Death in Daytime (6 page)

"That's what I thought," Thomas said. "Apparently, the police have found an ex, and a daughter."

"What?"

"Alex? Can you get ready now? We can worry about this later."

"I'm going, I'm going."

I dressed for my scenes and while George worked on my hair I talked through my confusion with him.

"Did you know Marcy had a family?" I asked.

"How would I know that, dear?" he asked. "She did
not
talk to me, honey."

"When she and I were . . . talking last week, she said I ruined her life. That she never had children, and all she had was work. Now I hear she had a husband and a daughter."

"The dragon lady? A daughter?"

"That's what I heard," I said. "I'm going to dig a little deeper when I have the chance."

If there was an ex, I thought, wouldn't he be the number one suspect? All the books and cop shows I'd seen always pointed a finger at the family--

specifically the husband. But did that go for exes, too?

I finished my scenes and was free to go home. Once again I'd called my mother to pick up Sarah and see that she was fed. I thanked the parent god for a mother I was able to get along with. A lot of that had to do with being from the Midwest and not Hollywood. I didn't think I would have been able to stand a Rodeo Drive mother.

I left the studio through the back gate that connected to the back entrance of a shopping mall. I had parked there this morning hoping to avoid the press, and gratefully there was none there. Or so I thought. I heard someone call my name. I turned, half expecting to see a reporter who had somehow figured out my secret exit. But it was Detective Davis, without his partner. How did he know about my escape route?

"Detective Davis," I said. "Can I do something for you?"

"I needed to talk with you," he said, "but I didn't want to bother you while you were, uh, working."

"Your partner's not around?"

"This is, uh, kind of unofficial."

"Then it's not about the murder?"

"Well, it is," he admitted, "and it isn't. Can we go somewhere? Get a cup of coffee, maybe?"

I looked at him a little differently, realizing he probably knew my every move. Apple-cheeked or not, he was still a cop.

"There's Dupar's. On the other side of the mall. I can meet you there." Dupar's was where George and I snuck away once a month to indulge our mutual love of pancakes. "Okay," he said. "Five minutes."

I got in my car, hoping I was doing the right thing. It's not smart to agree to meet a fan away from the studio, especially if that fan is a sneaky policeman. When I got there, Detective Davis was already seated. He stood up as I approached. "Can I get you something?"

"Just a regular coffee."

"Not a latte with whipped cream and cinnamon?"

That was what my character had started drinking, recently, since Marcy had introduced a new set, a coffeehouse where all the show's characters met.

"No," I said, wincing, "just regular."

He looked disappointed, but went off to get it and came back with two. He set one in front of me and sat down.

"What's on your mind, Detective?"

"I just wanted to tell you," he said, "I don't think you killed that writer."

"Really? Why is that?"

"It doesn't strike me as something Tiff--I mean, you would do."

Ho, boy, I thought. He was one of those viewers who had trouble differentiating between my character and the real me. Great, one of LA's finest.

"Well, I appreciate that. . . ."

"Now, my partner, he's a different story," Davis said. "He thinks you did it."

"What?"

"I can't seem to talk him out of it. There's the argument you had, and things we've learned from other people. You know some of the cast think maybe you were pushed to the edge since your divorce and all that tabloid coverage."

"Look, Detective! That's old news and we, my kid and I, are doing just fine, really." I took a deep breath.

"I mean, do I seem like I'm on the edge to you?" I had to be careful; maybe I did. Changing the subject I asked, "What about . . . didn't I hear something about an ex-husband? I mean of Marcy's?"

"Yes, there is an ex-husband, and a daughter," he said. "And there are other--look, I shouldn't even be here telling you this much. I just didn't want Tiff--you to get into too much trouble."

"Was she killed with her Emmy?"

"Yes," Davis said, "the lab has matched the statue to her wound. She was struck more than once, but the first blow most certainly killed her."

"Were my fingerprints on it?"

Davis nodded, but said, "Among others. Apparently anyone who went into that office felt compelled to touch it. We're still matching prints."

