Prime Time Murder: A Cozy Celebrity Murder Mystery: Hollywood Whodunit, #1

Copyright © 2020 Brittany E. Brinegar

Revised © 2024 Brittany E. Brinegar

Cover Design © 2024 Britt Lizz

All rights reserved

BRITT LIZZ PUBLISHING COMPANY

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Created with Atticus

Contents

About the Book

A free book for you...

1.Murder on the Set

2.Witness or Suspect?

3.Backlot Shenanigans

4.Forensic Evidence

5.Officers Robinson and Vo

6.Meet and Greet

7.Paparazzi

8.Country Club Charade

9.Snooping Around

10.Stay Gold Winston

11.Lorelai

12.Guilty Until Proven Innocent

13.Downtown

14.New Evidence

15.A Swinging Time

16.Staged

17.Close Encounter

18.HQ Inquisition

19.Double Teamed

20.To Be or Not To Be

21.Evidently

22.Hot Pursuit

23.Papa Bear

24.The Smoking Bat

25.Follow the iPhone

26.A Ruse

27.That’s a Wrap

Sneak Peek

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The Secret of the Bluebonnet Ranch

Becky-isms

About the Author

Books by Britt

About the Book

She's little. She's feisty. Spoiler alert, she's not the killer.

Move to Hollywood. Catch her big break. Become a movie star. Nowhere on Becky Robinson's to-do list does it say discover a dead body or become the prime suspect.

Becky's first day on set is anything but glamorous. Between coffee runs and walking the star dog, she discovers the body of a prominent actress. Not exactly how she pictured seeing her name in the papers. And they didn't even spell it right.

After finding evidence at the crime scene, the cops are on her trail and a Hollywood hunk is in the hot seat.

To clear her name and discover whodunit, Becky rubs elbows with Tinseltown insiders. With the help of her best friend and an adorable puppy, they attempt to expose the killer before he claims his next victim.

Hollywood Whodunit Series Order

Book 1: Prime Time Murder

Book 2: Stand-In Murder

Book 3: Music City Murder

Book 4. Trap Door Murder

Book 5: Fool's Gold Murder

Book 6: Holly Jolly Murder

Book 7: Blue Suede Murder

Book 8: Family Reunion Murder

Book 9: Summer Vacation Murder

Book 10: Sunlight Swindler Murder

Book 11: Castle Island Murder

Book 12: Fixer-Upper Murder

Book 13: Hometown Murder

Book 14: Big Apple Murder

Book 15: Devil Wears Murder

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All caught up? Just getting started?

Whether you’re a super fan or a newbie to the Lake Falls universe, you can join my newsletter for an exclusive bonus story you won’t find anywhere else! Seven beloved characters, four charming eras, one puzzling mystery. Download your FREE copy of The Secret of the Bluebonnet Ranch today.

Some people inherit antiques, but these sleuths inherit a whodunit spanning decades. 

Get ready for an epic crossover cozy mystery, where four dynamic heroines from different eras unite to solve a hand-me-down case involving a mysterious pendant and a secret legend lurking below the surface of a small Texas town.

Penelope, the daring flapper of 1924.

Jenny, the silver-tongued post-war investigator of 1949.

Samantha, the tech-savvy sleuth of 2012.

Becky, the nosy actress of modern day. 

Join these remarkable women as they employ wit, charm, and intelligence to unravel a web of secrets passed down through the ages. A thrilling read for cozy mystery enthusiasts and history buffs alike!

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1

Murder on the Set

I moved to California with a clear set of goals: find an agent, land a television show, and become a star actress. Easy peasy.

My mother, a high-powered attorney, was less enthused by my grand plan. She told me I’d fall flat on my face if I chased my Hollywood dream. And she was right. At least the dead body broke my fall.

L.A. greeted me with sunshine, palm trees, and the exhilarating smell of possibility. I sashayed into the studio for my first day, and I couldn’t wipe the grin from my face. Years of community theater and home movies led me to this moment. I flashed my official all-access pass at the gym rat security guard, the girl operating the taco truck, and anyone who glanced my way. For the first time, I didn’t need to sneak onto the lot with a tour group. I belonged.

