Deadlines Page 9

  "Come in and meet Sunny. She can tell you more about Chucky on set. Maybe she knew more about what was worrying him."

  Sunny was an inch taller than me with long, blue-black hair and an olive complexion. Her colorful jewelry said Indian, but her accent said LA, born and raised.

  "This is Shayne Winter, the reporter from The Chronicle," Richard said as we approached Sunny. She was sitting in a canvas chair behind a bank of cameras holding a clipboard in her hand and busily scrawling notes before putting them to one side. "Sunny Singh, our producer. She isn't normally here on set."

  "Just today," said Sunny, extending her hand to shake mine. "Did Richard tell you he's screen-testing today? We thought we'd do it on set since it’s already built." She nodded to the set. A large, curved sofa was positioned on the left, and in the middle was a pair of cozy armchairs, with a TV screen between the two. On the right of the stage was a smaller platform with long curtains shielding, what I guessed, was access to the backstage, probably designed for the interviewees to make their grand entrance. Connecting the set together was a much higher wall that curved from one edge of the stage to the other. It all looked fresh and new. Above that, beyond the cameras’ view, was a web of lighting rigs and power cables.

  "Yes, he just told me. Thanks for seeing me so quickly. I know you have a busy schedule," I added, knowing nothing whatsoever of her schedule. However, saying that always aided me in the past. I liked to boost the importance of whomever I interviewed.

  "No problem," said Sunny, easing back onto her canvas chair and resting the clipboard across her lap. "Richard said you're writing some sort of story about Chucky? We're all really upset to hear about his untimely passing."

  "That's right. I only have a few questions," I replied, hoping I sounded as benign as possible. If someone on this set were the culprit, I didn't want them to think I suspected any foul play. As far as they knew, I was there to write a simple story about Chucky's ill-timed demise, not to find his killer.

  "What's your angle?" Sunny asked, cocking her head to one side and considering me.

  "It's purely a piece about Chucky's life and my editor asked me to include a few paragraphs about his big comeback. Richard told me the show's still going on, so I thought it would be a great tribute to Chucky to end the article on a positive note about the show," I added swiftly. I was pleased to see Sunny nodding thoughtfully. I could almost hear her thinking any publicity was good publicity.

  She smiled, apparently satisfied with my explanation. "Well, sure, that sounds great. Where do you want to start?"

  I reached for my notepad and pen, sliding easily into reporter mode despite the activity going on behind the set. There would be time to check that out later. First, I had to obtain the information I lacked. "How about telling me how you came to cast Chucky..." I started, pausing for Sunny to fill in the blanks.

  "It was simple really. I grew up watching Chucky's show. Actually, he's the one who made me want to go into the TV business," Sunny began. "When I had the idea for this show, he seemed like the natural choice. I dug into his recent background, and saw he lived a very different life from a lot of child stars..."

  "How so?" I asked.

  "He never went down the dark path of drugs, alcohol, loose women, and nasty divorces. He worked steadily, but nothing major so I figured he must have been dependable. I called his agent personally and he came in to do a screen test the next day. We had another woman screen-testing then too."

  "Was it a unanimous decision to cast Chucky?"

  "No, not at first. We were pretty split, but I always rooted for Chucky. Then the other auditioning anchor got another job and the rest of the team quickly came onboard with Chucky."

  "You never thought about hiring someone else?"

  "Oh, no!" She shook her head, causing her big silver earrings to shake and swirl like an optical effect. "Chucky was the biggest star; and when we started running through scripts, it soon became crystal clear that no one could outshine him."

  "Did anyone on the crew have a problem with Chucky being cast in that role?"

  Sunny frowned. "None that I can think of. He seemed to get along with everyone here just fine. We only taped the first segment of the first show though."

  "What happens to that now?" I asked.

  "The current consensus is to air most of it with our new interviewer doing voice-overs and adding some footage that we wouldn't have normally included. You know, things like Chucky goofing around on set, calling up our interviewees, screen-testing, that sort of thing. So instead of launching the series with Chucky as the interviewer, it'll be about his life and his unfortunate passing."

  "That sounds like a really nice tribute."

