Hollywood Confessions Read online

  “Who’s that?” I asked.

  Tina ignored me. As always. For some reason, she and I had gotten off on the wrong foot when I’d first come on board here. Probably because Felix had given me her biggest story right off the bat. While I’d felt kinda bad for her, my bank account had been hovering low enough that my Visa was rejected at the dollar store. I needed the job, and I’d needed that story to prove to Felix I deserved a paycheck, despite my minuscule portfolio. So, despite feeling sorry for Tina’s loss, I’d taken the story and run with it. Luckily I’d delivered, Felix had kept me on, and my bank account now afforded me the luxury of shopping at Walmart’s clearance bin.

  I know, decadent.

  But Tina had never forgiven me, and a hard and fast rivalry between the two of us had been born.

  “Who’s that?” Felix asked, repeating my query.

  Predictably, Tina did not ignore him. “That, my dear editor, is Chester Barker’s killer.”

  Felix raised an eyebrow.

  She shrugged. “Or at least, it could be. A shadowy figure seen outside the mansion at the time of the death. Pretty suspicious, huh?”

  Felix nodded, eyes still on the photo. “Any idea who our suspicious character is?”

  She shook her head. “But I am so on this story. Give me twenty-four hours, and I’ll have his name, address and credit score.”

  Felix bit the inside of his cheek for a moment, thinking over the proposition. Finally he said, “Okay. Run with it. The Barker story is all yours, Tina.”

  Her grin was twice the size of her face. “Ay-ay, chief!” She gave him a mock salute before fairly skipping out the door.

  Felix pulled out a magnifying glass, training it on the photo. I waited while he silently scrutinized the shadowy figure, trying to make out any identifying marks.

  Finally I couldn’t take it anymore. I cleared my throat.

  Felix’s eyes jolted upward, as if surprised to still find me there.

  “Uh, you said you had a story for me?”

  “Oh. Right. Allie. Yeah.” He cleared his throat, setting the photo of the would-be killer aside. “I got a tip this morning that Pippi Mississippi changed her hair color. I want you to go talk to her hairdresser and either confirm or deny.”

  Tina got a murder, and I got a dye job. Figures. Even at a tabloid no one took my journalism skills seriously.

  Chapter Two

  Jennifer Wood was the young teen actress who played the title character Pippi Mississippi on the hit tween cable show, launching not only the teen’s acting career but also a singing contract, a line of clothing for eight-year-olds and a fragrance called “Totally Pippi” sold at finer department stores everywhere. Last year Jennifer starred in her big screen debut, Pippi Mississippi: The Movie, which had opened to the highest box office take since James Cameron’s latest, launching Pippi into the realm of mega-celebrities. I think it was safe to say that Pippi Watching had officially passed baseball as America’s favorite pastime.

  Sadly, a picture of Pippi’s new ‘do in the Informer would probably outsell copies of Time with the president’s picture on it.

  According to the Hollywood grapevine, Pippi got her hair done at Fernando’s salon, a Beverly Hills staple nestled smack in the center of the BH golden triangle, where real estate was worth an arm and a leg, and noses were changed as often as the seasons.

  I pushed through the glass front doors of Fernando’s, immediately assaulted by the scents of hair dye, frying perms and botanical conditioners with French names. The interior of the salon was done in a minimalist chic style—plain white walls, white sofa in the waiting area, white marble tiles on the floor and white plastic chairs at every station lining the middle of the salon floor. Two large red paintings were an unexpected splash of color along the back wall, providing one bold focal point.

  The guy behind the reception desk provided the other. “Allie, love of my life, how are you, dahling!” he shouted, coming at me with air-kisses.

  “Great, Marco.” I air-smooched him back and gave a little shoulders-only hug.

  Marco was a slim, Hispanic guy with eyeliner thicker than Tammy Faye’s, outfits louder than Lady Gaga’s and a vocabulary straight out of the movie Clueless. He was currently holding a bottle of sparkly silver glitter in one hand and a glue stick in the other. I almost hesitated to ask. “What’s with the glitter?”

  Marco looked down at the bottle in his hand. “We’re having a sale on conditioner. I’m sprucing up the sign a little.”