"Okay then," I said, "why should I be in trouble here if mine are not the only prints on the Emmy? I didn't kill Marcy. I would never--"

"I know," he said, "I told you, I believe you." He sat back suddenly and looked at me. It was as if he just realized what he was doing could get him into a whole world of trouble.

"Listen, you wouldn't tell anyone--I mean, nobody can know I was here--"

"Detective, don't worry, I'm not going to tell anyone," I assured him. After all, I hadn't ever told George's partner, Wayne, about the pancakes. "Least of all your partner. I wouldn't want you to get into trouble for trying to help me."

He sighed and seemed relieved.

"Thanks," he said. "I knew I could count on you, Tiff--I mean, Alexis."

He stood up to leave, then leaned over and said, in a low tone, "I never believed those rumors about you being a man."

"Thank you," I said, matching his tone. As he left I watched him, wondering if I had walked into a good cop/crazy cop situation.

I had a second cup of coffee and sat there awhile, trying to figure things out.

Who would want to kill Marcy, and why? There were actually people on the show besides me who disliked her. They didn't have the history she and I had, but couldn't stand her for their own reasons. I hadn't mentioned it to Detectives Davis or Jakes earlier because I didn't feel right throwing someone else to the cops, even to save myself. But the fact of the matter was, I wasn't the only one on the show who wouldn't have been torn up if Marcy turned up dead. The cops would find that out if they dug deep enough. But if Jakes thought I did it, would he even try to dig further?

Maybe I was the one who was going to have to do the digging. Why else would Davis have come to warn me? He was telling me that I had to clear myself. Then I remembered something. Last week, when I went to see Marcy, I had walked in on her while she was on the phone. It sounded like an argument, and it sounded personal. It got ugly--remember, I'm an expert at seeing Marcy during ugly periods--and now that I was thinking about it, she could have been talking to a man, and it could have been an ex-husband. It was after she hung up that we got into our argument. Could she have overreacted because she thought I heard her private conversation on the phone? What if the motive for killing Marcy was personal, and not professional?

Marcy had lied to me. She had an ex-husband and a daughter, and I didn't know what her relationship with either one of them was like. I also didn't know where they lived, although I had to assume the daughter lived with the father--unless she was over eighteen and on her own.

I had to get answers to so many questions, and I knew who could help me, and how.

I decided that my amateur investigation was going to have to be a two parter: professional and personal. If Marcy was enough of a bitch in her professional life to make somebody want to kill her, why not her personal life as well?

Marcy had lied to me about having family, and right in the middle of a heated argument. Why? Had she convinced even herself that there was no ex-husband, no daughter?

Instead of going home I drove to an old friend's house. Our husbands had been tight--still were--but we barely saw each other anymore, so she was kind of shocked when I showed up at her front door.

"Alex? What a surprise."

"Hello, Jean. Look, I don't want to cause any trouble. Is Bill here?"

"No, he's working," she said. "In fact, he's out of town, so there's no danger of running into him, if that's what you're worried about."

"Good," I said. "I don't want to cause a scene. Can I come in?"

"Of course."

She let me in, closed the door behind us, then turned to me, and that's when things got kind of awkward.

"I've seen the news, read the papers," she said. "It's awful what they're saying about you."

"But no surprise," I said. "It does bug me a little. I thought I had a thicker skin by now, but this is a little different."

"Look, I'm sorry about how things have gone," she said. "Bill and Randy were friends, and--"

"Jean, it's okay," I said. "I understand."

She was right; it was Bill and my ex-husband, Randy, who were friends. Jean and I had met through them, as "the wives." Ever since Randy had disappeared with most of my money, Bill would send gifts to Sarah on birthdays and holidays and sometimes just because. He told
her
they were from her daddy and told
me
he was just trying to help Sarah cope with not having a father around. I knew Bill was in touch with him. Because even though Randy was a scumbag husband, he had adored his little girl. And she him. I had mixed feelings about the whole thing. Strong ones. I hated what he had done to our daughter, but I knew she needed him. And was only going to need him more as she got older. The mother part of me wanted him to come back for her sake. The banker part of me had long since given up hope of recovering the money Randy stole from me. And now, people actually thought I was capable of murder because I had been pushed over the edge by Randy's actions. Boy, he was the gift that kept on giving. I hoped that he'd ended up someplace where my money was hard to spend. Or maybe he was in South America and had been the innocent victim of a coup.

