Kill the Mother!

by Michael Mallory

  Had I? “Are you kidding? I loved Steve Cousins!” I said.

  She looked at me curiously. “I trust you’re not speaking literally.”

  I knew what she meant. Steve Cousins was an actor of the 1950s and beyond, and the epitome of what used to be called a light leading man. He had style and charisma to spare, if not outstanding talent, but he reliably got the job done while the Paul Newmans and Richard Burtons were getting all the attention. His biggest claim to fame was a 1960s television series called Luger about a private eye named Steve Luger, since television was never interested in a private eye named Bob Schwartz. Cousins died, to the best of my recollection, about ten years ago. It was a long-standing rumor that he was gay and that his marriage to actress Natalie Strange, who had been a starlet at Universal in the 1950s, and then later enjoyed a career renaissance on Broadway in the 1970s, had been one of convenience, since she was suspected of being a lesbian. They were the ultimate lavender couple, insiders hinted. But despite all that, the two were also known as the happiest couple in Hollywood because, it was said, they had a wide-open marriage in which neither had to worry about infidelity, since it was already a given. In the 1980s they turned up on shows such as The Love Boat and Fantasy Island, and even in late life were depicted as the ideal couple.

  “What I mean,” I said, “is that I love Steve Cousins’ work. You’re Steve and Natalie’s daughter?”

  “Their adopted daughter. Mother died six years ago, and Dad a few years prior to that. I’m the sole beneficiary of their estate, which was considerable. In addition to acting, my father was a rather astute businessman. He had real estate holdings on the side.”

  “Wow,” I said, suddenly feeling like I had gained insight into Nora Frost. She had been raised by movie stars, and even though they were second tier movie stars, she felt she had to live up to the attention and glamour awarded to her parents, but did not have the natural equipment to do so. But now that she had children of her own, she was projecting the desire for that same attention and glamour that had escaped her onto them. Rosario, the costume woman, had intimated as much. “So you got everything when your mom passed away?”

  “She didn’t pass away, Dave, she died,” Nora said softly. “In her final years she had become rather forgetful, and like so many other forgetful people, she refused to acknowledge that she was forgetful. She wouldn’t remember whether or not she took her pills so one day she ended up taking too much.”

  “I’m sorry, Nora.”

  She shrugged. “Life goes on.” Clearly she had managed to build a wall around her feelings.

  “I will do my best to find out who is behind this letter,” I said.

  “I’m counting on that.”

  “Don’t forget to email that information to me.”

  “I won’t.”

  I walked to the dining room and called, “Goodnight, guys.”

  “See ya,” a voice replied from a distance, and I think it was Taylor’s.

  I walked to the front door, but before I could leave, Nora asked: “Dave, do you mind if I ask a personal question?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “How old are you really?”

  “I’m thirty-two, Nora.”

  “Okay. You seem younger.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “Do you want to know how old I am, Dave?”

  “I don’t wish to be rude.”

  “I don’t mind at all. I will be forty in October. How do I look?”

  You look mahvellous! Billy Crystal said as Fernando Lamas inside my head, but I forced it away. “Do you really want me to answer that?” I said instead.

  “I wouldn’t have asked otherwise.”

  “I think you look damn fine for any age,” I said. Sheez! I thought, hearing it bounce back. Where the hell did that come from?

  “Take your money and get your ass out of here,” she commanded, but neither her expression nor her voice registered displeasure.

  “All right. I’ll be in touch.”

  She leaned close and breathed: “Touch me any time.” Then she closed the door in my face.

  Bogart or Mitchum would have had something to say back. I simply rubbed my nose.

  FOUR

  By seven the next morning, the Barney’s Beanery chili cheese burger and fries I had treated myself to last night after leaving Nora’s were still reminding me why I don’t treat myself more often. After getting up and downing an Alka-Seltzer, I stumbled into the shower and shaved, and by nine I knew I had a decision to make: I could stay home and feel lousy, or steel myself to go into the office and feel lousy. I opted for the latter. Grabbing my laptop, I headed out. My first stop was the bank, where I deposited the majority of my newfound wealth. “I held up a gas station,” I explained to the young female teller as I handed over the bills and, fortunately, she laughed. Ironically, my second stop after the bank was a gas station, where Exxon/Mobil held me up.

