Scandal Sheet aka Hollywood Scandals Page 6

  “Tina, dahling, where have you been hiding yourself?” he called, descending upon me with air kisses.

  “Hi, Marco.” I returned his quick shoulder hug and stepped back. “Marco, this is Cal, my…” I trailed off, not really sure what to call him. Bodyguard seemed so melodramatic. And rent-a-goon just seemed rude.

  But Marco didn’t seem to notice, grabbing Cal’s hand in both of his. “Well, hell-o, Cal.” He pumped vigorously, holding on just a little too long as his eyes rested on Cal’s biceps. “Always a pleasure to meet one of Tina’s friends.”

  Oh, brother.

  “So, is Katie here?” I asked, lowering my voice as my eyes scanned the salon.

  Marco nodded. “Getting a touch-up. In the back.”

  I looked over his shoulder to a discreet station near the rear. A brunette with big pouty lips was scrutinizing her reflection in the mirror while the master Fernando spun around her with a straight razor like he was Edward Scissorhands.

  “Perfect. You think you could distract Fernando for a sec so I can talk to her?”

  Marco clucked his tongue. “Aye, girl. You’re gonna get me in trouble.”

  “Pretty please, Marco?” I batted my eyelashes at him. “With Brad Pitt on top?”

  Marco grinned. “You know I can’t deny you, doll. Give me two shakes of a lamb’s tail, and that A-lister is yours.” He threw me a wink as he made his way through the buzzing hair dryers and pungent chemical rinses to Katie’s chair.

  “Is that guy for real?” Cal asked, watching him skip (yes, skip) through the salon.

  “Shhh,” I said, batting him on the arm. “Just let me do the talking.”

  I waited two beats, then followed Marco’s path, my shadow a step behind me. I caught up just in time to hear him say, “So sorry to interrupt, Fernando. But something has come up at the front. Can I steal you away for the teeny tiniest moment?”

  “I’ll be right back,” I heard Fernando promise Katie, then watched out of the corner of my eye as the pair made their way to the front.

  Luckily, the station next to Katie was vacant. I waited a three-Mississippi count, then grabbed a copy of Cosmo from a rack on the wall and sat down. Cal hovered just to my right, pretending to rearrange the brushes at the next station over. I gave him a look that clearly said, “stay out of sight!” then turned to the brunette fluffing her hair beside me.

  “Hey, you’re Katie, aren’t you? Katie Briggs?” I asked.

  She turned, a bored expression in her big blue eyes as if even she was tired of hearing that name.

  “I’m…Jeannie,” I lied, sticking a hand her way. “I’m a huge fan. I love, love, loved your last movie! That scene with the mother, right before she died after being stabbed by the circus clown hired by the mob-so realistic!”

  A smile tickled her oversized lips. “Thanks.” Then she turned back to the mirror.

  Okay…so what now? I bit my lip. I couldn’t very well come right out and ask her if she was the one threatening my life. I tapped my nail on the plastic edge of my chair.

  “You know, I’ve read all about you,” I said, vying with her reflection for her attention. “In the Informer.”

  Her expression puckered into what would have been a frown had she not been a plastic surgery devotee. “The Informer?”

  “That newspaper. Have you read it?” I asked.

  She clenched her jaw, her lips drawing into a thin line. (Okay, considering she had about a gallon of collagen injected in her lower lip, maybe “thin” wasn’t an accurate description. But it was at least thinner.)

  “I’ve seen it,” she spit out.

  “Oh, you should totally pick up a copy. That Tina Bender, she’s a hoot!”

  She glared at me. “Hoot?”

  “Oh sure,” I said, forging full steam ahead. “The way she likened your love life to a string of bad Spanish soaps just yesterday. I swear, I spit out my latte at that one.”

  “Tabloid trash. They’re all printing lies. Malicious lies.”

  Malicious. My ears perked up. That was exactly the term Mystery Caller had used, too.

  “Wow. I wonder how she gets away with printing lies. I mean, don’t you think someone should stop her?” I asked, carefully watching her reaction.

  She swiveled in her seat, turning back to her own reflection. “Please. Like anyone really pays attention to what that kind of tabloid trash writes.”

