Jove Brand is Near Death

by J. A. Crawford

  “You went fishing and came up with a bare hook is what happened, Special Investigator. You have twenty hours to charge my client. Unless you wish to release him now.”

  Stern opened my cell door and stomped off without replying.

  “No hello?” I called after her.

  “Why would you do that? Don’t do that.”

  “What?”

  “Speak to the police, ever,” my lawyer said as she handed over her card.

  “Mercie Goodday?”

  “I was conceived at Woodstock. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Allen.”

  None of the years Mercie Goodday had on me showed. She looked like a pixie got trapped in a library. Her features were small and sharp with a chin that came to a point. Her long auburn hair was seeded with white strands. Her suit was both professional and comfortable. Mercie wore minimal makeup and no jewelry.

  “Guess I got lucky,” I said.

  “You did not. June Wedding sent me.”

  Too fast. It had been less than eight hours since I mailed June the flash drive.

  “She’s quite the lady,” I replied.

  “Yes she is.”

  “How bad is it?”

  “Not,” Mercie answered. “The case is being built. Thus far, all the evidence is circumstantial. The police are searching your car and home now.”

  “They won’t find anything,” I said. “I didn’t kill anyone.”

  “That doesn’t make it permissible to speak with law enforcement.”

  “I’ll try to stop.” I got up off my cot. Being confined had me stretching every ten minutes. “How long will I be here?”

  “They won’t charge you, not yet. I’ll get you released, hopefully today.”

  My breath of relief was a half-decibel under a lion’s roar.

  “From now on, no more interactions with the police, no matter what they look like. Refer them to me,” Mercie said. She leaned in to whisper the next part. “June would like to speak with you.”

  “And I would like to speak with her,” I whispered back.

  “We will discuss your case as it develops. Any questions, Mr. Allen?”

  “Can I get food delivered?”

  Mercie was too professional to roll her eyes. “I’m going to get to work on this. Don’t discuss your situation with anyone but me. That includes the police.”

  “That’s the third time you’ve said that.”

  “Then consider yourself charmed,” Mercie replied. She left without saying good-bye.

  I slept away the rest of my time in jail. Mercie escorted me out of the station to ensure my trap stayed shut, then drove me to the impound where my thoroughly rifled vehicle awaited.

  “You were right, they didn’t find anything,” she told me.

  “How do you know?”

  “If they had, we’d be going to arraignment.”

  Mercie handed me a GPS and a giant-sized coffee. “June’s address is already programmed. See her at your earliest convenience.”

  “I’m on my way now,” I said, opening the car door.

  “If I could make one more suggestion, Mr. Allen? Try running away from danger instead of toward it.”

  “It’s not on purpose,” I protested.

  Mercie didn’t look like she believed me.

  The sky lightened on the journey north. The GPS reported a six-hour drive. I was itching for a shower but wanted answers more than I wanted to be clean. When I couldn’t ignore my stomach anymore, I stopped for another omelet. The waitress refused to accept that I didn’t want potatoes, toast, or a fruit cup. That’s how far I was from This Town.

  Six hours and again no radio. I was lost inside my head, trying to make sense of what had happened to my life. Why was Layne interested in Near Death, and what had he uncovered? If you were going to dig into the movie’s troubled production, you had to start with what caused the trouble in the first place.

  Bryce Crisp was the second Jove Brand, guiding the series through the eighties and nineties as he transformed the character from assassin to knight-errant. The first Brand was a taker. Bryce Crisp was a giver. Bryce’s Brand always left the ladies in better shape than he found them. Even the title songs changed, from boisterous lyrics over blaring horns to smooth ballads delivered via saxophone.

  A Beautiful Disaster was supposed to be Bryce’s big send-off, everything expected of a Jove Brand film turned up to eleven, with action set pieces on land, sea, and air. Two problems arose. The first was Calabria Films didn’t have the special effects resources the big studios did. A Beautiful Disaster didn’t compare well with the aliens invading Earth on the next screen over.

