He made a sort of clucking sound in the back of his throat, but, thank God, pulled into the parking lot anyway. I ordered a double double with grilled onions, fries, and a shake. Cal ordered a grilled cheese with no mayo and water.

“What’s with the girly food?” I asked around a big mouthwatering bite of burger. A little ketchup oozed onto my chin, and I grabbed a paper napkin.

“ ‘Girly food’?” he asked. “Isn’t that a little un-PC for a feminist like yourself?”

I shrugged. “I’m a fair-weather feminist.”

“Hmm. I don’t eat beef.”

“Why not? It’s yummy.”

He shrugged. “I care about what I put in my body. Most meat is full of hormones, antibiotics, E. coli. Even trace amounts of fecal matter.”

I looked down at my burger. “Fecal matter? As in…”

“Poop.” He popped one of my fries in his mouth.

“You’re kidding, right?”

He shook his head. “Nope. It’s the way the animals are slaughtered. Generally their bowels are still full when they’re killed. It’s actually incredibly tricky to cut the colon and intestines away from the animal without spilling any of the contents. Cross contamination happens all the time.”

I set my burger down, feeling that last bite stick in my throat. “That is sick.”

“That is why I don’t eat beef.”

I picked up my shake, trying to wash down the possibly contaminated double double with strawberry goodness.

“So,” Cal said, snaking another fry, “where can we find this party girl of yours?”

I tossed my burger into the trash bin to the right. “Pippi Mississippi shoots Monday through Friday. She’ll be at Sunset Studios. The only tricky part,” I added with a grin, “is getting on the lot.”

“Why do I have the feeling you enjoy this sort of challenge?” Cal downed the rest of his water and tossed the cup into the trash.

I felt my grin widen. “Watch and learn, grasshopper.” I slipped my cell out of my Strawberry Shortcake purse as we walked back to his car. Three rings later, Max’s voice croaked on the other end.

“Beacon,” he said by way of greeting.

“Hey, Max, it’s me. Listen, I have a favor to ask. Any Hollywood old-timers depart this cruel world today?”

I heard Max shuffling papers. “Three. Why?”

“Got names?”

More shuffling. “Frank Jones, did animation with Disney, stroke. Elliot Shiff, ran camera on a couple Monroe flicks, pancreatic cancer. And…”

I held my breath.

“…Betty Johnson, did makeup for Lucille Ball, lung cancer.”

Bingo.

“Thanks, Max!” I called, quickly hanging up and dialing a new number as I hopped into Cal’s Hummer. He gave me a sidelong glance but knew better than to ask.

I waited two rings before someone on the other end picked up.

“Front gate, David speaking.”