“I know John B. Drake is simplifying the material so much that I can no longer verify its accuracy. Why hire an expert if you won’t listen to her?”
“You told me yourself this was to be shown on television to the general public,” Charlie said. “I mean we’re talking network here … not even PBS. And not an auditorium full of stuffy scientists. Of course he has to simplify things.” John B. Drake was a noted producer/director of documentaries with a hot reputation for bringing in high-quality product at or even under budget.
“It’s no sin to be accurate, even on popular television.”
“But it is a sin to be boring. All those scholarly qualifications attached to every statement, opinion, or hiccup would have viewers changing channels so fast—”
“If you don’t know enough about being an agent to help me, Charlemagne Catherine, just say so. You don’t have to be insulting.” Edwina slid out from behind the table and then had to squeeze between it and the corner of the sink cupboard.
The place was maybe an eighth the size of a bed-sitter sublet. The sink and a three-burner stovetop filled the counter, mercifully hiding most of the orange Formica. Beneath was an enclosed water tank, the oven that also stored the pots and pans, a tiny refrigerator, and tinier space heater. The rest of the storage, which was precious little, was tucked under the shelf seats. With the tent top folded out, two moderately sized platforms offered hard shelves for bedding. A fold-down table completed the decor. Two adults could barely pass each other in the space remaining.
Edwina put their dishes into a plastic pail with the rest of the day’s dishes.
“Okay. Okay. I don’t think you’ve got a leg to stand on, but let me see your contract.” Actually, I know you don’t.
“I left it home.”
“You left it home.” Charlie rubbed gently around the disposable contact lenses which she’d had to remove in order to rinse off the helicopter grit.
“I didn’t think I needed it out here.” Charlie’s mother squirted detergent into the pail, added more water, and set the whole thing outside to soak overnight. Charlie wondered how much of the local wildlife she managed to kill off that way. “Can’t carry all those papers around in the field,” Edwina said. “Might get lost.”
Charlie noted the pile of notes and books all but falling off the bunk at the other end of the camper and mentally counted to fifteen. Slowly. “Why … why don’t we sleep on this and talk about it in the morning? I’m too tired to think.”
But once in bed, Charlie Greene lay awake worrying about what Libby was doing. And what would happen to them both if Congdon and Morse went under. When she did fall asleep she dreamed of a small rat ramming its head against the tire of a car.
Charlie awoke with every muscle aching from being coiled too tightly against the cold.
Edwina was up and dressed. “We’re invited out to breakfast. We’ll hunt up old John B. afterward. All I’ve got left is oatmeal and I know how you like oatmeal.”
The dishes were washed and draining in the sink. At least Charlie hoped they’d been washed. She dived into jeans, sweatshirts, Keds, and jacket.
At the concrete-block toilets the stools flushed with a minimum of water, the sinks offered only a cold dribble to wash with, and signs warned Charlie to be sparing with that because every last drop had to be trucked in. She tried to brush out her hair but without a shampoo it was hopeless and quite literally all over the place.
“Good morning, ladies.” Scrag Dickens, standing in a commercial dumpster, tipped a cowboy hat to them as they left the concrete john. His hair looked pretty good. “You certainly have a gorgeous daughter, Edwina. Doesn’t look anything like you.”
“What’s he doing in the dumpster?” Charlie asked her mother. “Scrounging breakfast?”
“Should have offered him the oatmeal but I wouldn’t give that shit the time of day.”
Charlie lived in a Hollywood sea of obscenities but had, with varying success, forsworn swearing when Libby took it up with a vengeance. But she had never heard her mother use language like she’d tossed at Gordon Cabot last night. “Is he a character actor or professional groupie or what?”
“Bills himself as a ‘desert rat.’ If so, he’s the first rat I ever met I didn’t like. And if he’s an actor, he’s a bad one. You stay away from him.” That had been Edwina’s advice to her daughter since Charlie began to show signs of maturation.
Lot of good it did.
They walked along the road that circled the campground. No one else appeared to be up yet.