  Ouch.

  Vehemently, I shook my head. “Oh no, a ton of people read that column. Tina Bender is very popular.”

  I thought I felt Cal smirk to my right, but I ignored him.

  “Ha!” Katie barked. “Someone should put that sad woman out of her misery.”

  Again, ouch. But…now we were getting somewhere.

  “Where were you last night?”

  “Excuse me?” she said, her eyes shooting to mine in the mirror again as she clenched her jaw.

  “I mean, did you go to any big Hollywood parties last night?” I asked, backpedaling. “I am just so fascinated by the lifestyle of an award-winning actress such as yourself.”

  “Oh.” Her frown evened out instantly. Apparently flattery, as with all of Hollywood, was the key with this chick. “I went to a charity event. Some thing in the Valley. My publicist said I had to be seen there.” She turned to me. “But did that Bender girl print that? No!”

  A-ha! So she did read my column. I felt a little lift of triumph.

  “What about the evening before?” I persisted. The night the first call had come in. It would have been easy enough to send the email from a cell while at some fab party. But, for the phone call, Mystery Caller would have had to have access to a computer to run the voicealtering software. Not quite as inconspicuous a task.

  “I was at home,” she answered.

  “With a new guy?” I couldn’t help the gossip hound in me from asking.

  “No. Alone.” And by the way she pouted again, this time with a true hint of sadness on her swollen lips, I was inclined to believe her. For a fraction of an instant I wondered if maybe the life of a famous actress wasn’t even lonelier than that of a gossip columnist.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Fernando break away from Marco’s grasp, threading his way back through the salon to his waiting client. I chose my next question carefully.

  “So, what do you do when you’re home alone? Ever spend time online, maybe trying out new programs?” Like Audio Cloak?

  She turned away, flipping her hair over one shoulder. “I don’t own a computer.”

  I froze. Then blinked at her. “Wait-you don’t own a computer? Seriously? Even African tribesmen own computers these days.”

  Again she did the would-be-frown pucker. “They’re trappings of a digitized society. Modern technology is only serving to distance us from the reality of living. I prefer real human interaction. I’m an artist.”

  Okay, her plastic surgeon was an artist; Katie was just a movie star.

  Unfortunately, she was a movie star who couldn’t possibly be my mystery caller.

  Stifling a wave of disappointment, I shoved the dogeared Cosmo back in the rack and slid off my seat just as Fernando approached.

  “Well, great to meet you. Can’t wait for your next pic,” I called as I walked away.

  Though I’m not sure it even registered. Katie was once again enthralled with her own reflection as Fernando appeared to fluff her hair into Rapunzel-worthy waves.

  Cal followed a beat behind me. “So much for our starlet,” he mumbled.

  “Well, one down, three to go,” I shot back, making my way back toward Marco’s Camelot desk.

  “Sorry, doll,” Marco said, shrugging his slim shoulders as I approached. “I held him off as long as I could.”

  “That’s okay,” I reassured him. “You did great.”

  “Oh, but I’ll call you tomorrow. The Lohan’s coming in for a cut and color, and you know there’ll be dirt.” Marco gave me a wink.

  “That’s my boy. Hey, check your inbox fo
r payment later.”

  I gave him a wink as we exited the salon.

  I felt Cal shaking his head beside me.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I just can’t believe there are so many people willing to sell secrets to you. You ever think of working for the CIA?”

  I grinned, soaking up the compliment. Even if it wasn’t intended as one. “Thanks. But, you know, not all of them do it for money.”

  “Oh?”

  “For some it’s revenge. Some it’s a feeling of importance. Others just like to see their quotes in print.”

  Cal gestured back at the salon as he beeped his Hummer open. “So, what’s Marco’s story? He squeal for cash?”

  I laughed. “Marco? Heck no.” I looked back at my flamboyant friend. “He’s much easier than that. As long as I send him the weekly Clay Aiken update, Marco’s a happy camper.”

  Chapter Six

  “Alright, so who’s next on our list?” Cal asked as he pulled into traffic.

  “Jennifer Wood.”

  “Tell me about her.”

  Mental forehead smack. “You don’t know who Jennifer Wood is?”

