No Humans Involved
Page 6
He gave me his arm and let Claudia escort us over to Dr. Robson, a parapsychologist the show had hired as an expert. As I asked about Dr. Robson's studies in electronic voice phenomena-more homework-Grady's hand slid to my lower back then began inching down. When Bruce Wang, a specialist in ghost photography, approached, I used the excuse to slide from Grady's grasp and shake Wang's hand. It's a balancing act-being flirtatious enough to flatter without arousing expectations.
As we chatted, talk turned to speculation over Starr Phillips's mystery replacement. Robson had heard a rumor that it was Buck Locke. I prayed he was wrong. Last time I'd met the abrasive TV spiritualist, he'd offered to teach me the secret of tantric magic-sex magic-to enhance my link with the afterlife, and I'd made the unfortunate mistake of laughing. Worse yet, I'd done so as he'd stood in my hotel room doorway, wearing only a robe, which he'd let hang open to display the full "extent" of his offer.
We were still naming names when a murmur rippled through the room. I followed it to the door. In walked two men in shades, like FBI agents from a B movie. Between them stood a tiny, ephemerally beautiful girl in a silver dress. She had long blond hair, perfect porcelain skin and blue saucer eyes-far bluer than anything nature could produce.
Her gaze went straight to me, and she clapped her hands together, giving a kittenish mew of delight. She floated over, chiffon scarf streaming behind.
"Jaime Vegas. Oh, my sweet Lord, it is you!" She took both my hands and clasped them as she gazed up in limpid adoration. "You're my idol. I've been following your career since I was-" a girlish laugh, "-knee-high to a grasshopper, as my daddy would say."
A cameraman and a journalist appeared behind her, recording every frame and word. I tilted my head to my best angle and swept my hair back so it wouldn't block my profile. The lens inched my way.
"That's so sweet of you," I said. "And you must be?"
"Angelique but my friends call me Angel. The Angel of the South."
"Oh, of course. Let me guess, you're the third spiritualist."
"I am. Can you believe that?" An earsplitting squeal of a giggle. "My big chance to work with Jaime Vegas. I was so afraid you'd retire before I got the chance."
I gave a throaty laugh. "Don't worry, I'm not retiring for a while."
Around us, the party had stopped, everyone watching the drama unfold.
"So, do you have any theories on Marilyn's death?" I asked.
"Oh, it was such a tragedy," she said. "Someone so young and beautiful, called to heaven too soon. My daddy-he's a minister, you know-always says-"
"I meant theories on how she died."
A wave of titters.
"Oh, yes, of course. Well, er, that's what we'rehere to learn, isn't it? To free her from the limbo of a tragic passing, to discover who wronged so innocent a soul."
"So you think she was murdered? Are you leaning toward the Kennedys or the Mafia?"
"Oh, my Lord, that is such a beautiful dress. So daring. My daddy would die if I wore something like that. You're so brave!" She waved to the cameraman. "Doug, you have to get a shot of the two of us, for my press release."
I pictured that shot and realized how I'd look towering over the fresh-faced, virginal blond.
"Unless you don't want to" she said, her eyes wide with innocence.
"And miss the chance to get my picture taken with a rising star? Never. Doug, hon, can you make sure I get a copy of it?"
"Absolutely. Is there a mailing address?"
"Just bring it up to my room. Top of the stairs."
He grinned. "Be happy to, ma'am."
I flirted with Doug as he set up the shot, then struck a pose that would give Angelique's daddy a rise in spite of himself.
ANGELINE WAS going to be a problem. Her sly jabs I could handle-you don't spend a lifetime acting without learning how to deal with two-faced starlets. But television is so much more youth-oriented than the stage. Put me on camera next to a slip of a girl barely out of high school and the network execs who were considering my show might start thinking they were making overtures to the wrong spiritualist. I could sex it up-I could out-vamp her any day-but it might not be enough. I'd have to play this one carefully, prove I wasn't just the "sexy redhead" but the better performer. And, as it turned out, I was going to get my chance a lot sooner than I expected.
Becky had barely finished introducing Angelique to everyone when some wit came up with the idea of a "test" seance. As long as you had three spiritualists in a room, why not put them to work providing the entertainment?
"That's a wonderful idea," Becky said. "We should tape it too. For the DVD extras."
"There's going to be a DVD?" Angelique said.
Becky grinned. "There's always a DVD. "What about Tansy Lane?"
"Who?" someone asked.
"Starlet," another responded. "From the seventies. Murdered right next door, I think. The crime was never solved."
