Hollywood Confessions (2 page)

I ducked my head down, slipping into my chair before he could notice what a long lunch I’d taken. I quickly pulled up the story I’d been working on before I left that morning: Megan Fox’s boobs—real, or fake.

Yeah, CNN we were not.

Swallowing down every dream I’d ever had of following in Diane Sawyer’s footsteps, I hammered out a 2- by 3-inch column on the size, shape and possible plasticity of the actress’s chest. I was just about finished (concluding that, duh, there was no way those puppies were organic), when an IM popped up on my screen. My editor.

Where have you been?

I peeked up over the top of my cube. He was still shouting into his earpiece but was now seated at his computer, eyes on the 32-inch flat screen mounted on his desk.

I ducked back down.
At lunch.

Pretty long lunch.

I bit my lip.
I was hungry.

There was a pause. Then:
Come into my office in three minutes.

Great. Busted.

I glanced at the time on my computer. 1:42. I finished up my article, hit save, and two minutes and forty-three seconds later got up from my chair, smoothed my skirt, puckered to redistribute my lipgloss and pushed through the glass doors of his office to face the music.

He was still on the phone, nodding at what the guy on the other end said. “Yes. Fine. Great,” came his lilting British accent. He motioned for me to sit in one of the two folding chairs in front of his desk. I did, tugging at my hem again as I watched him pace the office.

Felix Dunn was somewhere between late thirties and early forties, at least a good ten years my senior. Old enough that fine laugh lines creased the corners of his mouth, but young enough that his sandy blonde hair was cut in the same shaggy style I’d seen high school skateboarders wear. He was tall with the lean lines of a runner, though I’d never actually seen him jog. He was dressed today in his usual uniform of a pair of khaki pants and a white button-down shirt, paired with tan Sketchers. His clothes were wrinkled, looking like he’d slept in them, and his hair stood up just a little on top. I would’ve said he was pulling a casual chic thing, but I knew Felix well enough to know it was more laziness than a practiced look.

Not that Felix couldn’t afford to look every bit the metro-sexual , but he had his own priorities. He was what you’d call a cheap rich guy. He lived in a multi-million dollar home in the Hollywood Hills, thanks to old family money, but still opted to buy his socks on sale at the drugstore. I’d heard a rumor going around the office that he was actually a British lord, some distant relation to the queen, but he always seemed to have left his wallet at home when the check came at lunch.

“
Listen, I’ve got a meeting now,” Felix said into his earpiece. “I’ve got to go, but I’ll call you tomorrow.” He hit the end button on his Bluetooth then turned to me without skipping a beat. “The Megan Fox bit, where are we?”

“
Done. Just need to proof it, and it’ll be on your desk.”

“
Conclusion?”

“
They’re fake.”

“
You’re sure?”

I gave him a look. “Seriously? I had more faith in your boob connoisseur status.”

He shook his head as if disappointed. “Can’t trust anything to be authentic these days.”

“
If it makes you feel any better, her ass is real.”

He grinned. “I’m ecstatic. Listen, I have a new story I want you to work on.”

Even though I knew it likely involved the man vs. natural-made status of a celebrity’s body parts, I still got a little surge of adrenalin in my belly. I couldn’t help it. I loved the thrill of ferreting out the truth, making sense of a chaotic series of facts. I hadn’t been lying when I told Mr. Callahan at the
Times
that I lived for the story.

“
Shoot,” I told Felix. “I’m all ears.”

“
It involves—”

But he didn’t get to finish. The door to his office flew open again and one of the other reporters, burst through. She had violet hair and wore a hot-pink baby-T featuring a picture of Oscar the Grouch and black jeans with little skulls on the back pockets over a pair of shit-kicker black boots. Tina Bender.

“
I got it!” she said triumphantly, holding a photo high above her head.

Felix raised an eyebrow her way. “And what might ‘it’ be?”

“
The frickin’ story of the century.” She slammed the photo down on Felix’s desk.

He leaned forward to get a good look. I did the same.

The photo was of the outside of a gated home. If I had to guess, I’d say a mansion somewhere nearby. Beverly Hills or Malibu, if the palms lining the impressive driveway were any indication.

“
Chester Barker’s estate,” Tina said, confirming my suspicions. “In Beverly Hills.”

Felix leaned in. “The dead producer?”

Tina nodded. “Murdered, to be precise. This was taken just before his body was found by the maid.”

I remembered the story. Chester Barker, a reality TV show producer, was found dead in his Beverly Hills estate two weeks ago, face-down on his bathroom floor and foaming at the mouth. At first the consensus had been accidental drug overdose, but upon further inspection the police had found evidence that Barker had been drugged on purpose. The verdict of murder had sent the media—both tabloid and legit—into a virtual feeding frenzy, the
Informer
staff included. Personally, I’d been searching high and low for any angle on Barker for days.

Unfortunately it appeared Tina had found it first.

“
Where did you get this photo?” Felix asked.

“
One of my informants.”

Tina had informants all over Hollywood, her network farther reaching than Verizon’s. Something I sorely envied. The first thing they’d taught us in journalism class was that a reporter was only as good as her informants. And unfortunately, Tina’s outnumbered mine ten to one.

“
Check out the right corner,” she said, pointing to the picture.

Felix and I did, both leaning in. In the corner of the picture, near the iron gates, was a figure, his back to the camera, a baseball cap with a squiggly red snake on the brim of it pulled low on his head.

“
Who’s that?” I asked.

