Crazy For You

Posted by Sappho on July 24th, 2013 filed in Fiction

I’m not taking those damn pills. Bridget nags me to take them, counts them to check on me. I tongue them and spit them out when she isn’t looking. I’m not taking those damn pills. She says I’m crazy, but I know better. I know she’s just jealous because I have Jonathan, and who does she have? No one. Certainly no one as hot as Jonathan.

Jonathan Grant – the actor, you know, the one on that soap? – is crazy about me, but he has to keep it a secret. It’s for his image, you see. The show does better if people think he’s unattached. And his handlers keep getting in the way. But he gives me hints, lets me know he still loves me by the way he smiles and looks at the camera. Don’t worry, Sheila, his look says. We’ll be together soon. And I trust him. But I get impatient. I need to see him, if only for a little bit.

So today I’m slipping off to see him. I tell Bridget that I’m going to the vocational rehab office. That will make her happy, I think. Show her I’m doing something constructive. But my sister just gives me a worried look.

“Are you sure you’re ready?” she asks.

Damn right I’m sure I’m ready. I’m sharper than she is. But I just nod and head for the door, grabbing my day pack as I go. In my pack is a Google map to Jonathan’s house. I park my car a ways down the road, and head the rest of the way on foot. It’s important to be discreet, when visiting Jonathan.

I head right for his front door. It opens freely. He must have guessed I was coming, and left it unlocked. The last time I was here, it wasn’t so easy. There was this body guard who took things all wrong. He didn’t understand that it was me, Sheila, and that Jonathan and I are meant to be together. He wouldn’t even let me see Jonathan, not even to say one word. But this time there’s no one. Where might Jonathan be?

I turn right, and enter a living room, decorated Southwestern style. Beside a massive antique chair, a kachina doll lies on the floor. Odd. I head over to pick it up. And then I see him.

Jonathan lies on the floor. He wears tight black designer jeans, and a white T-shirt with a Kokapelli image. The T-shirt is stained with blood. I run to his side. There is a knife beside him. I pick it up and stare at it in horror. Then I drop it. I cradle his body.
“Jonathan,” I say, “are you all right? Jonathan, answer me.”

He doesn’t answer. I listen to his chest. No heartbeat.

A siren sounds outside. Cops. The last time I was here, cops took me away. They won’t take me away from you this time, Jonathan. They won’t take me away.

Google is my friend. You have no idea what kinds of things you can find on the net, about someone who’s famous, someone like Jonathan. Like his next door neighbor’s blog, with its entry about her children going in Jonathan’s panic room. Where was that? Right behind the bookcase? I find the switch. The bookcase swings, I enter, flip a switch, and I’m shut in.

I hear the cops. He’s dead, they say. They talk about the knife, sending it for fingerprints. Crap, those will be mine. My fingerprints on the knife, Jonathan’s blood on my clothes. I am so screwed. Unless, perhaps, I can stay one step ahead of the cops, and find who did this. I know things, things about Jonathan.

I wait. And wait. Finally, the cops leave.

Time to spring into action. If I’m going to solve this crime, the first thing I need is to keep the cops off my tail. I head for Jonathan’s bedroom, ditch my bloody shirt, and substitute one of his old T-shirts, too large. I pick a Lakers T-shirt, best to take one that doesn’t stand out. There’s a pad on his nightstand, on which he’s scrawled some notes. I tear off the page, in case anything he’s written proves useful as evidence. Then I hike down the road to my car, keeping a wary eye out for cops. I can’t head home. If they get my fingerprints off the knife, that’s the first place they’ll look. Where can I go?

I think back to my old days on the shooting range. I’m not supposed to have a gun, now, or so they told me when they let me out of the hospital. But screw that. I’ll need a gun. And I know just which old shooting buddy has a gun I can steal. I head for Doug’s house.
As I expected, he’s left his window open. I’m able to reach in, fiddle, and get it up further, far enough for me to slip in. He has no burglar alarm. I head first for his bedroom, and take the handgun he keeps in his bedside stand. Then I open his garage door. He’s driven his car to work, but all I need is his motorcycle. My own car, the one with the license plate that the cops will be looking for, I can hide in his garage. I’ve bought time, at least till Doug gets home and reports the motorcycle missing.

