twenty-nine

The next morning, Nigel insisted that Skippy accompany us, claiming that ever since the break-in he’d been skittish. “Are we talking about you or Skippy?” I’d asked. I was subsequently advised that I was unattractive when I was snide.

For the most part, I have gotten used to the stares Nigel and I receive when we go out with Skippy. It’s the ones we get when we take him out in the car that are a little harder to adjust to. Nigel drives a cream-colored vintage 1968 DB6 Aston Martin convertible. When Skippy sits in the back, we appear to be a parade float that has drifted off course.

Sara Taylor lived a few miles north of downtown LA in a remodeled Venice Craftsman bungalow in the affluent beachside community of Marina del Rey. We left Skippy happily curled up on the backseat and made our way to the door. Our knock was promptly answered by a woman who bore little resemblance to the one on the tapes. Gone was the woman who hid in drab, shapeless outfits. This Sara was slim and fashionably dressed. Her long caramel-colored hair was expertly highlighted and hung in soft curls over her shoulders. Large blue eyes regarded us without the aid of thick glasses. Quiet confidence had replaced the nervous tension I’d witnessed on the tapes.

“You must be Nigel and Nicole Martini,” she said with a gracious smile. “It’s lovely to meet you. Won’t you please come in?”

We followed her through a comfortable living room with wainscoting boxed ceilings, beadboard wall coverings, all tastefully decorated in various hues of blue and cream. From there we walked out onto the private back patio. Nigel and I sat on a cushioned wicker loveseat and accepted Sara’s offer of coffee. “You have a lovely house, Ms. Taylor,” I said.

“Please, call me Sara. But thank you,” she said as she poured out three cups of coffee.

“How long have you lived here?” asked Nigel, as he accepted his cup.

“Oh, I guess it’s close to seventeen years now,” she said.

“Do you still work in Hollywood?” I asked.

Sara took a sip of her coffee and shook her head. “No. After Melanie’s death, I guess you could say I lost my taste for the film industry. It destroys too many lives.”

“I see.” I said as I glanced around the plush surroundings. “Well, you certainly seem to be the exception to that rule.”

A wary look crept in her eyes. “Melanie left me a little bit of money in her will. I made some wise investments and they paid off.” She put her coffee cup down on the table with a decided clank. “You mentioned something about paperwork on the phone…?” she prompted.

“Oh, yes,” said Nigel. “It’s just a standard release form giving us permission to use your image. Obviously, we won’t include any footage that could prove embarrassing.”

Sara raised an eyebrow. “I don’t recall doing anything embarrassing.”

“Oh, no, of course you didn’t,” Nigel said easily. “I meant that more as a universal term; not in regards to you.”

She smiled slowly. “I see. Well then from what I can remember, you may find yourself having to cut out a lot.”

Nigel flashed his most engaging smile. “Yes. There does seem to have been a certain amount of…shall we say ‘tension’ among certain people on the set?”

Sara nodded. “Yes, I believe it would be safe to say that. Hollywood egos are a breed unto themselves.”

“Melanie and John Cummings seemed to especially butt heads,” I said.

Sara laughed softly. “They certainly did,” she agreed. “But that was them. Fire and Ice, I used to call them. To them, fighting was a kind of foreplay.”

“So, you think that they would have gotten back together had Melanie not died?” I asked surprised.

Sara gave an adamant nod. “Without a doubt. It was just a matter of time.”

“But from the footage, it seemed that Johnny had moved on and was with Christina Franklin,” I said.

Sara shrugged. “He wouldn’t have stayed. Not while Melanie was still around. She was in his blood. It was as simple as that. Those two couldn’t stay away from each other if they tried.”

“It sounds like you knew her very well,” I said. “How long did you work for her?”

Sara paused. “Seven years,” she said quietly.

“I’m sorry if we’re bringing up a painful subject,” Nigel began, but Sara waved him off.

“No, it’s fine,” she said. “It was difficult for me at the time, of course. We’d been quite close in our own way.”

“Did you have any idea that she was using drugs again?” I asked.

Sara shook her head. “None at all. I was as surprised as anyone. I really thought she’d beaten it.” She idly swirled her coffee with her spoon.

“From the footage we’ve seen, it appeared that she wasn’t feeling well,” I said.

Sara stopped swirling her spoon and glanced up at me. “What do you mean?” she asked.

“Nothing,” I replied. “I just noticed that Melanie was sick to her stomach a few times.”

“Was she? I don’t really remember. It was so long ago.” Lifting the silver coffee urn, she asked. “Would you like more coffee?”

“Yes, please,” I answered, holding out my cup for her to fill.

As Sara poured I said, “It almost seems like she was coming down with something or maybe she was …”

Hot coffee spilled on my wrist. “Oh, I’m so sorry!” Sara said as she put down the urn. Handing me a napkin, she added, “I can be so clumsy at times. Did I burn you?”

“Not at all,” I said, taking the napkin. “I’m fine.”

“Oh, I know what you’re thinking about,” Nigel said to me. “Wasn’t Melanie allergic to fish or something? Didn’t she have a reaction?”

Sara’s face cleared. “Oh, yes! That’s right! Now I remember. She ate a salad that turned out to have been made with lobster in the dressing. Poor thing was horribly allergic to shellfish. She’d break out in hives, which as you can probably understand isn’t optimal when you’re in the middle of making a movie.”

“No, I imagine not,” I said.

Sara took a sip of her coffee. “That’s why I always made sure I had an EpiPen on the set. You never knew what you were going to get from the craft table.”

I stared at her. Nigel opened his mouth, but I stepped on his foot. Hard. Thankfully he took my meaning and said nothing.