Soap Opera Slaughters

by Marvin Kaye

  “She can’t handle teasing on personal subjects like men.”

  “Never could.” Lara regarded me appraisingly. “Underneath the thin ice, though, Hilary’s honest and decent and has a lot of love.” A shrug. “She’s damned special. I hope you know what you’ve got.”

  I cocked an eyebrow. “I’m not aware I have anything. Especially lately. And she’ll be the first to say she’s not a possession.”

  “That, love, is only the lady’s press handout.”

  Listening to Lara, I felt disoriented. For the moment, she was one hundred and eighty degrees removed from the woman I couldn’t stop watching on “Riverday.” She was Hilary’s cousin, that’s all. Though I was fascinated by her lips, they formed her words so carefully, shaping every vowel with machined precision, crisply shearing off the consonants. She also had impeccable placement. There was a velvet texture to her voice, a caress of sound that came from her diaphragm, curving to the back of her throat before lips and tongue and teeth gentled it into words. Her technique was smooth enough to seem artless, the effortlessness of endless years of practice.

  “I think,” she was saying, “that you still have a few things to learn about Hilary.”

  “And vice versa.”

  “Very likely.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “And I imagine Hilary told you all sorts of salacious stories about me?”

  “Your name has come up. But I never connected you with Cousin Lainie.”

  “Hm?”

  “With Lara Wells.”

  She eyed me curiously. “You’ve seen me act?”

  “Every afternoon, five days a week.”

  A peal of merry laughter, followed by an impulsive squeeze of my arm. “Gene, I’m sorry! It’s just that you don’t strike me as a typical soap opera addict”

  “I’m not, I’m a Lara Wells addict”

  “Sweet blarney, love.” She puckered her lips into a kiss. “But you only say that because I look like Hilary.”

  “Well, not so much up close.” It was true. Subtle telltales distinguished her. Lara’s cheeks were flatter, hinting at an elongation that the years would probably accentuate. Her eyes were more heavily lidded than Hilary’s, they lent her an aura of mystery, of imperfectly suppressed sensuality. Unlike her cousin’s refractive gaze, Lara looked at me frankly, sizing me up and ultimately accepting me without any hint she might prefer me some other way. An important difference.

  The banter continued. “Gene, I adore your hyperbole, but it’s actually baloney. You don’t watch me every day, I’m only on a few times a week.”

  “Granted. Which is why I never miss an episode. Just in case.”

  “God!” She laughed. “Keep that up and I’ll drag you off to my cave! However, according to all the national polls,” Lara stated in the flat metal timbre and clockwork rhythms of a computerized message, “the average soap viewer only tunes in two or three times a week.” She resumed her normal voice. “I admit you’re way above average, love, that’s what Hilary claims, but if you really watch me every afternoon, when do you find time to work?”

  “All right, I confess! I watch at night on a VTR.”

  She rolled her eyes in pretended panic. “Omigod, you’re not a fan, you’re a fanatic! Call out Security!”

  Abandoning the badinage, I asked whether the statistic she’d cited was really true.

  “Sure is. Why do you think they give us all those boring recaps? “Roberta, did you know Mart’s having an affair with blahblahblah?’ That sort of thing.”

  “Which I’ve noticed there’s less of on ‘Riverday’ than some other shows.”

  “Uh-huh. That’s one of the reasons Ed won so many Emmies. And probably a contributing factor to our fight for audience share. It keeps slipping.” She brooded on it briefly, then waved it away as Hilary reappeared with Lara’s next scheduled interviewer.

  The latter individual was an ax-faced andiron named Jess Brass, a bony, humorless woman who serves as chief critic and gossip columnist for the New York Daily Lineup, a raggy tabloid with an unwholesomely large circulation. Her column, “Daylong Lineup,” consists of plot synopses and behind-the-scenes scandal about the soaps. Brass has a talent for stinging innuendo that places her high among the apostles of the John Simon method of criticism, which holds that viciousness is an apt substitute for percipience. She is a small, insecure woman whose narrow spirit envies and resents most of the actresses her position forces her to notice in print...which she does by mining the dungheap of her own neuroses. Her column, of course, is enormously popular. Compost always draws flies.