Next step is a disguise. I know where to go for that, too. I just have to hope I get there before the cops get the word out. How long can that be? I’m not sure. But it has to take some time for the crime lab to do its work. Enough time, I hope, for me to get a makeover from my cousin Deirdre.

Deirdre works, as we say here in LA, in the industry. She does make up for movies and TV shows. She’s offered to do me, many times, but so far I’ve put her off. Now I’ll give her a chance. Please, Deirdre, pick up. Please, Deirdre, don’t be working today.

I’m in luck. Deirdre is home, and happy to help. Now, should I ditch the cell phone? They can track these things, you know. Even if you have them turned off, they can still track the GPS inside. Maybe I should ditch it altogether. But what if I need it? I compromise, take the battery out, pocket it.

I tell Deirdre I want my hair short, black. Would it look too weird to ask for colored contacts to go with it? Yes, it probably would. Besides, I doubt she had them. I sit back in the chair, let her style my hair, do my makeup. She chatters about a new TV show she’s working on. I tell her I’m thinking of getting work as an extra. She gives me a funny look. I know what she’s thinking. They’ve gotten to her, too. She wants to be sure I’m not hoping to get on Jonathan’s show, but she’s afraid to bring it up. Doesn’t want to set me off.
Well, why not? If I pretend to her that I’m trying to get on his show, that means I don’t know he’s dead. So she won’t believe the cops when they come looking for me. Unless, perhaps, it makes her want to turn me in to the shrink. Tough choice. I keep mum.

If only I had searched Jonathan’s house before leaving. I need something, a Blackberry, an iPhone, a Droid, even just a plain ordinary cell phone, something that has his contacts. Most people are killed by people they know. Not a sure bet, if you’re famous like Jonathan, but a likely one. It’s too late to go back now. The cops probably got everything anyway. So I head for an Internet café.

First thing, I get on Twitter. I already follow all of Jonathan’s celebrity friends, from a Twitter account that doesn’t have my real name on it. What are they saying? Not much of use, it turns out. I guess it’s too much to ask that anyone who knows anything would spill it in public. But suppose I can hack his Gmail account?

I try the obvious passwords: his name, his birth date. I try the less obvious ones: names of films he’s been in, ex-girl friends, pet dogs. I get it on the fifteenth try. Google contacts, here I come. I check the appointments on his calendar for good measure, and what maps he’s saved. Oh, and email. I’ll make sure to copy everything that matters to my own Google account.

One email catches my eye, well, several, actually, but they’re all from the same person. Lisette Oiseau, Jonathan’s most recent ex. TMZ says it was a bitter break up. They’ve had like about four articles, recounting the stuff she’s supposed to have done to him: threw a drink at him in a pub, slashed his tires. If there’s anyone that might kill him, it’s her, not me.

The first email is angry, something about Jonathan taking her coin collection, just to spite her, she says. But the second and third are friendlier. He’s soothed her, or, just maybe, she’s decided that faking being nice will get her in position to do him real damage. She’s going to stop by his house and get her things. The email doesn’t say when. I’m guessing they talked by phone. I’m guessing she was stopping by today. So that was why the door was open. For Lisette, and not for me.

I brush away my jealousy. After all, I know why he broke up with Lisette. It was to be with me. If he was seeing her, it was just to tie up loose ends. Anyway, the important thing is to find out. Did she in fact kill him? How can I check her out? Pose as a private investigator and question her friends? Break into her house when she’s not there?

The first thing, I decide, is to observe her on the set. Lisette is filming a movie. If I can find out where, slip onto the set pretending to be an extra, maybe I can get an idea what she’s up to. After all, I’m disguised now. She’ll never recognize me.
Here’s where the celebrity Twitter accounts finally come in handy. It turns out that one of the other actors in this film has tweeted where they’re filming. They’ll be filming tomorrow right outside the Sheraton in Long Beach. If I can just stay out of sight till then.

I ride Doug’s motorcycle to Long Beach, then ditch it in a park, so it won’t lead the cops directly to me when he reports it missing. From here on out, it’s public transit. Which is not exactly an easy way to get around in Southern California. But you gotta do what you gotta do. I find a Motel 6 to spend the night.

Morning comes, and the cops still haven’t caught up with me. Maybe, just maybe, I can make this work. I apply make up, grab a donut, and head for the Sheraton. On the street to the right of the main entrance, there are cops. Lots of cops. Shit.