  "It’s the least we can do. Like I said, we all really liked him."

  "You must be pleased that his best friend was interested in testing for his part?" I said, glancing at Richard, who remained at my side without interrupting.

  "Oh yeah, sure. Richard is a great back-up option."

  Richard's eyes narrowed imperceptibly, but he recovered quickly from the slight, saying, "Anything to honor Chucky. He was like a brother to me."

  Richard's name was called and we looked around. A petite brunette, dressed head-to-toe in black, was carrying a clipboard. "That's my makeup call," he told me. "I've gotta go now. Do you want to wait and watch me test? It'll be over there on the set."

  I brightened. "Yes, please!"

  "Okay, I'll leave you two to chat." He gave me a pat on the shoulder, smiled brightly and disappeared beyond the cameras, following the petite woman behind the stage wall.

  "What's your angle for the story again?" Sunny asked. She was waiting for a runner to place a cup of coffee into her hand before racing off behind the set with his tray.

  "I'm just trying to find out everything I can to add some color to the piece. Who the real Chucky was. What his friends thought about him."

  "I wouldn't call us friends, but he was a nice guy. I don't think you'll hear anyone say anything bad about him. In fact, he was one of the easiest guys to work with. Always punctual, regularly offering good ideas at meetings, willing to take instruction. We'll miss him, that's for sure. I can't believe he would kill himself."

  "Have you any idea why he might take his life?" I asked, even though it wasn't a question I needed an answer to anymore. I hoped it would help me get to the roots of the real questions.

  Sunny pondered that before shaking her head. "No."

  "He wasn't having a difficult time on set?"

  "No! Are you kidding me? He was having a great time! We have some really cool clips to run on the tribute show of him goofing around with the crew."

  "So he didn't have any altercations with anyone? No arguments?"

  "I'm not sure what sort of color you're looking for, but there's definitely none of that kind. Like I said, he was a nice guy."

  "Shooting in ten," called a guy in a ballcap. "Quiet on set."

  Sunny put her finger up to her lips, muting me, and we waited while Richard took his position on the mock living room set, a script in his hand. He took one final look at the pages before tucking it behind the sofa, out of sight.

  "And we're shooting!" Ballcap shouted.

  "Good evening and welcome to Remembering the Stars. I'm your host, Richard Adamson, and boy, do we have a great show for you tonight, featuring a name and face you all know. I'm proud to call Chucky Barnard my all-time best friend. Back when we were kids, we starred on a little show you might recall..."

  "Great, Richard," called the director when the cameras stopped rolling. "That was a terrific take. You nailed it."

  "I did? Awesome," grinned Richard, again flashing the white smile he turned on for the cameras.

  "He did really well," I said, and beside me, Sunny nodded.

  "He's a natural on screen," she said. "You know, we would never have even thought of screen-testing him if it weren't for Chucky... Chucky was just the star, you know? Even when he was a kid, he couldn’t help
eclipsing his cast mates."

  "Didn't they get annoyed about that?"

  "No. I spoke to all of them when we were booking the new show and they all had only the nicest things to say about him. You know..." Sunny paused, frowning as if she thought of something. I raised my pen, ready to record whatever pertinent thing she had to say. "This is a tough town and Chucky had some ups and downs, but if I'm going to go on record saying anything about him, it's this: I think Chucky Barnard was possibly the nicest guy in Hollywood."

  Chapter Eleven

  "Shayne! My office!" Bob's voice boomed out, causing heads to turn and stare. If there were anyone left at The Chronicle Martha hadn't yet introduced me to, I figured they now knew who I was. Abandoning the task of trying to fix my chair, again, I made the short walk to Bob's office. I was wondering what I could have done to merit his summoning me with a yell into his glass-fronted office from all the way across the floor. Had he heard about my investigation into Chucky Barnard’s death? Did he know I was aiming for a promotion from obituaries to front page? Even worse, was he now rethinking his decision to give me the columns and intending to fire me?

  With my hand on the door handle, I swallowed hard, plastered a bright smile on my face, then entered.

  "Take a seat," said Bob, waving a hand at the chair without looking up.