  The angular woman put a folded newspaper on a tabletop and sat down to interview Lara with as much enthusiasm as an intern preparing to dissect decomposing tissue. As Lara took the opposite seat, Hilary tugged my sleeve and drew me away.

  “Brass won’t begin till we leave,” she said. Nodding I followed her to the bar and ordered a Bushmill’s. I knew Hilary still was bristly from Lara’s chaffing, so I tried to establish a truce by clinking my glass against hers, but she just glared at me.

  “Well, what are you smirking about, brightness?”

  I took a sip to control my temper. “Look, Hilary, I’m attempting to maintain a diplomatic silence.”

  “Really? Then you’d better stop thinking so loud.”

  “Thoughtcrime won’t be a statutory offense till 1984.”

  If she had a comeback, for once I was spared hearing it. Suddenly ignoring me, Hilary looked across the room. Her brows drew down.

  Turning to see what was the matter, I observed Lara, still at the table, sitting with rigid back and wide-staring eyes. There was no color in her cheeks.

  Hilary hurried over. “Lara, what’s wrong?” No answer.

  The folded newspaper Jess Brass brought with her was open beneath the actress’ nose. Hilary snatched it from the columnist’s grasp.

  I peered over Hilary’s shoulder and saw a single-column, three-deck page-three headline stripped over a photograph of a good-looking man with long dark hair, pencil-line mustache and glasses.

  I read the headline and story.

  POLICE IDENTIFY

  TV WRITER

  AS NUDE FALL VICTIM

  Medical examiners told police today that the naked man who fell to his death yesterday afternoon from the roof of the Manhattan studios of WBS-TV on West 53rd Street is Edward Niven, 43, award-winning head writer of “Riverday,” a “soap opera” taped daily in the block-long broadcasting complex.

  NYPD Chief Inspector Louis Betterman said that though Niven’s office is in the same building there is no explanation why he should have been on the roof on a weekend, when “Riverday” is not in production.

  “He didn’t sign in at the security desk,” the police officer stated. “Nobody knows when he arrived, or why he avoided entering the front way.”

  No explanation has been tendered for Niven’s nakedness. No clothing was found on the roof.

  The report ended with a few facts about Niven’s long career as a daytime drama writer, and how he’d consistently won the Emmy for “Riverday,” a show he held a part interest in.

  Typical generalist reportage, I mused sourly. The questions the reporter didn’t ask Lou Betterman could’ve filled as many column inches as the article already occupied.

  “Gene,” Hilary said, “take Lara away. She and Ed were good friends.”

  As I guided the stricken actress to the door, Hilary eased Jess Brass to a neutral corner without actually breaking her fingers.

  “THAT BITCH!” LARA SPOKE low, but with great vehemence. I silently agreed with her assessment of Jess Brass.

  I stayed with Lara till Hilary joined us and took over. I retired to another part of the room while the cousins whispered to one another. Hilary did her best to calm Lara. The love they had for one another shone through; they shared a sisterly closeness.

  Soon, Lara felt she could handle the rest of her interviews, Brass excluded. The actress’ earlier sparkle was g
one, but she went through the necessary motions and was done by half-past three. Hilary suggested late lunch, but Lara wasn’t hungry.

  “I‘d better call New York. The producer might be trying to reach me.”

  “But it’s Sunday,” I reminded her.

  “Makes no difference. The Ames office may have left a message on my service, what with—what with Ed’s death.” She drew a ragged breath. “And I’d better call Florence, too.”

  “Why?” Hilary asked, an element of surprise in her voice.

  “Because she’s probably falling apart”

  I asked whether she was talking about Florence McKinley, lead actress on “Riverday.”

  “Yes,” Lara nodded. “She and Ed were lovers.”

  “All right,” I suggested, “why not stop at my place, it’s more or less on your way back to New York, anyway. I’ll fix us drinks, supper if you like, and you can use my phone undisturbed.”

