Reel Stuff (12 page)

I turned and Em followed. We walked out as the lady shouted after us.

“I hope you'll come back. I like what I see.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

“We could have just said we were P.I.s and asked for an appointment. Wouldn't that have been a lot simpler?”

“True, and she could have said no. What did you want to do, Skip? Tip her off that we were investigating her?”

“I'm sure the cops are investigating her. Isn't the spouse always the first suspect in a murder case?”

She ignored me.

“Look, you still didn't get an appointment with Juliana, Em. Now we've got to pretend that we're—”

“I was trying to get some leverage, Skip.”

“By what? Pretending to be an actress? Where is that going to lead us? What good is that going to do?”

“I don't know, but with you as my manager, we'll see, won't we? If we don't solve the case, at least I may make a decent living as a movie star.” She flipped her soft blonde hair back and gave me a bright smile.

“Really?”

“I won't pretend I haven't thought about it.”

“Since when?” I'd known her since high school and never heard Em talk about going “Hollywood.” “You've never said anything about acting. Other than the lead in
Bye Bye Birdie
in high school—”

“Every girl fantasizes about being a princess. In this country, the closest you get to princess is movie star.” She paused, “Well, Grace Kelly found a way to be both, but come on, Skip, you've never dreamed of being—James Bond or Jason Bourne?”

I'd dreamed of being every superhero in comic book kingdom. Imagined I was every spy in the world and every movie action hero in the last fifteen years, but only dreamed. And here, with one phony call, Em was close to actually getting an agent and fulfilling her fantasy.

Fat chance of that ever happening. No résumé, no head shots.

Here we were in the land of make-believe, pretending to be private investigators, pretending to solve a violent murder in Miami while pretending to be actress and her manager. We fit in very well.

The strip mall store advertised passport photos and head shots in their window. Five digital photos, ten copies, and we were out the door for fifty bucks. I could have done the same on my cell phone, but this guy seemed to know what agents wanted.

“This is the style and these are the poses they look for,” he said. “And, lady, you are the real deal.” His eyes explored her body. “They're looking for you.” He leered at Em, wetting his lips. “And, hey, if you ever want to do something a little racier, here's my card.”

We left, photos in my right hand, middle finger extended on my left hand.

A believable résumé was another thing.

Inside a FedEx office location, Em worked the Internet.

“Here's a sample,” she pointed to the screen. “Sort of a template. TV roles, movies, theater, commercials, training, and special skills.”

“Why don't we start with the special skills,” I said. “There's that thing you do in the shower when—”

“Seriously?”

“Okay, what kind of roles have you had?”

“How about policewoman in
Deadline Miami
, recurring role?”

“Wow. I like that. You're one of the background officers.”

“What else, Skip? You watch TV. There must be other obscure roles I could have had.”

“James watches Ellen DeGeneres. Put down that you have played various characters in skits. You were a dancer, or you took one of the audience members on a crazy trip through Wal-Mart. Ellen does some bizarre stuff.”

“Okay, have I done theater?”

“Sure. You were Off Broadway in—” and I realized I didn't know much about theater. “You haven't done theater, except for playing the Ann-Margret role of Kim MacAfee in
Bye Bye Birdie
in high school—God she had been sexy in that role—but you were a shopkeeper in
Entourage
, a waitress in
According to Jim
,” and so it went as we put together Em's professional life. I had no idea if this agent would check on her, but the roles were sketchy, almost all just walk-ons, so I figured Kathy Bavely wouldn't look into Em's background too hard.

Em had been girl number three in a Chili's ad, a surprised socialite in an Ashton Kutcher Nikon camera commercial, and she'd even had a conversation with Chad in the Verizon television spots. Everyone important seemed to have hired her to represent their company, but she was almost always background. Barely recognizable.

Theater training was at a small community college in Miami, and I listed her as taking private lessons with a famous director who had died last year. They couldn't check on that.

“Special skills,” Em paused, “and not the one you're thinking of,” she said.

“Acting skills? You took ballet as a kid.”

“I dance pretty well. We'll put it down. Anything else?”

“Nothing I can think of. Other than—”

“How about firearms,” she said.

“Firearms?” I had no idea what she was talking about.

“Yeah. I took a conceal and carry class two months ago. It turns out I'm a pretty good shot.”

I was stunned.

“And when were you going to tell me this?” Was she making this up or did she really take the course?

“I don't know. It was eight hours and just one of those private things. I didn't want to make a big deal out of it.”

She surprised me. All the time. And here James and I were licensed private investigators and had no permits to carry weapons. I'd definitely have to look into a concealed permit.

When we finally had the background, Em formatted it until it looked like the sample template on the Internet, and we printed up five copies. I was impressed.

“You're bona fide.”

“I was
bona fide
the last time we were together at my place.”

Now she was the one getting risqué.

I ignored her lewd comment. “So, now what?”

“We go to Kathy Bavely tomorrow and give her the head shots and résumé. Let's see if I can get representation.”

