollywood lunch at the Atrium.”

“A very high-profile luncheon spot,” Liza agreed gloomily.

“I’ve got at least five eyewitnesses, staff and patrons, who recognized Lowe. He was there during the earthquake.” Buck’s usually expressionless face took on a sardonic smile. “There’s also a security camera that got some wonderful candid shots of Lowe knocking several people over in his hurry to get away from the tall building.”

Michelle got to her feet, purring, “We may not be able to put him away, but I wonder whether one of the other tabloid TV shows might be interested in that footage.”

Michael spoke up for the first time since they entered the office. “Speaking of lunch, we’d better get moving soon or call Wish Dudek to move back the reservation.”

Michelle dismissed them, and Liza humped her walker down the hallway to reception, where she exchanged good-byes with Ysabel. Then she and Michael got on the elevator.

As they rode down, Liza glanced over at Michael. “You were very quiet in there.”

“Liza, I love you dearly,” he told her, “but I’ve learned from hard experience not to stand between you and Michelle Markson—especially when Michelle is in a bad mood.”

She examined his expression closely. “That’s not the only reason.”

He sighed. “It’s one of the things you said in there, about running out of suspects. I wonder if that means the cops are, too—if they were even looking at any others.”

Much as Liza would have liked to reassure Michael, she just didn’t have anything to say. Every time they had managed to come up with a potential alternative suspect, he or she had been cleared.

“The cops have no hard evidence linking Lolly to what happened,” she offered. “At best, they can try to make a circumstantial case. And,” she added, “they have no motive.”

“But Ritz sent her those puzzles, the same as she did with Sam Pang, who does have a motive,” Michael said heavily.

“Maybe Ritz didn’t have anything on Lolly,” Liza suggested. “When Darrie Brunswick offered Lolly the Boots Bungalow, Ritz made a big deal about sharing it with her. They didn’t really move in the same circles. It’s possible that Ritz wanted to get close in hopes of digging up something she could use for blackmail.”

“God help us—and Lolly—if Ritz found anything.” Michael broke off as the elevator doors opened on the downstairs lobby. “It would be all too easy to imagine Ritz opening her nasty mouth in the bungalow right before the quake.”

He went to get the door, and Liza followed in silence. She’d been thinking the exact same thing.

 

 

In spite of L.A.’s snarled traffic patterns, they made it to the restaurant in the Valley well on time. It was a rustic sort of operation in a Spanish colonial building whose plaster walls and roof tiles had become weathered but not grubby—a mellow place, especially the outdoor courtyard where Wish sat at an umbrella-shaded table, enjoying a glass of wine.

With the authority of a long-standing regular, Wish recommended the Cobb salad. Michael and Liza fell in with the suggestion, Michael adding a bottle of beer and Liza discovering that the wine list also offered a nonalcoholic sparkling cider.

Her drink came in a long flute, and she took a sip, savoring the sweet yet crisp taste.

This should go well with the high-class rabbit food,
she thought.
And keeping away from the alcohol will let me take a painkiller if I decide I need one.

She feared that by the time this lunch was over, she might want a painkiller or two.

Wish had a good supply of small talk, and he shared it while they waited for their salads.

“I guess the grand muckety-mucks got a little worried after your misadventure on the set,” he told Liza. “They’ve had people going over the entire soundstage with a fine-toothed comb making sure everything is sturdy—no hidden cracks, no chance the roof will fall in on us.”

He took a sip of his wine. “And it looks as if we’ll be back in regular production starting Monday. Celebrity Week will be postponed for a couple of months, until the memory of the quake fades a bit—and maybe this thing with Ritz is resolved.”

“Speaking of the quake, I never got a chance to thank you—at least not while I was in my right mind—for your help that day.”

Liza rose from her seat, took a couple of careful, tottery steps with one hand on the table, and leaned down to kiss Wish on the cheek.

“I would say that’s reward enough,” he said gallantly.

Michael jumped up to help Liza back to her seat. “That was such a crazy scene.” He shook his head. “People running around, screaming, mass confusion. One thing’s for sure. I bet anyone who went through it will remember where he or she was at the moment of the quake.”

Wish sat very still. “After what I heard on
The Lowdown
last night, I guess I should appreciate that you’re the one asking the question, Michael.”

He looked over at Liza. “Do you think I’m some sort of . . . suspect?” A few extra lines seemed to appear around his eyes.

Liza decided to put her cards on the table. “Do you like Lolly Popovic?” she asked.

“That depends how you define the word ‘like,’ ” Wish replied cautiously. “She’s a nice kid—although at my age anybody under forty has now become a kid. Her mom was a babe among babes in my younger days.”

“In this case, I’m asking if you like Lolly enough to try and help her avoid a trial and maybe prison,” Liza said.

“I hope you’re not talking perjury.” Wish picked up his glass. “It’s a little late for me to suddenly say that Lolly and I were having lunch. I already told the cops the true story.”

“Nothing so dramatic,” Michael assured him. “I assume you know what happened to Lolly—she took a knock on the head—”

“I’ve been hearing things about amnesia,” Wish interrupted. “So she doesn’t know where she was—or what she did.”

Michael nodded. “It leaves her open to a very raw deal from the cops.”

“I’d like to help,” Wish said, “but I didn’t see her after she left the studio with Ritz Tarleton.”

“We know that Ritz put pressure on several of the contestants to lose the first game—the one that was taped,” Liza told him. “That gives us some people with motive. She was also insulting to a lot of the people on the set—”

“Including me,” Wish admitted. “I’d hear comments like ‘old man’ or ‘has-been’ in her voice behind my back.” He shrugged. “Frankly, I wondered if she was nerving herself to say them to my face.”

“You sound a lot less”—Liza fumbled for a word—“
sensitive
about it than Darrie.”

