Chapter One
Everyone gets a free murder. It’s like a savings bond given to a newborn baby. The only catch is that it takes eighty years to mature. At that age, or anytime thereafter, you are free to commit the murder of your choice. And then, faster than you can say, “rip-roaring-rigor-mortis,” your special privileges begin accruing. At arraignment your advanced age and various medical conditions are noted. The judge looks at you, and your oxygen tank, and says something benignly humorous about your flight-risk probability. You are then released on personal recognizance. The district attorney isn’t terribly excited because convicting frail, elderly murderers doesn’t seem to impress voters as much as convicting young, menacing ones. Better for everyone if you and your crime just quietly fade away. Your numerous continuance requests, therefore, are met with less than vigorous resistance, and your trial is postponed four, five, or even six years. During this time you live peacefully in your own home, which, given an average life expectancy of seventy-eight years, is also where you will die long before the lethargic arm of justice ever comes to gather you up.
Eighty-seven-year-old Lenora Danmore had been willing to exercise this privilege. It was true, the initial scandal might have damaged her reputation, and that of her museum, but over time, the pall of murder would have most likely fallen away and left nothing but a captivating dark passion to her life story, a touch of infamy adorning a remarkable fame, and her reputation would have recovered. But then a chubby Italian actress by the name of Brandi Bonacore came along, and Lenora realized that while a free murder is all fine and good, a perfect murder is even better.
This was the reason Lenora had traveled the sixty miles from her ranch in the foothills above Ventura, California, to a strip-mall diner in Studio City on a blustery day in January 2020. She wore a cream-colored Ralph Lauren pinstriped skirt suit with an upturned collar and matching gloves. The booth where she sat smelled like ketchup. She touched as little as possible.
“Sorry, lady, you gotta move. This section is…Miss Danmore? Uh…I’m sorry…uh…I didn’t know it was you. This is such a great honor…What can I get for you?”
Lenora sized up Brandi and her bulging mustard-yellow uniform. Twenty years in Hollywood, and she had landed back at the diner like a newbie. The whole thing was just so perfect.
“Who do you hate?” said Lenora, with an icy, intimidating smile.
“Excuse me, ma’am?”
“Who do you hate?”
“Nobody.”
“What happens when you see her face on the side of a passing bus? Or you turn on the TV, and she smiles innocently and tries to sell you beauty lotion?” asked Lenora.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Brandi.
Now she had started to squirm. Lenora continued: “There are two ways for you to make it to StarBash: scandal or drama, and scandal isn’t your strength, Brandi.”
“Are you sure you got the right lady? I just got rejected by StarBash…for the third time.”
“Maybe we made a mistake with that rejection.”
“Really?”
“I said maybe. It all boils down to scandal and drama.”
“Are you kidding me! I got drama comin’ out my ass!” said Brandi.
“Yes, I believe you do. Now tell me, when God is far away, and your mind wanders in the darkness, whose dead body do you see?”
“I see Cass Moreaux.”
***
Cass Moreaux waited impatiently for her agent to plod across the soundstage. The guy moved like a tranquilized sloth. She’d had better reps but none as devoted, so she kept him around. When he finally got over to her, she said, “Well?”
He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Cass. The deal fell through. They won’t do it.”
“Good try, Freddie. I just got off the phone with Lenora Danmore. Besides, they take every drama queen who crawls out of rehab. And, by the way, you’re not a very good actor,” said Cass.
“Please, Cass. Just help me to understand. That’s all I’m asking. There is no upside to this job. There is an immediate hit to your reputation and a high probability of complete disaster.”
“Yeah, that pretty much sounds like StarBash,” said Cass.
“And you know they own you, twenty-four hours a day for four months straight?”
“Yes,” said Cass.
“And that’s all you have to say?” He looked like a bully had just stolen his Popsicle.
“Uh…not exactly…I promised them some scandal.”
“What?”
“It’s no big deal. I’m a movie star. I specialize in that shit.”
He didn’t laugh.
“Come on, Freddie, it’ll be fun. You can even help.”
“I don’t like it.”
“You get to pick the scandal. Let’s see…what’s popular these days? OK, got it. Here are the options: casting-couch confessions, shoplifting at Nordstrom, mugshot from hell, or big-ass meltdown. Which one do you like?”
“None.”
“Freddie. I’m going on that show. I don’t expect you to like it—in fact, it means you’re a pretty decent guy—but I’m going to do it. Now get your phone ready because you’re about to record the biggest meltdown since Chernobyl.”
***
Micah Bailey, a forty-three-year-old manager, producer, and newfangled game-show host, let his mind wander during yet another production meeting. He wondered what his life might have looked like if he had just walked away after getting fired for the very first time all those years ago. Would he be happy? Would he have been a good husband? Or would he be the same old dummy who had wasted his life trying to tame a ghost named Lenora?
And if one ghost isn’t bad enough, why not open the door and welcome in another one? This ghost also had strong claws and a mean streak. Her name was StarBash, and like the other one, she had pounded stakes into Micah’s life and showed no signs of ever leaving.
***
When the story broke, Hollywood had a big collective nervous breakdown. And Brandi Bonacore, who’d just turned in two weeks’ notice at the diner, sat back and enjoyed the show. Cass Moreaux, the great Casmo, the big-time A-lister, had signed on for StarBash season four and, judging by the hand-wringing, it amounted to the worst kind of cataclysm…like Whole Foods running out of tofu. With a Budweiser in one hand, a mouse in the other, Brandi devoured blogs and websites like a caffeinated teenager. She especially liked the poison barbs in the comments sections: “That selfish bitch! This stunt will set honest actors back ten years!”; “If you need money, Cass, just drive to Porn Valley and shoot a few scenes with the polo team! At least you’d have some dignity left!”; “Slumming? This isn’t slumming! Slumming looks like William Freakin’ Shakespeare compared to this!”
Cass got an online ass-kicking for two weeks straight. Brandi slipped by mostly unscathed; the PC police had already knocked her out of the game, so nobody really cared if she crossed the line. She had nothing to lose and everything to gain—like a big movie deal. Not that she had any illusions about why Lenora Danmore had paid her the mysterious visit: StarBash needed someone to hurl shit at Cass Moreaux, and because of their past history, Brandi had gotten the job. No problem there. She’d let it fly. And she’d enjoy it. But when Brandi went to bed that night, she didn’t only dream about destroying Cass Moreaux. She also dreamed about winning it all and finally getting her life back.