Righter

Cast of Characters

Mick Braddock : An actor who abandoned Hollywood to return to his Midwest roots. He is also Micki Bradford , best-selling author of Fleur de Lies , a tell-all book about an old Hollywood murder.

Darlene D'Amico: One of Mick's friends who owns a beauty salon in town.

Joe D'Amico: Darlene's husband and owner of a car repair shop in town.

Liz Winford: A young starlet who Mick befriended when he lived in Hollywood. Liz went on to become one of the most famous women in Hollywood. She was assaulted and left for dead two years previously. Mick was the executor of her estate and has power of attorney for her.

Robbie Winston: Liz's father; Robbie was accused of murdering Florence Ralford and to protect his daughter, he pled guilty and served a term in prison. Robbie is later found dead.

Florence Ralford: A famous Hollywood starlet from the 1970s who had a secret affair and child with Robbie Winston. Jimmy Pauling killed Florence during one of Jimmy's fits of anger in the 1970s.

Jimmy Pauling: A contemporary of Mick's in Hollywood who also dated Florence Ralford early in his career. Jimmy disappeared at the height of his Hollywood success.

Melissa Zakarias: A police detective from an L.A. suburb who questions Mick after Mick writes about a supposed miscarriage of justice regarding the death of Florence Ralford.

Will Lassiter: A police detective from L.A. also interested in questioning Mick regarding the death of Florence Ralford, but for reasons of his own.

Becky Nolan: An author of gay fiction who becomes friends with Micki Braddock, Mick's alter ego and the author of Fleur de Lies.

Buddy Underwood: Childhood friend of Mick's and now Chief of Police in Milford, Iowa.

Alberta Cross: Chairwoman of the writing conference.

Karen Fielding: policewoman, working undercover.

Chapter 1

H ey, Liz. It's me. Mike. I whispered the words, leaning close to her ear. I  smoothed back her once luminous blonde hair, now cropped short and brittle with all the shine gone.

Liz didn't answer, of course. She could breathe on her own, but that was all she could do. The machines were still there but most of the tubes and bags were now hidden, out of sight so visitors wouldn't have to see her life dribble in and flow out of her wasted body. She had been moved to a private nursing home, a way station for people who had no future. No patients roamed these pale green hallways. All activity took place behind closed doors, where families and friends gathered to sit by the bedside of people who would never speak again.

The delicate curves of her cheeks and her chin had all been rearranged. I could still visualize the gorgeous person I once loved so much, the vibrant, happy, laughing girl-woman who captivated me so many years ago and who held my heart. The year we were together was one full of emotional exploration as well as sexual exploration. In many ways, Liz was the first woman I ever loved, the first person I ever considered spending my life with. There was never anybody else like her in my life.

If I had acted sooner, would she be here? If I demanded that someone take action, would she have been kidnapped, held against her will, raped, and beaten? Was there anything I could have done to prevent this terrible tragedy?

I'm sorry, Liz, I whispered. I promise I'll find out who did this. I'll do everything I can to make them pay. I'll make it right somehow. I'm sorry.

She didn't answer. Liz would never answer anyone again. Her throat had been crushed during the attack and surgery was impossible. One eye was blind and the other had minimal eyesight. Her hearing was probably damaged, too. Whoever beat her made sure that Lizbeth Winford would never again be the Actress of the Decade, would never again be voted the Sexiest Woman Alive. All that remained was this husk of a woman, forgotten by everyone while she slowly died in a fancy nursing home in an L.A. suburb, away from the sight of those who once worshipped her.

I'll find out. Somehow. I had no idea how I would keep that promise, but I knew I would never have a moment's peace unless I tried. I had a responsibility to her and not just because I was the beneficiary in her will and I had power of attorney for her. No, my responsibilities went far deeper, all the way back to the time Liz and I spent together.

I walked outside, the hot August California sun drying my tears. How could I do what the police couldn't? How could I uncover who had abducted and assaulted one of the most famous women in Hollywood? It was going to take a leap of faith—and fate—to make that happen.

FATE TAKES MANY SHAPES. Mine took the form of three little words, uttered eight months after that visit to Liz.

