Love & Murder in Hollywood

By Margo Atwood

Zoe Tanner is an actress. She's also single. Translation... Zoe waits tables and has no love life, that is until one day when she volunteers to help a friend in distress and everything changes.

Jessica Dawson is a Los Angeles police detective. She's also single. Being a cop in a city where everyone has stars in their eyes doesn't leave much hope for a healthy relationship, that is until someone gets murdered and the case leads Jessica to a woman who just might be her perfect match!

Follow Zoe and Jessica and find out how Love & Murder can happen in Hollywood!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Margo Atwood
• Release date: Nov 30, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370269235

Book preview

Chapter 1

Zoe Tanner did a full body stretch, pedaled her feet and pushed the quilt on top of her bed to the floor, freeing herself from its weight and heat. She fanned the remaining sheet up and down and let it billow over her body creating a cooler, but not quite cool breeze.

Thanks to her sleep mask she didn’t know what time it was, but the East rising sun rays were already turning her West Hollywood studio apartment into a sauna, so she knew it had to be past noon.

Zoe reached to the right side of the bed, blindly tapping the surface of her nightstand, until her fingers made contact with her rubbery cell phone cover. Momentarily lifting the sleep mask off of one eye she squinted at the large numbers on the phone’s glassy surface. 12:33 PM. Zoe let the silky black fabric drop back over her eye plunging her once again into peaceful, albeit uncomfortably warm, darkness.

She took in a deep breath, let out a full bellied sigh and wiggled her body deeper into the fluffy softness of her pillow top mattress. Zoe had nowhere to be on a Sunday afternoon and after working a double shift last night at Cafe Java, the neighborhood coffee shop and bistro, she was grateful that her $8.99 drugstore mask effectively kept the sunlight out of her eyes until her body was ready to wake up on its own.

While enjoying a few more minutes of sightlessness, Zoe mentally went over the day’s to do list. One, sleep in. Two, only consume food already in the apartment — or that could be brought to the doorstep with a modest delivery charge. Three, binge watch movies on Netflix. Four, repeat items one through three until bedtime. Yes, this was going to be a perfect Sunday, she thought, as her body became one with her mattress. She was almost back to sleep when the sound of her cell phone brought her back to reality.

I always feel like, somebody’s watching me!

Michael Jackson’s voice belted out the hook to the early 1984 Rockwell hit. At 29, Zoe was too young to have enjoyed the song when it was at the top of the pop charts, but when she discovered it in her Napster-sharing teens it became the anthem for her relationship with the current caller.

Zoe reluctantly pressed the answer button on her phone. Hi Mom.

Good morning Sweet Pea! How are you? The high energy of Anne Tanner’s greeting literally chased sleep out of Zoe’s body.  What time is it there? After noon isn’t it? Are you up? You sound like you’re still in bed.

The rapid fire questioning made Zoe’s head spin, but also provided her enough time to swing one foot off the side of the bed before answering. I’m fine. It’s just after 12 here and yes, I’m up. Zoe wiggled the toes of her right foot against the floor. She wasn’t exactly lying.

Oh good, her mother continued. I’m glad I didn’t wake you. I know Tuesday is our normal catch-up day, but I have a favor to ask.

Zoe squeezed her eyes closed and held her breath. This could mean trouble.

When Zoe first moved to California from Wisconsin, her mother called her morning, noon and night, probing for details about her day. The CIA couldn’t have been more relentless. After two months of the daily phone calls Zoe was forced to implement some communication ground rules just to stay sane. They would have regular calls on Tuesdays and any other communication had to be because of exciting news that just couldn’t wait or a family emergency. Of course, the rules were often broken.

Yes, what is it Mom. Zoe exhaled and braced herself for whatever might come next.

Evelyn asked me, to ask you, if you’ve seen Brandon lately. She hasn’t been able to reach him for a few days and she’s getting worried.

Zoe smiled. It wasn’t as bad as she feared.

Brandon Riley, Zoe’s mother’s best friend’s son, was the closest thing to a little brother that Zoe ever had. He was six years younger than her, smart, precocious and annoying. For as long as Zoe could remember Brandon had been getting into trouble and usually getting Zoe mixed up in the middle of it.

There was the time Brandon offered to help Zoe sell her  Girl Scout cookies, but instead of selling them he ate six boxes of cookies himself. To hide his crime he refilled the empty cookie boxes with cheap knock offs from the dollar store and then resealed the boxes with a hot glue gun. When people called her troop leader to complain that their Thin Mints, Samosas and Savannah Smiles tasted funny, Zoe almost got kicked out of the Girls Scouts.

