Death in Daytime by Eileen Davidson Page A

trainer, an assistant, fan mail-answerer person, dog walker, feng shui expert and God only knows what else. When Marcy came on the scene, she did nothing but run him and his character down. I guess he decided that he needed additional help with getting himself motivated. So he hired what is called a "life coach." This is a phenomenon born sometime in the nineties, I believe. I guess these people coach people in the game of life. Redundant, but I'm still trying to figure out the concept. Andy couldn't make a move without consulting Murray. Murray the Life Coach. I know, misnomer. Murray, I believe, used to sell insurance or something until he discovered he had a certain "gift." I still don't know what that gift is, but I do know it must be good because he charges a lot of money. Andy is pretty much paralyzed without the help of his coach. He's constantly on his cell, asking for advice on everything from what to have for lunch to should he sign a contract or not. During a particularly low point in Andy's life, I guess Murray moved in and came to work with him every day. He'd sit just off the set while Andy was taping. Andy would run to him and ask how to play the scenes in between takes. Now remember, this idiot is a life coach, not an acting coach. Poor Andy's performances became really odd, which did not endear him to the rest of the cast, the directors or to Marcy. He'd laugh and cry at inappropriate times, during scenes that just didn't garner those emotions. I also had heard that Murray was taking Andy to the cleaners, I mean big bucks, life savings cleaners. Usually I would stay out of such personal relationships, but I liked Andy, so I took him aside one day and had a good heart-to-heart. I asked him if he thought it was really necessary to keep Murray around, and maybe he just needed a good therapist or a nice, long vacation. He must have told Murray about my concerns, because I received a hateful letter from Mr. Coach, accusing me of trying to undermine Andy's career and "life goals"; he promised to make my life a living hell if I didn't butt out. Jeez! No good deed!
    Andy lived in Malibu, near Paradise Cove where you could find anything from a million-dollar mobile home on the beach to a ten-to twenty-million-dollar colonial on the cliffs above. Andy's home was not quite in that class, so his neighbors were not quite Barbra Streisand and Julia Roberts.
    I was hoping to be able to talk to Andy without Murray the Life Coach around, but that wasn't to be the case, because guess who opened the door when I rang the bell?
    "Well, Ms. Peterson," Murray said. "What brings you here?" His yellow jogging suit was blinding, as well as incongruous. His swollen, distended belly was all the proof anyone needed that Murray did not exercise. The scent of patchouli wafted out the door, either from somewhere in the house, or from Murray himself.
    "I'd like to talk to Andy, please, Murray."
    I had to call him by his first name, because I still didn't know his last--unless it actually was "Life Coach."
    "And what is this about?" he asked. "Not going to try and get me canned again, are you, hmm?" He touched his hand to his blow-dried do. The blowdrying was an attempt at poofing it up so that it might look thicker. Instead, I was able to see right through it to his shiny scalp.
    "No, nothing like that, Murray," I said. "I learned my lesson last time. Your relationship with Andy is your business and his, not mine."
    "Hmph," he said, probably because he was disappointed that he wouldn't be able to get into a fight with me. "Well, all right. Come in. He's out by the pool, going over his script for tomorrow. We were running lines together."
    He led me through the house and out some glass doors to the pool area. Andy was sitting on a lounge chair with a drink next to him on a white metal table. He was wearing a robe that was open, revealing his swimming trunks and a physique he still worked hard to maintain.
    "Don't say anything to interrupt the