Balancing a tray of coffees and a sack of baked goodies, I struggled to grip the heavy door of the sound stage. I wedged my sneaker into the crack and nudged the opening. Come on. I got you now. The thick metal inched as I tucked the sack under my chin to free my other hand.

Coffee sloshed over the tiny drinking hole and splattered dangerously close to the sleeve of my chic pink sweater. That was way too close.

How embarrassing would it be to show up on my first day with a giant stain on my shirt? I shook my head, thrilled to avert disaster. I lunged for the handle to try again.

The studio door busted open, smacking me in the nose as an assistant in a headset bustled outside. Bagels spilled from the sack and bounced across the gravel walkway.

Headset’s eyes rolled into the back of his head like an angsty teen on a family sitcom when the parents did something embarrassing. Awesome job, Coffee Girl.

I chased the runaways and my dignity and blew off the dirt. I don’t suppose the three-second rule applies?

The assistant claimed an espresso and studied the order taped to my bag. His bushy eyebrows knit together. "Your delivery is to Studio 12, Prime Suspect. This is 3."

Oops. I lifted my shoulders. My first day.

But you hide it so well.

Think we can keep the bagel incident between us?

He slurped from the to-go cup.

I eyed the name on the cardboard sleeve. You don’t look like a Sally.

Nope, but she has good taste. Is this dark roast?

Yeah…

Thanks for the coffee. You saved me a trip. He grabbed the drink carrier, stole the other three orders, and slapped money into my hand.

He disappeared into the sound stage before I managed an intelligent retort or even a ‘Hey!’. I unfolded a wrinkled Lincoln. Five bucks? This doesn’t cover the barista’s tip.

Returning to the coffee cart, I started from scratch. I smiled at the goth girl manning the counter. You’re probably wondering why I’m back so soon.

Not really.

I slid the handwritten order and minimized the chitchat. When the movies romanticized the glamour of Hollywood, they tended to skip the ‘paying your dues’ part. When I packed up my car and drove west, I envisioned red carpets and filming in front of a live studio audience—more screen time and fewer errands. At least the role of gopher got me near a television show—acting adjacent.

Stars always told exciting stories about catching big breaks at the mall or while walking dogs. Or how building cabinets led to a space smuggler known as Han Solo.

Maybe today would be my turn. My mouth twisted as I imagined delivering the coffee, saying something witty, and the director recognizing my irresistible charm.

I shook the daydream. Get real, Becky. The odds of that happening are about as high as you cracking the unsolved murder of the Black Dahlia.

Chills ran down my spine as I recalled the details of the case and the unsatisfying ending. Unsolved being in the title should have clued me into the premise.

Hello? Don’t you want your stuff? Goth girl asked.

See you in about ten minutes. I smiled, but her blank face ruined our repartee. Because this was already my second attempt at delivering this order… I cleared my throat. Thanks.

Don’t count on your silver tongue to impress people. My nerves intensified. Maybe something witty would pop into my mind tomorrow. My first day at the new job came with enough pressure without adding fantasies of my big break. As long as I didn’t kill anyone or fall and make a fool of myself, I would call it a success.

Way to aim high and shoot for the moon. Why did the little voice in my head sound like my disappointed mother? Save that question for your shrink when you are rich, famous, and unhappy. There she was again.

With a better grip on my delivery, I asked for directions to Studio 12. A creepy, one-armed clown sent me down the wrong path into a dead-end alleyway. Shocker.

Lost with a tray of chilling coffee, I locked eyes with a security guard. When he ignored my existence, I whistled. Excuse me, can you point me in the right direction?

I don’t work here. He glared as if I were a clown with one arm and hurried off. Fooled by another costume. Great.

After wandering for a few minutes, I finally found the trailers for Prime Suspect. Despite dipping ratings and swirling rumors of cast conflict, the television show entered a second season on a streaming platform. But never underestimate the power of a cliffhanger to keep a show alive. The first year of the cop drama ended with the killer in handcuffs. Thin evidence, shoddy police work, and a questionable confession hinted at a season two acquittal. Not an intuitive leap since the biggest star played the killer.

I slipped through a side entrance without incident. Gotta love the inventor of the ‘push’ door.