I’m calm, I’m calm, I’m perfectly calm, I’m utterly under control. If I can just pleasantly stroll down this street, the most natural thing in the world, as if no one were looking for me, and I were just seeing the sights.

There are cameras, and two smashed cars. Someone pulls out a cell phone, and a man tells her, sharply, not to take pictures. I see the cameras train on the cars, as a man pulls a woman out of one. And they go back into place. And do it again.

Of course, I’m on the set. I can breathe again. Maybe, after all, these aren’t real cops.

Someone approaches the knot of people surrounding me, and tells us that we need to head to that coffee house, there. I sit with the others, at one of the tables. Do you think we could get coffee, and charge it to the show, one of them asks. Another launches into a story about how difficult Tiffany Swanson is to work with. I’ve made it. I’m among the extras. Now all I have to do is lie low and wait for Lisette.

She strides up to me and glares, hand on her hip.

“What the hell are you doing here? You have some nerve!”

So much for lying low. How did she even recognize me? I have my hair dyed and everything. And she’s seen me, what, like about twice?

“We need to talk,” I say, as much to stall for time as anything.

“No,” she says, and turns, to summon some security guard maybe? Whatever she’s going to do, I have to stop her.

“There’s a file,” I say, “on my computer, and it’s going to be emailed out at 5pm if I don’t stop it.”

It’s all I can think of to say, and I can tell she doesn’t believe it. She’s looking at me now as if I’m crazy. Hell, everyone is looking at me now as if I’m crazy. Let’s call this a big time fail when it comes to lying low.

“Lisette, please,” I say, “I loved him, too. Just five minutes?”

“You loved a fantasy,” she says, but she pulls me away from the café, rather than calling whoever she was going to call.

“Lisette,” I whisper, “I admit I was making up the story about the file. But I’m not making this part up. I got into his Google account. I know he was going to see you, the day he died.”

I pull the battery from my pocket, put it back in the cell phone. But Lisette won’t wait for me to power it up. She sighs.

“Wait for me in the hotel café,” she says, “I’ll be there in an hour.”

I go to the café. I know I’m doomed. Either she’ll be sending the cops, or she’ll be sending the men in white coats. But I don’t have enough evidence to nail her. Waiting is the only chance I have. I wait, and I wonder. Jail, or the psych ward?

She comes. No cops with her that I can see. She buys two scones, gives me one.

“Let me spell it out for you, Sheila,” Lisette says, “Jonathan never knew you. Other than those times you stalked him – “

I don’t let her finish.

“But he did,” I say, “Jonathan and I loved each other. I know you don’t believe me – “

“Let me show you,” she says.

She pulls out a sheaf of letters.

“I brought them,” she said, “to remember him. These are the ones you want.”

She hands me two letters. I read. There, signed with Jonathan’s name, are words about me. How I followed him on the street, called him, showed up at his house. How I scared him. How he hoped he’d never see me again.

“He didn’t write that,” I say, “He wouldn’t write that. You wrote that.”

She shakes her head.

I look again. I pull out of my purse the page I had ripped from the pad on Jonathan’s nightstand. The notes are in the same handwriting. It’s his. Unless maybe she went in the bedroom and wrote those notes, too? Have I been mad all along, or is she trying to trick me? I remember his face, the day I went to his house, the day they took me away. And I believe her. But I may not still believe her tomorrow. Without my pills, I doubt any sanity will last. And I’m still in trouble. I still didn’t kill Jonathan. Someone else did. I have to make her believe that. My story spills out.

“So, you see,” I tell her, “I know I didn’t kill him, but who did? His calendar says he was going to see you.”

“He was,” she says, “but I called it off. What, you think I killed him? I was on the set when he died. Dozens of witnesses saw me there.”

“Somebody did kill him,” I said, “and it wasn’t me. I need to find that person, before the cops find me.”

“You need to turn yourself in to the cops,” she says, “and they’ll do the right thing.”

“Or you’ll turn me in?”

She shrugs.

“Suit yourself,” she says.

“If you didn’t kill him,” I ask, “who did?”

“You, maybe?” she says, “though it would be more usual for you to attack me. His brother, maybe? They had argued about money. An ordinary burglar?”

