Hollywood Confessions (12 page)

I clenched my teeth together. “
L.A. Times
reporters do not use their boobs to get a story.”

“
We are hardly the
L.A. Times
.”

“
Don’t I know it!”

“
Wait, are you dissing our paper?”

“
Did you just use the word ‘dissing?’”

“
Don’t change the subject.”

“
Trust me, I’m not. I’m totally on the subject of how I’m only a pair of measurements to you.”

“
On second thought, a change of subject isn’t altogether uncalled for.”

I threw my hands up in the air. “You know what? Forget it. I will get that interview with Don. I will get him to spill everything. And you know why?”

He bit his lip. “I’m not sure I want to at this point.”

“
Because I always get my story. Because I’m a damned good reporter. Too good for this place.”

Felix opened his mouth to shoot back an answer, but I didn’t wait around to hear it, having been insulted enough for one day. Instead, I stormed to my desk. Only that was right outside Felix’s office, and I didn’t quite feel like I’d stormed enough. So I stormed all the way through the newsroom to the stairs, slamming the stairwell door good and loud on my way out. I marched down the entire flight, shoving out into the assaulting sunshine. I got all the way to my car before I realized I’d left my purse in my cube.

Sonofa—

I closed my eyes, leaned against the hood of my car and thought about a million dirty words, most directed at men in general and a few choice ones directed Felix specifically.

I waited until I ran out of creative slams then slunk back up the stairs, mustering up as much dignity as I could, walking back through the newsroom and grabbing my purse from my cube.

I could feel Felix watching me from his office but didn’t give him the satisfaction of turning around. Instead, I put blinders on as I marched back down the stairs again and out to my car, this time peeling out of the lot with an audible screech for his benefit.

* * *

I drove to the nearest Starbucks and ordered myself a venti Frappuccino with an extra vanilla pump, whipped cream and chocolate shavings. By the time I’d finished I had a hell of a sugar rush, but my anger had almost cooled down.

Almost.

I grabbed my gym bag from my car, slipped into a pair of pink yoga pants, a matching pink tank and running shoes then headed straight for the gym, grabbing the only available Stairmaster. As always, as soon as my body got into the steady rhythm of planting one foot after the other, the tension slowly drained from my limbs.

I loved the gym. I know a lot of women say they love going to the gym, but what they actually mean is that they love being skinny, even if it means they have to endure the torture of being at the gym three times a week. But I actually loved the gym. Being here was my form of meditation. When I was sweating on a Stairmaster, all I had to think about was putting one foot after the other. It was all physical, and my mental hamster could just sit down and snooze for awhile, zone out and let calm settle over my thoughts.

I did forty minutes on the Stairmaster then switched to weights, grabbing a fairly light set before settling myself on a giant exercise ball in front of the mirror. I lifted the weights above my head, working my shoulders, back and eventually abs.

By the time I was done my muscles were loose and warm and my mind a blissful blank.

I took a quick shower, towel-dried my hair and reapplied my makeup in the locker room mirrors. I hit the juice bar next door, ordering a salad and a smoothie, then grabbed a table near the back and pulled out my cell.

Despite my fight with Felix, I knew he was right about one thing—I needed to talk to Don. While poisoning was traditionally more of a woman’s weapon, Don did have a pretty good motive to want Barker gone too. Especially if he really was sleeping with the nanny and planned to keep it quiet.

I pulled up my address book and dialed the number of Don’s publicist. Official channels would be, as I knew, futile. I could beg the woman for an interview, but no publicist worth her salt would ever agree to one with a tabloid. Instead, my best bet was to find out where he’d be tomorrow and ambush him. So, when a receptionist came on the line saying, “Pfiffer media, how may I help you?” instead of Allie Quick, I put on my best Nanny McGregor voice, hoping my hours of listening to Felix’s accent would finally work to my benefit.

“
Cherrio, this is Nellie McGregor,” I said.

“
Yes, Miss McGregor, how can I help you?”

“
I’m quite sorry to bother you, but I seem to have misplaced Don’s
shed-duel
for tomorrow,” I said, drawing out the word the way I’d heard her do that afternoon.

“
No problem,” the receptionist told me. “I can email you a copy.”

“
Uh…I’m not at home this moment. Would you mind sending to my cell?”

“
No problem, happy to.”

I quickly gave her my number then hung up and watched my screen. Two minutes later the text came in, outlining every place I could expect Don to appear tomorrow.

Unfortunately his day was packed tighter than Lindsay Lohan’s court schedule. He had a meeting in the morning with some studio executives, a lunch date with his agent, a dinner date with his manager and an afternoon radio interview sandwiched between.

Considering the meetings were behind Sunset Studio’s walls (and my Paris gig was getting a little old), I figured the best place to ambush him was at the radio show. I wrote the time and station down.

Pretty pleased with my day’s work, I downed the rest of my smoothie and pointed my Bug toward home, glad to put this day to rest.

* * *

I awoke to the sound of pounding on my front door. Loud, insistent pounding. I rolled over and looked at my clock. Seven-fifteen. Ugh.

I dragged myself out of bed as the pounding continued.

“
I’m coming!” I yelled, shuffling to the offending object and undoing the locks one by one. I pulled it open.

And looked down.

“
About fucking time!” Gary Ellstrum stood on my doorstep, hands on hips, glaring at me. “Jesus, how long does it take a person to answer the door?”

“
It’s seven in the morning. What are you doing here?” I asked, ignoring his cheery mood.

“
I’ll tell you what I’m not doing today,” he said, pushing past me into my living room.

“
Please, come in. Make yourself at home,” I mumbled.

