Not So Model Home

CHAPTER 29


Colonel Mustard Was Blowing Professor Plum In The Library

Monday finally rolled around, the day we filmed the final episode. Or should I say night. Yes, Jeremy and the directors all decided that by filming outside around Ian’s pool by torchlight, the announcement would have more drama. Everyone in the cast, the support people, and everyone who made the show happen—the cameramen, grips, electrical people—everyone was excited. Me too. But for a different reason.

The only change in our normal routine was that this one-hour episode was going to be very short in terms of filming. And most of it would be shot around Ian’s pool by torchlight. The lead-up to the big announcement would be intercut with flashbacks of each contestant as they were highlighted for six minutes on this final episode. The purpose was, as Jeremy explained, to allow viewers to recap what had happened to each cast member over the course of the season and to keep them guessing as they tallied both the good and bad qualities of each contestant and how they reacted to stressful situations. The real reason was more pedestrian: to stretch out the episode so that advertisers would have more places to shove their commercials.

Before the cameras started rolling, Jeremy whipped the cast up into a frenzied state. “Well, guys, this is the day it happens . . . the day one of you will have his life change forever. I have five cameras to catch your emotions the minute the announcement is read. Now, I don’t have to tell you that, no matter what Aurora and Ian’s verdict is, I want big emotions. Big win! Big loss! Just make it big! And remember, you’re under legal contract not to divulge the winner under any circumstances until the show airs. You got that?”

There was a murmur of agreement among the guys.

“And that goes for everyone on this set, has been on set at one time, or is in contact with anyone on this show.”

And that was it. Even the threat of legal action didn’t dampen the enthusiasm of us all that day. But it wasn’t going to take a lot to stir up the energy, the guys were so wound up. Even David managed to show emotion. I was impressed. He had become quite the actor.

We all filed out to Ian’s pool, which was decked out for the occasion with lots of torches and strategically placed uplighting. Since it was now late March, the nights were still chilly, but we went in short sleeves (and my cleavage showing—Jeremy’s request) and pretended it was a balmy night.

Since all the flashbacks would be edited in later with Aurora’s commentary on the ups and downs of each contestant, there was little to film. But Jeremy wasn’t taking any chances. He hired a professional TV studio “cheerleader” to whip up the excitement the way they did before live-audience TV shows. I had to go along. It was like being at an Anthony Robbins life coaching rally. You knew it was all psychobabble New Age shysterism bullshit, but you had to join in jumping up and down, and yelling and clapping like an idiot because you would look like a sour grapes a*shole if you didn’t.

After twenty minutes, everyone was ready to burst an aorta, but we were excited and it showed for the cameras.

Aurora was ready.

“Gentlemen, we’ve all been through a lot together. I’ve seen you at your worst. And I’ve seen you at your best. Through it all, I’ve been watching and evaluating you, looking for that one man who will make a good match for Ian. That person needs strength, intelligence, courage, patience, and above all, a kind and giving heart. And after careful consideration of many, many months, I think that that man is”—she stopped, giving the cameras plenty of time to catch a variety of facial expressions—“Darryn Novolo!” she finished, holding a glass of champagne to the camera.

All cameras went to Darryn, who was really acting excited. Genuinely excited. The other guys were mortally disappointed—I could see it, knowing them all these weeks—but they did a damn good job hiding it.

And then I moved.

“There is another announcement to make,” I shouted as I took center stage. All cameras swerved in my direction as Jerry bounded onto the set. I deferred to Jerry.

“Darryn Novolo, I am arresting you for the attempted murder of Amanda Thorne and the murder of Aleksei Kikorov!” he said, placing handcuffs on a dazed Darryn.

The cast thought it was all a planned joke. If they weren’t standing with their mouths in a frozen laugh/startled expression on their face, then they were uttering a chorus of “What-the-f*cks?” that would later be bleeped out.

“What is going on here?” Aurora asked. “I don’t understand.”

“Aurora, we have evidence that proves Darryn tried to murder me the night after Aleksei’s memorial service.”

“I don’t believe it!” Aurora exclaimed. “It’s not possible! Darryn, tell me this can’t be true.”

I turned on my biggest personality for the cameras, probably for the last time, and went for it. “It is true, Aurora. I’ll start at the most recent developments, and we’ll work our way back in time to reveal even more. As you all know, I was attacked by a strangler some time ago at my house. My dog managed to tear a portion of my attacker’s pant leg off. The cloth was extremely well woven, but it would take weeks, maybe months, maybe never to find the company that made the pants. But lo and behold, a short time after that, I saw a homeless man going through Ian’s garbage wearing a very fine suit. Guess what was missing from the end of the pant leg? A piece of cloth that matched the piece my dog had taken out of my attacker’s leg. Coincidence? No. The homeless man found the entire suit in a Dumpster behind the Hyatt hotel, which is, coincidentally, just down the road from Ian’s house. Just a few short blocks. Someone obviously wanted to get rid of the incriminating trousers and suit, so my attacker took them down the road and tossed them in the Dumpster, not realizing that homeless men frequent North Belardo Road because of the food handouts from the church on the corner. Bad planning. But also telling. Anyone who had spent enough time at Ian’s house would know that. But one person was fairly new here: Darryn.”

