The Cinderella Murder Read online

  Her husband, Gavin, appeared in the kitchen. He must have heard the sound all the way from his home office upstairs.

  He came to a halt when he spotted the phone, which she finally returned to its base. “I thought it was the smoke alarm.”

  “Is that a critique of my cooking?” she asked.

  “Please, I know better.” He gave her a kiss on the cheek. “You are absolutely the best cook—make that chef—I have ever known. I’d rather eat three meals a day here than go out to the finest gourmet restaurant in the world. And besides that, you’re beautiful and have the disposition of an angel.” He paused. “Is there anything I forgot?”

  Nicole laughed. “That will do.” Nicole knew that she was no beauty. She wasn’t unattractive, either. She was just ordinary, her features unremarkable. But Gavin always made her feel like, in his eyes, she was gorgeous. And he was gorgeous in her eyes. Forty-eight years old, always trying to lose a few pounds, average height, starting to bald. He was a dynamo of brains and energy whose stock picks for his hedge fund made him a formidable figure on Wall Street.

  “Seriously, is everything okay? It’s a bit troubling to find my wife standing in the kitchen staring at a phone off the hook. Honest to God, you look as though you just received a threat.”

  Nicole shook her head and laughed. Her husband had no idea how close this joke came to the truth in her case.

  “Everything’s fine. That was Rosemary Dempsey.”

  “She’s doing okay? I know you were disappointed when she didn’t accept your invitation to join us for Thanksgiving.”

  She had told him about the possibility of this program. But she certainly hadn’t told him the full story about where she was in her life when she had shared a dorm room with Susan.

  She hadn’t meant to conceal anything from him. She really had managed to convince herself that she was a different person now than she was before she met him.

  If this program happened and someone dug deeply enough, would it be better to have told him the truth now?

  “Do you know that show called Under Suspicion?” she began.

  His expression was blank, then changed. “Oh sure, we saw it together. Sort of a true-crime reality show; the Graduation Gala Murder. Got lots of attention. It even ended up solving the crime.”

  She nodded. “They’re thinking of featuring Susan’s case for the next one. Rosemary really wants me to be a part of it.”

  He plucked a few grapes from the crystal bowl on the kitchen island. “You should do it,” he said emphatically. “A show like that could break the entire case open.” He paused, then added, “I can only imagine what it’s like for Rosemary—not knowing. Look, honey, I know you don’t like the limelight, but if it could bring some kind of closure for Rosemary, I’d say you owe it to her. You always tell me that Susan was your best friend.” He grabbed several more grapes. “Do me a favor, hang up the phone at the end of the next call, okay? I was afraid you’d fainted.”

  Gavin took the stairs back to his home office. He had the luxury (and curse) of being able to run a hedge fund wherever he happened to be as long as he had a phone and Internet connection.

  Now that she had spoken the possibility aloud, Nicole knew that, of course, she had to be part of the show. How would it look if Rosemary asked Susan’s college roommate to help solve Susan’s murder, and she refused? How could she sleep at night?

  Twenty years was so long ago, but it felt like a minute. Nicole had left Southern California for a reason. She would have moved to the North Pole if necessary. In the Bay Area, with Gavin, she had a wonderful husband. With the marriage, she had also changed her last name. Nicole Hunter had become Nicole Melling. She had started over again. She had found peace. She had even forgiven herself.

  This show could ruin everything.

  8

  “Good afternoon, Jennifer. Is he in?”

  Brett Young’s secretary looked up from her desk. “Yes, just back in from lunch.”

  Laurie had worked with Brett long enough to know his routine: telephone calls, e-mails, and other correspondence in the morning; a business-related lunch (preferably from noon to two); then back to his desk for creative work in the afternoon. Until a few months ago, Laurie would have needed to schedule an appointment to see her boss. Now that she was back on top with Under Suspicion, she was one of the lucky few who could pop in unannounced. If she was really lucky, he may have indulged in a glass of wine or two at lunch. It always helped his mood.

  Cleared by his guard, Laurie tapped on Brett’s office door before opening it.

  “Got a sec?” she asked.

  “Sure, especially if you’re here to tell me you’ve decided to take on the little beauty queen case.”

  He looked up. Sixty-one years old and handsome by any standards, his expression was sealed in a permanent façade of extreme displeasure.

  She took a seat on a recliner next to the sofa where Brett had been reading a script. Laurie thought her office was nice, but Brett’s made it look like a cubbyhole in comparison.

  “Brett, we went through that case. There’s nothing new to say about that investigation. The whole point of our show is to get first-person accounts of people who were real players in the case. People who could possibly have been involved.”

  “And you’ll do exactly that. Sic Alex Buckley on them and watch the witnesses squirm.”

  Alex Buckley was the renowned criminal defense attorney who had presented the first volume of the show about the so-called Graduation Gala Murder. His questioning of the witnesses had been perfect, ranging from gentle empathy to grueling cross-examination.

  Since then, Laurie had seen him regularly. In the fall he’d invited her, Timmy, and her father to Giants football games and in the summer to Yankees baseball games. All four of them were ardent fans of both teams. He almost never invited her out alone, perhaps sensing she was not ready for a definitive progression of their relationship. She needed to complete the mourning process, to close the chapter on her life with Greg.