I dare you.

Those fateful words were uttered by my good friend, Darlene D'Amico. She stopped by my house on a chilly April evening with a fresh load of books from the library and my mail she picked up for me from the post office in town.

She didn't stop with three words. Darlene would never stop after a few words when many more might be available. I dare you to write a book, Mike. I'll bet you could do it. Set it in Hollywood since you have so much experience there. You're an insider. It can't be that different than screenwriting and you do that all the time.

Trust me. It's different. Besides, I'm no insider. I left Hollywood twenty years ago. I moved to Iowa, remember? I waved a hand to take in my cozy den. Here, remember?

"You left Hollywood full time twenty years ago. But you were there just last year for that movie you did." She regarded me with an amused benevolence, like a parent issuing a mild reprimand to a beloved, though exasperating child. That's what forty years of acquaintance will do, I suppose. It provides middle-aged ladies with the opportunity to critique a man's life.

Dropping back in once or twice a year doesn't make me an insider. Selling a script every now and then doesn't make me an insider. My starring days are twenty years in the past. Hollywood today is a lot different than it used to be. I couldn't write a book about it. Hell, I wouldn't even know how to write a book. A script, maybe, but not a book.

I tossed aside the romance novel I just finished and adjusted my position in my navy La-Z-Boy recliner. The cast on my left arm was due to be removed in a week. I was itching—no pun intended—for it to be gone from my life. The compound fracture that resulted from a snowmobile accident had left me largely incapacitated for most of the winter, which is one of my favorite seasons in Iowa. My crash into a downed tree on the shores of Lake Okoboji left me semi-conscious for several weeks and one-armed for almost five months. Given the severity of the crash, I was lucky to be alive.

Then write about the Hollywood you know, she countered. It would still make a good book. I'm sure you know good gossipy stories that you could make into a book.

I gave up the Hollywood argument and tackled the other part of her suggestion. I think it's probably tougher than you think to write a novel. I picked up the next book on my stack. What had started as a joke by the local librarian (one of Darlene's cronies) had become a full-time addiction for me. When Darlene appeared with an armful of Pink Books shortly after my crash, I almost threw her out the door. But boredom made me read the first one, then the next one, then the next. Before I knew it, I was a full-fledged Romance Junkie.

Look at this one. I held up the latest Jayne Ann Krentz offering that I'd requested from the library. This trilogy has a lot of characters, an historical setting that is—

Mike. Darlene peered at me over her rhinestone-studded eyeglasses, her artfully highlighted eyes twinkling. I didn't say it would be easy. I just said I thought you could do it.

You didn't say that, Darlene. I opened the Krentz. I had been saving it for just such an evening. A cold spring drizzle made the logs crackling in my fireplace that much more appealing. I had two more bottles of Belgium ale chilling, a plate of cheese and crackers were near at hand and Dribbles, my calico cat-of-many-colors, was snoozing on my lap, his paws twitching while he dreamed. I was looking forward to an evening of adventure, romance, and sizzling sensuality as I sipped my beer and nibbled my aged Cheddar. You dared me to write a book, remember?

She waved one well-manicured hand. Dare, encourage. There's a fine line between the two. You're witty, you're educated, and you have time on your hands. Why not give it a try? She glanced at the computer in the corner of my den and lifted one eyebrow, as though her very look would make it spring to life.

I have a habit of comparing people to celebrities. At that moment, Darlene was a dead ringer for Paula Deene, the Food Channel matron. Of course, once Paula became a celeb, Darlene played up the resemblance, making her once-gray hair whiter and fluffier and her blue eyes more black-rimmed. Thank God she drew the line at the Southern accent. A good old Midwest accent was just fine for Darlene D'Amico.

It might be tough to write a novel with one arm, I pointed out.

The cast comes off in a week. The doctor said you need light exercise. Typing is light exercise. I'll be your editor. Heavens, you hear those stories any more about people who self-publish their books and make a fortune. It might happen to you. She lingered in the doorway. How hard can it be?

It could probably be very hard. I studied the page in front of me. Her words reawakened an idea that had been jiggling around in the back of my brain. Thanks, Darlene. Tell Joe I'll be at poker on Friday night.