“They don’t shoot again until this evening so everyone’s sleeping in,” Edwina explained. “This campground was supposed to be ours, but some of the Aliens crew have been moving in because Moab’s so full of tourists.” Edwina looked wan for so early in the day and Charlie noticed more new wrinkles and pouches than she had the night before.
They turned off at a beat-up Bronco, a one-man backpacking tent, and the aromatherapy of morning coffee. All the campsites had picnic tables under roof shelters made of redwood slats, cooking grates on pedestals, and signs warning campers not to build fires anywhere else in this fragile landscape. A man stood fanning the smoke away from his eyes at this grate. He looked a lot like Mitch Hilsten, the movie star.
“Charlie, this is Mitch Hilsten.” Edwina introduced them.
“Figures.” Charlie regretted the condition of her hair and lack of makeup.
“He’s narrating Return of an Ecosystem.” Edwina studied her daughter suspiciously. “And he likes sleeping out under the stars.”
Edwina had written Charlie one long carping letter and made some boring phone calls about this filming she was about to be involved in. Not once had she mentioned the name Mitch Hilsten.
“One egg or two?” Mitch Hilsten was one of those superstars you always thought of in terms of both names. And his was the voice Charlie had thought familiar last night.
“Where’d you get eggs? I’m down to oatmeal,” Edwina said as if she were addressing an ordinary mortal.
“John B. and I went shopping last night, brought back a few good things for everyone.” He flashed his famous teeth. “Just visit his rig when he wakes up.”
He served them eggs over easy, cold smoked salmon, fresh-squeezed orange juice, and French bread. The sun managed to reach under the slatted overhang in time to warm them as they sat down.
Charlie fantasized telling her daughter and her best friend, Maggie Stutzman, that the Mitch Hilsten had once cooked her breakfast. Congdon and Morse did not handle his category of talent.
Except for the gleaming smile and powder-blue eyes, he looked all of a color in khaki pants and shirt, tan sheepskin jacket, California tan, and sandy hair. If this was an attempt to camouflage his identity and blend in with the desert backdrop, it was doomed to failure.
“Don’t know how I can get any groceries,” Edwina complained. “I’m not speaking to John B. Drake.”
“Now that your agent’s here, maybe she can straighten things out between you.”
“Charlie’s also my daughter.” Edwina mopped up the last of her egg yolk with the crusty bread and washed it down with coffee before she answered his startled glance between them. There was an obvious lack of similarity. “We adopted her when she was a baby. Missed out on all the labor pains but none of the bills, heartache, or hassle, let me tell you.”
Charlie shrugged at Mitch Hilsten. He jumped up to bring the coffeepot from the grate. Known around Hollywood as private, reclusive, and rude—on the screen he came off as tortured, in need of mothering, sexy beyond belief, and even mildly intelligent. He was of medium height, which was tall for actors in the flesh. Still, Charlie was disappointed, as she invariably was with the big stars she’d met. They were so much smaller than on the screen, pathetically human—fearing they’d be recognized, terrified they wouldn’t.
Edwina peeled another strip of succulent salmon off the bones. “First time you’ve ever invited me over. Couldn’t be because of my lovel
y agent here, could it?”
He set the coffeepot down and blew on his hands pretending it was the pot rather than the question that was hot. “Tell you the truth, Edwina, I just had to see what that husky voice looked like. I could sort of see her in your trailer last night but she kept ducking behind you.”
They turned to Charlie for a response so she blurted out the first inanity that came to mind. “Like, there must be a sizable budget here … I mean … for a documentary. Uh … to have someone like you hosting.”
“I’m practically donating my time. I love this country. I’m a dedicated environmentalist and look for any excuse to get out here.”
Someone with your income can afford to worry about saving the wilderness for the beasties. Rest of us have to worry about keeping our jobs and feeding our kids. But she said, “I take it this is not a union project here.”
If it were, all meals on location would be catered and cast and crew would be put up in motels despite the number of tourists.