  Lara said she’d appreciate it. She got into Hilary’s car and they followed me as I threadneedled my private route around City Line, avoiding most of the major traffic traps. We reached Pine Street by ten after four.

  Whatever prompted me to put a picture of Lara on my wall, I’ll never know. A few months earlier, I saw an attractive color photo of her on the cover of Soap Opera Digest, the Tiffany periodical of the soap genre. On impulse, I bought the issue and read about her. Nothing in the article connected her with Hilary, of course. Eventually I tossed out the magazine, but the cover—carefully trimmed to eliminate the male costar posed with Lara—now was taped above my desk.

  Lara saw it as soon as I opened the door. Her eyes widened for a second, glanced into mine, then looked away.

  Hilary saw it, too.

  Pretending not to notice, I crossed the room, cracked the bedroom door and told Lara the telephone was inside. She thanked me, pressed my hand in passing, and walked into the other room, closing the door behind her.

  “What would you like to drink?” I asked Hilary.

  “The usual,” she replied too sweetly. “You know me so well.”

  I tried to overlook her sarcasm, but she had no intention of making it easy. She sat down at my desk, put her chin in her hands, rested her elbows on the desk top and gazed adoringly at Lara’s picture.

  “All right, all right, I’ll take it down.”

  “Did I ask you to? It’s your apartment, you’re certainly permitted to decorate it the way you like.”

  “Hilary, knock it off.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Did I say something wrong? I beg your pardon! From now on, I’ll maintain a diplomatic silence.”

  “I said I’d take it down.”

  “But I regard it as a compliment. You never asked me for a personal photo. This must be the next best thing.”

  I yanked it off the wall and tossed it in the wastebasket.

  Hilary retreated into aloof nonconversation.

  I busied myself with ice, olive, vermouth and Bombay gin. Hilary accepted it without thanks. A good ten minutes elapsed, and neither of us said a word to the other. Once or twice our eyes met, only to slide away to some unimportant object or spot on the wall. I felt like having out the Harry business, but it wouldn’t be a good idea to bring it up during the deep freeze. Hilary just might hire someone else out of spite.

  Lara finally reemerged from the bedroom.

  “Well,” Hilary asked, “did you get through?”

  The actress nodded, passing a hand across her forehead. There were temporary creases there that the news of Niven’s death had brought. She looked a little pale and in need of a friend. I rose and steered her to the sofa.

  “What’s that?” Lara asked, indicating our half-empty glasses.

  “Bombay martinis. Suitable?”

  “Thanks, Gene.” Her voice was a little hoarse. I fought the urge to put my arm around her shoulder. I wasn’t sure if the impulse stemmed from a desire to comfort her or rile Hilary.

  I contented myself with mixing another drink and closing Lara’s fingers around the glass before sitting down beside her.

  She took a long, numbing swallow. Then she leaned back, eyes closed, and spoke. “I have to be on the set an hour earlier tomorrow morning. It’s going to be hell till they hire a new head writer.”

  “But aren’t you three weeks ahead on tape, like you said at the mall?” I asked. “Won’t that be enough to take up the slack?”

  “To replace Ed? No way. If a writer’s good enough to be a head writer, he’s already working.” Draining her glass, she requested a refill. While I mixed another, Lara mused. “We’ve got about five weeks’ grace. Besides fifteen shows already recorded and the five to be taped this week, the office will be copying and distributing next week’s scripts to the cast starting late tomorrow or Tuesday. Beyond that, Ed may have given Tommy one or two episode synopses to work on, but production—”

  “Tommy?” Hilary interrupted. “The snotty twerp?”

  “Uh-huh. Tommy Franklin, l’enfant terrible—literally—of the midday mellers. He’s our only episode writer now. Ed used to do two thirds of the dailies himself.” As she spoke, Lara absently smoothed and resmoothed the green tweed of her skirt over her crossed left leg. It was almost a caress.

  “Maybe they’ll promote Franklin to head writer?” I said.

  “Tommy? Not bloody likely. Ames’ll probably have to ask him to rough out a few synopses from what’s left of Ed’s ‘Bible,’ but that’ll be strictly stopgap. Ames can’t stand Tommy. He’d never willingly hire him.”