  The second was Bryce himself. The audience had always overlooked his weak action chops. Crisp’s Brand got by on gadgets and charm, but he qualified for social security when filming A Beautiful Disaster. No amount of hair dye could conceal he was a senior citizen. Any scene requiring more than a brisk walk was handled by a stuntman. Big Don even used the old first-person fight cam trick, the viewer looking out of Brand’s eyes as the bad guys sent punches and kicks his way.

  Even worse were the love scenes. Brand Beauties were the it-girls of their time. Audiences weren’t up for watching Bryce Crisp lock lips with an actress who could have been his granddaughter. Bryce himself appeared uncomfortable with the proposition and displayed more of a fatherly attitude in lieu of his famous charm.

  A Beautiful Disaster was the first Brand bomb, falling well short of making back its enormous budget. Critics declared the end of the Brand era, writing the genre itself was dated and Brand a product of a demographic now out of touch. Jove Brand had become a parody of himself. In fact, the Brand parody movie released the year after was a huge hit, launching its own comedy series.

  The coffers were bare and the world was against the Calabrias as the three-year countdown to the next release started ticking.

  No one followed me up the coast. Somewhere in the chain of custody, I had lost my tail. Even the flash drive was headed to a different address than I was. The woman calling herself June Wedding lived a private, migratory life. My destination was a little town out of a fairy tale. Even the trees were on theme, curling and swept. She had a lonely cottage clinging to the edge of a cliff, its stones bound together by ivy.

  I pulled my car into the garage next to a Tacoma with a half million miles on it, conscious of my rankness. When summoned by Hollywood royalty, one should not stink up the place.

  She greeted me with a warm smile and lingering hug. She might have forgiven me for Near Death, which made one of us. But it was easier to forgive when you didn’t know the whole story. She pulled away and took my cheeks between her palms. “Thanks for coming, Ken.”

  The stab of guilt stuck deep. “Anything for you, Missy.”

  Fresh clothes were waiting for me when I got out of the shower. Simple, comfortable garments in muted colors that cost more than anything in my closet, the result of ethical sourcing and labor.

  “Does my lawyer know June Wedding’s secret identity?”

  “She’s an old friend,” Missy said. She handed me a mug as warm as her smile. Here I was, enjoying a cup of tea with the Missy Cazale.

  Four Oscars, five Golden Globes, seven Tony Awards, and who knew how many Emmys. Missy could have an Emmy whenever she wanted one. She was the greatest actress of her generation. Some would argue of any generation, including me. Her credits were a murderer’s row of best pictures and modern classics.

  But they started with Near Death.

  That’s right, Missy Cazale was my Brand Beauty. Missy was the only real actor in Near Death and even she could not elevate it out of schlock-dom. But Missy didn’t do a Brand film for the money or the fame.

  She did it for love.

  When Kit Calabria saw Missy onstage it was love at first sight. They were in Ashland for the Shakespeare festival. She was playing Miranda, and he was a young man with a vision. The only son of the legendary Big Don Calabria wanted to be a filmmaker.

  The two wer
e immediately inseparable, drifting in the shimmering bubble of delicate, perfect love most of us burst one way or another. Usually by being stupid and taking what we had for granted. They would have done anything for each other, which was how Missy ended up starring opposite a talentless schlub in Near Death.

  One of the many clauses detailed in Bowman Fletcher’s byzantine rights contract was that each film feature a feminine role exemplifying “the finest British breeding.” I won’t beat around the bush: Fletcher was all the things ending in -ist. The Jove Brand novels would be incredibly offensive to modern audiences. The non-white and never British women were chattel, easy to bed and not long for the grave. The masterminds were always white or educated in Europe, with brutish henchmen drawn from a menagerie of offensive stereotypes.