  I got to the office a little after ten, beating the mailman. Powering up the laptop, I saw that there was indeed an email from Nora. Opening it, I found no personal message of any kind, not even “Hi,” simply a list of names. Nora Faust was certainly not one to leave a trail, even a digital one. Plugging the laptop into my aging laser printer, I put out a copy. The toner was starting to run out so there was a pale line running through the print (why is it that machines invariably know when you’ve suddenly come into money and respond by breaking or running dry?). The names on the printed page were:

  Marta Wheeler, Denise

  Leslie Brielle, Alexis

  Carole Gould, Nathan

  Monica Epper, Tiffany

  Cristina Diaz, Hugo

  The full names I took to be the mothers, and the second names the children, and of course, there had to be one called “Tiffany.” Finding them should be a cinch because I have at my disposal a tool about which Bogie, Mitchum, Dick Powell, Alan Ladd and Charles McGraw could only have dreamt. Sure, they had snappier patter and cooler clothes, and their celluloid adventures were definitely more thrilling than the run-of-the-mill stuff a real PI engages in, but they would’ve had to start pounding the pavement and following leads and clues to find even one of these women. In today’s investigative world, we have databases.

  Within a half-hour I had addresses and contact numbers for four of the women on the list. Only Leslie Brielle remained elusive. But obtaining four was a pretty good start. Picking up the phone, I dialed the number for Marta Wheeler. After three rings, it went to a recorded message:

  This is the Klaster-Wheeler household…if you are calling for Bob, Marta or Denise, please leave a message when you hear the beep…if however you are looking for anyone not named Bob, Marta or Denise, are selling something, or do not understand what I’m saying because you don’t speak English, do us all a favor and just hang up. BEEP.

  “Hi,” I began, “I’m calling for Marta. My name is Dave Beauchamp and I’m calling regarding a new television show—”

  “This is Marta,” a crisp voice suddenly burst in. It was the voice from the machine.

  “Oh, you’re there.”

  “I screen all calls. You just never know. Mr. Beauchamp, you said? Hi, how are you? I imagine you’re calling about Denise. Are you a casting director?”

  “Actually, no—”

  “Producer, then?” she asked before I could finish.

  “I’m calling in regards to the reality show that Denise—”

  “Junior Idol,” she blurted. “You must be calling from Max Gelfan Productions. Do you need her to come in again?” There was a sense of urgency, if not desperation, in her voice.

  I jotted down the name of the production company and said, “No, Ms. Wheeler, I’m not part of Max Gelfan Productions, and I’m not in a position to offer Denise a job. I’m calling on behalf of Nora Fr—”

  The phone slammed down before I could get the entire second syllable out.

  I waited two minutes before calling back. After listening to the recorded message once
more, I said after the beep: “Ms. Wheeler, it’s Dave Beauchamp again. I’m a private investigator. Someone has made a threat to the Brothers Alpha, Nora’s sons, and—”

  The line picked up. “And that broodmare is accusing me?” Marta Wheeler screamed.

  “She’s not accusing anyone in particular,” I said, trying to sound soothing. “She has merely asked me to check things out.”

  “Let me tell you a few things about your client, Mr. Beauchamp. There isn’t anyone in this town who’s ever met her who doesn’t want to push her in front of a bus.”

  I cleared my throat and said: “Well, I’ll admit she is a bit insistent—”

  “She’s the stage mother from Hell! Nora Frost goes into casting sessions and insists that her two little cadavers be seen before anyone else since she considers it a personal insult that they are required to audition in the first place. I was at one call with her where she didn’t just bring one headshot of boys, she brought dozens, all autographed, and handed them out to the other kids who are there to audition, telling them that someday they’ll be able to say they had met the Brothers Alpha! She tapes their every breath with a cell phone camera, too, claiming that she’s making a documentary about them. I was told that she once actually locked another kid in the bathroom at the casting office so the boy couldn’t do his audition. When they finally found the kid he was in hysterics, and his mother, who thought he’d been kidnapped, had to be taken to the emergency room. That is your client, Mr. Beauchamp.”

