heart out. “Don’t you love my lady lumps! Squawk.”
Mrs. Rosenblatt should have held out for fifty.
By the time we got back to the lot, Dana was way late and Steinman was yelling out for that “new wardrobe girl” to get the hideous pair of chandelier earrings off Margo. After that it was changing Ricky’s sweater so it didn’t clash with the shoes Mia wanted to wear, and after that it was pinning Kylie’s hem higher so she didn’t look, and I quote, “all old ‘n’ stuff.” After that I was in serious need of an aspirin. With a tequila chaser. My neck was so stiff I couldn’t turn to the right, and my head was starting to ache. I was just contemplating an early leave when Steinman caught me at the Starbucks carafe.
“Wardrobe, right?” he barked.
I tentatively looked up from my cup. “Yes?”
“I need Blake out here in his hospital gown now. We’re shooting Mia and him in fifteen.”
“Okay, but then I need to go…” I started to say, but Steinman had already walked away.
So much for leaving early.
On the other hand, I hadn’t yet had a chance to talk to Blake alone. And while Veronika’s baby-daddy was at the top of our list, I couldn’t ignore the fact that being forced into a coma could give a guy one heck of a motive for murder.
I downed my coffee and, after stopping off at wardrobe to grab Ricky’s gown, made my way out back to the trailers. I passed by Mia’s, now void of the ugly crime-scene tape, and the one marked TALENT, until I got to Blake’s. The outside was the same white corrugated metal as the others, though I noticed it looked a couple of feet shorter than Mia’s.
I climbed the steps and gave a sharp rap on the closed door. “Wardrobe!” I called out.
I heard a muffled, “Come in, ” from inside and turned the metal latch.
While the exterior of the trailer was a match to Mia’s, the inside couldn’t have been more different. Instead of the custom drapes, plush furnishings, and granite-covered kitchen, Blake’s trailer looked like your standard-issue motor coach for the retired and idle. A small bench-style dinette sat in the middle, the top covered in papers, while a tiny kitchen holding a microwave and mini fridge done in seventies olive green sat to the right. The carpet was a matted brown that was so thin I’d bet my Via Spigas it was laid right on top of the plywood. The curtains were a dull, pleated polyester, and the entire place smelled slightly of burritos and stale Chinese food.
“Dusty, is that you?” Blake called from down the hallway.
I peeked my head to the left and noticed a bedroom, as in Mia’s trailer, this one considerably smaller and done in wallpaper made to look like wood paneling. “Actually, it’s Maddie. Steinman wants you in your hospital gown for the next scene.”
Blake groaned, then appeared from the bedroom, his slacks and white shirt looking rumpled, as if I’d caught him napping. “I don’t know why he even bothers. It’s not like I’m any more than a glorified prop at this point.”
“Sucks being in a coma, huh?” I asked, handing him the gown.
Blake shrugged his shoulders and shot me a sad look. “Well, at least I don’t have to stress over my lines.”
“How long has Preston been comatose?” I asked.
He gave a deep sigh. “Months.”
“Any idea when he’s waking up?” Okay, I’ll admit, this was just the TV junkie in me asking now.
He shook his head. “No. No end in sight. Be right back. I’ll just…” He trailed off, gesturing to the gown, then shuffled back down the little hall to the bedroom.
Keeping one eye on the door, I walked over to the dinette, gingerly sifting through the papers. Mostly racing forms, crossword puzzles, a few fan letters thrown in, though certainly not the pile Mia had. “So, I heard that the coma was originally Mia’s idea.”
“That’s right, ” Blake replied from behind the door. “She thought it would add some drama to her and Nurse Nan’s relationship.”
“Was that the only reason?” I quickly scanned through the fan mail. Nothing threatening, though I noticed that Blake’s fan base tended to be a bit older than Mia’s. There was one woman asking him to appear at her bingo club, another wanting to take him for an early-bird special at Applebee’s.
Blake popped his head out of the room and I quickly took two steps back from the table. Luckily, Blake didn’t seem to notice. “Why? What have you heard?” he asked.
“Nothing…” I hedged, watching his reaction. “Just that you and Mia had dated, and then she suggested that your character be put in a coma.”
Blake emerged from the bedroom, his hospital gown flapping pathetically around his bare ankles above black dress socks and loafers. “It’s true, things didn’t exactly end well between us.”
I raise one eyebrow. “Oh?”
“No. She said she wanted to see other people, but I didn’t. I…” He paused, biting his lip. “Well, I’m sure you’ve heard by now. I had a breakdown. It wasn’t just Mia. It was the whole pressure of the show. The press conferences, the interviews, the appearances.”
I could well imagine how Blake wasn’t suited to being in the public eye. I could see him starting to sweat just talking about it.
“Anyway, it was after I came back that they put me in the coma. I guess Mia just felt it was too awkward to work with me.”
I phrased my next question carefully. “And you weren’t upset by this?”
Blake shrugged. “A little. But not terribly surprised. Before the coma, Kylie’s and Deveroux’s characters were the hot items in the ratings. Tina Rey and the electrician were getting all the press. Mia was in danger of slipping into a supporting role. The coma’s slowly pulling up her numbers. Well, that and the press she’s been getting lately over these letters hasn’t exactly hurt her.”
“And you?”
Blake did the sad-smile thing again. “At least no one’s hounding me for interviews. I’d better get to the set.”
I watched as Blake shuffled out the door and into the soundstage. Honestly, he didn’t strike me as the killer sort. More the lie-down-and-take-it-like-a-doormat sort. Then again, he was, after all, a trained actor. I wondered just how much lying down and taking it a man could do before he snapped?
It took Mia only fifteen takes to get her monologue in Blake’s hospital room right. By the time Steinman yelled an exhausted, “That’s a wrap, ” my neck was stiffer than a new pair of leather boots and I was ready to drop.
I gathered up my purse, thankful that tomorrow was Sunday-the one day the crew took off during shooting season, and met Dana near the rear gate. The bump on her head had grown and was starting to turn purple.
“Do you think maybe you should get that looked at?” I asked.
Dana shook her head. “I’m fine. Just a little bump. All I need’s an aspirin.”
I dug through my purse and came up with one, which I handed over.
“Are we ready to go try Veronika’s neighbor again?” Dana asked as she swallowed the pill.
I groaned. “I don’t exactly have a car.”
“No prob.” Dana held up a pair of keys dangling from a rabbit’s-foot key chain. “Ricky let me borrow his.”
I raised one eyebrow. “Ricky?”
Dana blushed. “Isn’t he just the sweetest?”
Uh-oh. I felt my internal radar pricking up. “Dana, please tell me you’re not-”
“No!” she cut me off. “I’m celibate, remember? Besides, he’s, like, totally famous. I’m sure I’m not even remotely his type.”
I had a bad feeling Dana was every guy’s type.
Dana twirled her borrowed keys in one hand. “We going to go talk to the neighbor or what?”
While my head was screaming for a long, hot bubble bath and a big, frosty cocktail (not necessarily in that order), I had to admit the idea of going home to my apartment alone wasn’t all that appealing. The last thing I wanted to find was more roadkill. Or, worse yet, Mr. Roadkiller himself, waiting in his menacing SUV. So, despite the whiplash and brewing headache, fifteen minutes later we were in Ricky’s silver Porsche on the 101 heading up through the hills and west toward the Valley.
We exited at Topanga Canyon, making a left on Victory as we wound our way into West Hills, a suburban area on the westernmost edge of the Valley. Strip malls lined the major streets, while residence clamored up the hillside, each just a little higher than the others to capitalize on the view.
