Murder in the Rue Ursulines

pass, and I walked into the sparsely furnished front room. A couple of wingback chairs faced a fireplace on the far wall, with a table in between them. There was a faded Oriental rug on the floor, and the walls were bare except for some Audubon reproductions. She closed the french doors and turned the key in the lock. “I’ve never met a private investigator before,” she said, looking me up and down, still smiling. “Your work must be terribly exciting.” She giggled- a surprisingly girlish sound for a woman I judged to be in her early to mid-thirties. Her voice also sounded younger than I would have expected, almost like that of a thirteen-year-old. She stared at me expectantly.

“Not really,” I replied, giving her a little smile in return. “It’s not like it is on television.Usually, it’s quite boring.”

“I don’t believe you,” she replied, the smile never wavering for a moment. “I used to want to be a private eye when I was young.” She laughed. “If you can imagine that. I wanted to be one of Charlie’s Angels.” She shrugged, a tiny movement. “Glynis is in her study. Come this way.”

I followed her down a hallway that ran the length of the house, and she knocked lightly on the second door before opening it. “Glynis? Mr. MacLeod is here.”

I walked into a beautiful room painted a dark emerald green. The fixtures were all brass, and the hardwood floors gleamed. A brass chandelier cast light into every corner of the room. The furniture looked expensive, but comfortable and lived in. Glynis Parrish was seated on a green and gold brocade sofa, the day’s newspaper spread out all around her on the cushions and the floor in front of her. She folded the section she’d been reading and let it drop to the floor. On the coffee table in front of the sofa stood a golden statue of a winged woman holding a globe- an Emmy award. Right next to it was a closed MacBook Pro laptop computer. She rose, and held out her right hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. MacLeod,” she said, giving me a warm smile.

“Call me Chanse.” I said, shaking her small hand.

She, like Freddy and Jillian, was diminutive. She couldn’t have been taller than five feet, and her figure was equally small, and almost girlish. She was wearing a very tight, low-cut tank top that emphasized her large breasts and deep cleavage. Her waist was small, her hips flaring slightly in her tight low-rise jeans. She was barefoot, her toenails painted red. Her dark brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she was wearing just a hint of blush. Her eyes were slanted, almost cat-like, and they glittered green in the light from the chandelier.

She applied no pressure to the handshake, her hand limp and dry in my much bigger paw. There were dark circles under her eyes, and she looked tired. Her chin was dotted with small red pimples, and after I released her hand, she self-consciously ran her hand over her chin. Her nails looked ragged and chewed. “Please, have a seat. And call me Glynis.” Her green eyes flashed at me. She plopped back down on the couch. She folded her legs underneath her. She saw me looking at her Emmy and smiled. “You can pick it up, if you’d like. Everyone always wants to.” She shrugged. “Go ahead.”

What the hell, I thought, bending down and hefting it in my right hand, grasping the winged woman around the waist. It was surprisingly heavy. On a gold band around the base were engraved the words Outstanding Achievement by A Lead Actress in a Comedy Series: Glynis Parrish in SPORTSDESK. I set it back down. “Thank you.”

“Like I said, everyone wants to do that. The great aura of an award, I suppose. But then again, I take it with me everywhere.” The corners of her mouth lifted a little bit, her eyebrows arching up in self-mockery. “I was nominated seven times, but only won once.” She shrugged. “After winning, it didn’t seem quite as important as it did all the times I lost. Please, have a seat.”

I sat down in a green wingback chair, sinking several inches down into it. She gave me a smile. “I don’t really know why Freddy wanted me to meet you, or why he needs a private eye, but I can never say no to him.”

“Did you need anything else, Glynis?” Rosemary asked from the doorway.

“May I offer you something to drink, Chanse? I have practically everything.” Glynis asked me in a pleasant tone. “The bar is quite well-stocked.”

“I’m fine, thank you.”

“I’ll call you, Rosemary, if we need anything,” she said, dismissing her assistant without even looking at her. I heard the door shut behind me, and the sound of footsteps receding to the back of the house. She closed her eyes for a moment, her face expressionless, then opened them and smiled again. “I’m not having a good day, I must apologize to you in advance.” She sighed. “What can I help you with, Chanse? What’s going on with Freddy?”