  When Near Death’s first lead overdosed in a Ukrainian hotel room, the rest of the cast scattered like high schoolers hearing the sirens at their first kegger. To satisfy the parameters of the contract and thus retain the rights, Kit needed a young, white, passably English actress. Available immediately. In the middle of Hong Kong. Who was willing to work for free.

  Eighteen years later, Missy Cazale still glowed. In photographs, there were other women who blew her out of the water, but on screen no one compared. She was even better in person.

  “Is it bad?” she asked, looking over the cup she had cradled in both hands. The total focus of her attention was electric.

  “It shouldn’t be. They won’t be able to prove anything because I didn’t do it.”

  Missy’s laugh sent ripples across the surface of her tea. “I know that, Ken. You wouldn’t kill anyone. Do you remember when the stunt with Yuen went wrong?”

  I winced like I had bit through a popsicle. “How could I forget?”

  “You were so mortified,” Missy drank while she thought. “It was clear you didn’t enjoy hurting people. Which I found so strange, considering what you brought to the movie.”

  I never knew what to do with praise. When people said good things about me I wished they would shut up. In the search to change topics, I noticed her watch.

  “Is that mine? From Near Death?”

  Missy glanced down at it. I’d never seen her sheepish. “Kit gave it to me, right before he left to deliver the master print. He promised it was better than a ring, but an hour after his plane took off the battery . . .”

  Missy couldn’t manage the word died. We drank tea while she figured out how to say what she wanted to say. “I want to talk about something, but it’s going to sound crazy.”

  “Sir Collin Prestor died in my arms. Layne Lackey was killed by a guy dressed up as a Brand villain, who got away because I had to fight a group of superheroes. My definition of crazy has evolved lately.”

  “Those are fair points,” Missy nodded. She stopped to get us refills. Keeping her back to me helped her get it out. “Layne Lackey kept trying to meet with me. He even sent a certified letter.”

  Missy nodded at an envelope on the counter. I could feel her watching me read it.

  Dear Ms. Cazale,

  * * *

  In the course of my duties as webmaster and content creator of JoveBrandFan.com, the premier Jove Brand fan site (visited by more than one hundred-thousand unique users every day), I have uncovered a scandal guaranteed to rock the foundations of the entertainment industry. As I live under constant threat of security breach, I only feel comfortable discussing my discovery in person. If my theory is correct, your past and future will change forever.

  * * *

  Sincerely,

  * * *

  Layne Lackey, Esq.

  * * *

  P. S. This concerns your star-crossed love with Kit Calabria.

  * * *

  I read the letter twice before giving the envelope a once-over. Layne had sent the letter to Missy’s Ashland address, where I had sent the flash drive. As far as bombshells went, this one was underwhelming. “I wonder how many drafts he wrote.”

  “He did not rival the Bard, may they both rest in peace.”

  I drained my teacup. Broth would have really hit the spot, but I wasn’t about to put an order in. “It would have to be quite the revelation to change your past forever.”

  “Relatively.” Missy smiled.

  I didn’t get it, but her smile brought mine out.

  “I didn’t think anything of it,” Missy went on. “You know how it is with the letters. People proposing, or pitching their dream project, or sure they are the secret child you gave away.”

  “I can only imagine and would rather not.”

  Missy sighed. “I always wanted to be an actress, but I never wanted to be a star.”

  “Looking back, I’m glad I didn’t have the talent to get what I wanted.”

  “You were fine,” Missy said as she took our cups to the sink.

  “No, I wasn’t.”

  Missy turned around to make sure I was focused on her.

  “You were hardworking, devoid of ego, and not a creep, which puts you above most of the actors I’ve worked with.” She started digging around in the refrigerator. “Self-actualization is not a common quality among the A-list.”

  “Remind me to thank the internet. I get daily reminders what my problem is.”

  Missy lined up a selection of fresh produce and chose a knife. “When I heard the news about Layne Lackey, I started to wonder if he really had uncovered something about the Calabrias and the Jove Brand movies.”

