Free Dial Emmy for Murder by Eileen Davidson

Weaver girl is alibied,” Jakes said. “Of the women whose names you gave me, two slept with him, but there was apparently no relationship. They didn’t know the others.”
    “Can I make my statement?” I asked. “As it is, I’m going to be late to the set.”
    “I thought we were going to talk about what’s bothering you, Alex.” He looked at me pointedly.
    “No, that’s okay. It’s really nothing I can’t handle. I just came to give you my statement, like you asked.”
    “Okay, sure. But you will tell me later?” he asked, and I nodded. “I’ll have someone take down your statement and type it up, and then you can sign it.”
    I sipped my coffee and said, “That’s fine.”
    “Just wait there,” he said, sliding his chair back. “I’ll be right back.” He paused and turned to me. “So, you’re starting to like me, huh?”
    I sort of smiled.
    He walked away, taking his coffee with him. On his desk was a piece of paper with four names written on it. I leaned over, trying to read them upside down.
    “Damn,” I said.

Chapter 15
    “Wait a minute,” Jakes said moments later when he returned with a civilian woman who was going to take my statement. “You’re telling me you know these guys who were killed the same way as Masters and Marceau?”
    “Not all four,” I said. “I recognize one name.” I pressed my finger to the paper, still lying flat on his desk. “That one.”
    We were both standing on his side of the desk, so that I was seeing the list right side up for the first time.
    “Aaron Summers?” he said.
    “He is—was—an actor who auditioned for a role on my old show, The Yearning Tide .”
    “When was this?”
    “Last year.”
    “Did he get the role?”
    “No.”
    “Okay,” Jakes said, “so he was an actor. Jackson Masters was an actor. What about these other two?”
    “I don’t know them.”
    “So how do I find out if they were also actors?” he asked.
    “Call AFTRA or the Screen Actors Guild,” I said. “If they were actors, they would have been members. Unless they weren’t union yet. But that’s a good place to start.”
    “Okay,” he said. “Okay, good. Thank you. Barbara will take your statement now, and as soon as you sign it, you can go to work.”
    “Thanks.”
    “No, Alexis,” he said. “Thank you.” He grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair, looked at Barbara and said, “Use my desk.”
    “Yes, sir,” she said.
    He started away and then turned and called out to her, “Have you seen my partner?”
    “In the break room, watching TV.”
    He looked at me, shrugged and left.
     
    “Thank you for joining us, Alex!” the director, Richard Breck, called out.
    “I know: I’m late,” I said apologetically. “I’ll get right to wardrobe.” I didn’t offer an excuse. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. Frankly, I was tired of that kind of attention. I had had enough of it last year on The Tide .
    Breck was tall and lean, the exact opposite of Sammy “Timber” Horner. Timber was usually brought in when a show needed to be taped fast, often for budget reasons. Breck was a whole different animal, a man who took his time and made sure he got the scene to his satisfaction.
    “We’ve moved your scenes, Alex,” he said. “Had to move on without you, you know.”
    “I know, Dick,” I said, waving. “Don’t worry. I’ll be ready.”
    When I got to the back, talk in wardrobe, hair and makeup was all the same—the murder of Henri Marceau. It was obvious that Henri hadn’t had that many friends. People were definitely shocked and upset by his murder, but I wouldn’t say anyone was actually sad. The discussion went on as they worked on me to get me ready for my scenes. Apparently no one knew I had been there at the murder scene, because it never came up, which suited me.
    They did, however, ask me my opinion.
    “First Jackson and now Henri. It’s such a tragedy! One right after the other!” Mary said when I was in her