“Darrie’s reached a point in her life—well, let’s be frank. Actresses her age don’t get much work. She’s always complaining to me that guys in the Business get distinguished—women get old.”

He shrugged. “I, on the other hand—I think I’m old. I use words that most people don’t anymore. Like ‘actress’—nowadays they’re female actors, aren’t they?”

“I think it’s just plain ‘actors,’ ” Michael said.

Wish spread his hands in an “I give up” gesture. “Instead of a stereo or home entertainment system, or even a record player, I call it a Victrola. That’s what my folks called it when I was growing up, and it sticks in my head.”

He looked from Liza to Michael with a quizzical expression. “I’m not ready to retire next month. I’ve got a contract for three more seasons and hope to work for more, God willing. But I’ve done a whole lot of stuff. Had my chances—the talk show didn’t pan out.” Wish tilted his head to one side with a wry smile. Then he straightened up, getting serious. “But I’ve put in twenty-five solid years making
D-Kodas
a top syndication franchise. That’s a pretty good career for a guy who started out as the funny weather-man on a local newscast.”

His smile quirked a little farther into self-mockery. “Guess I’m right behind Letterman at the top of that list.”

“So what did you do after the director called a lunch break?” Liza asked.

“First and foremost, I got out of there,” Wish replied. “No sense hanging around when Darrie gets in a loud mood like that. I went to my dressing room, debating whether I should hit the studio commissary or clean off my makeup and go out for lunch.”

He shook the table a little. “Then the whole joint began to move. I got outdoors as quickly as possible. Found a bunch of stagehands milling around and organized them to try and do something helpful.”

Wish gave them a snappy salute. “I was a corporal in the army a long, long time ago. Guess the instinct doesn’t die off. Anyway, we cleared away a little debris, helped a couple of injured people—” He looked at Liza. “And then I found you.”

She nodded. “And the rest is history.”

Looks as if Wish has a pretty good alibi,
Liza thought.
He might have been alone at the first shock, but he had people around him right after he stepped out of the soundstage.

“How about Darrie?” Michael asked hopefully.

Wish shook his head. “She had someone with her from the moment she stormed off the set. The line producer was in her dressing room, trying to calm her down—not very successfully, judging from the noise level coming through the wall. The executive producer arrived just in time for the quake. He hustled Darrie off to wherever they keep the valuable studio properties.”

“Is that what they did with the celebrity contestants?” Liza asked.

“I think things were a little too disorganized to do that,” Wish replied. “At least at first. I saw Claudio Day and that hip-hop character in the crowd I pulled the stagehands out of. Claudio joined us to help out for a while, but one of the production flunkies came and led him away. I assume the same happened with the other guy.”

“How about Sam Pang?” Michael asked a little desperately.

But Wish just shook his head. “Didn’t see her at all. I got the impression she wouldn’t be much help in an emergency.” He speared a chunk of avocado on his fork. “Sorry if I can’t be more helpful.”

“Yeah, well, I’m sorry this turned out to be a less than convivial lunch,” Liza apologized.

They finished the meal in glum silence. Neither Liza nor Michael was in the mood to discuss what they’d just heard, and Wish had apparently run out of small talk.

In the car on the way home, though, Michael spoke up. “We’ve still got Sam Pang and Chard Switzer to account for.”

“Chard was the most forthcoming of the people we questioned,” Liza pointed out. “And Sam was pretty up-front about the blackmail.”

“Maybe there’s another motive we’re not seeing,” Michael suggested. “Did Fritz Tarleton have any dealings in Korea? Maybe he screwed over Sam’s family back home.”

“Or maybe Ritz had a tempestuous affair with the third assistant lighting tech.” Liza let her sarcasm hang right out there. “Who happened to be psychic, so he knew an earthquake was coming to hide traces of his murder.”

“If he was psychic, he should have known the affair would end badly,” Michael joked, joining in the game with his best script-doctor style. “Besides, it’s unlikely. We already established that Ritz wouldn’t sleep with writers, so I think that eliminates lighting techs as well.”

Liza looked over at him from her seat. “What, are you miffed?”

“Relieved, actually,” Michael admitted. “Otherwise Ritz would have made a play for me just to annoy you—and that would land me on Quigley’s suspect list.”

“Not to mention my S-list,” Liza responded, and then stopped for a beat. “Uh, I mean, she’s just a nasty piece of work. You’d go down in everyone’s estimation if they saw her hanging off you.”

He glanced at her from behind the driver’s wheel. “Of course. Yeah. Okay.”

They drove the rest of the way in pensive silence.
Why did the thought of Ritz and Michael together get such a rise out of me?
Liza worried.
Don’t we have enough on our minds?

They went into the house, and Michael monitored the voice mail again, zipping past any unfamiliar phone numbers. “Either media or gossip rag calls,” he said.

Then he stopped at one call, letting it play through.

“Liza, it’s Elise Halvorsen. Haven’t heard from you lately, so I thought I’d give you a call.” Meticulous as ever, she left her phone number and said good-bye to the machine.

A huge wave of guilt washed over Liza. “It’s almost a week. I stuck her with Rusty for longer than I intended—and a lot longer than she’d appreciate. He’s probably overturned her sofa or something.”

“You don’t know that sofa,” Michael told her. “The upholstery may be mushy, but the damned thing weighs a ton.”

“You don’t know Rusty,” Liza replied grimly as she punched in the Maiden’s Bay number.

Mrs. Halvorsen answered on the third ring.

“Hi, Mrs. H. I’m so sorry I haven’t spoken to you,” Liza apologized into the handset. “It’s just been crazy here.”

“I know,” her neighbor replied. “I’ve seen you a couple of times on TV. You really should get some tennis balls to put on the legs of that walker. Friends of mine say they make it a lot easier to move that thing around.”