Murder Plays House (19 page)

I wasn’t sure how to respond to this, and decided that it was best to let the bitterness of his words go unacknowledged. “Farzad,” I said. “Why are you so eager to leave Los Angeles?”

“This place is toxic, darling. Truly toxic.”

“How do you mean?”

“I’ve been here since I was a teenager, ever since I left Iran. For ten years I’ve been trying to become an actor. You know how many parts I’ve gotten?”

I shook my head.

“Eleven. Eleven roles in movies and television. What do you think of that?”

“That actually sounds pretty good to me.”

He stretched a leg out, and then tucked it back under him. “You know how many times I played a terrorist, of those eleven?”

I was afraid to guess.

“Seven! Seven terrorists, two taxi drivers, one shooting victim, and a Mexican gardener. And I’m not a man without connections. Felix knows many people—famous people, directors, producers, actors. Still, with all his help, I am never more than a terrorist or a cabbie.”

“That must be incredibly frustrating.”

“Worse. Worse than frustrating. It eats you up inside. Makes you feel small and useless. Ugly. I can’t stand it anymore. But acting is like a disease. It infects you. I can’t be in the city and not be an actor. So I must get away.”

“And what do you plan to do in Palm Springs?”

“I will take care of Felix, take care of the business. We’ll be a family. Who knows, maybe we’ll even adopt a baby.”

I blinked, and then reminded myself that a lot of people who seem far too self-absorbed to be parents end up rising to the occasion.

“And Felix? Is he as eager to leave Los Angeles as you are?”

“LA is bad for Felix, too. It’s full of people who want something from him. The pretty boys want to model in his shows, the actresses want free dresses. Everybody pretends to be his friend, and everybody wants something. Felix knows this. Sure, he’s seduced by the honey of their words, but he sees right through them. As I do.”

That all too familiar feeling of guilt stabbed me in the stomach. What was I but yet another person who wanted something from them? Here I was, manipulating myself into their lives, pretending to be interested in helping, but really only wanting a chance to tape my children’s drawings up on
that Sub-Zero. Farzad obviously could tell what I was feeling, because, after gazing at me for a moment, he winked.

I said, “But will moving to Palm Springs really get Felix away from it? He’s still going to have to deal with the models and actresses, and the demands of his job.”

Farzad plucked a loose thread from the sleeve of his creamy white shirt. He wore his French cuffs unbuttoned and hanging over his narrow wrists and hands.

“Perhaps,” he said. “But the farther we are away from it all, the less it will influence him. The less it will damage us.”

“Damage you? As a couple?”

He looked away, as if regretting his words.

“What do you mean by damage?” I said, insistently.

He shook his head. “Oh, nothing. We’re fine. Rock solid. It’s just that LA is a toxic city. We are much happier in Palm Springs.”

Perhaps it was as simple as he claimed—perhaps he wanted to leave Los Angeles because of the extent of the demands on Felix’s time. I couldn’t help but wonder, however, if there were some more particular reason. Was their relationship in jeopardy? Had something else precipitated Farzad’s insistence on a move?

Try as I did, I couldn’t get any more out of him on that topic. Instead, I turned to another line of questioning. “Was the fact that you were both actors something that made you and Alicia closer, do you think?”

He waggled his head in something that might have been either a nod or a shake. “It gave us something in common, certainly. We could complain to one another about our agents, about auditions, that kind of thing.”

“Something to bond over?”

“Yes, well, until it got to be too much for me.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know how Alicia’s career had been going. After a while I didn’t like to talk to her about things too much. She was . . .” He paused and looked up at the ceiling. “She was kind of a black hole. You know. An abyss. Too much failure in one place.”

I blinked.

“It wasn’t like she was depressed or anything. She wasn’t that kind of person. She was always moving, always hustling. It’s just that . . . well, that kind of bad luck can be contagious,” he said.

I nodded slightly, not enough to indicate that I agreed, but enough, I hoped, to keep him talking.

“But things had gotten better recently,” he said, as if to reassure me.

“Between the two of you?”

“Better for Alicia. There was that series with the man she was sleeping with, Hoynes. It really seemed like that was going to work out for her.”

I thought for a moment about Dakota Swain. How sure a thing had the vampire series been, really?