  And she was too keenly aware that he was mentioned frequently in gossip columns for escorting a celebrity to a red-carpet affair. He was a very, very desirable man about town.

  “Not even Alex Buckley could solve that case,” Laurie insisted, “because we have no idea whom to question. DNA evidence has cleared the girl’s entire family, and police never identified any other suspects. End of story.”

  “Who cares? Dig out those old pageant videos and glamour shots, and watch that Nielsen needle jump.” It wasn’t the first time Brett had lectured Laurie about the importance of ratings, and it wouldn’t be the last. “You need something new? Get a scientist to conduct facial progression. Show the viewers what the victim would look like now.”

  “It simply wouldn’t work. A technologically enhanced photograph could never tell the story of a life lost. Who knows what the future could have held for that girl?”

  “Listen to me, Laurie. I happen to be a successful man. I know what I’m talking about. And I’m trying to help you keep your show on a roll. Some would say you got lucky the first time around and have just been riding it out since then.” It had been nearly a year since the first Under Suspicion “news special” had aired. Since then, Laurie had been an executive producer on several of the studio’s run-of-the-mill series, but Brett was eager to build on the Under Suspicion brand. “You gotta try to re-create the magic of the first time.”

  “Trust me. I went back to the drawing board and found a great case. It’s perfect for Under Suspicion. The Cinderella Murder.”

  She handed him a photograph of Susan Dempsey, a professional headshot she had used for auditions. When Laurie had first seen it, she felt like Susan was looking straight through the camera, directly at her personally. Susan had been blessed with near-perfect features—high cheekbones, full lips, bright blue eyes—but the real beauty was in the energy of that stare.

  Brett barely glanced at the photograph. “Never heard of it. Next! Seriously, La
urie, do I need to remind you of the flops you had before this thing came along? You of all people should know: success is fleeting.”

  “I know, I know. But you’ve heard of the case, Brett. The victim was a UCLA college student, found dead in the Hollywood Hills. Supposedly she no-showed for an audition that night.”

  Now he bothered to look at the headshot. “Wow, she was a knockout. Is this the Frank Parker thing?”

  Had Frank Parker not gone on to become famous, people might have forgotten entirely about the Cinderella Murder by now. But every once in a while, usually after Parker released a new film or got nominated for another award, someone would mention the onetime scandal in the director’s younger life.

  “The victim’s name was Susan Dempsey,” Laurie began. “By every account, she was a remarkable girl: smart, attractive, talented, hardworking.”

  He waved his hand for her to get on with it. “We’re not handing out medals. Why is this good TV?” Brett asked.

  Laurie knew Brett Young would never understand her determination to help Susan’s mother. Instead, she enthusiastically recited all of the features that made the case so appealing to Grace and Jerry. “First of all, it’s a terrific setting. You’ve got the UCLA campus. The glitz of Hollywood. The noir of Mulholland Drive.”

  It was clear that Brett was now listening carefully. “You said the right word: ‘Hollywood.’ Celebrities. Fame. That’s why people would care about that case. Wasn’t she found near Parker’s house?”

  Laurie nodded. “Within walking distance, in Laurel Canyon Park. He says she never showed up for the audition. Her car was found parked on campus. Police never determined how she got from UCLA to the hills.”

  “Parker knew she was a student. If her car was at Parker’s house, and he had anything to do with it, he could have arranged to move it back on campus,” Brett observed slowly.

  Laurie raised her eyes. “Brett, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re beginning to sound interested.”

  “Will Parker participate?”

  “I don’t know yet. I’ve got Susan’s mother on board, though, and that will make a difference. She’s motivated. She’ll convince Susan’s friends to talk on air.”

  “Friends, schmends. Family and friends won’t get people to set their DVRs. An Academy Award–nominated director will. And get that actress, the one who landed the role.”

  “Madison Meyer,” Laurie reminded him. “People forget that in addition to getting the role Susan was auditioning for, she was also one of Susan’s roommates.”

  According to Frank Parker, when Susan failed to appear for the audition, he called Madison Meyer, another student from the UCLA theater department, and invited her to audition at the last minute. When questioned by police, Madison vouched for Parker’s timeline, saying she was with him in his living room at the time of Susan’s death.

  “Pretty strange he just happened to give the role to a novice actress who provided him a convenient alibi,” Brett said, rubbing his chin, a sure sign that he was on board.

  “This is a good case for the show, Brett. I feel it. I know it.”

  “You know I love you, Laurie, but your gut’s not enough. Not with this kind of money at stake. Your show ain’t cheap. The Cinderella Murder is just another cold case without Frank Parker. You lock him down for the show, and I’ll give you the all-clear. Without him, I have a surefire backup.”

  “Don’t tell me: the child pageant queen?”

  “You said it. Not me.”

  No pressure, Laurie thought.

  9

  Frank Parker looked down at Madison Square Park from fifty-nine stories above. He loved New York City. Here, looking north out of the floor-to-ceiling windows of his penthouse apartment, he could see all the way to the top of Central Park. He felt like Batman watching over Gotham.