  I looked over at his desk. A generic “sale” sign now had a glittery silver “20%” drawn across it in scrolling script.

  “Very…sparkly.”

  “Thank you!” Marco beamed like a proud papa. “So, what can I do for you, dahling? We’re on a tight schedule today, but for you I could bump someone.”

  “I appreciate the sentiment, Marco, but I’m actually here for…” I leaned in and whispered, “a little information.”

  He closed his heavily lined eyes and shook his head in the negative. “Sorry, dahling, no can do. You know my lips are sealed. What would happen if I tongue-wagged about every celebutant who came through here? I’d be out on my hot little fanny, that’s what.”

  I grinned. “You know that would never happen. Fernando couldn’t function without you.”

  Marco pursed his lips. Then nodded. “Well, that’s true.”

  “Listen, I just need a confirm or deny over a new hair color.”

  He shook his head again. “Sorry. I have taken the celebrity hairdresser’s oath. ‘What happens in the salon stays in the salon.’”

  “Hmmm.” I narrowed my eyes. “What if I made it worth your while?”

  He raised one drawn-in eyebrow at me. “Worth my while?”

  “I happen to have an informant that happens to follow the club scene very closely. And happens to know where one very desirable celebrity is planning on partying this very evening.”

  Marco leaned in. “I’m intrigued. A-lister?”

  I shrugged. “At least a B-plus.”

  “Who?”

  I looked over both shoulders, trying to match his level of drama as I leaned in and whispered, “Adam Lambert.”

  “Shut the front door!” Marco said, almost spilling his glitter on the marble floor. “Where?”

  “I’ll tell you…if you can tell me a little something.”

  He narrowed his eyes at me. “Ooh, you are wicked, girl. Fine. You cracked me.” He paused, looked over both shoulders for prying ears then nodded, setting finger to the side of his nose. “Come into my office, dahling.”

  He turned and led the way through the salon. I followed him past buzzing drying stations and flying straight razors until we hit a door at the back. He opened it, doing an exaggerated over the shoulder again, and led the way inside.

  I followed, trying not to smirk as I saw we were in a supply closet. Very cloak-and-dagger.

  “So, what do you want to know?” he asked in a low whisper.

  “Jennifer Wood. Is it true Pippi Mississippi has a new hair color?”

  “Ah.” He steepled his fingers. “She was in here the other day.”

  “And?”

  “And America’s favorite blonde teeny bopper?”

  “Yes?”

  “Now a redhead.”

  Bingo. “I don’t suppose you got any pictures of her?”

  He looked offended. “I don’t suppose I did! What do you think I am, some sort of gossip?” Heaven forbid. “But,” he said.

  “But?”

  “Fernando did take a snapshot for his wall of fame.”

  Double bingo.

  “I’ll throw in Adam’s home address if you get me a copy.”

  Marco squealed like a second grader. “Done!” Then he scuttled off to find the picture in question.

  I exited his “office” and sat down in the all white lobby to wait. While I did, I browsed through Fernando’s magazine selection. Three out of four had Chester Barker’s picture plastered on the
front.

  God, I wanted that story.

  And not just because Tina had it, though I’ll admit, after the way she’d gloated this afternoon, the thought of besting her did give me warm fuzzies. But Barker’s death was the kind of serious story that serious journalists covered. L.A. Times serious, even. If I had that kind of story under my belt maybe I wouldn’t be automatically relegated to the fluff pages.

  I grabbed the magazine on top, this week’s People, and began flipping through their take on Barker’s death, complete with lots of glossy photos. I was about a page and a half in when the glass front doors beside me opened, and a tall woman walked in. She was dressed in black, form-fitting yoga pants and a tight little T-shirt. Her blonde hair was pulled back in ponytail, and she wore a ball cap pulled down low over her face.

  I froze, staring at her cap. It was black with a red squiggly snake on the brim. Just like the mystery man in Tina’s photos.

  No. Way.

  I blinked back surprise as I watched her cross the salon and greet one of the stylists, who quickly ushered her into a room in the back. I jumped up from the sofa to follow her, just as Marco re-emerged from the back with a framed photo of Pippi Mississippi in hand.