Hilsten pulled a slow grin. “Utah’s a right-to-work state. Fantastic natural sets and nonunion conditions make it very popular with filmmakers. Even Cabot’s working his crew without benefit of union.”
Still, it was hard to believe a star of this caliber, even if fading, would be camping on the ground and doing his own cooking. No hangers-on/assistants. Maybe he really was the recluse and outdoorsman the hype proclaimed. Or was this all just a way to keep his face before the fickle public eye?
Charlie recalled reading that he hadn’t made any pictures the last few years and that the last few had done nothing spectacular at the box office. But, with the string of smashes from his younger days, Mitch Hilsten would be a household name for decades even if he never acted again. Wouldn’t he?
For a guy he wasn’t all that old but his name was often used in conjunction with “as good-looking as” and handsome was currently out of fashion in leading men.
“So, now that you’ve met her,” Edwina said, “what do you think?”
“Edwina!”
“Think I’ll do the dishes. I’ve seen what you do with them.” He removed his sheepskin, rolled up his sleeves, and reached for their plates—then froze in mid-movement.
Charlie watched the grin in his eyes fade, form a dangerous squint like in Deadly Posse.
She turned at the sound of an approaching vehicle. It was desert-camouflaged, military. But instead of uniformed soldiers, Gordon Cabot and another man sat in it, Cabot driving. As they drew closer, Charlie recognized the other man as Sidney Levit, the producer. Were things so bad he had to work with Cabot?
“Christ, it’s a Humvee. He’s not even on the road.” Mitch watched them pass as if stunned then started after them on foot, soapsuds clinging to the hairs on his arms. Neither Cabot nor his passenger seemed to notice anyone else, so deep were they in argument—hands flailing, shouting words Charlie couldn’t quite distinguish over the roar of the Humvee.
“That man’s got to be stopped,” Edwina said in a voice that chilled even her daughter. And Charlie had tangled with this woman all her life.
Chapter 3
“I have a return ticket on a plane leaving tomorrow afternoon. We’re going to have to straighten out your affairs the best we can today,” Charlie told her mother at the door of the tent trailer. “And I have to call home. This is Saturday.” Libby would be out of school and on her own.
“When’s the last time you came to see me?” Edwina turned, her hand on the latch. “You just got here.”
“If anyone should know what I’m facing back there it’s you. Now I’m the one raising a teenager.”
“Well, I hope you do a better job than I did.” Edwina pushed Charlie aside and stomped off across hillocks of sand and scrub toward the concrete bathrooms. “There’s a phone down at the Visitors’ Center.”
Charlie’s eyes teared again. But this time not because of flying sand. How long must she go on apologizing for her life and for Libby’s?
She stood undecided behind Howard’s Jeep. Should she try to talk to John B. now or walk down to the Visitors’ Center and phone Libby? Charlie ended up doing neither because once again there was a shouting match going on behind the pile of rocks she’d climbed last night.
The bowl appeared smaller in natural light. Three teenage girls in heavy makeup draped themselves over various rocks on its far side to pout for a cameraman setting up shots. Charlie wondered if they were about to be devoured by alien animals. Two vans were parked next to the Humvee, off the marked roads as forbidden to all vehicles by forest service signs at each switch and turn.
But the real drama staged itself just below her where Mitch Hilsten, Sidney Levit, Scrag Dickens, a man Charlie recognized from pictures in the trades as John B. Drake, and Gordon Cabot formed a rough circle around yet another man—the latter up to his elbows in plasterlike material he was scooping out of a wheelbarrow and slapping onto a grouping of rocks at the base of the wall. Scrag stood to one side as if to break with the circle, arms folded, observing more than participating. Sidney, on the other hand, a man known for his patience in nursing along troubled projects, was obviously still strung out.