I struggled to recall the case. I wasn't big on Hollywood legends, but because Tansy had been a former child star, her case had struck a chord. After outgrowing her starring role on a top-rated sitcom about a fairy changeling, she'd faded away, only to reappear again at twenty with a headline-making comeback. She'd not only beat the odds, but KO'd them, winning an Emmy. And that's when both her career and her life ended. Shot to death at a postawards party in Brentwood.
As we chatted, talk turned to speculation over Starr Phillips's mystery replacement. Robson had heard a rumor that it was Buck Locke. I prayed he was wrong. Last time I'd met the abrasive TV spiritualist, he'd offered to teach me the secret of tantric magic-sex magic-to enhance my link with the afterlife, and I'd made the unfortunate mistake of laughing. Worse yet, I'd done so as he'd stood in my hotel room doorway, wearing only a robe, which he'd let hang open to display the full "extent" of his offer.
We were still naming names when a murmur rippled through the room. I followed it to the door. In walked two men in shades, like FBI agents from a B movie. Between them stood a tiny, ephemerally beautiful girl in a silver dress. She had long blond hair, perfect porcelain skin and blue saucer eyes-far bluer than anything nature could produce.
Her gaze went straight to me, and she clapped her hands together, giving a kittenish mew of delight. She floated over, chiffon scarf streaming behind.
"Jaime Vegas. Oh, my sweet Lord, it is you!" She took both my hands and clasped them as she gazed up in limpid adoration. "You're my idol. I've been following your career since I was-" a girlish laugh, "-knee-high to a grasshopper, as my daddy would say."
A cameraman and a journalist appeared behind her, recording every frame and word. I tilted my head to my best angle and swept my hair back so it wouldn't block my profile. The lens inched my way.
"That's so sweet of you," I said. "And you must be?"
"Angelique but my friends call me Angel. The Angel of the South."
"Oh, of course. Let me guess, you're the third spiritualist."
"I am. Can you believe that?" An earsplitting squeal of a giggle. "My big chance to work with Jaime Vegas. I was so afraid you'd retire before I got the chance."
I gave a throaty laugh. "Don't worry, I'm not retiring for a while."
Around us, the party had stopped, everyone watching the drama unfold.
"So, do you have any theories on Marilyn's death?" I asked.
"Oh, it was such a tragedy," she said. "Someone so young and beautiful, called to heaven too soon. My daddy-he's a minister, you know-always says-"
"I meant theories on how she died."
A wave of titters.
"Oh, yes, of course. Well, er, that's what we'rehere to learn, isn't it? To free her from the limbo of a tragic passing, to discover who wronged so innocent a soul."
"So you think she was murdered? Are you leaning toward the Kennedys or the Mafia?"
"Oh, my Lord, that is such a beautiful dress. So daring. My daddy would die if I wore something like that. You're so brave!" She waved to the cameraman. "Doug, you have to get a shot of the two of us, for my press release."
I pictured that shot and realized how I'd look towering over the fresh-faced, virginal blond.
"Unless you don't want to" she said, her eyes wide with innocence.
"And miss the chance to get my picture taken with a rising star? Never. Doug, hon, can you make sure I get a copy of it?"
"Absolutely. Is there a mailing address?"
"Just bring it up to my room. Top of the stairs."
He grinned. "Be happy to, ma'am."
I flirted with Doug as he set up the shot, then struck a pose that would give Angelique's daddy a rise in spite of himself.
ANGELINE WAS going to be a problem. Her sly jabs I could handle-you don't spend a lifetime acting without learning how to deal with two-faced starlets. But television is so much more youth-oriented than the stage. Put me on camera next to a slip of a girl barely out of high school and the network execs who were considering my show might start thinking they were making overtures to the wrong spiritualist. I could sex it up-I could out-vamp her any day-but it might not be enough. I'd have to play this one carefully, prove I wasn't just the "sexy redhead" but the better performer. And, as it turned out, I was going to get my chance a lot sooner than I expected.
Becky had barely finished introducing Angelique to everyone when some wit came up with the idea of a "test" seance. As long as you had three spiritualists in a room, why not put them to work providing the entertainment?
"That's a wonderful idea," Becky said. "We should tape it too. For the DVD extras."
"There's going to be a DVD?" Angelique said.
Becky grinned. "There's always a DVD. "What about Tansy Lane?"
"Who?" someone asked.
"Starlet," another responded. "From the seventies. Murdered right next door, I think. The crime was never solved."
I struggled to recall the case. I wasn't big on Hollywood legends, but because Tansy had been a former child star, her case had struck a chord. After outgrowing her starring role on a top-rated sitcom about a fairy changeling, she'd faded away, only to reappear again at twenty with a headline-making comeback. She'd not only beat the odds, but KO'd them, winning an Emmy. And that's when both her career and her life ended. Shot to death at a postawards party in Brentwood.