Then there was the time Brandon created a bunch of fake tickets to a local Jonas Brothers concert. He told Zoe that he got a job working for the concert promoter and he needed help selling his share of the tickets. He said he was desperate to make his sales quota, so to help him out Zoe sold tickets to a bunch of kids at her school.

The night of the concert 17 local high school students were arrested for trying to get in to the venue with forged tickets and Zoe’s mom had to drive her to the police station to answer racketeering charges.

Now Brandon was living in L.A. in the same apartment building as Zoe. Leaving Wisconsin was supposed to get him away from a group of friends that Evelyn thought were bad news. Sadly his mother had never been willing to admit that Brandon rarely needed any help getting into trouble. It was just in his nature.

Fortunately so far, Brandon’s L.A. life had been without adventure. Three months after he arrived Brandon landed a job as an office assistant with one of the top real estate companies in the city. Hawthorne Realty wasn’t the kind of place you called unless you were buying or selling a house valued in the high six figures.

Apparently James Hawthorne was looking to groom someone to take over the business when Brandon showed up on his doorstep like a stork-delivered bundle of joy. Now, a year later, Hawthorne was teaching Brandon everything he knew. It really shouldn’t have surprised Zoe. Brandon was as smart as a whip and had one of those innocent faces that charmed people without him even trying. But even though Brandon had seemingly managed to stay out of trouble since landing on the West coast Zoe knew it was only a matter of time.

I’m sure he’s fine Mom. Zoe crossed her fingers — and toes — hoping she was right.

She knew Brandon tried to avoid talking directly to his mother even more than Zoe tried to avoid talking to hers. It was possible he was just dodging Evelyn’s phone calls. Usually he called Evelyn on Wednesday nights when he knew she’d be playing Bingo at the church and wouldn’t answer her cell phone for fear of missing a winning number. When her voicemail picked up he’d leave a short message with enough mundane information to satisfy Evelyn’s need to know that her little boy was ok.

Whatever Brandon was up to Zoe didn’t want to mess up the beginning of a relaxing day finding out about it.Tell Evelyn not to worry. I’ll check in on him later today, Zoe assured.

Ok, if you say so Sweet Pea. Her mother sounded less than convinced, but she trusted that her daughter would look out for Brandon as usual. Well, I won’t ask you for any updates on your life in Hollywood. I don’t want to spoil our Tuesday call.

Ok Mom. Talk to you later. Zoe hit end call quickly before Anne changed her mind and started asking questions about Zoe’s less than news worthy life.

Zoe swung her foot back on top of her bed and recapped the itinerary for her lazy day. She was just about to drift into a post-sleep nap when her stomach let out a loud growl. In her Wisconsin born imagination it was what she thought a California earthquake must sound like. Clearly it was time to move on to activity number two. Food.

She threw back the sheet and swung both feet to the floor. As soon as she stood up a dull ache, that started at the bottom of her feet, ran up her legs and pulsed rhythmically at her lower back. The pain was a reminder that she wasn’t just staying in bed out of laziness.

Zoe glared at the bulky, black, thick soled shoes peeking out from under her Cafe Java uniform tossed carelessly in the corner. She was no fashionista, but even she knew the leather and rubber orthopedic eyesores should only be worn behind a counter. In her never-ending attempt to find comfortable shoes she had shelled out a hard earned $80 hoping the customer reports of walking on air were true.

Zoe took a deep breath and bent slowly at the waist in an attempt to stretch her aching muscles. She could still feel every minute of yesterday’s twelve hour shift. Another five star rating lie, she thought to herself as she stretched through the pain. Her shoulder length brown hair fell around her face and ears as she willed her upper body further toward the floor with each inhale. Unfortunately, the corresponding exhale only brought her fingertips close enough to graze the longest strands of the shag rug beside her bed.

Out of the corner of her eye she could see the petite two dimensional yoga instructor glaring at her from the dust covered DVD case sitting on the shelf under her nightstand.

The smiling waif was dressed in workout wear that had less fabric than Zoe’s last summer bikini —which now lived out of sight and mind in the bottom of a dresser drawer along with multiple varieties of Spanx and Spanx-like compression wear.

She momentarily considered adding a round of yoga sun salutations to the day’s to do list, but a seismic roar from her stomach brought her back to her senses.

Don’t judge me, Zoe scowled and stuck her tongue out at the silent cardboard instructor. She unfolded her body and padded gently toward the kitchen muttering an insincere Namaste over her shoulder.

In spite of the body aches, Zoe actually liked working at Cafe Java. It was better than any of the other jobs she had endured to supplement the income of her barely-there acting career.