“
What I’m not doing,” he continued, “is going to work. Wanna know why?”

“
Not particularly.”

“
I got fired!”

“
That’s a shame.”

“
Guess why I was fired?”

“
Do I have to?”

“
Because of you! My manager heard me swearing at you and said I needed to get a handle on my explosive temperament. Can you fucking believe that?”

“
Shocking.” I yawned, muting the TV.

“
That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”

I looked at Gary, now pacing, his face red, veins bulging. He looked like a shrunken, pink Incredible Hulk.

“
Sorry?” I countered. And I was. Very sorry that he was pacing my living room at seven in the morning.

“
Sorry don’t pay my bills, blondie. I gotta eat. I have a very high metabolism. You know how much food for a guy with a high metabolism costs?”

I yawned again. “Look, I’m sorry you lost your job, but I’m not really sure what you want me to do about it now.”

“
I want you to hire me.”

“
Excuse me?”

“
As your assistant. I looked you up. You do all kinds of investigating for that tabloid.”

I shook my head. “Sorry. I’m not in the market for an assistant.”

“
You need my help.”

“
What I need is sleep.”

“
I know stuff. Stuff that could be helpful to you.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “What kind of stuff?”

He shrugged. “Stuff. I’m very worldly.”

I’ll bet. “Look, in case the size of my apartment hasn’t clued you in, I can’t really afford an assistant.”

He waved me off. “So, convince your boss. Pay me off as an informant. I know that paper of yours has money.”

I bit my lip. It did. It also had a tight-fisted Brit at the helm who cringed when I expensed a three-fifty latte. I was pretty sure that after the limo charges yesterday, he wasn’t going to see an assistant with anger issues as a necessary expense. “I’m not sure my editor will go for that.”

“
He will when I tell you who killed Barker.”

I raised an eyebrow his way. “Okay, I’ll bite. Who killed him?”

“
Well, did you know that Barker was stabbed last week?”

“
Yes.”

“
Oh.” He looked disappointed, but he plowed on. “Okay, fine. But did you know this? Barker and Lowel Simonson were seen arguing that morning.”

I leaned in. “Keep talking.”

“
They were heard shouting at each other in Barker’s office. Then Lowel told him, ‘I’d watch your back if I were you.’ Pretty incriminating, considering he was stabbed in the back two hours later, huh?”

I had to admit, incriminating was a good word choice. “Where did you hear this?” I asked.

“
I can’t divulge my sources.”

“
Actually, if I’m going to print this story, you have to divulge. I need to check the facts. I can’t print something uncorroborated.”

He cocked his head at me. “You sure you work for a tabloid?”

I rolled my eyes. “Spill it, pal.”

“
Okay, okay, geez. Someone got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.”

I sent him a death look.

Luckily, Gary dropped it. “Look, after your visit got me fired, I had a little free time on my hands. So I called up one of the chicks from the show, Sandy, for a little recreational hot-tubbing, if you know what I mean.”

Unfortunately I did. I held up a hand. “No details, please!”

He grinned. “Anyway, we got to talking about Barker, and she told me the production company screwed up her last check. So she was at the offices picking up a reissued one and overheard the argument between Lowel and Barker.”

“
And she’s a credible witness?”

“
Dude, she’s a dental hygienist. You don’t get much more professional than that.”

I pursed my lips, staring at the little guy. I had to admit, it was a good lead. A great lead, even.

“
So, am I hired?” he asked, his smile beaming under his sparse mustache.

“
Fine,” I finally said. But before he could celebrate, added, “for today. You can come help me interview Lowel. But that’s as far as I can promise.”

“
Deal! Now, what are we having for breakfast?” he asked pushing past me into the kitchen. “I’m starving.”

Chapter Eight

I showered and dressed while Gary cleaned my cupboards out of Captain Crunch and downed the last of my milk. As he toasted my last Pop Tart, I booted up my laptop. According to the Twitter buzz, Lowel was scheduled to shoot a Japanese commercial in Malibu that morning. After a quick call to the production company’s L.A. office, pretending to be a P.A. who had lost her directions to the set, I had Lowel’s exact location dialed in.

I grabbed my purse, notebook, and Gary and I headed for my Bug.

Only Gary took one look at my car and shook his head. “Uh-uh. No way. I’m not getting in that thing!”

I glanced at my car. “Why not?”

“
Are you kidding me? It’s a total girl car.”

I rolled my eyes. “Of course. My mistake. Riding in a Bug might make your testicles actually shrink.”

“
Look, I got an image to uphold here. I’m the Little Bachelor. I can’t be seen riding around town in that.”

I put my hands on my hips. “So, what do you drive?”

He pointed to a suped-up Ford 150 with hydraulics that lifted the sucker a full five feet off the ground.

I grinned. “Compensation much?”

“
Hey, that there is a man’s vehicle.”

“
And this here is me leaving to interview our suspect,” I said, turning over the engine. “You coming or not?”

Gary stared at me for a beat. Then he finally pulled open the passenger side door with a, “Fucking hell.”

My thoughts exactly.

* * *

Lowel Simonson was known for being Australian, smug, and the biggest ass on television. His personal talent was coming up with comments that could build a contestant’s hopes higher than the U.S. Bank Tower then shatter them to pieces all within the same breath. “That was the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen. Amazingly bad.” Or “How long have you been taking dancing lessons? Because I think you should sue your dance teachers.”

In college, my friends and I had played the Lowel Simonson Drinking Game, where we’d all gather to watch
Stayin’ Alive
on Tuesday nights and had to take a shot of tequila every time Lowel said the word “pathetic”. One week I got so drunk, I woke up on the dorm lawn. In my underwear. At 3 am.