  I dropped into it, expelling a relieved breath I didn't know I was holding when the chair didn't collapse under me. Bob kept me waiting several long minutes before he looked up from his stack of paperwork. "So," he started, "great news!"

  "Really?" I smiled a bit wider. This was it. He must’ve recognized my talents. Somehow, he must’ve heard about Chucky and was pleased with my subsequent investigation. Who cared how he found out? That front page was mine!

  "Absolutely!"

  "I'm so thrilled!" I replied with enthusiasm to equal his.

  "Atta girl! I knew I could rely on you. Get the entertainment column to me tonight, and you'll have your first piece in The Chronicle's next edition."

  Say what now? "Entertainment?" I choked, confusion spreading through me and stalling somewhere around my faux smile. What entertainment column?

  Bob gave me a look that suggested he didn't like having to catch me up. "The entertainment column you're covering," he said slowly, presumably so I could understand.

  I wracked my brains, but all I could come up with was: "I thought it was due next week."

  "Yeah, about that. Legal took a look at the column Gabi wrote before she decided to have a baby and it's a no-go. We'll get our asses sued and we don't have enough ass to sue. So your column is up. What have you got for me?"

  "Um..." I wondered how I could phrase nothing to make it sound amazing. "Let's see..." I said, stalling for time.

  "Lay it on me. You've been chasing leads since you got here, so it has to be something juicy." Bob's eyes widened and his tongue darted out to lick his lips. His whole expression was startlingly like that of a very satisfied lizard.

  "Well, I..." I frowned, thinking about the starlet I saw jogging and the model kissing the guy who wasn't her boyfriend. It wasn't exactly scintillating column fodder.

  "You don't want to say yet, huh?" Bob pushed back in his chair and gave me an approving nod. "I was just like you as a reporter. Chasing angles, shaking down my informers, guarding my stories. Good work, Shayne. You'll fit in well here."

  "Thank you, sir."

  "Have the copy on my desk and we'll get it to legal. It's all going to pass legal, right?"

  "Right. No problem," I agreed readily, wondering if my near future held enough time to scan a book on libel law. I was sure I had one somewhere in the couple of boxes I'd yet to unpack.

  "Good to know. Get to it." Bob dipped his head, diverting his eyes to the computer screen, and setting his mouth into a thin line. I waited, wondering what he had to say next. Finally, he shot a side-eye glance at me. "You still here?" he asked.

  "Nope," I told him, rising quickly. "Going to get you that column right away."

  "Go get 'em, champ," said Bob, no longer eyeing me.

  I slunk out of the office, nearly breathless with relief. One, I still had a job; two, although I had no idea how to fulfill the requirements of said job, I apparently passed Bob's test; and three, I was a little confused that Chucky Barnard didn't even rate a mention. Perhaps Bob really didn't know what all my time shaking down leads really entailed.

  "That's a nice blouse," said a male voice behind me as I walked back to my desk.

  I glanced over my shoulder. Ben. Ben, looking fabulous in a gray shirt and navy pants. Annoying Ben. Without stopping, and since I agreed with him, I said, "Thank you."

  "How's it going with Bob?"

  "Just swell."

  "I heard about Gabi's column."

  "Yeah, shame." I dropped into my chair, moments before realizing I wasn't sure if I'd fixed it yet. After a breathless moment filled with panic for when the chair would plunge me to the ground again, it was over. I remained upright so I thankfully didn't have to do another impression of Bambi on ice in front of Ben. Instead of leaving, Ben took my brief answers as reason to rest his arms over the top of my cubicle.

  "So your column is ready?" he inquired.

  I tapped a key and waited for my screen to whir to life. "Actually, I'm writing it now."

  "Got to say I'm impressed. When I first started as a reporter here, it took me some time to find informants and stories. You've been here ten minutes and already have it all covered."

  "That's me. Shayne Winter, ace reporter."

  "How about I take you to lunch? Get to know each other better?"