  Cal shot me a look over the rim of his sunglasses. “Humor me.”

  “Fine. Jennifer Wood was a pint-sized singing sensation in her hometown, winning the local cable access reality show Sheboygan’s Got Talent at the age of ten. At twelve she went national with her first recording contract, at fifteen her own TV show, which exploded onto the tween scene and has been going strong ever since. The girl’s got her face plastered on anything and everything an eight-year-old girl could want.”

  “So, she’s a kid actress?”

  “Correction,” I said. “She plays a kid actress. Her character, Pippi Mississippi, is thirteen. In real life, Jennifer just turned eighteen.”

  Cal raised an eyebrow my way. “They grow up so fast. So, what’s she been mentioned in your column for?”

  “The usual. Drinking. Drugs. Partying. Flashed her boobs at the cameras two weeks ago as she was getting into her limo.”

  “May I never have a daughter. Alright, let’s go talk to America’s sweetheart.”

  “Great. But first,” I said, glancing down at the clock on his dash, “lunch. I’m starving. Wanna hit a drivethru?”

  Cal gave me a sideways look. “You know, that fastfood stuff will kill you.”

  “So will global warming,” I countered, giving his Hummer a pointed look. “Oh, look, there’s an In-N-Out Burger!” I pointed to my favorite fast-food joint a block up on the right.

  He made a sort of clucking sound in the back of his throat, but, thank God, pulled into the parking lot anyway. I ordered a double double with grilled onions, fries, and a shake. Cal ordered a grilled cheese with no mayo and water.

  “What’s with the girly food?” I asked around a big mouthwatering bite of burger. A little ketchup oozed onto my chin, and I grabbed a paper napkin.

  “ ‘Girly food’?” he asked. “Isn’t that a little un-PC for a feminist like yourself?”

  I shrugged. “I’m a fair-weather feminist.”

  “Hmm. I don’t eat beef.”

  “Why not? It’s yummy.”

  He shrugged. “I care about what I put in my body. Most meat is full of hormones, antibiotics, E. coli. Even trace amounts of fecal matter.”

  I looked down at my burger. “Fecal matter? As in…”

  “Poop.” He popped one of my fries in his mouth.

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  He shook his head. “Nope. It’s the way the animals are slaughtered. Generally their bowels are still full when they’re killed. It’s actually incredibly tricky to cut the colon and intestines away from the animal without spilling any of the contents. Cross contamination happens all the time.”

  I set my burger down, feeling that last bite stick in my throat. “That is sick.”

  “That is why I don’t eat beef.”

  I picked up my shake, trying to wash down the possibly contaminated double double with strawberry goodness.

  “So,” Cal said, snaking another fry, “where can we find this party girl of yours?”

  I tossed my burger into the trash bin to the right. “Pippi Mississippi shoots Monday through Friday. She’ll be at Sunset Studios. The only tricky part,” I added with a grin, “is getting on the lot.”

  “Why do I have the feeling you enjoy this sort of challenge?” Cal downed the rest of his water and tossed the cup into the trash.

  I felt my grin widen. “Watch and learn, grasshopper.” I slipped my cell out of my Strawberry Shortcake purse as we walked back to his car. Three rings later, Max’s voice croaked on the other end.

  “Beacon,” he said by way of greeting.

  “Hey, Max, it’s me. Listen, I have a favor to ask. Any Hollywood old-timers depart this cruel world today?”

  I heard Max shuffling papers. “Three. Why?”

  “Got names?”

  More shuffling. “Frank Jones, did animation with Disney, stroke. Elliot Shiff, ran camera on a couple Monroe flicks, pancreatic cancer. And…”

  I held my breath.

  “…Betty Johnson, did makeup for Lucille Ball, lung cancer.”

  Bingo.

  “Thanks, Max!” I called, quickly hanging up and dialing a new number as I hopped into Cal’s Hummer. He gave me a sidelong glance but knew better than to ask.

  I waited two rings before someone on the other end picked up.

  “Front gate, David speaking.”

  I dropped into my lowest register and did my best to channel Mrs. Carmichael’s smoker voice. “This is Betty Johnson in Studio Seven. I have my assistants coming in and I’d like their names on the list, please.”