  “Um, if she’s that bad, why do casting directors put up with it?”

  “They don’t more than once, but there are a lot of casting directors in town. Word hasn’t gotten to all of them, apparently. But she keeps coming back for Junior Idol. It’s supposed to be an American Idol for kids, but I’m frankly starting to wonder if this isn’t a talent program at all, but one of those conflict reality shows where they’re going to pit the kids and the mothers against each other. Believe me, Mr. Beauchamp, the Alphas haven’t been brought back because of their talent, because they haven’t any. Denise has been taking dance lessons since she was four, and voice and acting lessons as well. She’s a pro. A lot of the other kids are, too. There’s one girl named Tiffany Epper who’s got a singing voice you wouldn’t believe. Another kid, Hugo somebody, does impressions. He’s ten or eleven, but he can do the best SpongeBob you ever heard. And Denise, of course, like I said, she’s got it. But the Alphas, they’re synthetic, they don’t respond like flesh-and-blood human beings, let alone normal child performers.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Wheeler, you’ve been very helpful, so please forgive me for asking this, but simply for the record, have you sent a letter to Nora Frost making any kind of comment about Taylor and Burton, even if it was not meant to be taken seriously?”

  “No…I…have…not. Were I to send some sort of letter, it would not be to threaten the boys, who I actually feel sorry for. But as I’ve told you, I sent no letter of any kind. Until now, I never even knew their names, only the Brothers Alpha. Now I really think I’ve said all I need to say about this.”

  “Thank you for your time, Ms. Wheeler, I certainly appreciate it,” I said, to a dead phone line. She had hung up around the word you.

  I sat back at my desk and contemplated the best course of action. I could tell Nora that I would not be pursuing the case, and return the ten-thousand dollars, since there was no signed contract, or.…

  Oh, who was I kidding? Even if my client was a gene mix of the Wicked Witch of the West, Nurse Ratched and Elizabeth Bathory, I was not in a position to throw away ten-grand. Having finally discovered the price of my soul, I figured it was nonreturnable, like a damaged package. Besides, someone had threatened the twins, either seriously or frivolously—and let’s face it, these days the latter can be mistaken for an act of terror—no matter what Nora Frost was like personally.

  I managed to speak with two more of the mothers, Cristina Diaz and Monica Epper, each of whom basically reiterated what Marta Wheeler had told me on all levels. Cristina revealed that she could not cut loose with what she really wanted to say because her son Hugo, the pre-teen mimic, was within earshot, but Monica had no such problems. Her vocabulary made that of Nora Frost’s sound like a kindergarten teacher’s. I contemplated going to the emergency room to have my ear swabbed out. But both denied sending the letter. What was perhaps more pertinent, both had a reaction similar to Marta Wheeler’s, which was that no matter what they would like to do to their mother, they would not have threatened the children. What I found particularly interesting, however, was that like Marta, Cristina Diaz and Monica Epper did not know the boys’ given names. They were all familiar only with their showbiz moniker, the Brothers Alpha. Yet the writer of the note had mentioned them by name.

  That shifted particular weight to either Carole Gould or Leslie Brielle as being the sender of the letter, but since I was unable to find a number for Leslie, and the message I’d left on Carole’s machine had not yet been answered, I had no way of verifying my suspicion. But I really had no illusions that simply calling them up and asking if they were guilty was going to yield results. That sort of direct confrontation only worked on Perry Mason. I might have better luck with Max Gelfan, or someone on his staff who had seen all the women and all the kids in one room together. I Googled Max Gelfan Productions and learned that while it was not as well established as the operations formed by Merv Griffin or Vin di Bona, it seemed to have a solid enough reputation as a game and reality show producer. Finding an address for the company was easy, too; it was just over the hill in Hollywood.