Will do, sugar. She left the den. I tracked her progress by her lilting voice while she hummed and sang her way through the living room and into my kitchen. ...islands in the stream, that is what we are, la la la la, there you are... There was a pause. I'm just saying, Mike... She called out.

Good night, Darlene. Thanks for the books, I called back. I heard the side door open and close. I settled back in the chair, rearranging cat and cast for optimum comfort.

But total concentration had vanished. Darlene's off-handed comment nagged at me. I finally put my cat and my book aside and approached my computer. I already had the plot. It was a story that haunted me night and day since I spent one drink-fuddled evening with an old stagehand in Hollywood. My inheritance of Liz's papers had added to the mystery.

If I changed a few names and published it under a pseudonym, it might be doable. It would either get me laughed out of town or would catch the person who had ruined a beloved friend.

Could I really write a novel? Could I really smoke out a cold-hearted bastard?

I stared at the blank computer screen, memories of my youth and a woman I once loved shimmering in front of me. My youth was long gone. That woman now lay in a nursing home bed, tended by strangers who kept her alive.

I flipped on the monitor, sat in my favorite chair, opened a word processing document, and began to type. It was awkward with only one hand, but the cast was lightweight. I could manage it.

His hands on her body made her shiver with anticipation. If she had known she would die in a few moments, she might have also shivered with terror.

FAST FORWARD ANOTHER eight months to now, to today. I stared in disbelief at the information on my computer screen. No way. I can't believe this.

Hmm? Joe D'Amico, Darlene's husband, peered at me from the other side of the room, the remote control to my TV in one hand and a bottle of beer in the other. He was camped out in the beige recliner, eyes focused on the wide screen TV.

"My royalties on Fleur. It's amazing. I tapped the computer screen. I had no idea anybody would give a shit about that book. But look. It's been downloaded two thousand times this week. Two thousand! I shook my head. I'm making more money in a month as Micki Bradford, the author, than I ever made as Mick Braddock, leading man, or M. M. Braddock, the screenwriter. Even with residuals and re-runs."

Darlene said it was a good book. Joe kept his attention on the football game. He was an avid Minnesota Vikings fan and a regular at my house when his team played on my flat-screen, large-panel set.

Fleur de Lies actually was a good book, but I was still startled by the amount of money the book was raking in. When I self-published it the previous year, on August 1st—the anniversary of Liz's kidnapping—it languished on various romance digital book sites until it was suddenly 'discovered' by a legion of middle-aged fans who catapulted the book to the top of every best-seller list around. My publishing persona, Micki Bradford, was reeling in the money. Fans were clamoring for another book, a book I had no intention of writing. Lightning doesn't strike twice in one place. Besides, I didn't have another novel plot in me.

I filed that email in my Pub Business folder and skimmed through the rest of my email messages. The one with the subject line all in caps caught my attention: WHO TOLD YOU ABOUT THE MURDER? The body of the message was short and to the point.

Why did you open all those old wounds? Let it die in peace. I'll kill you if they come after me.

The sender was what I expected: HollywoodInsyder@gmail.com. It was the same message, in different words, and the same sender as the other ones I'd received.

The only difference from day to day was that the messages were getting crazier. For the past week, I was getting one email a day from a loony. All had the same theme: you revealed a secret and if you fuck up my life, I'll kill you. I don't know what I expected when I published Fleur, but I didn't expect email threats.

I moved the email into my electronic Threat folder, just as I had with the six or seven others from previous days. My book was superficially fiction but I knew—and my unknown email correspondent knew—that it was based on reality. At least, I think it was based on reality. I wasn't one-hundred percent sure. The email messages were starting to convince me that I struck a nerve for someone. I believed it was only a matter of time before the entire truth came out. I'd dropped hints throughout the book and apparently someone was taking those hints seriously.

I was certain my identity was a secret, so the threats didn't bother me. In a way, they were comforting. They confirmed what I knew—that my book was based on fact and those facts might help catch the person who was responsible for Liz lying in a hospital bed, dying bit by bit, day by day.