“Too much helicopter time for location shots we can do by miniature in the studio. And now this. Gordon, you are making no sense here.” Levit wore a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up above his elbows. The Animal Aliens producer was one of a fast-disappearing breed of old-timers in the industry—tall, thin, white-haired, with pale skin that shouldn’t be exposed to a sun trying to get serious here. Even the spooky wind whirring through the pine needles was heating up. God, Charlie hated nature. She took off her jacket.
It seemed strange to see doc and feature crews mixing like this—even in animosity, sharing the same mesa top for location sites, not to mention the campground. There was a definite pecking order here and a feature would take precedence over a documentary.
“Location plus helicopter equals overbudget, drastic overbudget, Gordon,” Sidney Levit continued. “You are losing your mind and you are losing mine. And we’re going to lose our shirts if—”
“Every project goes over budget, Sid. Everybody knows every project goes over budget. Everybody expects it except you.”
“Mine don’t.” John B. wore a red-and-black-plaid flannel shirt, faded Levi’s, and hiking boots. Charlie had heard or read something juicy about him once, a scandal of some kind, she just knew it. She just couldn’t remember it. “I use what’s available and don’t spend megabucks messing with—”
“Look, Drake, much as I appreciate your puny efforts, not everybody can make a living off sticks and cutesy-pie bugs, know what I mean? These rocks are not right for the aesthetic tone I have in mind here.”
“They are right,” Mitch Hilsten said with the low menace that had given Charlie erotic dreams as a teen. “They are perfect. Nature made them that way.” Each statement brought the superstar a step closer to the little director. “You come this far. For this setting. And then you have to fuck it up.”
The men who had given way to Mitch’s threatening approach grabbed for him now as he appeared about to take a swing at Cabot. Everyone but Scrag, who glanced up to grin at Charlie.
She crawled off her perch and walked away. Somehow, guy stuff had seemed more dramatic on the big screen when she was a kid.
Charlie found herself on a path carefully edged with rocks, an occasional low and unobtrusive sign pleading with her not to leave it and stomp on the fragile ecology.
It was springtime, May, and the morning warmed enough now for her to wish she could shed her last sweatshirt. She also wished she could shed the wash of guilt Edwina invariably induced. That’s probably what had so discolored the scene she’d just left. Given her a funny uneasiness. Guilt or no, Mitch Hilsten or no, Charlie would be glad to get on that plane tomorrow.
Scrubby plants and bushes sported flowers, as small and understated as their faint fragrance. Charlie was aware of birdsong because it was so scant—not the usual morn
ing cacophony you barely notice because it blends into a background noise like traffic. Each little trill or chirp or peep was distinct and alone and perfect here, spaced from its companions like the plants and shrubs along the trail, where the sand stretched tidy and clean between.
There were deer tracks though and, if you looked closely and had a mother like Edwina who made a point of such things, you could pick out the faint trails of the ubiquitous desert rodents.
Charlie came upon the stone and mortar parapet without warning. It was only knee-high. She backed away and sat in the middle of the path, head swimming with adrenaline, guilt and sexy superstars long forgotten.
Cavorting around on the expanse of mesa top, she hadn’t kept in mind why this whole area was referred to as Canyonlands.
The drop on the other side of that parapet was a good thousand feet straight down.
If you threw a live body over that parapet, you’d never hear it splatter. Even in tall buildings in New York or mountain overlooks in Colorado, she’d had to sidle up to windows or cliff edges. Charlie never took a window seat in an airplane.
She wasn’t sure if it was natural curiosity or that she always feared she might be missing something, but she sidled up to the parapet by scooting along on her tush. At the bottom of the first thousand feet was a broad benchland with a narrow ribbon of road. The road had another chasm running along beside it with another thousand-foot drop to a mud-cream river that looked about as wide as a string from here.
“Oh boy.”
Sitting down made the parapet more like chest-high. You couldn’t trip over something chest-high and go sailing out into space and plummet in agonized dread for thousands of feet knowing—for what would seem like hours—the sure and final outcome.
Still, this was not a comfortable place for Charlie Greene. She slid back to the middle of the path before she stood.
Murder in a Hot Flash Page 2