Free City of Mirrors by Melodie Johnson-Howe Page A

that?
    My mind wandered to tomorrow’s meeting with Jake Jackson. He had star power and an image to protect, a dangerous combination. Was he going to kill the movie? Or just kill me by recasting my part when they recast Jenny’s? One way or another we were all in danger. Somehow. I reached out my hand to the empty side of the bed. It was a futile attempt for comfort.
    The sound of a woman screaming bolted me out of my sleep. My heart leaping, I blinked at the TV. Joan Crawford, her mouth opened so wide you could park a truck in it, was screaming herself into a nervous breakdown. I didn’t blame her.

CHAPTER ELEVEN
    B y nine o’clock in the morning, the fame suckers were gathering outside my house. Cameramen and reporters with microphones were focused on my front door with all the intensity of a group of sharpshooters. On the ocean side, a few photographers took pictures of my rotting deck and yelled for me to come out and talk to them about Jenny Parson. I ran around pulling shades and curtains.
    In the kitchen I drank my coffee and ate my breakfast huddled low over the table so they couldn’t get a good shot of me through the window above the sink. The onslaught brought back all the old fears I’d experienced with my mother as we were rushed through hotel kitchens to avoid the paparazzi that always waited for her. Instead of feeling special, I had felt trapped and vowed never to live like that. Yet here I was, not because I was one hell of an actress, but because I’d discovered a dead one. And the fame suckers wanted a piece of that.
    The limo driver whom Zaitlin had ordered to pick me up at eleven arrived thirty minutes early. When I looked out my peephole, he yelled above the pandemonium that he was here to get me. Letting him into the house, I slammed the door before they could take a picture.
    â€œI’m Gerald, ma’am.” He was a big guy with dyed brown hair.
    â€œWait here.” Before he could answer, I left him standing.
    In my bedroom, I gulped more coffee and put on makeup with a shaky hand. Then I struggled into my LBD (little black dress), which I thought would make me look less “nutso” to Jake Jackson. Slipping into high black heels, I ran around trying to find my cell phone. It was in my purse. Grabbing a short gray leather jacket (a little edge always helps in Hollywood), I hurried into the hallway.
    The driver came to attention.
    â€œI’m ready, I think,” I said.
    â€œDo you want me to hold your jacket up in front of your face or anything?”
    â€œI’m not a suspect. Let’s just get to the car as fast as we can.”
    â€œIt’s parked about fifteen houses down. I couldn’t get any closer, sorry.” He put his hand on the doorknob. “Ready?”
    â€œAs I’ll ever be.” I slapped on my sunglasses.
    But you are never ready. Reporters with mikes rushed at me, mouths flapping, screaming questions. I could smell their rancid coffee breath and the sweat of the paparazzi, which was permanently distilled into the zip-up jackets they wore.
    â€œDiana! Did you see her die?” shouted one man.
    â€œHow close were you and Jenny?” added another.
    â€œWill her death hurt the movie?” a third bellowed.
    â€œDid you kill her?” a woman called out.
    Lights flashed. Video cameras crushed in on me. I dipped my head, trying to turn away from the prodding lenses.
    â€œLook this way, Diana. Do you know who did it?”
    â€œWhat did her body look like?”
    Elbows and the sharp edges of equipment jabbed into my shoulders and back. I tripped over feet and someone stepped on my toes.
    â€œDid your mother know her?”
    â€œSmile, Diana!”
    A woman jerked at my hand and stuck a cell phone in my face. “Talk into this, Diana. Why were you carrying your mother’s ashes? Was it a ritual murder?”
    The driver grabbed my arm and pulled me through the mob. “The car is down