Darkness greeted me, and my stomach sank. Where was everyone? I contorted to yank my sleeve before remembering I didn’t do watches.

My call time was 8:30. But as I drifted to sleep the night before, I worried about traffic, getting lost, messing up the breakfast order, and every other doomsday event, so I calculated a cushion. Even with the mishaps, I arrived hours before schedule. And for those who knew me, arriving anywhere on time required a minor miracle. Early arrivals necessitated divine intervention.

The simplest explanation was that my body continued to operate on Texas time despite a month in the sunshine state… no, that’s Florida. What’s California? I tilted my head, unsure of their nickname. Based on Headset Man, Goth Barista, and the one-armed clown, it didn’t involve friendliness.

I squinted through the darkness and shuffled my feet. If I managed to reach my back pocket, I could flip on my iPhone flashlight. The tray wobbled, and I gently placed it on a table beside a platter of gourmet muffins from craft services. They looked and smelled better than the stale bagels in my paper sack.

A thumping in the distance produced a high-pitched yip. Is someone there? I scrambled for the coffee, determined to save it from whatever creep crawly lurked in the shadows. I’d rather die than return to the coffee cart for a third time. Finding it again would also pose a problem.

Thwack!

There it is again. My heart raced, and my stomach clenched as I slipped further into the warehouse. Hello?

Sets, dressing rooms, and offices formed a labyrinth of Hollywood magic. I opened a thin door with a plywood backing and entered the gritty New York squad room set. With a sigh of relief, I pinpointed the noise. A slowly oscillating fan spun a squeaky desk chair.

I shook my arms, loosening my stressed muscles, and vowed to stop being so jittery. I had an entire TV set all to myself. Why not enjoy it? A smile crept across my face as an urge hit me. I placed the coffee carrier on a teetering stack of books and eased into the station. I recognized every inch of the space from binge-watching the first season.

I plopped in the chair belonging to a tall, blond, handsome cop and propped my feet on the desk. I sat in the same chair as my TV crush. My eyes widened. What if I got to meet him? Imagine the incoherent babbling.

Before my bubble burst, I snapped a selfie to prove I made it on the set. My friends back home would freak. Maybe one day, I wouldn’t need to pretend. Although if I was acting on the show, it technically would still be pretending…

It’s a nice moment, don’t overthink it.

I pocketed my phone and returned to the director’s bay. My eyes blinked at movement in the shadows. Is someone there?

Out of nowhere, a hooded figure barreled into me. Coffee flew into the air as I slid across the slick, tiled floor. Hot liquid covered my jeans.

Hey, watch out!

Footsteps faded, and a sliver of sunlight spilled into the studio as the door burst open. A scruffy dog whizzed by, barking at the shadow’s heels.

I scrambled for my phone and activated the flashlight. Coffee and bagels littered the floor in a soggy mess, staining the carpet of a living room set.

First day, and you ruin the main character’s rug. Nice work, Becky. You’re going to get fired before the start of your shift.

My gaze lifted to red-soled shoes sticking out from under the coffee table. My breath caught in my throat as I clambered to my feet. If I interrupted filming, I could kiss the job goodbye.

A woman sprawled on the floor. Ghost white.

My brow furrowed. Shooting required rolling cameras, a bustling crew, and stage lights, none of which were present. I edged closer to the woman. The makeup department did wonders. It was eerie how much she resembled a real murder victim.

Excuse me? Recognition fluttered. Why did the star of the show, season one’s accused killer, wallow on the floor in a pool of fake blood? Maria Sinclair?

I kicked the bottom of her red sole stiletto. No response. The glassy-eyed stare confirmed my worst fears. Yup. I’m so fired.

2

Witness or Suspect?

My heart hammered in my chest as I approached the star actress. Dark brown hair partially covered the wound on her forehead. My stomach coiled. I’d seen enough murder mysteries to recognize the signs—no doubt about it. Maria Sinclair was the victim of a homicide.

I dialed 911 as I searched for a pulse, just in case my M.D. from Grey’s Anatomy led me astray. Flipping my phone to speaker mode, I described her condition to the operator. She’s unresponsive, and I can’t find a heartbeat.

Okay, stay calm. Help is on the way. Are you able to perform CPR?