  “Sure about that?” Hilary asked.

  “Mm-hmm. For one thing, Florence can’t stand Tommy, either. If there was ever any question of it, she’d find a way to put a stop to it. She has little tidbits on everyone, and she wouldn’t hesitate to use them if her part was threatened.”

  “Is that how she’d equate Franklin becoming head writer?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes. He’d love to do her in, and she knows it.”

  The conversation lagged. Hilary fished the olive from her glass. Holding it between index finger and thumb, she put it to her lips and sucked out the pimiento, a habit of hers that drives me crazy. The look she gave me then informed me she was well aware of it, and tant pis.

  She turned to Lara. “You realize your early call tomorrow may have been forced on Ames by the police? You might have to answer a lot of questions.”

  “Oh, God.” A long pause. “Well, I can’t tell them very much, can I? I was out of town with you.”

  “True.” Hilary, apparently determined to get on my nerves, repeatedly tapped her forefinger against the rim of her empty glass, each time producing a hollow ping. “True. But you can’t avoid talking about Ed and Florence.”

  “I suppose not” Lara’s smile was rueful “Now that Ed’s gone, I’m practically the only one left Flo has to talk to.”

  Hilary did not reply.

  Again leaning her head upon the sofa, Lara once more closed her eyes. I observed the rapid swell and fall of her breasts, admired the graceful curve of her long neck, wanted to stroke the silken hair spilling onto her shoulder.

  I became acutely aware of Hilary watching me watching Lara.

  A silent time passed. I glanced from one cousin to the next, mired in a maze of feelings for them both. I cast about for something else to think about.

  Florence McKinley. In her role of Martha Jennett, she held the coveted anchor female part on “Riverday” ever since the program first came on the air. Like Macdonald Carey on “Days of Our Lives,” Florence received star billing under the title when the end credits rolled. In the story, Martha was wed to supper club owner Leo Jennett. They had three children: Bella, Matt and Roberta (Lara). Mother Jennett made McKinley an extremely popular character actress with the show’s fans because of the warmth and compassion of the character she portrayed. In private, though, she was alleged to be feisty, close with a dollar, and more reclusive than Garbo.

  “Did you call her?” Hilary asked.

  “
Yes. She expects me to come over when we get back tonight”

  “You didn’t tell her you’re coming?”

  “Yes.”

  Hilary clucked her tongue disapprovingly, but refrained from comment.

  “Flo’s turning Ed’s death into her own private melodrama,” Lara explained. “She wants me as her audience. Actually, she didn’t so much request as command my presence.” She finished her drink and put down the glass, olive untouched. “She’s sure Ed was murdered.”

  “What?”

  I was startled by Hilary’s vehemence.

  “You heard me. And that’s not all. Flo claims she’s being set up to take the blame.”

  I pondered the situation, but all I had was a handful of public facts and lots of unanswered questions. Insufficient data. One of the big things I was curious to know up front was why Lou Betterman, the police inspector, insisted that Niven fell from the roof. How could he be certain the writer didn’t jump, or get pushed, from a window?

  “Well,” said Hilary, flicking her fingertip a final time against her glass before putting it on the coffee table, “if you really can’t avoid going out to see her, I’ll drive you. Where does she live?”

  “Brooklyn Heights.” A mirthless smile. “But I have to warn you, you’ll stand a better chance of walking into The Oval Office unannounced. Flo probably won’t let you come in.”

  “Then wait in the hall.” Hilary stood up. “And tomorrow morning? I ought to sit in on that session, anyway.”

  “You can try,” Lara said doubtfully, “but I don’t think they’ll let you in there, either.”

  Hilary was being typical, I thought. Her own high opinion of her detectival skills made her think she could barge in anywhere she wanted.

  Lara and I both rose. She smiled apologetically. “Gene, I’m sorry we can’t have dinner, but it’s a long drive, and I have to see Flo, study my lines and still try not to stay up too late. We soap stars have to go to bed early.”