“W” had to be. Jennifer
I cocked my head to the side, sizing Jennifer up as a suspect once again. Sure she had an alibi, but now that she was tied tighter than a Christmas bow to PW Enterprises, I wondered, how hard would it have been to get one of her “Nicole Richie” hangers-on to make the call for her?
“Did you know that someone has been threatening my life?” I asked.
“No way! Who?” she asked, leaning forward.
“I don’t know yet. But I traced the threatening call to PW Enterprises.”
Jennifer blinked at me, realization slow in coming. “Wait, you don’t think that I…? No way!” she repeated.
I nodded. “Way.”
She shook her head back and forth so violently her hair smacked her perfectly powdered cheeks. “Nuh-uh. Not me. I would
“You just admitted you’re not my biggest fan.”
“Well, yeah, but can you blame me?”
She had a point. “Who else would have access to the PW offices?”
She shrugged. “Anyone, I guess. I mean, everyone on the lot knows where it is. And PA’s are always coming and going.”
“What about at night. Aren’t they locked up?”
She shrugged. “I dunno. I mean, probably, but we’re not like putting alarms and guard dogs on the place. Security on the lot is tight enough we don’t really worry about it that much. They don’t let just anyone into Sunset.”
She was right. I thought back to how inventive Cal and I had to be to get on the lot. While it wasn’t impossible the call was made by an outsider, chances were it was someone who actually belonged on Sunset property.
Unfortunately, that included half of Hollywood.
“Look, I totally swear I had nothing to do with this,” Jennifer said again. “You have to believe me!”
Sadly, by the look of true fear of bad press in her eyes, I kinda did. I sighed, realizing just where that left me.
All the way back to square one. Again.
Chapter Fifteen
By the time we finished with Jennifer Wood, the sun was setting, my stomach was growling, and the traffic on the 101 was thicker than Kirstie Alley’s waistline.
“Ready to call it a day?” Cal asked, inching forward behind an electric smart car. The driver looked nervously in his rearview mirror as if Cal’s monster truck might crush his bumper any second.
I nodded. “I’m beat. But first, you think we could stop at a drive-thru?”
“I think your aunt said she was making enchiladas tonight.”
“All the more reason to stop for food first.”
He shot me a look.
“Trust me, it’s survival.”
He shrugged, then pulled off at the next exit, navigating the Hummer into the Carl’s Jr. drive-thru. (Just barely- the top of the tank was mere inches from the clearance rod.)
I ordered three chicken sandwiches (one for me, two just in case), curly fries, onion rings, and a strawberry shake. Cal ordered a side salad and fried zucchini.
“Okay, I get the no beef thing. But are you going vegetarian on me now?” I asked, digging into my greasy bag.
“I don’t trust their chicken.”
“What do you think they put in it?”
“It’s not what they put in it,” he said, pulling back into traffic, “it’s the chickens themselves.”
I knew I was going to regret asking this, but…“What’s wrong with the chickens?”
His eyes went from my bag to me. “You really want to know?”
No. “Yes.”
He shrugged. “Okay. For starters, fast-food places have a very small profit margin on each item. So, they want the cheapest chickens out there. They go for the older ones, the sickly ones, the ones no respectable farmer will eat himself. You know what kind of chickens are in that patty?”
I looked down at my sandwich. “Yummy ones?”
“Poultry plants take the diseased chickens, cut out the infected parts, and chop up the rest for use in processed chicken products like nuggets and patties.”
“Infected?” My appetite was quickly waning.
“Then there’s the antibiotics. Chickens are routinely given these drugs in a vain attempt to keep them healthy, but guess where the drugs go? They’re stored in the chicken’s fat cells. When we eat the meat, we get a healthy dose of those drugs ourselves. Or, unhealthy, as the case may be.”
I slurped my shake. “That’s gross.”
“That’s why I don’t eat fast-food chicken. Only organic.”
I looked down into my bag. Maybe the enchiladas wouldn’t be so bad.
Half an hour later we pulled into the driveway of Cal’s place. The second I walked in, the scent of chilies and limes hit me square in the face, waking up my growling stomach once again.
“I’ve got some work to finish up,” Cal said, sinking onto the sofa in the living room and dropping a stack of files onto the coffee table. Which was fine with me. I had a one-track mind-or stomach, as the case may be. I followed my nose into the kitchen where Millie and Aunt Sue were standing at the oven, a half empty pitcher of margaritas in front of them as they giggled at some private joke.
“Smells good in here,” I said.
“Oh, Tina, you’re back. How was your day, dear?” Aunt Sue asked me.
“Good.” I peeked in the oven. So far, nothing was charcoal colored. A good sign. “Yours?”
“Well, your aunt Millie and I spent the day going through Hattie’s things.”
I felt that familiar lump of guilt well up in my throat again. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Oh, don’t be. We had a ball. Hattie had such eclectic taste. Anyway, we’re boxing it all up and sending it out to Goodwill tomorrow.”
I nodded.
“And the coroner called,” Millie added. “He said they’re releasing her body tomorrow. She wanted to be cremated and have her ashes spread out in her favorite place. The mortuary said we could pick her up day after tomorrow, so we’ll do it then. You want to come with?”
The last thing I wanted to do was stand downwind while the aunts dumped Hattie Carmichael in her last resting place. But considering she was now resting because of me, I found that guilt answering with an, “Of course.”
“Good.” Aunt Sue nodded. “You want a margarita, honey?”
Did I ever. “Fill ‘er up.”
Aunt Sue poured me a tall glass, which I gratefully drank from as the aunts chatted about what to do with all of Hattie’s photographs and scrapbooks.
Poor Mrs. Carmichael. I tossed the chicken patties in the trash and took another long sip from my margarita. It was strong, but not half bad. Could have used a little more salt.
As I watched Aunt Sue pull a tray out of the oven and sprinkle cheese on top, my thoughts wandered to who could have done in Mrs. C. My original suspect list had yielded nada so far. Was I on the wrong track entirely? Maybe this was just some random creep who liked to see journalists squirm. There was no way either Pines or Blain Hall could have killed her, both of them locked up at the time. But both Katie and Jennifer had alibis for when the original call was made.
Which left me where?
I took a long drag from my glass.