I removed my sweater and rolled up my sleeves. I think so. Despite the hopelessness, I did as instructed and performed chest compressions.

Within minutes, paramedics arrived and pushed me aside. A grim headshake emanated from one to the other, and they radioed for the police department.

For the next hour, I endured endless questioning from uniformed officers, detectives, and finally, the man in charge.

A short, red-haired fellow with gray in his temples flashed a badge. Agent Cornwallis, CBI. You the girl who, ah, found the body?

My gaze remained transfixed on the forensics experts dusting for prints, snapping photographs, and placing crime scene markers near important clues. Recognition flickered at the acronym. CBI?

California Bureau of Investigation. He grabbed my elbow and directed me to the craft services table, out of view of the commotion. We assist in high-profile matters.

My mouth tilted. Until a minute ago, I thought the state agency was fictional. Did you bring Patrick Jane with you?

Who?

"The fake psychic from The Mentalist. The TV show. I swallowed at the detective’s lack of humor and my inappropriate timing. Switching tactics, I lowered my vocal pitch to cop-speak. I discovered Miss Sinclair upon arrival on the set this morning."

Agent Cornwallis unbuttoned his blazer and shoved a hand in his pocket, wrinkling the pleat of his trousers. Despite his relaxed demeanor, his icy gaze pierced into me. You work on the show?

Sort of.

Really? A smile formed but didn’t reach his eyes. Actor or writer? He snagged a muffin from the buffet and pinched a corner. Crumbs clung to his tie and dotted his scuffed shoes.

Aspiring actress.

I’m a screenwriter myself. Cornwallis bounced on the balls of his feet, trying to size me up. On the side, I mean. I’m pitching this pilot about an everyday working stiff who falls headlong into a drug-smuggling ring…

A uniformed officer cleared his throat. Agent Cornwallis, you asked me to inform you when the cast arrived.

Yeah, yeah. Let me finish with the witness. He tapped his notepad, and his face hardened. So, you discovered Miss Sinclair around 7:30? Did you notice anything odd or suspicious?

As I told the officer, a hooded figure bumped into me, spilling my coffee everywhere. I waved a hand over my caramel-coated clothing. Oh, and a dog barked too.

Did you get a look at the guy?

Between the hood and the darkness, no. I tiptoed and displayed the suspect’s height. When you clocked in at five-feet-zero, everyone older than thirteen towered over you like a giant. At least five-foot-nine. I can’t say if it was a man or a woman.

After the suspect knocked into you, what happened?

I found the body and called 911.

How well did you know Miss Sinclair?

I watched her on the show but never met her.

Cornwallis’ brow twitched. "Aren’t you colleagues? I thought you acted on Prime Suspect."

I snorted. No, sir. I’m an assistant. Part-time and I hop around to different departments depending on need. Or at least I will if I get asked back for a second shift.

Are you responsible for these marvelous muffins? He took a giant bite. Is that chamomile and honey?

I’m not sure. My contribution is the bag of stale bagels.

He closed his notebook and stuffed it in his breast pocket beside a mustard stain. That’s all for now, Miss Roberson.

Robinson, I corrected. Becky Robinson.

We got your digits. M…my office will call you with any more questions. He signaled to a cop. Anders, you said the victim’s boyfriend works here?

The ex-boyfriend. The officer lowered his voice. There was trouble in paradise.

My ears perked at the gossip. I didn’t follow tabloid news, but my roommate updated me on the juiciest tidbits. Maria Sinclair dated co-star Justin Woods for the last six months. Did a nasty breakup make him the prime suspect?

The cops drifted out of earshot, and the associate producer snuck up behind me. I muffled a yelp.

Did I frighten you?

Sorry, I’m jumpy.

What do you think you’re doing, Miss Robinson?

Excuse me?

Extras, stand-ins, and other menial roles referred to Sherry Newton as the dragon lady. As fire spewed from her mouth, I couldn’t disagree. Why are you standing around?

The police needed to interview me.

She spread her arms. I don’t see them now, do you? The sugary Georgia accent warred with her biting tone. We pay you to do a job. We fall behind, and the show loses money. If we’re no longer profitable, the studio pulls the plug. Do you want that on your conscience?

The star actress is dead.

"And you won’t be taking her