  “Okay, here’s your pic-ey! Just do not under any circumstance reveal where you got it, because if Fernando found out—”

  I grabbed him by the shoulders mid-sentence. “The woman who just came in here. In the ballcap. Do you know who she is?”

  “Ay, easy on the shirt, chica. It’s an Armani.”

  My grasp tightened. “The woman, Marco. It’s important.”

  “Okay, okay. Geeze, girl. It’s Dana Dashel.”

  I gave him a blank look. “Who?”

  “You know, from that HBO series Lady Justice? She plays the porn lawyer.”

  “Riiiiiight…” I knew the show. It was this season’s naughty breakout hit about a mild-mannered woman who inadvertently becomes the go-to-attorney for porn stars. Lots of stars, lots of scandal, very little clothing. A no-brainer to top the ratings.

  “Listen, I have to talk to her,” I told Marco, still grasping his shoulders.

  He shook his head. “No can do, honey. She’s an exclusive client. Photos are one thing, but I cannot have a tabloid reporter conducting interviews in here. Unless you’re her bikini waxer, there is no way you are getting into that room.”

  I looked from Marco to the closed door, desperation bubbling up in my throat. But I could tell by the look on his face that this time he really wasn’t cracking. “Fine,” I said. “Look, email me a copy of Pippi’s photo and I’ll send back the deets on Adam’s party tonight, cool?”

  Marco looked immeasurably relived. “That I can do.”

  “Thanks,” I said then turned to go. I slipped out the glass doors, watching over my shoulder as Marco took the photo out of its frame and to his desk, fussed a little with his scanner, and popped the photo back into its frame. A minute later he picked it up and headed back to the back of the salon to re-hang it.

  The second his back was turned I pushed through the front doors again and half-walked, half-jogged past the cut and color stations to the storeroom Marco had used as his “office”. Once inside I grabbed a white coat from the shelf. I thrust it on then peeked out of the door. Marco was back at the reception desk, his back to me. I quickly slipped out of the storeroom and crossed the three big steps to the waxing room Dana occupied. I opened the door and went inside, shutting it behind me with a soft click.

  The blonde lay on a table in the center of the sterile room, a white sheet covering her body. Her eyes were closed, a tiny lavender scented pillow draped across them. On a chair beside her sat her yoga clothes, and on top of them the ball cap. No doubt about it, it was the same one the shadowy figure outside Barker’s had worn.

  Maybe my luck was turning.

  Standing over Dana was a woman wearing a coat identical to mine and an expression that said she clearly had not expected to be interrupted.

  “May I help you?” she asked, though the tone in her voice was more, What the hell are you doing in my waxing room?

  “Uh…yes,” I said, clearing my throat. “I’m …here to wax Dana.”

  She raised an eyebrow my way. “You are?”

  “Fernando asked that I take this one. As a personal favor.”

  “And you are?”

  “Allie. I’m new here.”

  She frowned, biting the corner of her lip. “Okay. I guess,” she said. Then handed me a tub of gooey stuff that smelled like more lavender. “She’s all yours,” she said, walking out.

  I looked down at the prone actress, lying perfectly still on the table. I wondered if she was asleep or just going into a zen-like state in anticipation of the wax to come.

  I looked down at the tub in my hands, stirring the wooden stick. Not to get into TMI territory, but I’ve never been a huge fan of waxing. Mostly because I’m not a huge fan of pain. Just once I’d been suckered into it. I’d been up late watching infomercials, and some Australian woman came on touting a no-pain waxing kit. I’d ordered one (Hey, they weren’t sold in stores, and they threw in a second kit absolutely free!), and as soon as it arrived in the mail (just four to six weeks later) I’d smothered my legs in the patented wax formula, applied the reusable organic cotton strips and let ‘er rip.

  I howled louder than my neighbor’s cat in heat. No pain, my ass! My legs had been covered in red stripes for a week. I’d been a strictly Nair gal ever since.

  “I have to be on set in an hour,” the woman beneath the sheet said, jarring me from my painful memory. “So, not to rush you, but…” she trailed off.