  David paused, and I could hear him checking his computer. “Betty Johnson?”

  “Makeup artist.”

  David did a few more clicks, checking out my story. I mentally crossed my fingers that news of Betty’s demise hadn’t hit the studios yet. Finally, the guard piped up in my ear again, “Your assistants’ names, Ms. Johnson?”

  “Tina Bender and Calvin Dean.”

  “They’ll be on the list, just have them come to the south entrance.”

  “Thank you, David,” I said, before snapping my phone shut with a click of satisfaction.

  I looked up to find Cal shaking his head at me.

  “What?”

  “Do you ever tell the truth?”

  “Once. In fourth grade. It was overrated.”

  “I’m serious. You’re beginning to worry me,” he said as he pulled into traffic.

  “Yeah, like you’re honest all the time.”

  “I try to be.”

  “Seriously? You never tell your girlfriend she looks hot in that unflattering dress?”

  “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

  “You never called in sick to work when you were really heading to the Lakers game?”

  “Self-employed.”

  “Not once have you ever told your mother that her dried-out Sunday meatloaf was culinary perfection?”

  “Don’t eat beef, remember?”

  I slouched in my seat, conceding defeat. “You’re no fun.”

  Cal gave me a lopsided grin, his eyes taking on a devilish glint over the rim of his sunglasses. “Oh, trust me, I can be plenty of fun.”

  The way my cheeks suddenly filled with heat, I totally believed him. I’m sure there were stick-figure bimbos all over Hollywood who had swooned under that very same grin.

  I quickly looked away, clearing my throat. “Well, when we get to the studio, just leave the talking to me, okay, Honest Abe?”

  “You got it, boss.”

  Sunset Studios was like a miniature city plunked down in the middle of Hollywood and enclosed by a ten-foot-high brick wall. Outside the gates, panhandlers, men wearing five coats and pushing shopping carts and ladies of the evening (or in our case, afternoon…somehow even worse) stood at every corner. Inside, the place was so clean and wholesome looking, it fai
rly sparkled. Which was a sure sign 99 percent of it was fake.

  Cement warehouse buildings squatted down one side of the studio, housing the soundstages of hit TV shows, while the other half of the lot was filled with building facades for movie locations. A New York street, complete with brownstones and subway stairs that led to nowhere. A dusty main street in the Old West, complete with hitching posts. A quaint, tree-lined suburban street where you expected the Beaver to pop his freckled little face out of a tree house at any second. And through it all a tram full of tourists being given the Sunset Studios tour snapped pictures of every lamppost, mailbox, and production assistant on a coffee run.

  Beyond the side gate was a small parking lot where Cal and I traded our gas guzzler for a small white golf cart-the studio’s main mode of transportation. Cal took the wheel and quickly navigated our way through the soundstages until we found one with a huge pink “Pippi Mississippi” sign tacked to the front. Cal parked behind a wardrobe trailer and led the way inside.

  The interior of the warehouse was dark, and I took a moment to let my eyes adjust to the change. The place was a maze of ropes, cables, and electronic equipment, all leading to a series of strategically placed sets that looked like oversized dioramas. I spotted the hallway of Pippi’s junior high, her prissy pink bedroom, and the video arcade where she and her girlfriend hung out after school, the latter a buzz of activity as grips positioned lights, sound guys adjusted mics, someone lifted a camera onto a moving track, and no less than three women in overalls fluffed, primped, and powdered the blonde in the center-Jennifer Wood.

  Beside her stood her two co-stars: a redhead whose name I couldn’t remember, and a brunette I recognized as being in the backseat of Jennifer’s limo with her when the infamous boob shot had been taken. Lani Cline, reportedly Jennifer’s best friend.

  “That her?” Cal asked, stabbing a finger toward Jennifer.

  I nodded.

  “We need her alone. Got any ideas?”

  I shrugged. “Give me a minute.”

  “Back to one, everyone,” shouted the director, an overweight guy with glasses and a nose that could rival Pinocchio’s. The crew scurried off the stage like cats being doused with a hose. Jennifer walked to a spot on the floor marked with an “X” in blue electrical tape, her co-stars a step behind her.