MARY CLARK - The Cinderella Murder

Laurie skipped to the next message. “Ms. Moran, this is Keith Ratner. I wanted to apologize for losing it yesterday. It’s frustrating, to say the least, that people still question me after all these years. But I do want to help if the show will still have me. Give me a call when you have a chance.”

She hit the RETURN CALL button, and Keith picked up immediately. “You got my message?” he asked.

“I did, and I feel like I also need to apologize. My tone was sharper than I intended yesterday. And I want to assure you that our show will remain objective. In fact, since we saw you at the bookstore, I looked into your alibi for that night, and we’ve also been exploring every possible theory with the same amount of depth. For what it’s worth, I thought you might want to know that Susan’s mother and both of her roommates all said that Susan was much too devoted to have been involved with anyone but you.”

She saw no point in telling him that Rosemary’s response to the question had been, “Oh, I would have been thrilled if Susan had stepped out on that jerk.”

Keith confirmed the address for the summit session in Bel Air and then said good-bye just as they were pulling into the driveway.

“Pretty boy is back on board?” Grace asked.

“Careful,” Alex said. “I’m starting to think you call everyone pretty. My feelings are hurt.”

“Yes,” Laurie reported, “Keith Ratner—a.k.a. Pretty Boy Number Two—is back. But I’m starting to wonder whether he has a point about Rosemary suspecting him for no reason. His alibi is at least as good as Frank’s. He’s got multiple people vouching for him, not just one person who had a lot to gain in sticking by a critically acclaimed director.”

Alex unstrapped his seat belt as the SUV rolled to a stop. “I don’t think you can ignore the fact that the multiple people belonged to what some have called a brainwashing religion. Advocates for God doesn’t exactly have a squeaky-clean reputation.”

The sun felt good on Laurie’s face as she stepped down from the front seat. Maybe she could get used to California. The neighborhood was absolutely silent except for the distant sound of a lawn mower and Grace’s voice.

“And you heard what Madison said about Susan’s car being fickle,” Grace was saying. “If she was worried about a breakdown on her way to the audition, who would she ask for a ride? Her boyfriend, that’s who. Her agent was on the road, driving down to Arizona. So she called Keith. I still say they got into a fight on the way up there, she hopped out of the car, and it got out of control.”

Once again, Laurie felt like she was swimming through mud. The entire purpose of these early interviews was to crystallize the case so Alex could move in for the kill during the summit session. But they were supposed to start shooting in two days, and she still had no clearer picture of who killed Susan than when she’d first spotted the Cinderella Murder case online. Brett Young would never trust her again with this kind of budget. And more importantly, it was possible that this episode would fail by the only measure that really mattered to her—revealing something new about the investigation.

She was so distracted that she slipped her key into the front door without checking the knob first, accidentally locking them out instead of letting them in. She turned the key in the other direction and pushed the door open. It parted a few inches before she felt something blocking the way.

“Hello?” she called out. Jerry must have moved a piece of furniture into the foyer during his staging. “Jerry? We can’t get in! Hello?”

“Let me try.” Grace jumped in front of Laurie, crouched low, and placed both of her palms against the door, shoving with all her weight like a football player pushing a blocking sled across a field. She grunted from the effort and the door opened enough for her to step sideways through it.

“No!” Grace cried out. Through the crack in the door, Laurie saw her assistant fall to her knees on the hallway floor.

“Grace?”

Alex reached out to grab her arm, but it was too late. Laurie stepped inside and saw Grace crouched next to the obstacle that had been blocking the door. It was Jerry. His face was barely recognizable through the injuries. Streaks of red marked his journey from the den to this spot on the floor, his cell phone extended in his right hand. Laurie felt her breath leave her chest and leaned back against the door for support. She felt something damp and sticky on the wood behind her.

She heard Alex’s fist banging against the door but could not bring herself to move.

Jerry had been here alone. He had tried to call for help and had tried to crawl outside, but despite all of that effort, he was still all alone. And he was covered in blood.

46

Talia Parker tapped on the door to her husband’s den. He had been in there for the last three hours, supposedly watching screeners of the ever-growing number of films campaigning for Academy Award nominations. Getting no response, she slowly pushed the door open.

There he was, reclined on the Eames sofa, his stockinged feet crossed at the ankles, his hands clasped just beneath the remote control resting on his barrel chest. On the wide-screen television, an A-list actress had been paused midsentence. A low, steady snore was the only sound in the room.

She gently lifted the remote control, turned off the entertainment system, and draped a light blanket over him. He slept better when he was warm.

Back in their bedroom, she reviewed the wardrobe choices she had made for tomorrow’s meeting with the TV people: an open-collar dress shirt, gray slacks, and navy blazer for him; a white sheath dress and neutral pumps for her. Casual, but put-together and respectable. Frank was known for being a demanding and meticulous filmmaker, but she knew him to be a solid person. A good, caring man. To her, he looked most like himself in conservative clothing.

When she had first overheard Frank agree to do this show, she’d worried it could be trouble. And now, as production was approaching, she knew she had been right. For days, Frank had seemed distracted and nervous. It wasn’t like him. She was used to seeing her husband confident and decisive.

He had been staying up late and then mumbling through the night once he finally fell asleep. And he wasn’t murmuring about negotiations with production companies or screenwriters, as he sometimes did. She’d heard the words “police” and “Madison” more than once.

She had finally mustered up the courage to ask him about it this morning. He insisted he had no recollection of whatever dream had provoked the mysterious words, but in the Parker marriage, she was the actor, not him.

Their marriage had lasted ten years in a town where Botox outlasted the length of the average relationship, and that was because they always fought for what was best for each other. And sometimes that meant Frank doing things she didn’t immediately agree with. It was Frank, after all, who’d killed Talia’s first and only offer of a starring role in a feature film. He had said the director was “frighteningly unscrupulous, even by Hollywood standards.” She had been so tempted to leave, accusing him of not wanting to share the spotlight with her. But then, sure enough, when the film was released, it barely earned an R rating because of explicit nudity that the lead actress insisted was unauthorized. Frank was too decent to say I told you so , but Talia had learned a valuable lesson about the give-and-take of a marriage.

Ever since they met—she had a bit part in Frank’s seventh movie—he had taken such good care of her, even when it meant upsetting her.

Now it was time for her to return the favor.