  “Right. Sure.”

  I looked down at the items the white-coated woman had set out on the side table. A pile of little white, cotton strips and a bottle of essential oils. Okay, sure. Easy. What was there to it but wax on, wax off, right?

  I stirred the lavender-scented goop again as I lifted the sheet to reveal my starlet au natural.

  I scooped a bit of the wax with my wooden stick then slapped it on her inner thigh. “So,” I said, smoothing out the warm glob. “You are awesome on Lady Justice.”

  “Thanks,” Danae said, eyes still closed behind her relaxation pillow. “It’s a great show to work on. The writers are awesome.”

  “Yeah. I can tell.” I laid a white cotton strip down on the wax glob. I gritted my teeth and pulled.

  Dana jumped. “Holy hell!”

  I winced. “Sorry.” Though I noticed fine hairs on the strip I’d pulled away. Okay, so far so good.

  I laid down another glob of wax next to the bare spot, moving inward. “I guess you must meet a lot of interesting people on the show?”

  “Sure,” she agreed. “A lot of porn stars come guest for us. Though I wish they didn’t show quite so much skin. Makes it hard for people to take me seriously as an actress—holy mother of God!” Dana jumped on the table as I ripped another strip off.

  “Sorry,” I mumbled again, watching her skin redden. On the up side, it was smooth as a baby’s butt.

  “That’s okay,” she gritted through her teeth. “No pain, no bikini, right?”

  “Right.” I laid down another glob just that much farther inward.

  “So, speaking of interesting people…did Chester Barker work on your show?”

  “Barker?”

  “Yeah. The producer?”

  “Oh, right. The dead guy.” She paused a moment. “Not that I know of. Why?”

  “Oh, no reason. I just wondered if you knew him. Or had ever visited his house,” I said, watching her expression closely. (Well, as closely as I could with half her face obscured under the scented pillow.)

  She shrugged under the sheet. “I think I might have met him once at a party or something. But, no, I’ve never seen his house.” She paused. “Why do you want to know about his place?”

  Actually, I could care less about his place. It was who had been there the night of his murder I was interested in. “Oh, no reason,�
� I lied. “I just heard it was a spectacular mansion, that’s all.”

  “Oh. Well, I wouldn’t know.”

  Bummer. I mentally recalculated my tactic as I laid down another cotton strip and pulled.

  “Hot damn!” Dana’s right foot jumped in the air, narrowly avoiding the tub of wax in my hands. “You sure you know what you’re doing? Olga’s waxes never hurt quite this much.”

  “Sorry,” I said on autopilot. “Hey, you know, that was a great hat you were wearing when you came in,” I said, gesturing the ballcap on the chair.

  “What? Oh, right. Yeah, thanks.”

  “It looks very unique. I’ve never seen that design before.” I laid another glob of wax down, this one ensuring she could go Brazilian.

  “Actually,” Dana responded, “they handed those hats out to everyone on the Lady Justice set at the beginning of the season.”

  “Oh.” I felt my spirits sink, my chance at hopping on the Barker train slipping through my fingers. “Everyone got one?”

  She nodded. “Yep. Everyone on set that day. All the cast, crew, producers, everyone.”

  Great. That was what, like, two hundred people? So much for narrowing my suspect down.

  “Oh, hey! You know what?”

  “What?” I asked, laying down the next cotton strip.

  “You were asking about Barker’s place earlier, right?”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, one of the execs who works on our show might know more about what his home was like. He’s Barker’s business partner. Or was, I guess.”

  Lucky streak, here I come. “Barker’s partner worked on Lady Justice?” I confirmed.

  “Yep. He was on set all season.”

  “So, he would own one of these ballcaps too?”

  “Um, I guess so.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Alec Davies.”

  What did you want to bet that the shadowy figure outside Barker’s was Alec Davies? “Fabulous. Thanks!” I said.

  Then I ripped the last white strip off.

  In hindsight, maybe my excitement at having a real lead made me a little too vigorous. Maybe I should have gone little more slowly. Maybe a little more gently. Maybe I should have waited for Olga.