“Alicia and I used to go to the gym together sometimes,” Farzad said suddenly. “We both work out at Corps Sain on Sunset. I mean, she used to. I’d better make sure they’ve canceled her membership. They’re probably still charging her credit card.

“Did Alicia work out a lot?”

He laughed. “Alicia? What do you think? The woman was obsessed with her weight. She was a compulsive exerciser. She was there every day for at least two hours.”

“Do you think she was really cured of her anorexia? When I . . . er . . . saw her, she didn’t look . . .” I searched for the word. “Normal, I guess. She was so terribly thin.”

“Normal? What’s normal? Like Felix told that detective, Alicia was no thinner than plenty of other Hollywood actresses. But yes, she was much too thin. She obsessed about what she looked like. Her weight wasn’t the only thing. She worried about her clothes, about her face, everything. Worry is too weak a word.”

“But do you think she still had an eating disorder?”

He waved the question away. “Of course she did. Who doesn’t? Half the people I know are getting their meals delivered by that high-protein diet guru. Alicia was crazy, sure, but she was no crazier than a lot of other girls.”

I thought about my adventures in the land of Krispy Kreme. “Did she do any bingeing?”

“Bingeing?”

“You know, eating huge quantities and then forcing herself to vomit.”

“Oh, you mean like Mia, her comedy character. That was fiction, only. Alicia would never have done that. She had tremendous control. She never ate anything she didn’t want to eat. It was amazing.” A note of admiration crept into his voice.

“What about plastic surgery?” I asked. If Alicia’s best friend Moira had had a facelift, then Alicia probably had one as well.

Farzad laughed. “My dear, you think we all look this good by accident?”

I gazed into his face. He winked at me. “A little nip here, a tuck there. Bigger breasts, a cleaner jawline. Everyone does it.”

I surreptitiously patted the loose flesh that made up my double and triple chins. Maybe my squeamishness about carving up my face and body was silly. After all, everyone was doing it. A little nip. A little tuck. Was it really so bad?
I thought of Moira’s scars, and the tight, shiny faces of the women Peter and I met at industry parties. In a world like this, did
normal
have any meaning?

“Did you two use the same doctor?”

“We two?”

“I’m sorry. I thought you meant that you’d had something . . . er . . . done,” I mumbled hastily.

He laughed at me. “Alicia’s doctor was Bruce Calma. In Westwood, at UCLA. He’s the best. Everyone uses him.”

I noted the name, even though I could see no way that Alicia’s plastic surgeon had anything to do with her death. Still, the picture of her was becoming clearer and clearer to me. She was an ambitious woman, verging on the desperate, engaged in a battle with time that, despite diets, exercise, and surgery, she was doomed to lose. Could it possibly have been this ambition, this battle, that got her killed?

“H
OW
about this one?” Peter said, holding up a brown checked shirt.

I shook my head. After I had left Farzad, I had swung by my house and picked up my husband for a quick trip to Fred Segal. My ostensible excuse was that I wanted to check out the Booty Rags line in the stores—see what it looked like, how it was displayed, even ask the salespeople how well it was selling. The truth was, however, that hanging around a fashion designer had inspired in me a need to shop. Worse, it made me realize just how woefully lacking my husband’s wardrobe was. For all the contrived tatters of Felix’s clothing line, he and Farzad were always dressed to the nines. Now, I wasn’t fool enough to want my husband draped in a pair of butt-baring cargo pants, but there wasn’t any reason he couldn’t buy some new clothes. I had to satisfy my shopping jones somehow, and I certainly I wasn’t willing to spend any more money on my own ballooning self.

Fred Segal was the perfect spot. It was achingly trendy, and chock full of celebrities and the random LA wealthy. Despite that, I knew they’d have enough classic men’s clothes—read jeans and T-shirts—to satisfy my fashion-phobic husband.

Peter presented me with another flannel shirt, this one in a blue check.

“Honey, the whole point of this exercise is to buy you something
other
than flannel shirts and khakis.”

“Should we really be spending the money? I mean, aren’t we supposed to be saving for a down-payment on that house you were going to find for us?”

Since when had my husband become so adept at passive-aggression?

Peter poked listlessly at the artfully displayed clothing, and I dug through a pile of shirts until I found one I liked. I brought it over and held it up under Peter’s chin. “This one’s cool,” I said.

