Free Swept Up by Holly Jacobs Page B

actress ever, she was competent.
    Her birth name was Sheila Dubrinski.
    We went to the address that the studio had given us.  It was a middle class ranch that sat on a small incline only a few blocks from my house. 
    A giant, burly man who looked vaguely familiar opened the door.  That was the thing about Hollywood.  So many people worked at bit parts on shows that there was an overabundance of the population who looked vaguely familiar.
    “Yeah?” the guy said, in a not overly friendly way.
    “Hi, I’m Quincy Mac and I’m looking for Shia?”
    “I know who you are.  Shia doesn’t live here.”  The man’s tone was less than cordial.  To be honest, it was rather hostile.
    Cal slipped into super-cop mode at the sound.  His body went ramrod straight, his expression was serious and gave nothing away, while his tone was all business.  “This is the address the studio gave us.”
    “She lives in the apartment.”  He jerked a finger at the garage.  A set of stairs climbed to a second story.  “She’s been so busy with acting gigs she hasn’t had time to find a place of her own,” he defended, though neither of us had said anything about the fact she lived over a garage.
    “You’re her landlord?” Cal asked.
    “Her father,” Mr. Grumpy Pants said.
    “Oh, it’s nice to meet Shia’s father,” I said and shook his hand.  At first he seemed unwilling, but then he returned my greeting.  “She was such a joy to work with.  I can only imagine how proud you are.”
    Finally, he gave me a brief smile.  “I am.”
    Cal nodded.  “Have we met?  You look familiar.”
    Shia’s father paused, and when he spoke the animosity was gone.  “I don’t think so.  I stopped in at the party after the Mortie’s.  Sheila invited me,” he added quickly, as if he was afraid we might think he crashed.
    “That must be it,” Cal said.  “If you were there, would mind telling us what if anything you saw?”
    “You mean the murder?”
    “Yes,” I said.  “That’s what we came to see Shia about.  We’re trying to collect everyone’s memories of the party, while they’re still fresh.”
    He opened the door and let us in the house proper.  “Can I get you all anything to drink?”
    “No, we’re fine.  Do you mind if I record you?  My note taking sucks.”
    “Fine.”  He offered us seats in the living room.  It was Spartan.  There were no knick-knacks, so muss.  There was functional furniture, and one painting of Shia over the fireplace.
    “There’s really not much to tell,” he started.  “I came to the party because Sheila—Shia,” he corrected himself, “Invited me.  It’s been me and her since her mom ran out when she was five.  Anyway, I found her.  Had a quick drink with her.  I was there when you made your speech.  I loved the glasses, by the way.”
    I smiled.  “I loved them, too.  They’re a tangible reminder that someone has always believed in me.  That’s a true gift.”
    “It is.  I always believed in Sheila.  I try to be her biggest supporter.  She wants to be an actress—a real actress—and this movie was a step in the right direction.  It’s better than those reality shows she was in.  They made her look—”  He cut himself off. 
    He didn’t need to go on.  I knew just what he meant.  LA Shore and Casting Callers both cast Shia as the wild child.  That had to have been hard on her father to watch.
    “It’s all in how they cut the footage ,” he said.  “She’s not like that in real life.”
    And that was a father’s blindness.  Shia was exactly like the shows indicated.  She was sweet, ambitious, and willing to use all her assets to get what she wanted. 
    Mellie was ambitious and willing to use her assets, too.  But no one ever called her sweet.
    Shia was.  Getting angry with her would be like getting angry at a puppy who wanted your attention.
    “ Steamed was just the first movie in her career.  She’s going to have