Reel Stuff (11 page)

“Man, screwing the client can't be a good thing.”

Em reached over and punched my arm. Hard.

“You're kidding,” she whispered in a very gruff tone.

“I got some info, Skip. It gives us some direction.”

“I don't believe it.”

“Believe it, pally. She's very distraught about Londell's death. She just needed to be close to someone.”

“All right, I'll book a flight. Em's coming too.”

This time she kicked me.

“I'll see what else I can get from our client.”

“Oh, I'll bet you will.”

“Skip, remember, grief is nature's most powerful aphrodisiac.”

I knew the quote well. Will Ferrell used it in
Wedding Crashers
.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

I was reminded of a great Julia Roberts movie and a quote that contained the title. “Are you sleeping with the enemy?”

It had been suggested that James do a background check on Ashley Amber. I knew very well he hadn't.

On the surface she seemed genuine and, to be fair, she was picking up our tab, but I never counted anyone out. Em wanted to give Clint Anders a pass because he seemed
so
nice and felt so bad about his friend's death. James had slept with Ashley, so apparently he thought she passed muster. And
me
? I just wanted to solve the case. If there was a murder, then we needed a murderer, and I still believe everyone is suspect until they're not.

I did the simplest of searches, entering Google and punching in the name Ashley Amber. I found a lady in Boston who hosted a movie-review program on access cable and what looked like a porn actress named Amber Ashley, who posed in racy underwear, but there appeared to be only one Ashley Amber, actress.

She was older than I would have guessed. Thirty-two if Wikipedia was accurate. I thought she was still in her twenties. And she'd been in thirteen films and four television series. A list
of commercials she'd appeared in was also listed. Deodorant, hair coloring, teeth whitening, and a push-up bra ad. I remembered that one. She'd had two words in the entire spot. “Empowering. Uplifting.” I couldn't disagree. Plus, there had been some impressive video of her as well. Black lace, red lace, and pure, virginal white. And James was sleeping with her.

The interesting part was in the bio. She'd been married to an actor named Robert Courtney, some British guy whom I had never seen or heard of. She'd been seventeen, he was forty-three. Two years later he'd died, and she inherited his estate. Cause of death was not mentioned, but put forty-three into seventeen and it might be she wore him out.

Ashley's second marriage took place when she was twenty-three, and three years into that relationship the man, who had been her financial advisor, was shot in a home invasion. His wife was away on location in Idaho. Idaho? Who knew they made movies in Idaho?

Again there was no indication of how much he was worth, but the article made mention of the fact that AA was his beneficiary.

This time she wasn't married. She wasn't even officially engaged. But the first thing she ever said to me was that she and Jason Londell were close to committing to each other. And apparently committing to this actress was literally the kiss of death. I knew James had no clue, and even if he did, he'd now been bitten and would tell me the deaths were strictly coincidences. Maybe. But I worried about James. When this lady became involved with you, your chance for survival diminished greatly.

I'd proved nothing. There was a good chance these were coincidences. But the black widow spider has a reputation of mating, then killing the mate. And I'd read stories about women who were serial killers. Going from husband to husband and finding ways to hasten their demise. I just hoped Ashley wasn't one of those ladies.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

I'd like to say that the trip to Los Angeles was uneventful. I'd like to say that, but the truth is it was a physical and emotional roller coaster. Please understand that I'd never flown before. My heart was in my stomach, my stomach was in my bowels. At least for the takeoff. Second, Em decided, bless this sexy lady, that if expenses were in play, we should fly first class. I don't know how the other class flew, but after three Bloody Marys and a beer, I was having a great time. Possibly due to my alcoholic intake, I slept a good deal of the trip and when I did wake up, I was introduced to the Grand Canyon. I was also introduced to some severe turbulence, jolts and bumps that had the flight crew turning green. From thousands of feet in the air. OMG!

Finally, even with first-class accommodations, feeling stiff, sore, and a little out of sorts, I listened to the pilot saying—

“Ladies and gentlemen, to the right, you'll see Thousand Oaks, California.”

He kept his travelogue going over a thirty-minute period. He was obviously familiar with the topography and very proud of his knowledge of this geographic area.

“The famous community of Malibu.”

And again with, “Pacific Coast Highway, that ribbon you see winding around the ocean.”

And Santa Monica, downtown L.A., and even the Los Angeles River. Who knew L.A. had its own river? I didn't. Em knew it, because she's traveled a whole lot more than I have.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if you look out your right-hand window, we are approaching LAX, on runway twenty-four R.”

It meant nothing to me or to anyone else in the plane, but this pilot liked to hear himself talk. “We are now cruising at ten million feet and will level off at four zillion yards and—” Who cares?