  My heart rate spiked. “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know.” Missy started chopping away. “I haven’t talked to anyone since Kit’s funeral, but I’m sure it hasn’t been easy for Dina, with what happened between them over Near Death.”

  Missy was brushing too close to my skeletons for comfort. “What happened to the rights?”

  “They went into a trust controlled by Dina until Dean turns eighteen, which he does next week.”

  I perked up at the name. “Dina named her son Dean?”

  “She did,” Missy answered.

  “Could Dean sell the film rights? Does the contract allow that?”

  Missy chopped on without raising her head. “The only people that know for certain are the ones who have read the contract.”

  Which was a short list. The Calabrias kept the contract on lockdown. “Is the franchise in trouble?”

  “No, but that hasn’t stopped the offers.” Missy swept the discarded roughage into her compost bin. “Some Russian billionaire tried to partner with Dina on the last film. When she refused, people had accidents. Fatal ones.”

  Even Layne Lackey hadn’t reported on those rumors. Russian billionaires dealt with the press more definitively than their American counterparts. They also were known for the type of security breaches Layne was paranoid about.

  I leaned against the cabinets and crossed my arms in an attempt to project confidence. “Who’s backing the next one?”

  “No one. The films are funded one hundred percent by the Calabrias these days. Dina’s done an incredible job at the helm. I wish we were still close. She could have taught me a lot when I started producing.”

  I turned it all over in my head while Missy portioned out the salad. Like the criminal justice system, everything I knew about being a detective came from the screen. Such as stating the obvious.

  “Whatever Layne Lackey was working on, it was worth killing him over.”

  “And Sir Collin,” Missy added, pushing a chilled bowl toward me. “Avocado oil?”

  “Yes, please.” When Missy lifted it after barely a drizzle, I reached over to push the bottle back down. “You might be onto something. Layne Lackey had a flash drive on him.”

  Missy’s eyes went wide, the oil bottle forgotten. “What was on it?”

  “The files were locked, but I saw a list of names. All of them were tied to Near Death.”

  If I had a spine, this would have been the time to tell her all of it. Instead, I swallowed down the temptation. Missy handed me a lid and we s
hook our bowls.

  “Where is it?” Missy asked.

  “I couldn’t think of anyone else the vultures couldn’t scavenge so I mailed it to your Ashland place. It should be there today.”

  “I’ll get it. Do you know any computer people?”

  “No.” I crunched into the salad. It had a good balance and everything was fresh. Boiled eggs would have made it perfect, but there weren’t any to be found under Missy Cazale’s roof.

  “Maybe Mercie does,” Missy said. “Oh, did you want bread?”

  “What’s bread?”

  We shared a laugh. It felt good to make her laugh. Despite everything she had accomplished, you’d be hard-pressed to find a candid shot of Missy Cazale giddy. She and Kit were to wed after wrapping Near Death, at the height of the season. But their day never came. We finished eating in silence. I got done way before her.

  “I can’t afford Mercie Goodday.”

  “I have money,” Missy said, warding me off with her fork before I could reply. “I was thinking I should hire a private investigator or someone like that, but . . .”

  But the studios were slavering over the Jove Brand franchise. Sir Collin’s last film, Final Bow, topped a billion worldwide. While racking up a real-world body count. Now the bell was tolling again. If someone was willing to kill Sir Collin Prestor, no one was safe.

  “There’s no one you trust,” I said.

  “I just—I had a terrible thought,” Missy replied. She turned the water all the way up to rinse out the bowls. It covered up getting herself together. “What if the murders go back farther? The actor you replaced—he died in the Ukraine, didn’t he?”

  But it wasn’t him Missy was thinking about. Missy was thinking that they, whoever they were, might have had something to do with Kit’s death. That his plane crash wasn’t equipment failure or pilot error. Killing Kit would have killed the franchise, if it wasn’t for me. But Kit might also still be alive, if it wasn’t for me, which was a secret I intended to take to my grave. A secret that meant no matter what I did, the scales between Missy and I would never be balanced.