Voices in the Wardrobe by Marlys Millhiser

Spa at the Marina del Sol, with a picture of Dr. Judy alive, began on the front page of the San Diego Union-Tribune . Apparently she’d choked on a plastic water bottle. Police were not convinced that the plastic bottle was “self-administered.”
    Judy’s ties to the Spa were curious. She owned a portion of it, had lent the VanZants money to pay expenses and taxes more than once and in return was allowed to tape many of her medical-showbiz stunts free in its odd studio/auditorium and had the Spa’s paying customers as an on-set audience. She hired film crews piecemeal from the out-of-work, disenchanted, and nonunion scabs adrift in Sou Cal. Where do reporters come up with such odd bits of information? This by-line was none other than Jerry Parks’, the guy who’d chased her around the spa.
    Charlie and Luella better get a fragile Maggie away from the place. But what would they do with her? She couldn’t be on her own. Funny, Charlie and Maggie used to worry about what they would do with Betty Beesom, their aging neighbor, when she could no longer be left alone.
    Charlie, Dr. Judy is Luella’s problem. Maggie is yours. You’re in this all by yourself, sweetie.
    â€œMaybe she’s got relatives I don’t know about,” Charlie told the patronizing voice in her head. Maggie had a brother and a sister. The sister in Michigan got stuck with the care for their ailing mother for so many years she no longer spoke to her siblings. The brother ran dive boats for tourists in Hawaii. Maggie’s last communication with either of them had been at their mother’s funeral. It was not cordial. “Maybe her friends at work will help out some more.”
    A featured article on Mitch Hilsten graced the Union-Tribune as well, rife with “filmspeak” that some reporter had picked up on TV or at a conference like this one. Moira Moriarty, dusky, smooth, and perfect, oval face, oval eyes, looked so tiny standing between Mitch Hilsten and Samuel Houston who would play the gutsy CIA agent. He was in the process of growing one of those short beards that encircle the mouth. Mitch was not very tall—five ten, eleven at the most. Moira was very small and her leading man could appear very leading in contrast.
    Moira would certainly look the part of a beautiful Bedouin princess—did Bedouins even have princesses? Didn’t matter. The real problem was that Moira was, in real life, an Irish Jew from the Bronx and though coaches had trained most of the accent out of her speech, traces lingered. Charlie had visions of movie theaters blowing up all around the globe.
    Jane of the Jungle was the CIA agent’s fond term for her and already her real name was being linked romantically with both Sam Houston and Mitch Hilsten. Made good press. There was also a smaller picture of Charlie and Mitch squinting in the exhaust of the metallic blue Dodge Ram as the valet roared off outside Le Crustacione de la Mer night before last. “ But the famous actor-turned-director continues to dine with his previous girlfriend, Charlie Greene, a Hollywood agent, at C & M on Wilshire. ”
    On this morning’s panel were Charlie, the two sharks, Sarah Newman—a story editor from Troll Productions—and Dr. Howard moderating. Attendees packed the sizable room and stood against the walls in back and some sat in the aisles. Keegan Monroe sat front row center. On one side of him sat Jerry Parks, the reporter who’d chased Charlie through the halls and pebbled paths of the Sea Spa at the Marina del Sol yesterday and written the article on Judith Judd in this morning’s paper.
    On the other side of Keegan, Kenny Cowper/Kenneth Cooper smirked up at her. All she needed now was for Mitch Hilsten to walk into the room and she’d wet her tuxedo.
    The assembled consisted mostly of males, probably eighty percent or more. The moderator’s questions centered almost exclusively on how to