“So you’re going to try and incriminate me on the basis that I don’t know where the homeless get their food?”

“No, that realization that came into my head was just the icing on the cake. No, I’ll let Detective Hallander tell about the pants.”

Jerry, not having the great experience of being in front of a camera that I now had, cleared his throat and made a few false starts, but in no time, he rose to the occasion. “The label on the suit coat was from Anderson & Sheppard of London. We sent photographs to them, and thanks to the extensive records they keep of each client, we got a positive match: Darryn Novolo. Back to you, Amanda.”

“Thank you, Jer . . . Detective Hallander. So was this the only foul play Darryn got involved in? Hardly. He also murdered Aleksei Kikorov.”

Drake spoke up, “How can you be so sure?”

“We know the person who strangled Aleksei while he was sitting in his chair was tall. The tie that was used to kill him was tied around his neck and pulled up sharply to cut off his air and blood flow. So you’re off the hook, Marcus,” I said half-jokingly.

The cameras shifted to Marcus to catch his reaction. “Thank God,” he said, wiping his brow with an imaginary handkerchief.

“Don’t get too comfortable, Marcus. I said you’re off the hook for Aleksei’s murder. Not Keith’s.”

A trapped look flashed across Marcus’s face.

“Allow me to continue. I think I was attacked because I was snooping around the potting shed where the poison that killed Keith was stored. But we’ll get to that in a moment. So Aleksei’s killer was tall. Aleksei, still sleeping off a drunken luncheon, was easy to approach from behind and strangle. But was there a way to make the murder look like an autoerotic accident? Yes. Sperm on the floor as if Aleksei was jerking off and the tie got too tight and he passed out and was strangled by his own hand. The only problem is, the sperm isn’t Aleksei’s. We got lab test results back late this morning that prove that the semen stains on the floor don’t belong to Aleksei, but to Darryn.”

“This is insane. I wasn’t even in the U.S. when Keith was killed. I was in Paris.”

I pointed at Darryn. “That you were, Darryn. At a fashion show in front of hundreds of people. So we have two murders that occurred at Ian’s house. Unrelated killings from two different men trying to eliminate just about anyone to thin the ranks of competitors? It’s possible, but I thought not. But the idea got me thinking. There were two murders. Most likely related, but that couldn’t be carried out by the same person since one killer wasn’t even in the country at the time of the first. So I thought, what if Darryn, our second murderer, had an accomplice? A lover perhaps?”

The guys in the cast, Lance, and even Ian looked very nervous all of a sudden.

I continued. I had everyone in the palm of my hand. “But who? I asked myself. Marcus, Drake, David, and yes, even Lance and even the producer of this show, Jeremy Collins, could have committed the first murder. And of course we’re assuming that the reason Keith was killed was because he revealed on an episode of Things Are a Bit Iffy that he was Ian’s long-lost son. The cast members had every reason to bump off Keith since he might cause Ian to divert a lot of money to a man if he thought he was his son.

“Lance Greenly,” I started, watching a rather shocked Lance step back into the shadows off camera, “could have done it because of the same reason, fueled by resentment that he had worked so hard over the years and now it could all be given to someone who shows up at the last moment. It could even be the show’s producer, Jeremy. Why? Ratings, my dear. People in Hollywood would kill for high ratings. And maybe in this case, someone did.”

David, who usually had plenty to say, finally spoke up, “Amanda, you know I like you. But this all seems so insane. It’s too unbelievable. It’s surreal!”

“At first, I thought so, too, David. So who committed the first murder, of Keith? Killed by strychnine in gopher poison from the garden shed. The police had been all through the shed but didn’t find the container used to mix the poison. But there was one item in there that, when I first saw it, well, it didn’t seem right.”

“What do you mean, wasn’t right?” Drake asked, the one person most tightly connected to the shed.

“It hit me the day you wanted to throw out a wineglass Aleksei had chipped. Ian claimed he couldn’t see any damage, but you insisted on throwing it away.”

“So what does that have to do with something that shouldn’t have been there?” Drake asked, puzzled.

“Drake, face it—you’re so obsessive, I’m surprised that you don’t catalog your turds. Anyway, in the first place, the pail was dented on the side.”

“Yeah, and I would have thrown it away. . . .”

“Exactly, Drake. But it was there the morning of Keith’s murder. There was no time to throw it away.”

Drake the Dominator started to emerge. “Are you accusing me of mixing poison in the pail to kill Keith?”