  I headed out, deciding to forego lunch, since the chili cheese combo from Barney’s was still singing an aria in my stomach. I don’t know which is weaker, a voice said inside my head, your brain or your belly.

  Be quiet, Mitchum. I have a job to do.

  Traffic on the 101 was kind, meaning I made it down to Hollywood in about forty-five minutes. Max Gelfan Productions was headquartered in one of those almost-studios that called themselves “production centers”—multi-level buildings containing small television stages somewhere inside, but consisting mostly of offices. This one was located on Gower, south of Hollywood Boulevard. I managed to find a parking place on the street (which effective used up my quota of luck for the next two months) and walked into the lobby area. A young, dark-haired, heavily-tatted woman sat behind the desk. “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “Max Gelfan Productions,” I said.

  “Who do you wish to see?”

  “The person in charge of casting.”

  The eyes narrowed, and I was able to read her thoughts enough to well realize I had as much chance of actually coming face-to-face with the talent coordinator for Max Gelfan Productions as I had dining with the president. Maybe less.

  “Do you have an appointment?” she asked.

  “No, but I’m here on behalf of Nora Frost.”

  The woman’s demeanor changed as though digitally morphed. The defiance disappeared and was replaced by weary resignation. She muttered something under her breath—I thought it was Oh, Christ, but I wasn’t certain. “Are you an attorney?” she asked.

  “I used to be, but I got over it,” I replied. “Now I’m a private investigator.”

  “Oh, god,” she moaned.

  “Look, ma’am, I’m not here to cause anyone any trouble, I promise. I’d just like to put a few questions to the person who has been auditioning kids for Junior Idol. If you tell me I can’t, I’ll accept that and leave, though I hope you won’t.”

  She sized me up and down and apparently decided I wasn’t one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, even if my employer was, and so punched a number into her desk phone. “Terrence, it’s Cassandra, down front. Could you come down here please? I know, I know, but I think you might want to anyway. Someone’s here about the Brothers Alpha. Okay, thanks.” She hung up and said, “Have seat. Mr. Holving will be with you in a minute.”

  “Thank you very much,” I said,
and made my way to a circular sofa that probably looked good on the pages of a design magazine, but was uncomfortable as all get-out to actually use. About three minutes later, a forty-ish, very thin guy with close-cropped hair appeared and Cassandra pointed him in my direction. “Hi, I’m Terrence Holving, talent coordinator for Gelfan Productions, and you are.…”

  “Dave Beauchamp,” I said, sticking out my hand, which he wetly shook.

  “What’s this about, Mr. Beauchamp?”

  “Can we go somewhere and talk?” I asked.

  “My office,” he said, turning and heading toward the elevator. I followed, and within seconds we were on our way up to the fourth floor. “So,” Holving said, “how are the Brothers Alpha?” The last two words were delivered with the kind of sarcastic bite in which Paul Lynde would have taken pride.

  “Creepy and unnatural as ever,” I said, truthfully.

  Terrence Holving burst out with a choppy, gaspy laugh, like he’d been punched in the stomach with a joke book. “Well, at least I know you’re acquainted with them,” he said, as the elevator doors opened onto the fourth floor. “This way.” We went down a very convoluted hallway, which I doubted I could have navigated on my own, and past a reception desk emblazoned with the “Max Gelfan Productions” logo. The knockout blonde seated behind the desk smiled as we walked by. Finally we came to a small, but well decorated office. There were posters and mementoes from any number of past projects covering the walls. Holving closed the door behind us. “Please sit, Mr. Beauchamp,” he said, motioning me to a chair, and then seating himself behind his overburdened desk. “What do you want to know about the Brothers Alpha?”

  “First, Mr. Holving, please understand that while I am a private investigator who has been hired on a matter by Nora Frost, I am in no way here to threaten you or anyone else in Max Gelfan Productions. I don’t as a rule start conversations with that kind of disclaimer, but in the short time I’ve known Nora Frost, I understand how it might be best to get that out in the open right up front.”

  “She’s some piece of work,” Holving said. “But hiring a detective? What in god’s name does she think we did?”