I glanced through the rest of my messages. As I hoped, there was one from Becky B. Nolan. I clicked it open and Becky's cheerful computer presence seemed to leap out of my screen. Micki: you just have to go to the Midwinter Minnesota Mayhem conference. Hell, they asked you to come and are paying all the freight. Come on, let's go and have a good time!

I sat back with a sigh. Becky Nolan and I had become fast friends in just a few months once I 'met' her in an online chat room for self-published authors. No, let me correct that. Becky became friends with Micki Bradford, a fifty-something single woman who was a publishing phenom with a hot book about Hollywood. Becky wasn't friends with Mike Braddock the Iowa homebody or Mick Braddock the Hollywood ex-leading man or M. M. Braddock, the screenwriter.

And therein lay my problem. I was invited to attend an upcoming February conference in Minneapolis. They wanted me to participate on a panel about publishing as well as speak at a luncheon. But it wasn't me who was invited. It was Micki, the best-selling authoress, who was invited.

At first I considered coming clean about the deception. A few scathing comments on publishing forums about people masquerading behind pen names made me hesitate. How would my female audience react if they knew their favorite author wasn't like them? Granted, I had male and female fans, but female fans were the majority. The fan mail I was receiving suggested that it was my affinity with them that was my biggest selling point. I had visions of me being torn limb from limb if I appeared at the conference as me—six-foot, two-hundred-pound Mike Braddock with a five o'clock shadow, cropped pewter-gray-brown hair and what one critic called 'that aristocratic face with those mischievous green eyes.'

Add to that the fact that I was trying to find a deranged assailant who had terrorized a friend and assaulted her, landing her in a coma that was entering its eighteenth month. My persona was one of the few barriers between me and that creep. I wasn't arrogant enough to think I could tangle with someone like that and come out the winner. However, I might be able to smoke out the attacker so the police could get him. That was my first priority, not a conference where I could chat and schmooze with fans and authors.

Darlene entered the room, balancing a tray of tacos in one hand and two bottles of beer in the other hand. She eyed my computer screen when she passed, pausing to hand me one of the beers before setting the tacos on the coffee table. Still agonizing over that? I told you, you should go. I can make you up to look great. She frowned. Well, not great, but passable. After all, you are a man.

I pushed away from the computer and resumed my seat in my La-Z-Boy, the twin to the one where Joe sat. I can't go to a three-day conference in drag. I grabbed a taco and leaned back, the footrest kicking up to accommodate my size twelve feet. The idea is crazy.

Tony Curtis did it. Joe's eyes were still glued to the screen. In that movie with what's-his-name and Marilyn Monroe.

Tony Curtis had all of Hollywood helping him, I pointed out around a mouthful of Taco Surprise. We took turns providing the food for sports television. Whatever Darlene brought was always surnamed 'Surprise' as in Turkey Surprise, Hot Dog Surprise and once Surprise Surprise (a unique casserole of indeterminate origins that was, surprisingly, good).

Anything Hollywood can do, I can do better. Darlene waggled a sandaled foot at me, her blood red toe polish a dead match for her nail polish and her lipstick. She insisted on wearing sandals year-round, carrying them with her so she could change from her snow boots into 'summer wear,' as she called it. Dribbles eyed her toes from his spot on his hassock, a well-furred chintz upholstered piece I inherited from the previous owner of my house. I run a beauty emporium, Mike. If anybody can turn a frog into a swan, it's me.

I frowned at that mixed metaphor. I wasn't a frog, was I? Granted, I was in my mid-fifties. Everybody said that sixty was the new forty, so that made me still young. Relatively young. I was aging gracefully. I was still physically active, I still got the occasional parts in movies, and I was only ten pounds heavier than I had been when I was a Hollywood leading man. Of course, a leading man at age twenty is one hell of a lot different than a leading man at age fifty.

Well, whatever. It's three days, I noted. I can't hope to maintain a charade that long.

We can all go. Joe snatched a taco from the plate. He twisted to regard me, taco poised for a bite. I want to go to the Auto Show anyway. It's the same weekend at the convention center downtown. Darlene can go to the conference with you while I'm at the show.

I glared at him. "There's more to impersonating a woman