Hollywood Murder by M. Z. Kelly Page A

anticipating a long night. When they were gone, Natalie served up another round of Dirty Harrietts. I knew better, but accepted a second drink.
    “I got me a feeling we’re all gonna need a bunch of these to purge our minds of Nana and her posse,” Mo said.
    “I personally consider it a case of child abuse,” Natalie said.
    The celebrity chef went over to their kitchen where he brought out an assortment of pots and pans. Marlon was about sixty, bald, and looked like he was pushing three hundred pounds, maybe a testament to his culinary skills.
    Marlon worked on his cream pie while I chatted with my friends. After a few minutes, we all joined him in the kitchen where he told us about his background. “I started out working for the studios as a kid. A few years later, I got a job helping out with the catering. In time, I began bringing my own recipes to the sets.” He used a whipped cream topping off his creation and added, “Voila! The rest, as they say is history.”
    After garnishing his dessert, Marlon served up the delicacy. Mo took a bite of the pie and said, “I always say, there’s nothing like a good cream pie.”
    “This is definitely the money shot,” Natalie added.
    Marlon’s forehead became pinched and he looked at me, apparently unaware of the double entendre.
    I changed the subject. “You must have known a lot of stars over the years, Marlon.”
    He savored a spoonful of pie. “I’ve known my share, even some of the big ones.”
    What he’d said struck a chord with me. I decided I had nothing to lose by asking, “Did you ever know a producer who worked at Wallace Studios about thirty years ago? His name was Donald Regis.”
    “Donald. Of course, he was one of those larger-than-life executives. He had a lot of power.”
    “It’s a shame about what happened to him recently.” When he didn’t respond, I added, “I mean, about him committing suicide.”
    Marlon nodded slowly, but didn’t look at me. “If you say so.”
    My forehead tightened. “What are you trying to say?”
    “I heard…” He took a moment, savoring another bite of his dessert. “I just heard things may not have been as they appeared.”
    I held on his eyes. “You mean, that it wasn’t a suicide?”
    He nodded but otherwise didn’t respond.
    I glanced at Natalie and Mo and looked back at him. I decided to ask him about the subject that was really on my mind. “What about Kellen Malone?”
    Marlon’s expression was solemn. He said, “You know, don’t you?”
    I nodded, playing along, but had no idea what he meant. “Tell me about what you heard.”
    Marlon Pavarotti lowered his voice and his eyes swept over the room before he answered. “Just that somebody close to Malone made good on a long-standing promise.”
    I looked at my friends, back at him. “What kind of promise?”
    “To kill Regis.”

FOURTEEN
     
    Dirty Harriett stood over me holding a drink. The woman, who looked remarkably like Clint Eastwood in a long brown wig, bent down to me and said, “You need to ask yourself one question, punk. Does it hurt? Does it hurt real bad?”
    “Yessss,” I moaned and sat up on my bed. “It hurts like hell.”
    I didn’t know how many Harrietts I had last night, but it was enough to leave me feeling like the most powerful handgun in the world had gone off in my head. I took a long, hot shower, and slogged off to work with Bernie.
    As I drove, what Marlon the Magnificent had said about someone close to Kellen Malone making good on a promise to kill Donald Regis came to mind. Upon further questioning, Marlon had said he was speculating, based on rumors he’d heard about the group. He’d clammed up when I asked about Malone being involved in the Revelation, saying that he didn’t know if he had any association with them. I got the impression that the celebrity chef, like so many others, was terrified of the group and had no interest in talking about it.
    After stopping for coffee, the pounding in my head