You name it, Zoe had done it. Singing telegrams  — yes, people still sent those. A regular role during tax season as a street corner Lady Liberty — spinning that arrow sign is harder than it looks, but that Spring her biceps were to die for. Passing out marketing samples of shampoo, gum and deodorant to passersby at Venice Beach — a hot day in the sun left most of them desperately in need of her offerings, but the salt air seemed to dull their olfactory awareness of that fact.

Yes, working at the small neighborhood eatery, even on double shift nights, was better than any of her previous jobs.

One of the other perks of the gig was the steady supply of take home treats she walked out with after her shift. Her personal doggie bag stash was usually so good that she only had to make trips to the grocery store for toiletries and quarters for the downstairs laundry machines.

Zoe peered into the refrigerator to make her breakfast selection from yesterday’s Cafe Java goodies. She took out some lox, a bagel and a cup sized container of cream cheese, then grabbed a cup of coffee from the single cup coffee maker on the counter.

To avoid the stare of the cardboard yoga instructor, she decided to have her breakfast out on her balcony. The aging sliding glass door made a shrill sound as she opened it but that was the only intrusive noise on an other wise peaceful Sunday morning.

Zoe loved sitting out on her balcony. It overlooked the small pool in the middle of the apartment complex and had a decent view of the Hollywood Hills. From there, on the rare occasion she was awake that early, she could watch the sunrise.

Even though she couldn’t see the infamous Hollywood sign from where she lived, she bowed East, in pseudo religious reverence, whenever she stepped onto the balcony and asked whatever forces determined an actor’s success to be kind to her.

Zoe inhaled the quiet along with the aroma of her morning coffee and practiced her version of meditation. Her mother playfully teased her and said it was nothing more than daydreaming, but Zoe refused to let that dampen her vibe.

Breathe in positivity. Breathe out negativity. Visualize your dream. Sip coffee to seal the deal.

Granted, in the five years since she’d moved to L.A., Zoe had thought a lot of positive thoughts and drank a ton of coffee. Still she was beginning to wonder whether her big break in Hollywood was ever going to happen.

You’re just a late bloomer. Her mother often reminded her. "You didn’t get your first visitor until you were 14 and I think you were 16 before we even had to consider a training bra." Zoe cringed recalling a recent phone conversation with her mother.

Late bloomer or not Zoe’s big break hadn’t happen and it was easier to remain hopeful imagining a view of the infamous sign than it was to face the reality of her lackluster resume.

A diverse list of nameless characters filled the 8 1/2 x 11 space on the back of Zoe’s headshot. Woman #3, Woman At Bar, Clown in Refrigerator, Young Mother with Baby and the most recent addition, Dead Woman in Suitcase. Translation… Zoe was a Hollywood extra. Correction, background artist.

Her last gig required spending three consecutive days with her body contorted inside a suitcase, but it finally earned her enough work credits to join the actor’s union. After taking out a $3100 loan to cover the union membership initiation fee, Zoe Tanner was now an official member of the Screen Actor’s Guild of America. The laminated gold letters of her SAG card — tucked safely in the otherwise empty credit card section of her wallet — brought her daydreams of being a working Hollywood actor one step closer to reality.

Hello My Dear! A singsongy greeting broke Zoe out of her career musing fog.

Zoe leaned forward in her chair and peered through the iron bars of the balcony railing. She waved when she saw her bathing suit clad landlady standing at the pool’s edge below. Hi Madge. It’s so quiet out here I didn’t think anyone else was up.

Oh, I’ve been up since 5am, Madge said as she stretched her arms above her head. The early bird gets the best spot in yoga. As evidence of Madge’s dedication to her crack of dawn yoga practice she did an effortless forward fold resting the palms of her hands flatly against the tiled lip of the pool.

Zoe dipped the edge of her bagel into the cream cheese and stuffed the fat filled contents into her mouth to silence her jealousy.

Madge Franklin was a 79 year old retired actress and had more energy than anyone Zoe knew. In the 1980’s heyday of nighttime soaps, Madge landed a role on River’s Edge as Maureen McDonald, the deplorable ex-wife of a millionaire banking tycoon. Every Wednesday from 9-10pm, Madge became the woman America loved to hate. For ten years, and on into syndication, she lied, manipulated and even murdered her way into television history.

In real life Madge was nothing like the villainess she played on TV. She was the sweetest person Zoe had ever met. After River’s Edge was cancelled, Madge tried to book some other TV and film roles, but she didn’t have the backbiting fortitude the Hollywood rat race often required. A decade after her success on River’s Edge she had only