Chapter 25

I STILL HADN’T heard from Matt when Link Ramsey arrived in my office. As always, his unruly nut brown hair looked as though it would need a trim in another day. That was the impression it always gave; I wondered how he managed to keep it in precisely that state.

There was a devilish gleam in Link’s dark chocolate eyes. “I told Betty if she gave us a half hour of privacy, I’d let her tie me up and discipline me.”

I laughed at that ridiculous image. “You’re safe with Betty, but be careful. One day somebody might take you up on one of your crazy proposals.”

“I like living on the edge.” Link held up the takeout bag he was carrying. “Betty told me about your favorite deli. She said you like egg salad on whole wheat with mustard, mayo, and lettuce. Hold the pickles and chips. I brought cole slaw and potato salad.”

As Link unpacked our picnic lunch, I cleared space on the desk. “I got us a couple of cold sodas from the machine.”

“This is great,” I said, dividing the paper napkins and plastic forks.

Link pulled one of the visitor’s chairs up to the edge of the desk, opened our sodas, and unwrapped the corned beef on rye he’d brought for himself.

After we’d each taken a bite of our sandwiches, I asked, “What did you want to talk to me about? Betty said it was personal.”

He took a swallow of soda and set the can down on the napkin I’d folded to use as a coaster. “Nancy Cummings. How’s it going with her?”

“She’s still the number one suspect, but some other people are being looked at.”

Link grinned at me. “Looked at by you, I bet.” He took another swallow of soda. “I like Nance,” he said, “but even if I didn’t, I’d care about this mess because she’s your best friend. According to the papers, the cops think Nancy killed Veronica Rose out of jealousy. Maybe they got the theory right, but the killer wrong.”

My pulse rate jumped. I put down my sandwich and looked at Link with hope. “What do you know?”

“When Veronica Rose came up to the studio that day, I pegged her right away as a scalp collector—the kind of dame who wants men to fall for her just to feed her ego.”

“Betty got that impression, too.”

“I wouldn’t tell you what I’m about to if the woman hadn’t been killed, but in the couple of weeks before she died, I saw her with somebody who wasn’t Arnold Rose. They were way out of her high-rent neighborhood, and she and the guy had that ‘we just had sex’ look.”

I was getting excited at the prospect of having another suspect. “Describe him.”

Link shook his head. “No need. We know him. It was your resurrected actor, Jay Garwood.”

“Jay! I remember Betty telling me that when Veronica was up here, turning on the charm, he’d reacted to her—how did Betty put it?—like a hungry dog looking at a steak, I think she said.”

“Yeah, I was there. That’s a pretty good description. I didn’t think anything about it, until I saw the two of them together, and I still wouldn’t have given it a thought except that she was killed.” Link added, “Not that just seeing them together proves anything.”

“No, but this is information I didn’t have before. Jay didn’t say anything about their having become friends. Or whatever they were. Just between us, what do you think of him?”

“He’s okay—knows his lines, and doesn’t get in my key light.” Link flashed his alpha-male grin. “At least, he didn’t do it more than once.”

“Have you spent any time with him out of the studio?”

“No. He didn’t socialize with the cast, and I realized why when I saw him out with Veronica Rose. They were sucking face as if they thought they’d be dead the next day. A week later, he shows up for blocking wearing a gold Rolex watch. He sure didn’t buy it with his tax refund.”

“You think Veronica gave it to him?”

“I’m as sure as I am about the sun rising in the east.”

After lunch, Link went back to his dressing room.

“Where can I find Jay Garwood?” I asked Betty.

She consulted her Master List, which tracked each of the actors during any days they were at the studio. It made it possible to know where everyone was at all times.

“He’s in Makeup,” Betty said, “getting covered in fake blood for that new flashback scene—the one where he’s in the guerrilla prison camp. They’re taping the scene at two.”

It was 1:15; allowing time for him to go through the final blocking before tape rolled, I’d have about twenty minutes alone with him.

Makeup was located next to Costume, on the far side of the twenty-sixth floor from my office. I made my way past our two stages, 35 and 37, and saw set people putting the finishing touches on the jungle prison on Stage 35. Stage 37, dressed as Sylvia’s design showroom, was being lighted. Link and Eva, who played Sylvia, were running lines for the comedy scene we’d tape after the jungle flashback.

I hadn’t written the scene in which Link goes to Sylvia’s dress salon to buy a formal gown for the new woman in his character’s life—a new associate writer had—but it was one of my favorite scenes this week. All I’d had to do with this script was revise a few of Link’s lines to make them more specific to his quirky character.

Jay Garwood was alone in the Makeup room, standing up in front of the long, brightly lighted mirror, looking into it and mouthing his lines.

If I hadn’t known he’d been made up to look like the only survivor of a plane crash, on seeing him I’d have immediately called for an ambulance.

“You look appropriately awful,” I said with a smile.

“Thanks. You want me?”

“Where are the makeup twins?” I asked, referring to the identical sisters in their fifties, former models, who were in charge of makeup for the show.

“When they finished with me, they went to lunch,” he said.

It seemed odd that he hadn’t turned around to face me since I’d come into the room. I was having my conversation with his reflection.

“I wanted to talk to you, Jay.”

“Yeah?” I heard a note of strain in his voice and saw him transfer his script to his left hand while he wiped his right hand down the side of his slacks. It was a nervous gesture, denoting sweaty palms. He’d turned slightly away from me, but I could observe what he was doing in the mirror.

I perched on the chair next to where he was standing. “Sit down a minute, okay?”

With all the enthusiasm of a teenage boy called into the principal’s office, Jay Garwood turned away from the mirror and sat down in the canvas-back chair, where he started to fidget.

“So, what can I do for you?” He’d made his tone casual, but I saw the look of worry in his eyes.

“It’s what I want to do for you, Jay,” I said.

He brightened. “I’m getting the Armani suits?”

“No—at least, not immediately. I’ll have to see what I can do about the costume budget. No, I came to offer you my sympathy. This must be a painful time for you.”

In his chair, Jay Garwood suddenly became very still. “Sympathy?”

“About the death of Veronica Rose. This must be a difficult time—because I heard you two had been seeing each other.”

“That’s not true—where’d you hear that?” he demanded.

“Just around . . . I mean, I thought someone said you two were dating—”

“No! I didn’t know her. The only time I was ever with her was that day she came up to the studio with her kid.”

“Oh, then whoever thought they saw you together must have been mistaken. I guess I was worried about you for nothing.”

“That’s okay. Are we still having lunch tomorrow, to discuss my wardrobe?”

I got up. “It turns out that I won’t have time tomorrow, Jay. We’ll discuss this next week.” But we’ll talk about more than your suits.

I said good-bye, wished him luck with the scene he was about to tape, and left the Makeup room.

Outside in the corridor I reviewed what had just happened. I believed Link, which meant that Jay Garwood had just looked straight into my eyes and lied.

Back in my office, I was about to dial Walter to tell him to put Jay Garwood at the top of our list of suspects when Betty buzzed me.

“Your private detective friend is on line one,” she said.

I picked up the receiver to hear Bobby Novello say, “I just found the man in the van.”