“Em, where is this going?”

“Skip, I'm winging this. You of all people should understand.” She shook her head as if to insinuate I was an idiot for not understanding.
“We need to get to know Juliana Londell and find out whether she stands to collect on an insurance policy.”

“We could have asked.”

“If she's involved, she's not going to notify us. At this point, the way we've positioned ourselves with me possibly being Kathy's client, we're in Juliana's space. If I become, even for an instant, an important person in this space, we stand a chance to find information. We're going to be in the same office, and I feel certain we're going to meet the woman. I'm just going to go with the flow.”

“Isn't that a phrase from the sixties? Go with the flow?”

“Skip, I'm a rising star in the present. I'm going to light up the world. You name the number one twenty-something pop star, and I'm going to be light years ahead of them. Got it?”

She smiled at me, a look that was very sincere.

“We're going to find out if Ashley Amber's sister is responsible for Jason Londell's murder.”

I nodded, hoping this was the end result.

“And,” she added, “we're going to find out if I have what it takes to be an American princess.”

I think she was halfway serious.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Our final stop came from a website I'd visited regarding a SAGAFTRA card. As I understood it, after an actor had a speaking role in a union production whether it's a movie, TV role, or commercial, he has thirty days to get a union card, or he couldn't get a role in another union production. It was part of the Taft-Hartley Act, and I had no idea what that was.

Since we'd dummied up a résumé, Em had to show some proof that she was a member of SAG-AFTRA. We weren't actually interested in a role, because by the time agent Kathy Bavely started pitching Emily to producers, we'd be back in Miami, hopefully with enough information to decide if Juliana Londell had taken an active role in killing her husband.

The place was a print shop in a very sketchy part of town, and they advertised SAG cards as a novelty gift. “Impress your friends,” the ad said. “Show them you are a certified actor with this look-alike card.”

“How look-alike is this card?” I asked.

The young guy with a sparse beard, his pants too low, and a sideways baseball cap smirked.

“You won't be able to tell the difference, dude.”

I'd never seen a SAG card so he was dead-on about that.

When he was finished, I hoped that Kathy the agent would buy it. Better yet, I hoped she would never ask. With a good résumé, I hoped she'd just assume that we had the card. After all, how did Em get all these juicy roles?

“If we get outed, we just go a different direction,” Em said.

I had to admire her determination. She was really getting into the part.

Half an hour later, the young guy brought out the card. Blue and tan, with a logo on the left that showed a line drawing of a smiling face and a frowning face. I guess that was acting. Happy or sad. No middle ground.

Very official looking.

Screen Actors Guild. Associated Actors and Artists of America/AFL-CIO
.

And there was her name, Emily Minard, her very own identification number, and a statement that she'd joined two years ago. The cocky kid had even laminated the card to keep it shiny and new.

We were back on the sidewalk, walking toward our rental, and in the small grassy plot to my left, I saw McDonald's wrappers and discarded Styrofoam cups, dozens of plastic bags, and empty cigarette packs. Empty beer bottles littered the area and ahead the sidewalk was pitted, cracked, and stained with brown splotches and patches that appeared to be blood red. A mangy, gray-haired dog, thin as a stick, prowled the lot with a low growl in his throat, watching every step we took. Not the glitz and glamour Hollywood experience I'd expected.

“Hey, boyfriend. I'm an actress. And it only cost about sixty bucks. All right, Mr. DeMille, I'm ready for my close-up.”

I recognized the quote from
Sunset Boulevard
with Gloria Swanson. An oldie but a goodie. It had been made into a
Broadway play, and I should have made her a character in that play on her résumé. Oh, well, if we ever updated that sheet of paper.

We were both pleased.

We had dinner at Dan Tana's on Santa Monica Boulevard. Long known for its celebrity clientele and great food, it seemed like a place to go when you're on an expense account. Dark wood, red padded booths, and red-and-white checkered tablecloths, the glamour days of Hollywood were still alive.

At the bar we had a Cosmopolitan and a beer before dinner when we realized a guy who used to be on TV long before we were born was four seats down from us. I never would have known who he was, but a patron pointed him out to us.

“Guy played Linc on
The Mod Squad
. Remember? Clarence Williams the Third?”

Linc
? We had no clue.

I did recognize the actor who played The Rock. Dwayne Johnson, he of the sculptured physique. He was sequestered in a far corner of the restaurant engaged in intimate conversation with a beautiful Asian woman. We were sandwiched between a Linc and a Rock. Don't ask me to explain.

The hostess ushered us to a spot by the kitchen, where important people weren't seated. The doors flew open every ten or fifteen seconds, and the raw odors of dozens of dishes wafted to our table, some good and some not so good.

“Well, at least this dining experience is all paid for,” Em said.

“They don't know you're a superstar. If they saw that résumé, those head shots, we'd have the best table in the house.”

“Tomorrow everyone will know,” she said. “Girl number three in a Chili's ad. Whatever. I'm surprised they're not lined up at our table for autographs.”