"I'm actually here to see Will," I said.

"Will?" She was wondering why I wanted to see her fifteen-year-old son. He was probably sixteen by now. We all knew that Will had a terrible crush on me, but what I'd never told anyone was that I'd always found him kind of creepy. He was, however, a computer whiz, and I needed one, at the moment.

"Y-yes, he's home. He's in his room. Why do you want to see Will?"

"I need some information," I said.

"From Will?"

"From Will's computer."

Suddenly she relaxed.

"Oh, well, he is a genius on that thing. He can find out anything you want."

"Can I go up to his room? We can leave the door open, if you like." I didn't want her to think I would try to take advantage of her son or do something strange.

"Oh, don't be silly," she said, touching my arm, then pulling her hand away quickly, as if the touch might have been a betrayal of our husbands' friendship. "I'll take you up."

When his mother knocked on the door and we entered, he leaped to his feet and gaped at me. Naturally, Will was surprised to see me. Since I'd always found his crush on me kind of icky, I'd never really been very friendly to him.

"Will, Alex is here to see you."

"Hello, Mrs. Peterson," he said respectfully. I have to say I always suspected Will of being an Eddie Haskell type--polite in front of adults but something else again around his peers. Or me.

"Hello, Will," I said. "I need help with something I know you can handle--computer stuff."

I looked around the room and saw three computer screens in view. The computers themselves were out of sight, probably under a table or behind a stack of books.

"I have some things to do downstairs," Jean said.

"I'll leave you to it."

As Jean walked out, she left the door open. I watched her, then turned to look at Will, who was staring at me, kind of glassy-eyed. I wondered if his mother and I had walked in on something weird. Behind him a computer screen had gone blank. I was sure there had been something on it.

"Um, what can I do for you, Mrs. Peterson?"

"Will, I need to find out information about . . . well, some people."

"Personal information?"

"Yes, can you do that?"

"I can run a Google search," he said, "or Yahoo, or any number of search engines. What do you want to know?"

"Can I have something to write on?" I asked. He turned around to pick up a pad and pencil from his desk. In doing so he nudged the computer mouse, and the screen came on. I had enough time to see an impressive pair of naked boobs before he hurriedly touched something that made the screen go blank again. When he turned to me, his face was very red and he was sweating. I acted like I hadn't seen a thing.

"H-here."

I took the pad and wrote down Marcy's full name.

"I need to find out about this woman's family," I said. "I mean, if she has any, where they are, stuff like that."

"Sure," he said. "I might have to cut a few corners."

"Would that get you into trouble?" I asked. "I don't want to get you into any trouble."

"Oh, don't worry about me, Mrs. Peterson," he said.

"I can protect myself--online, I mean."

"I'll bet you can." Will was turning out to be less creepy--despite the Girls Gone Wild pictures. He was actually cute, trying to impress me.

"I can pay you--"

"Oh, no," he said. "I don't want any money. I like having jobs to do on the Web. I'll do it for you for nothing."

"Well," I said, "maybe you'd like to come to the set sometime?"

His eyes lit up.

"That'd be awesome!"

"Okay, then," I said. "That'll be your payment. Um, how soon can you get this for me?"

"Do you have a computer?"

"I do," I admitted, "but I'm not all that computer literate."

"That's okay," he said. "I can just send you the information in an e-mail."

He wrote his private number down and handed it to me.

"Thank you, Will."

"Sure, Mrs. Peterson."

"And why don't you just call me Alex from now on, huh?"

"Wow," he said. "Thanks, Mrs. Peterson."

"No," I said, "thank you, Will."