I cleared my throat. “Well, Freddy and Jillian-“ it took a conscious effort not to say Frillian-“have hired me to look into something, and I’m hoping you can help me out.” I made my voice sound as sincere as I could. Granted, I wasn’t in her league as an actor, but I could play a part too.

“What’s this all about?” she asked, rubbing her eyes. “I have to admit, when Freddy called and was so mysterious about my talking to a private eye, I agreed to see you more about satisfying my own curiosity than anything else…” She shook her head, the ponytail flying. “We’ve been divorced for years now. And while we get along better than can be expected under the circumstances, I don’t mind admitting that I’m sick to death of talking about Freddy and his new wife.” Her voice dripped with scorn as she said the last three words. “I’m tired of being defined as the sad little wife he left for the glamorous superstar.”

I put the file folder containing the printouts on the coffee table. “Someone has been sending Freddy threatening e-mails.”

She looked me directly in the eyes. “And Freddy thinks I may have sent them?” She threw her head back and laughed the way she had on her show. “Oh, the arrogance! Some things never change. I guess he thinks I’m just sitting around pining away for him.” The catlike eyes rolled. “Trust me, Mr. MacLeod-Chanse-most days I don’t give Freddy and his wife a first thought, let alone a second. That was a hundred years ago, it seems. We’ve all moved on-even though the tabloids love the idea that I’m pining away. I can assure you that is most definitely not the case.” She scratched her chin again. “In fact, I’m seeing someone else now-I won’t say who, because we’re not ready to go public with our relationship. I’m sure you can understand why. I’m tired of being tabloid fodder. Was I upset when he left me for someone else? Of course I was! Who wouldn’t be? But I have moved on.”

Considering her reluctance to refer to Jillian by name, I found that a little hard to believe. I cleared my throat and plunged forward. “Well, unfortunately, I’ve traced the e-mails to the computer they were sent from.” I leaned forward and removed the receipt from the folder and handed it to her. “They were sent from a Mac you bought…” I gestured at the laptop. “Is that your only computer?”

“But that’s impossible.” She took the receipt and looked at it, then set it back down on top of the folder. Her eyes widened, her forehead creased. She shook her head. “I mean, that’s a copy of my receipt, but I can assure you I haven’t been e-mailing Freddy threats-or e-mailing him about anything, frankly. If I want to talk to him, I call him.” She made a helpless gesture. “I mean, yes, I have a website and I have e-mail, but I don’t usually use the computer for much of anything.” She shrugged again. “Most of the e-mail comes from my website, and someone in my publicist’s office takes care of all of that for me, answering it, sending out autographed pictures, things like that.” She picked up the folder and opened it. She pulled out one of the printouts and squinted at it. “This isn’t my e-mail account.” She put the folder back down with distaste.

I hadn’t expected her to admit to sending the e-mails, so I went ahead with my game plan. “I didn’t think so, honestly. Who all has access to your computer?”

“Well, it’s always here in the house-I never take it on set with me. So, anyone who comes into the house could access it-but why would anyone do such a thing? That doesn’t make any sense. I mean, why my computer?” Her eyebrows came together and her face reddened a bit. “That’s simply intolerable.”

“Someone could be trying to make trouble for you.” I replied, injecting sympathy into my voice. “Who regularly comes into the house?”

“Well, Rosemary, obviously. She’s here every day, and sometimes stays over.” She rubbed her eyes, and leaned forward. “My housekeeper Cindy comes in three times a week and is here all day-usually when I’m on the set. She does the grocery shopping and makes meals as well as cleaning. My trainer, Steve Marren, comes by here when I’m not working. I have a massage therapist-Tony- who comes in twice a week. And of course, my director and cast mates stop by every once in a while.” She shrugged. “I’m not much for entertaining, frankly, but I guess any one of them could get on my computer without my knowing it. But why would they send…” she stopped, picking up the folder again and opening it. She paged through the e-mails. “These e-mails are absolutely vile.” She tossed the folder back down on the table, her face showing her distaste. She narrowed her eyes. “I most certainly didn’t write or send them. If they came from my computer, someone else had to have sent them.” She stood up. “ROSEMARY!”