  “I’m sorry, Frank, but you made me promise to nudge you about some of those to-do items before the day ended.”

  He turned to find his assistant, Clarence, standing in the entryway of the den. Clarence was well into his thirties but still had the body of a twenty-year-old gym rat. His clothing selections—today a fitted black sweater and impossibly slim slacks—were obviously intended to highlight the muscles he was so proud of. When Parker hired him, Clarence had volunteered that he hated his name, but everyone who heard it remembered him because of his god-awful moniker. So it worked for him.

  The entire flight from Berlin, Clarence had been trying to get Frank’s attention about interview requests, phone messages, even wine selections for an upcoming premiere party. On the one hand, these were the kind of nitty-gritty details for which Frank had no patience. On the other hand, the people who worked for him had learned by now the types of decisions that could send him over the edge if someone made the wrong call. He had a reputation as a micromanager. He assumed it was what made him good at his job.

  But as poor Clarence had begged for Frank’s attention on the plane, all Frank could do was continue reading scripts. The chance to read in peace on the private jet had been the only part of the trip he enjoyed. Though it made him sound provincial, he hated leaving the United States. For the time being, however, foreign film festivals were all the rage. You never knew what tiny gem you might find to remake into an American blockbuster.

  “Don’t you know by now, Clarence, that when I make you promise to interrupt me about something in the future, it’s simply my way of delaying a conversation?”

  “Of course I know that. Feel free to send me on my way again. Just don’t snap at me tomorrow if the sky falls because you wouldn’t let me relay these messages.”

  Frank’s wife, Talia, paused in the hallway outside the den. “For Pete’s sake, stop picking on poor Clarence. We’d probably have the lights cut off if he didn’t keep life running for us. If you wait until we’re back in Los Angeles, you’ll end up getting too busy once again. Look out your pretty window and let him do his job.”

  Frank poured an inch and a half of scotch into a crystal highball glass and took a spot on the sofa. Clarence got settled into a wing chair across from him.

  First up on Clarence’s list was the studio’s insistence that he sit down for a lengthy interview for a feature magazine article to promote his summer film release, called The Dangerous Ones. “Tell them I’ll do it, but not with that wretched Theresa person.” One of the magazine’s writers was known for presenting her subjects in the worst possible light.

  Next was a reminder that an option he had on last year’s hottest novel was about to expire. “How much are we paying?”

  “Another quarter of a million to extend the additional year.”

  He nodded and waved a hand. It had to be done.

  None of this seemed urgent enough for Clarence to have been bothering him all day.

  Clarence was looking down at his notes, but when he opened his mouth to speak, no words came out. He let out a long breath, smiled, and then tried again. Still nothing.

  “What’s gotten into you?” Frank asked.

  “I’m not sure how to raise this.”

  “If I could read minds, I wouldn’t need you, would I?”

  “Fine. You got a letter from the producers of a television program. They’d like to meet with you.”

  “No. We’ll do publicity closer to release. It’s too early now.”

  “It’s not about The Dangerous Ones. It’s about you. The past.”

  “Isn’t that what I just agreed to on the magazine article?”

  “No, Frank, I mean the past. The show is Under Suspicion.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I keep forgetting that you’re a genius about film but refuse to learn anything about television. It’s a crime show. A news special, really. The concept is to reconstruct cold cases with the help of the people who were affected by them. You were involved in the Susan Dempsey case, and they want you to be part of their next special.”

  Startled, Frank turned his head and looked again out the window. When wou
ld people stop associating him with that awful event?

  “So they want to talk to me about Susan Dempsey?” Clarence nodded. “As if I didn’t talk enough back then to police, lawyers, studio executives—who, incidentally, were on the verge of dropping me . . . all I did was talk about that damn case. And yet here we are again.”

  “Frank, I had been waiting for a good time to speak to you about the letter. Now the producer—her name is Laurie Moran—has somehow gotten my number. She has called twice today already. If you want, we can say you’re too busy doing edits on The Dangerous Ones. We can even redo a couple of aerial shots in Paris if we have to make you unavailable.”

  The tinny sound of a pop song played from Clarence’s front pants pocket. He pulled out his cell phone and examined the screen. “It’s her again. The producer.”

  “Answer it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Did I sound unsure?”

  “This is Clarence,” he said into the phone.

  Frank had gotten where he was by trusting his instincts. Always. As he heard his assistant recite the familiar “I’ll give Mr. Parker the message,” he held out his palm. Clarence shook his head, but Frank leaned forward, more insistent.

  Clarence did as instructed, voicing his displeasure with a loud sigh as he handed him the phone.

  “What can I do for you, Ms. Moran?”

  “First of all, thank you for taking my call. I know you’re a busy man.” The woman’s voice was friendly but professional. She went on to explain the nature of her television show. Having just heard a similar description from Clarence, Frank was beginning to understand the reenactment concept. “I wanted to make sure you got my letter inviting you to tell your side of the story. We can work around your schedule. We’ll come to Los Angeles or whatever other location is most convenient. Or if for some reason you’re uncomfortable discussing your contact with Susan, we’ll of course make a statement during the show informing viewers you declined to be interviewed.”