  I looked at my password screen, the cursor waiting for the password before opening up to a page of my thoughts on the Chucky case, and not the empty document where an entertainment column should be. Maybe Ben wanted to pump me for information on Chucky? That had to be it! I couldn't think of anything else he wanted to pump me for? As I looked up at his handsome face, my cheeks flushed. His eyes held steady; inquisitive, definitely, but no other apparent spark of interest. Nope, it had to be information he was after.

  "I'm super busy," I told him smartly, "but thanks for the offer."

  "Rain check?"

  This was LA. I'd yet to see any rain. "Absolutely," I agreed.

  "Great. We're all looking forward to reading your first column. So, I'll see you later?"

  "Super-duper." I bent my head toward the computer, tapping the keys, watching Ben from under my eyelashes when he didn't move away. Finally, after I didn't say or do anything else, he gave a little shake of his head and pushed off the cubicle, turning, and walking away. I couldn't help lifting my head to watch him walk away, or more precisely, to watch his rear encased in slim-fitting navy pants. I had to glance away quickly when he turned around mid-stride, but I didn't miss the edges of his lips curving into a smile when he noticed I'd been watching him. Damn it!

  I called up a blank document, and stared at the cursor blinked repetitively on the screen, awaiting my official wisdom on the private lives of the city's stars. Grabbing my cell phone, I scrolled to the photos I snapped during my walk. Ben was right, I had to develop an informant list, but at least I could start with what I witnessed within a few blocks of my own apartment.

  As I stared at the photos, I absentmindedly chewed on a pen, waiting for the muse of inspiration to strike. Finally, with the clock clicking closer to the deadline - literally, the huge clock hung over Bob's door, ticking like a countdown to doom - and a raft of witty comments filling my mind, I hovered my hands over the keyboard and began to type.

  ~

  "I'm sorry to call you," said Jenna. The phone began ringing just as I finished rereading my column. I wasn't sure what Bob would make of my snappy writing style, but I bashed at the keyboard in a rush, and with my limited LA network, it was the best I could do on short notice. Dragging my eyes from the screen, I stole a surreptitious look across the room to where Ben sat, his head dipped and brow furrowed. He appeared to be
concentrating on his computer. I dragged my attention back to what Jenna was saying. "But I wasn't sure who else to call," she continued.

  "You can call me anytime," I told her, and I meant it. Despite Jenna’s current high position on my suspect list, thanks to undeniable facts that didn't sit well with my hunch that she was not a murderer, I liked her. If I met her under other circumstances, I would probably have tried to cultivate her as a friend.

  "I called Detective Smith, but she didn't sound too interested."

  "What wasn't she interested in?"

  "Like I said, I found something at Chucky's house, but I don't want to touch it. I think it might be significant."

  "I'm on my way."

  On the drive from The Chronicle to Chucky's house, I decided "on my way" had a whole new timescale here in LA. But coupled with the warmth of the day and the sun high in a cloudless, blue sky, I was pretty sure I could get used to all of it eventually. Jenna walked over to my car the moment I pulled up. I stepped onto the sunny sidewalk using one hand to shield my eyes. "Thanks for coming so fast," Jenna said. "Do you mind if we go inside?"

  "Not at all."

  "I want to show you what I found. It's in Chucky's bedroom."

  "Did you touch it yet?"

  "No! I watch CSI and I know not to touch any evidence."

  CSI wasn't exactly why I asked, but that was the spirit of my question. I poked around a few crime scenes back home, thanks to some willing detectives who didn't mind a reporter that asked politely and didn't get in the way. I also poked around a few crime scenes as a pesky reporter who wouldn't take no for an answer, but those were stories for another day.

  "Good thinking," I told her, knowing a compliment would please Jenna. "You had better show me what it is."

  "It might be nothing."

  "Or could be something," I countered.

  Jenna led the way inside her brother's home, through the open front door, and down a corridor toward the back of the house. The door she opened led to a bright and spacious bedroom, with French windows that overlooked the garden. While the rest of the house screamed, "I am famous Chucky!" the bedroom was a lot subtler. No posed headshots, just a simple, rustic, pine bed frame and matching night stands. One had a half-read book, the pages face down as if it had just been put down beside the TV remote, ready to be picked up again at any moment. The dresser opposite had a TV on top. I figured the door off to one side probably led to the closet.