He grimaced, fingering the pink rayon. “It’s got little teapots all over it.”

“They’re cute!”

“Juliet, I can’t wear
teapots.
I just can’t. Toasters, maybe. But not teapots.”

“Fabulous shirt,” a smooth voice said. I turned to find a young man with spiky black hair, wearing hip hugger jeans and a mint green T-shirt. He nodded approvingly. “Leo bought one of those the other day. And I think Justin’s got it in blue.”

I didn’t bother asking who Leo and Justin were. I just put the shirt back on the rack.

“Can I pull some things for you?” the young man asked.

“Sure,” I said, at the same time as Peter said, “No thanks.”

“Can you find some more . . . 
traditional
stuff?” I asked.

The young man heaved a sigh and nodded. He pulled a blue wool jersey off the rack and handed it to me. “Like this?”

It felt like it was woven from spider webs, soft and delicate, yet resilient.

“Perfect,” I said, handing it to my husband.

“Wow, this feels great,” Peter said, sounding surprised.

“Why don’t you take it to the fitting room,” the salesclerk said. “I’ll bring you some other things. Pants, too?”

“Definitely,” I said.

I left the two of them, purposefully ignoring my husband’s desperate glare, and wandered off to the shoe department. I was modeling a pair of bright red, doeskin ankle boots for the mirror when I saw Charlie Hoynes’s girlfriend, Dakota, across the floor, holding up a stiletto-heeled alligator pump. “Can I see this in an eight and half?” she called to the clerk who had helped me cram my swollen feet into the boots.

“I’ll be with you in a moment, Madam,” he said.

“Go on, it’s okay,” I said to him, then I smiled at Dakota. “Hi, it’s me. Juliet Applebaum? From the other night?”

She looked me up and down, as if trying to decide whether to recognize me or not. “Of course. Spago.”

“Right.”

She put the shoe back on the display and fingered the leather thong of a pair of sandals. Finally, she said, “I suppose I owe you an apology.”

“No, of course not.” I limped over in my too-tight, too-high boots.

“I love those boots.”

“Aren’t they great?” I held one foot out, lost my balance, and then, just like that, fell onto my behind.

“Oh my god!” Dakota said, running over to me. She grabbed my arm and tried to heave me up. My bulk was just
too much for her, and she toppled over, almost in slow motion. By the time she was next to me on the floor we were both laughing so hard the tears were streaming down our faces. I rolled over on one side and, using a chair for support, yanked myself to my feet. I held out my hand to her and hoisted her up. She was so light I nearly pulled her all the way over on to me. That set us off even more, and soon I had to sit down in a chair. “Stop!” I cried, holding my belly. “I can’t laugh anymore or I’ll pee in my pants.”

“Are you okay?” she asked. She was almost hyperventilating.

“I’m fine.” I wiped the tears from my eyes. “God, that was insane.”

“No kidding.”

“I’m really not this big. I mean, normally.”

“You’re pregnant.”

“Right. And huge. Especially my butt.”

“Well . . .”

“My son once said to me, ‘You know, Mama, other ladies get pregnant only from the front!’”

We giggled again for a moment, but when the salesclerk showed up with Dakota’s shoes, we calmed down.

“Gorgeous,” I said.

She slipped them on and strutted around the room. “Yeah, but can I afford them?”

I pulled the box over to me, looked at the price, and whistled. “Wow. Twelve hundred bucks.”

“I know,” she said, sighing. She sat back down and took them off her feet. “I should just buy them. The series is going to go, I’m sure of it.”

“Buy them!” I sure couldn’t shell out the four hundred bucks the red boots cost, and I wanted
someone
to make an
inadvisable, even insane, purchase, otherwise what was the point of the whole shopping trip?

“I shouldn’t,” she said. “I’m still paying off these.” She grabbed a breast in each hand and squeezed.

“Really?” I said. “They look so real!”

“They’d better look real. I paid Bruce Calma four thousand bucks for them.”

“Huh,” I said. “Same doc who did Alicia.”

“I’m not surprised. Everyone knows he’s the best. Not many doctors are as good as he is on both boobs
and
faces. I wouldn’t use anyone else.”