Soap Opera Slaughters Read Online Free PDF

No clothing was found on the roof.
    The report ended with a few facts about Niven’s long career as a daytime drama writer, and how he’d consistently won the Emmy for “Riverday,” a show he held a part interest in.
    Typical generalist reportage, I mused sourly. The questions the reporter didn’t ask Lou Betterman could’ve filled as many column inches as the article already occupied.
    “Gene,” Hilary said, “take Lara away. She and Ed were good friends.”
    As I guided the stricken actress to the door, Hilary eased Jess Brass to a neutral corner without actually breaking her fingers.

“T HAT BITCH!” LARA SPOKE low, but with great vehemence. I silently agreed with her assessment of Jess Brass.
    I stayed with Lara till Hilary joined us and took over. I retired to another part of the room while the cousins whispered to one another. Hilary did her best to calm Lara. The love they had for one another shone through; they shared a sisterly closeness.
    Soon, Lara felt she could handle the rest of her interviews, Brass excluded. The actress’ earlier sparkle was gone, but she went through the necessary motions and was done by half-past three. Hilary suggested late lunch, but Lara wasn’t hungry.
    “I‘d better call New York. The producer might be trying to reach me.”
    “But it’s Sunday,” I reminded her.
    “Makes no difference. The Ames office may have left a message on my service, what with—what with Ed’s death.” She drew a ragged breath. “And I’d better call Florence, too.”
    “Why?” Hilary asked, an element of surprise in her voice.
    “Because she’s probably falling apart”
    I asked whether she was talking about Florence McKinley, lead actress on “Riverday.”
    “Yes,” Lara nodded. “She and Ed were lovers.”
    “All right,” I suggested, “why not stop at my place, it’s more or less on your way back to New York, anyway. I’ll fix us drinks, supper if you like, and you can use my phone undisturbed.”
    Lara said she’d appreciate it. She got into Hilary’s car and they followed me as I threadneedled my private route around City Line, avoiding most of the major traffic traps. We reached Pine Street by ten after four.
    Whatever prompted me to put a picture of Lara on my wall, I’ll never know. A few months earlier, I saw an attractive color photo of her on the cover of Soap Opera Digest, the Tiffany periodical of the soap genre. On impulse, I bought the issue and read about her. Nothing in the article connected her with Hilary, of course. Eventually I tossed out the magazine, but the cover—carefully trimmed to eliminate the male costar posed with Lara—now was taped above my desk.
    Lara saw it as soon as I opened the door. Her eyes widened for a second, glanced into mine, then looked away.
    Hilary saw it, too.
    Pretending not to notice, I crossed the room, cracked the bedroom door and told Lara the telephone was inside. She thanked me, pressed my hand in passing, and walked into the other room, closing the door behind her.
    “What would you like to drink?” I asked Hilary.
    “The usual,” she replied too sweetly. “You know me so well.”
    I tried to overlook her sarcasm, but she had no intention of making it easy. She sat down at my desk, put her chin in her hands, rested her elbows on the desk top and gazed adoringly at Lara’s picture.
    “All right, all right, I’ll take it down.”
    “Did I ask you to? It’s your apartment, you’re certainly permitted to decorate it the way you like.”
    “Hilary, knock it off.”
    She raised an eyebrow. “Did I say something wrong? I beg your pardon! From now on, I’ll maintain a diplomatic silence.”
    “I said I’d take it down.”
    “But I regard it as a compliment. You never asked me for a personal photo. This must be the next best thing.”
    I yanked it off the wall and tossed it in the wastebasket.
    Hilary retreated into aloof nonconversation.
    I busied myself with ice, olive, vermouth and Bombay gin. Hilary