Tina ignored me. As always. For some reason, she and I had gotten off on the wrong foot when I’d first come on board here. Probably because Felix had given me her biggest story right off the bat. While I’d felt kinda bad for her, my bank account had been hovering low enough that my Visa was rejected at the dollar store. I needed the job, and I’d needed that story to prove to Felix I deserved a paycheck, despite my minuscule portfolio. So, despite feeling sorry for Tina’s loss, I’d taken the story and run with it. Luckily I’d delivered, Felix had kept me on, and my bank account now afforded me the luxury of shopping at Walmart’s clearance bin.

I know, decadent.

But Tina had never forgiven me, and a hard and fast rivalry between the two of us had been born.

“
Who’s that?” Felix asked, repeating my query.

Predictably, Tina did
not
ignore him. “That, my dear editor, is Chester Barker’s killer.”

Felix raised an eyebrow.

She shrugged. “Or at least, it could be. A shadowy figure seen outside the mansion at the time of the death. Pretty suspicious, huh?”

Felix nodded, eyes still on the photo. “Any idea who our suspicious character is?”

She shook her head. “But I am
so
on this story. Give me twenty-four hours, and I’ll have his name, address and credit score.”

Felix bit the inside of his cheek for a moment, thinking over the proposition. Finally he said, “Okay. Run with it. The Barker story is all yours, Tina.”

Her grin was twice the size of her face. “Ay-ay, chief!” She gave him a mock salute before fairly skipping out the door.

Felix pulled out a magnifying glass, training it on the photo. I waited while he silently scrutinized the shadowy figure, trying to make out any identifying marks.

Finally I couldn’t take it anymore. I cleared my throat.

Felix’s eyes jolted upward, as if surprised to still find me there.

“
Uh, you said you had a story for
me
?”

“
Oh. Right. Allie. Yeah.” He cleared his throat, setting the photo of the would-be killer aside. “I got a tip this morning that Pippi Mississippi changed her hair color. I want you to go talk to her hairdresser and either confirm or deny.”

Tina got a murder, and I got a dye job. Figures. Even at a tabloid no one took my journalism skills seriously.

Chapter Two

Jennifer Wood was the young teen actress who played the title character Pippi Mississippi on the hit tween cable show, launching not only the teen’s acting career but also a singing contract, a line of clothing for eight-year-olds and a fragrance called “Totally Pippi” sold at finer department stores everywhere. Last year Jennifer starred in her big screen debut,
Pippi Mississippi: The Movie
, which had opened to the highest box office take since James Cameron’s latest, launching Pippi into the realm of mega-celebrities. I think it was safe to say that Pippi Watching had officially passed baseball as America’s favorite pastime.

Sadly, a picture of Pippi’s new ‘do in the
Informer
would probably outsell copies of
Time
with the president’s picture on it.

According to the Hollywood grapevine, Pippi got her hair done at Fernando’s salon, a Beverly Hills staple nestled smack in the center of the BH golden triangle, where real estate was worth an arm and a leg, and noses were changed as often as the seasons.

I pushed through the glass front doors of Fernando’s, immediately assaulted by the scents of hair dye, frying perms and botanical conditioners with French names. The interior of the salon was done in a minimalist chic style—plain white walls, white sofa in the waiting area, white marble tiles on the floor and white plastic chairs at every station lining the middle of the salon floor. Two large red paintings were an unexpected splash of color along the back wall, providing one bold focal point.

The guy behind the reception desk provided the other. “Allie, love of my life, how are you, dahling!” he shouted, coming at me with air-kisses.

“
Great, Marco.” I air-smooched him back and gave a little shoulders-only hug.

Marco was a slim, Hispanic guy with eyeliner thicker than Tammy Faye’s, outfits louder than Lady Gaga’s and a vocabulary straight out of the movie
Clueless
. He was currently holding a bottle of sparkly silver glitter in one hand and a glue stick in the other. I almost hesitated to ask. “What’s with the glitter?”

Marco looked down at the bottle in his hand. “We’re having a sale on conditioner. I’m sprucing up the sign a little.”

I looked over at his desk. A generic “sale” sign now had a glittery silver “20%” drawn across it in scrolling script.

“
Very…sparkly.”

“
Thank you!” Marco beamed like a proud papa. “So, what can I do for you, dahling? We’re on a tight schedule today, but for you I could bump someone.”

“
I appreciate the sentiment, Marco, but I’m actually here for…” I leaned in and whispered, “a little information.”

He closed his heavily lined eyes and shook his head in the negative. “Sorry, dahling, no can do. You know my lips are sealed. What would happen if I tongue-wagged about every celebutant who came through here? I’d be out on my hot little fanny, that’s what.”

I grinned. “You know that would never happen. Fernando couldn’t function without you.”

Marco pursed his lips. Then nodded. “Well, that’s true.”

“
Listen, I just need a confirm or deny over a new hair color.”

He shook his head again. “Sorry. I have taken the celebrity hairdresser’s oath. ‘What happens in the salon stays in the salon.’”

“
Hmmm.” I narrowed my eyes. “What if I made it worth your while?”

He raised one drawn-in eyebrow at me. “Worth my while?”

“
I happen to have an informant that happens to follow the club scene very closely. And happens to know where one very desirable celebrity is planning on partying this very evening.”

Marco leaned in. “I’m intrigued. A-lister?”

I shrugged. “At least a B-plus.”

“
Who?”

I looked over both shoulders, trying to match his level of drama as I leaned in and whispered, “Adam Lambert.”

“
Shut the front door!” Marco said, almost spilling his glitter on the marble floor. “Where?”

“
I’ll tell you…if you can tell me a little something.”

He narrowed his eyes at me. “Ooh, you are wicked, girl. Fine. You cracked me.” He paused, looked over both shoulders for prying ears then nodded, setting finger to the side of his nose. “Come into my office, dahling.”