“It wasn’t a burglar,” I say, “because his laptop was still there. And he was wearing an expensive watch. Besides, it was someone he knew. The door was unlocked.”

I don’t add that I’d thought he had left the door open for me.

“But who would kill him, that knew him?” she says, “Everyone liked him. I don’t even think his brother would go that far.”

I question her, try to drag out every detail, anyone at all that might have a grudge. Yes, she admits, one or two people didn’t like him. A director who said he was difficult, though no one else did, a woman who hated his politics. I don’t care about these. These don’t sound like the kinds of things you kill for. I’m left with two people, three if I still consider Lisette a suspect. Jonathan’s brother had quarreled with him about an inheritance. Well, now he’ll be getting that full inheritance, from Jonathan. And there’s one professional rival, who just hated him, always thought Jonathan stole every opportunity he should have gotten.

“I still think,” says Lisette, “that you’re the most likely candidate. It’s what I’ll tell the police.”

I’m sure she will. Of course she does. I’m mad, and who better than a madwoman to kill? But I didn’t. I may be crazy, but I’m no killer. Not that she’d believe me any better, if she knew I was packing heat.

“Go ahead,” I say, “tell them.”

And I leave. Time for a new disguise, one Lisette hasn’t seen. I find a store near the ocean front that lets me buy a wig, then get some new clothes. I pad myself, to look a bit fatter, anything at all to look different. I doubt I’ll fool anyone for long, but if I can buy myself just a little bit of time.

Next step, a private investigator’s license. This is even less likely to fool the cops, because I have no idea what a real private investigator’s license looks like. But maybe I’ll be able to make one that can fool other people who have no idea what a real private investigator’s license looks like. So I head to another Internet café, find a computer, and put together my forgery, with the help of a cell phone photo of my new self. Then I print it, go to a copy shop, put it on what I hope is the right kind of stock, laminate it. I am now Karen Hill, private investigator. Hired by Jonathan’s family to investigate his death. Then I rent a car, under my own name, naturally, since Karen Hill doesn’t have a driver’s license. I hope I can solve the crime before anyone notices the car rental.

As Karen Hill, I’m soon able to verify Lisette’s alibi. By the time the fourth person swears that she was on the set, I decide she’s a dark horse as the killer. But does Jonathan’s brother have an alibi? Does he ever! It turns out that Jonathan’s brother left two days ago on a trip to London. Unless he somehow managed to fake that trip, he’s out of the running.

I’m down to my third candidate, one Skip Stuart, actor. I get his photo off the web. Time to take a big risk. I head to the house of Jonathan’s neighbor, Betty, the one with the blog. I hope she has no clue what a private investigator’s license looks like.
I knock. Betty answers. I introduce myself, show her the private investigator’s license, give her my story. Her eyes show no sign of doubt. Maybe I’m in luck.

Yes, she recognizes the photo. That’s Jonathan’s new gardener, she tells me. He just started working the week before Jonathan died. No, he probably wouldn’t know anything. He was new. No, she wasn’t around that morning. One of her kids was sick, and she took him to the doctor.

There’s no way Jonathan hired Skip as a gardener. Either she’s mixed him up with someone else, or maybe, just maybe, he was around scoping the place out, and lied to her. Does he have an alibi? Can I find out without being caught and turned in to the police?

I put my cell phone battery back, just briefly, to check the web. There’s a site I know where people report celebrity sightings. Are there any reports there on Skip? There are some, but none for the time in question. I do learn, though, what’s his favorite bar. Time to take another chance. I lose my padding, and head for the bar.

I’m in luck. I spot Skip. A few drinks, a little flattery, and we’re headed back to his place. I’m not looking forward to making out with him, but at this point I’ll do just about anything, to stay out of jail, and out of the hospital. But how can I get Skip out of the way for long enough to do my search?

I’m scared, I tell him. I think I hear something, someone bumping around outside. Can he check it out?

He can. I rush through his drawers. I find it. Sketches of Jonathan’s house, notes on his security system. I push the drawer shut, quickly. Time to turn myself in. I put the battery back in the cell phone, dial 911, give my name, location, and then hang up. When Skip returns, I’m sitting on the corner of his bed, looking at a hand mirror, checking my makeup.

I will never forget the look on his face when the cops burst in the door.