looked pale and shaken as she sat twisting her hands nervously in her lap.
“Accident . . . or murder?” Lola continued in a sepulchral tone. “You decide.” She paused. “I think I like that one better, actually. I can see that line scrolling across the screen before the opening credits, can’t you? As the great John Gielgud used to say, ‘less is more.’ ”
I sighed. Mom is incorrigible. She can never resist being the center of attention, even when she’s in the middle of a murder investigation. Less than an hour had passed since Adriana’s death and she was already caught up in the drama of it all.
“Maybe that nice young man will be assigned to us,” she said with an overly bright smile. As usual, her uncanny mental radar was kicking in, and she seemed to be reading my mind. “Detective Martino. Maggie solved a crime for him once before. He’s handsome enough to be a film star,” she said to no one in particular. “With the right agent and the right property, he could go far. Look at Dennis Farina. One day he’s a Chicago cop and the next day he’s a movie star.”
At that very moment, the nice young man appeared in person. All six feet of hunky detective, looking like a million bucks. He was wearing a crisp white shirt that showed off his Florida tan, and his dark hair was boyishly falling over one eye. He wears it a little long, at least compared with other cops I’ve known, but maybe detectives have more leeway.
He closed the trailer door behind him and scanned the room. A little smile played around the corners of his mouth when he saw me, softening his chiseled features and adding to his attractiveness.
“Dr. Walsh,” he said formally. “Ms. Walsh,” he added, spotting Lola.
“Detective,” Lola chirped, flashing a saucy smile.
Rafe had just finished introducing himself and explaining that he and his colleague were going to ask a few questions when there was a timid knock on the metal door. Opie walked in. He banged his head on the low door frame and instantly turned beet red. I glanced at Rafe’s exasperated face and stifled a laugh.
Opie is my nickname for Officer Duane Brown, a fresh-faced, gangly cop who looks about twelve years old in his blue serge uniform. He could have stepped straight off of Aunt Bea’s front porch in Mayberry.
“Officer Brown will interview”—Rafe paused to look at his notes—“Maisie Curtis. Along with Jesse Hamilton.” He turned to Opie. “Miss Curtis is the script supervisor. She saw the shooting. Mr. Hamilton is the assistant director. You can interview them both next door at the production office. Room B is available. Just get the background information. I’ll be with you in a few minutes.”
Rafe waited until they were gone before he pulled up a chair and sat down facing us. “Okay, Maggie, what’s going on here?” He whipped out a notebook, pen poised, a cool look of appraisal on his face. For a moment, I was distracted by the golden flecks in his dark eyes and the sexy curve of his mouth.
“It was awful!” Mom interjected. “To think of such a young life being cut short like that. It’s a tragedy, that’s what it is. Poor Adriana. She had her whole career ahead of her.” She paused theatrically. “Do you think I should offer to write her eulogy for Access Hollywood ? Nancy O’Dell can’t possibly know all the inside details I do about Adriana’s life and career. I need to get Edgar on this right away. Edgar is my new agent.” She shot another flirty smile at Rafe.
“Did you happen to see the shooting, Ms. Walsh?” Rafe cut in smoothly. If he let Mom trip down memory lane, talking about the glory days in Hollywood, we’d be here all day.
Mom hedged, crossing and uncrossing her legs, just like Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct . At age fifty-eight, she has remarkably good legs and knows it. “Well, not exactly. Not up close, I mean.”
“How close were you to the shooting?” Rafe asked. “A few feet away? A few yards
“Accident . . . or murder?” Lola continued in a sepulchral tone. “You decide.” She paused. “I think I like that one better, actually. I can see that line scrolling across the screen before the opening credits, can’t you? As the great John Gielgud used to say, ‘less is more.’ ”
I sighed. Mom is incorrigible. She can never resist being the center of attention, even when she’s in the middle of a murder investigation. Less than an hour had passed since Adriana’s death and she was already caught up in the drama of it all.
“Maybe that nice young man will be assigned to us,” she said with an overly bright smile. As usual, her uncanny mental radar was kicking in, and she seemed to be reading my mind. “Detective Martino. Maggie solved a crime for him once before. He’s handsome enough to be a film star,” she said to no one in particular. “With the right agent and the right property, he could go far. Look at Dennis Farina. One day he’s a Chicago cop and the next day he’s a movie star.”
At that very moment, the nice young man appeared in person. All six feet of hunky detective, looking like a million bucks. He was wearing a crisp white shirt that showed off his Florida tan, and his dark hair was boyishly falling over one eye. He wears it a little long, at least compared with other cops I’ve known, but maybe detectives have more leeway.
He closed the trailer door behind him and scanned the room. A little smile played around the corners of his mouth when he saw me, softening his chiseled features and adding to his attractiveness.
“Dr. Walsh,” he said formally. “Ms. Walsh,” he added, spotting Lola.
“Detective,” Lola chirped, flashing a saucy smile.
Rafe had just finished introducing himself and explaining that he and his colleague were going to ask a few questions when there was a timid knock on the metal door. Opie walked in. He banged his head on the low door frame and instantly turned beet red. I glanced at Rafe’s exasperated face and stifled a laugh.
Opie is my nickname for Officer Duane Brown, a fresh-faced, gangly cop who looks about twelve years old in his blue serge uniform. He could have stepped straight off of Aunt Bea’s front porch in Mayberry.
“Officer Brown will interview”—Rafe paused to look at his notes—“Maisie Curtis. Along with Jesse Hamilton.” He turned to Opie. “Miss Curtis is the script supervisor. She saw the shooting. Mr. Hamilton is the assistant director. You can interview them both next door at the production office. Room B is available. Just get the background information. I’ll be with you in a few minutes.”
Rafe waited until they were gone before he pulled up a chair and sat down facing us. “Okay, Maggie, what’s going on here?” He whipped out a notebook, pen poised, a cool look of appraisal on his face. For a moment, I was distracted by the golden flecks in his dark eyes and the sexy curve of his mouth.
“It was awful!” Mom interjected. “To think of such a young life being cut short like that. It’s a tragedy, that’s what it is. Poor Adriana. She had her whole career ahead of her.” She paused theatrically. “Do you think I should offer to write her eulogy for Access Hollywood ? Nancy O’Dell can’t possibly know all the inside details I do about Adriana’s life and career. I need to get Edgar on this right away. Edgar is my new agent.” She shot another flirty smile at Rafe.
“Did you happen to see the shooting, Ms. Walsh?” Rafe cut in smoothly. If he let Mom trip down memory lane, talking about the glory days in Hollywood, we’d be here all day.
Mom hedged, crossing and uncrossing her legs, just like Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct . At age fifty-eight, she has remarkably good legs and knows it. “Well, not exactly. Not up close, I mean.”
“How close were you to the shooting?” Rafe asked. “A few feet away? A few yards
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