“Ah, but I didn’t win,” Willard retorted, though his expression grew more pleased.
“Yeah, but not everyone gets nominated, and there’s always next time,” Rich said.
“Hm, yes. So what is it you think I can help you with?”
Rich pulled out the notebook and pen. “A guest list would be a good start. If you just give me names, I can look the numbers up in Sandy’s address book when she’s not around. She has tons of contacts, but I doubt they’re all friends.”
Willard made a few suggestions, asked a couple of questions, and he and Rich kept chatting back and forth.
Olly’s attention wandered to the photographs surrounding them. They were all casual, no studio publicity shots, but many had big-name actors, usually standing next to Willard and smiling into the camera. Quite a few appeared to be candid shots snapped on the set of one movie or another. Olly racked his brain to identify the films but didn’t do too well. The bulk of the photos were older than him. On a small table, right next to his elbow, stood another on-set photograph, but not quite as old as some of the others. In it, Willard had a fake beard and wore some sort of period costume. Next to him stood a man in street clothes, and in front of them stood a blonde teenage girl, also in costume.
Olly immediately recognized the film. “Blood Moon Island! I love that movie,” he exclaimed, picking up the photo by its silver frame. He looked up at Willard, but mortification washed over him right away. “I’m sorry.”
Willard smiled jovially. “It’s quite all right.”
Emboldened, Olly went on. “Your character was so deliciously evil. You totally stole the film from what’s-his-face.” The most notable quality of the film’s leading man was his naked chest—he tended to lose his shirt a lot. Willard chuckled, and Olly took one last peek at the photo. “I don’t remember the girl. Was she an extra?” Actually, she seemed vaguely familiar.
“Oh, it’s my niece, Katie. She was visiting on the set, and we borrowed a dress for her from wardrobe.”
“Ah, of course.” Olly now saw the family resemblance—more with the man in front of him than the one in the picture wearing a fake beard. He cautiously put the picture down, doing his best to position it as it had been before.
Willard had already turned away, and soon he and Rich concluded their business. Olly had no clue what Rich hoped to achieve with the charade, but he wasn’t going to butt in.
They had said their good-byes and were half out the door when Rich turned back. “Uhm, there’s one more thing. It’s kinda embarrassing.”
Willard’s arched brows conveyed polite interest. “Yes?”
“You know the photographer who was murdered last night? Chester Kane?” Rich asked.
Willard’s expression stiffened. “I’ve seen something on the news.”
“Well, here’s the beef. The guy tried to blackmail my sister, but I intercepted his letter. The whole thing was ridiculous, and it wouldn’t have gotten him anywhere, but I didn’t want Sandy to worry. So I figured out where the guy lives…lived, and stupidly went there to give him a piece of my mind. One of the neighbors saw me. And now the police think I might have been the one to bash the guy’s head in.”
“Did you?”
“Of course not!”
“Well then, what could I possibly do for you?” Impatience seeped into Willard’s voice, and he moved to herd them out the door.
Rich, however, stood his ground. “I thought you might know more about this Kane guy. Could he have been blackmailing others too?”
Willard swatted the question away with a gesture of his hand. “I wouldn’t possibly know. I admit I’ve seen the man around. He’d been plying his trade for a long time, but I’ve never been famous enough to attract the attention of the paparazzi. Certainly not worth blackmailing.”
“You could’ve heard rumors.”
“If I have—and I assure you I haven’t—I certainly wouldn’t share them.”
Rich bowed his head. “Of course, sorry. Stupid idea. Thank you for all the help. May I call on you again later in case I need to ask a question? About the party.”
“If you wish,” Willard replied with a professional courtesy. “Good night.” He closed the door.
“You didn’t bring up the photo—it could’ve put Willard in a spot,” Olly said, getting into the car.
“It didn’t seem right. Who am I to judge the old guy? It couldn’t have been easy for him.” Rich shoved the notepad back into the glove compartment.
From the corner of his eye, Olly saw Rich pause with his fingers brushing against red fabric before slamming the compartment shut. “True. The longer you stay in the closet, the harder it is to come out.” Olly pushed the key into the ignition but didn’t turn it.