Free Reel Murder by Mary Kennedy Page B

considerable bulk practically touched both walls. I noticed his jacket had fallen open, revealing an enormous gut threatening to explode from under his belt, like a muffin top. Big Jim played football in college, but now he’s gone to flab. “Marathon Man” has turned into “Michelin Man.”
    He moved closer, and I nearly choked on a cloud of Drakkar Noir. “So, tell me, Maggie, why did you do it?” He lowered his voice to a reedy whisper and I practically had to read his lips to make out what he was saying.
    “Why did I do what?” He raised one hand and splayed his stubby fingers flat against the wall. Short of ducking under his armpit, I couldn’t see any way to get around him. It was like being hemmed in by a Subaru Forester SUV.
    “The murder.” He paused, looking at me. “Was it something you planned for a long time, or was it a crime of passion? Did you know you were going to kill Adriana when you went to the set today, or did you just snap? I’ve heard that happens a lot with shrinks. They just go looney tunes.” He whirled his index finger in circles next to his left ear, the classic shorthand for craziness.
    “What?” I shrieked. “Are you insane? Of course I didn’t kill her.”
    Big Jim nodded slowly, a knowing look on his fleshy face. “We’ll talk again, Maggie. You won’t be able to keep the secret forever. And when you’re finally ready to confess, I’m your guy. I’d want an exclusive, of course. ‘Docs Who Kill: A Big Jim Wilcox Investigative Report.’ Tonight at ten.” He stabbed his beefy chest with his thumb for emphasis. “I might get an Emmy for this.”
    “You’re out of your mind.”
    “Trust me, Maggie, your crime will eat away at you,” he said, edging even closer. “You won’t be able to eat or sleep; you’ll think about the murder night and day. Eventually you’ll have to tell someone or you’ll die or go crazy.”
    I finally put my hands flat against his chest and pushed hard. “You’re the one who’s crazy, Big Jim.”
    He wagged his finger at me in mock reproach. “You’ll be just like that guy in the story—remember, the guilt ate away at him so much, he finally had to confess.”
    The guy in the story? “You mean Raskolnikov?” I couldn’t imagine Big Jim slogging through Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment , but that’s the only name that came to mind.
    “Who? Rasko-what? Sounds like some Russian commie pinko.” Big Jim shook his head. “Nah, that wasn’t it. This was a guy I saw on a Monk rerun last night. Did you happen to catch it?”
    “A Monk rerun? Afraid I missed that one.” I pushed past him, my brain blanking on a snappy retort. Why was I letting this guy get to me? As Vera Mae says, you can’t win an argument with an ignoranus. An ignoranus, in case you’re wondering, is a person who’s both stupid and an asshole. I rest my case.
    I sprinted down the hall and made a quick stop in the production office to drop off some time sheets. Irina was sashaying out on four-inch heels, her yellow silk Ann Taylor blouse and black pencil skirt molded to her Barbie-like figure.
    It seems that Cyrus had asked Irina to put together a series of teasers about Adriana’s death. He planned to run them throughout the day, sticking them between PSAs (public service announcements) and spots (paid commercials). All in the spirit of boosting the ratings.
    Interesting. The first WYME report on Adriana’s death was going to be a brief announcement on the six o’clock news, coming up in less than an hour. I figured it was going to be a pretty thin piece because the Cypress Grove PD had refused to issue a statement and I was sure no one on the Death Watch set was willing to talk.
    No wonder the station was trying to hype the news with half-hour bulletins. I riffled through a pile of promos that Cyrus was rushing into production. I noticed the WYME news team was calling it a “death,” not a murder. Irina had done her best, but all the teasers sounded