When I heard the motorized whining sound and felt a thump, I froze, grasping the armrest. Em assured me it was the landing gear being lowered, and the only time to panic was when you didn't hear it.

The plane came down hard, and it was only after about fifteen seconds that I opened my eyes. Em was laughing.

We got off, all carry-on luggage due to the insight of my amazing girlfriend, and walked to the transportation area. No bags, no baggage fees. It was almost too smooth, and I secretly said a prayer, thanking some Supreme Being for having Emily there to walk me through the problem areas.

Thirty minutes later, we were at the Hollywood Express, a not-too-ostentatious accommodation, but Em told me it beat the hell out of a Motel Six. I simply nodded, having no basis for argument.

Unpacking the few clothes and toiletries I'd brought, I pulled open the heavy drapes and stared out at the pitted parking lot, a lonesome palm tree and the brown Chevy Aveo we'd rented. A step up from my set of wheels and a big step down from Emily's vehicle.

“Boyfriend, we need to have an agenda.”

I couldn't argue.

“Number one, find Juliana Londell.”

“Got it.”

“Number two, find out if she took out a large life insurance policy on her husband.”

“Got it.”

“Number three, get the financial report on those two and a copy of the prenup. Not that I give that much hope but—”

My phone buzzed.

“James, we've arrived.”

“Seen any movie stars?”

“They're all in Miami this week, James.”

“Skip, coroner's report is out.”

“Finally. You've seen it?”

“No. We'll get a copy, but I do know what the foreign substance in Jason Londell's body was.”

“You want to share?” I put him on speakerphone. I was certain it was some sort of hallucinogen.

“Sure. The foreign substance was lead.”

“Lead?” What? Did he suck on his painted crib rail as a child? Lead poisoning wasn't that common and—

“Like a twenty-two slug. It went in under his chin and lodged in his brain. The body was so torn up from the fall they didn't catch the wound at first. Somebody shot him, Skip. Up close and personal.”

“My God, it really was murder.”

“Told ya.”

“Next item on the agenda,” Em said, “is to find cameraman Greg Handler. And, James, you'd better find that other grip. That's on you.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

She had an office. I was under the impression she worked out of her home, but it turns out Juliana had an office, a secretary, and another agent with a desk and everything. James and I worked off of a very small dining room table in our crappy apartment and took calls on my cell phone.

This office was in a professional building about ten minutes from our motel. It took forty-five minutes to get there. I'd always heard L.A. traffic was a mess most of the time.

The subtle sign on the building boasted an accounting firm, a travel agency, a music company, and a company called Flippin' Films. Inside, the engraved sign on their door simply stated Londell/Bavely Talent Representation.

I glanced at Em and shrugged my shoulders. We probably should have planned ahead, but in this case we had no idea what to expect. I opened the door and we walked in.

The lady at the front desk was startled.

“We rarely have walk-ins,” she said. “Our secretary is out temporarily, but what can I help you with?”

I glanced around. There were two hard-back chairs and several
copies of
Variety
and
Billboard
on a small table in the corner. Framed copies of
Rolling Stone
magazine covers,
People
magazine covers and photos of famous and semifamous actors decorated the walls, and I noticed conspicuous vacant spaces between the pieces. I immediately decided those were spots where Jason Londell or other ex-clients had been prominently featured.

Had been.

“We're looking for Juliana Londell.” Em said.

“She's not here. Can I tell her what this is regarding?”

Glancing at Em, I saw her brow crease, signaling thinking stage.

“I would like to talk about representation.”

The girl's eyes widened.

My eyes widened.

She appraised Em, almost deliberately, starting at her tanned legs, then up to the short skirt and her thin waist. I watched her eyes wander up past the chest to the sculpted face and mass of blonde highlighted hair. She smiled.

“Juliana isn't accepting any new clients at this moment.”

Em nodded, a coy smile on her face.

“I believe I could convince her.”

“If you'd like to leave a head shot and résumé?”

Em glanced at me. I knew immediately I'd have to find a quick print place and take some fast photos.

“If she's not accepting any new clients, why would I leave any information about myself?”

“You are very attractive,” the woman said. “If you would please leave your information—”

“You just said she's not accepting any new clients.” Em was affecting an attitude, which wasn't exactly strange to her.

“She's not,” the woman said in a condescending tone.

“Then?”

“But
I
am. I'm Kathy Bavely, and I would be interested in
talking to you. Do you have head shots and a bio?” She thrust a business card into Em's hand.

“No,” I blurted out, “not with us, but we'll be back with whatever information you need.”