“Not to mix poison in, Drake. To stand on. You see, ever since I really looked at the pail, there was something strange about it: It was crunched on the side. So I asked myself, why would that be? It was used by a painter to hold paint when painting a wall, or touching up here and there. So why the dent on the side? Then I noticed something even stranger: two small, round dents on the bottom. Were the two related? They were. It came to me when we were praying last week in our little mini-memorial service for Aleksei. I was looking down at the soft pine floors in Ian’s house. There, in the shiny polyurethane finish were small dents. Dents caused by high heels. Shoes worn by Aurora Cleft!”

Aurora was flabbergasted. “Amanda, this is preposterous! Why would I kill Keith? I have nothing to gain.”

“That’s what I thought initially when I was searching for who stood to gain the most from Keith’s death. It wasn’t you. So I searched around, but the arrow pointed to all the rest of the cast. What finally clinched it was what Aleksei said in a drunken ramble at Keith’s memorial luncheon.”

“And what was that?” Aurora asked haughtily.

“Well, I can’t slur my words as well as Aleksei did, but he said something to the effect that he had hot gossip. He saw two people kissing, and that it not only shocked him, but that it was disgusting. Why would Aleksei think that two people kissing were disgusting in a house full of gay men? Naturally, everyone assumed he was talking about Ian kissing Keith, who was his son. Incest. But it wasn’t. Aleksei was a notorious heterophobe. He hated seeing straight sex, so what he was describing was you, Aurora, kissing Darryn!”

“This is madness,” Aurora sputtered. “It’s all conjecture.”

“The answer is actually much simpler. You see, Aurora, you are Ian’s therapist. Some time ago, Ian told you he had incurable pancreatic cancer. You are also Jeremy Collins’s therapist—a fact that you lied about when we talked at the Mexican restaurant. Anyway, this got you thinking. Jeremy was looking for a big idea for a show and you supplied him with it: Things Are a Bit Iffy. You told him about Ian’s cancer, the former boyfriends, and before you knew it, there was a program with a whopper of a premise. You selected the former boyfriends for the program, including your ace card: Darryn Novolo, a complete newbie to Ian and everyone else. You’d let the show start, let the contestants destroy each other and make each other look bad, then introduce Darryn, your lover, and he’d be suave, kind, and likable. It would be so easy, until Keith threw a monkey wrench into the works by saying he was Ian’s son. Well, he had to go. Having a bedroom on the far side of the house gave you the opportunity to move around the house and grounds fairly unnoticed. So you knew that Keith had a glass of cranberry juice before bedtime, and that afternoon you slipped in the potting shed, got the dented pail, and turned it upside down in order to reach the gopher poison on the top shelf. But in standing on the pail, you left two dents from your Christian Louboutin heels in the bottom and you slightly crushed the pail because of your weight. You mixed the poison there and carried it into the house where you put it in Keith’s cranberry juice, knowing that he was the only person in the house to drink it. End of Keith. When Aleksei opened his mouth and said he saw the two of you kissing, he had to go too. But this time, you decided that Darryn would do the job and you would make height a clue that would put you in the clear.”

I took a long swig from a glass of wine and continued, “When you helped me carry Aleksei upstairs to his room after he passed out at Keith’s memorial luncheon, you knew that we left him in a high-backed wing chair. There was always a chance that he might wake up, so you advised Darryn to come up from behind him and strangle him with a tie that one of you had stolen from Drake’s room. Then Darryn put some crystal meth on the top of the dresser, forced some up Aleksei’s nose to make it look like he had snorted it, and jerked off on the floor to make it look like he was practicing autoerotic asphyxiation. You even suggested as much when you came up to join the rest of us. But you made another fatal mistake with a comment you made.”

“What comment, Amanda?” she snorted.

“After you made some sort of remark about ‘who could be doing this,’ you directed our attention to the drugs on the top of the tall dresser.”

“And what’s so wrong with that? There were drugs there.”

“Yes, Aurora, there were. But you couldn’t see them because of your height. I wasn’t allowing anyone into the room, and I could barely see them on top of the tall dresser. You only knew they were there because Darryn had just told you where he left them. That’s why both of you were at the back of the group looking into Aleksei’s room—you were going over the details of what to say and do downstairs before you came up and joined us.”

One more swig of wine. God, you really get dehydrated solving crimes.

“All it took was one phone call to the right gossip Internet reporter in Hollywood and he told me that you were seen with Darryn when he was in town. The connection was made. The reason Brian Hopper didn’t report the two of you was because he couldn’t believe you were straight, Darryn. He wanted to be sure of his story.”

Darryn looked up at all of us, then glared at Aurora. “I’m not. I’m gay.”

Aurora flew across the room, her fists wailing at Darryn while policemen tried to pry her off him. They managed to handcuff her, and as they were leading her away, Darryn lobbed one more Molotov cocktail onto the pyre.

“I wanted the money, Aurora needed a good-looking model, and I pretended to be straight for her.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “I guess that psychiatrists can be in denial too.”