Magic Hour

by Susan Isaacs

  "We'll know more after the autopsy." Just then, Moose gave a deep, lovelorn sigh and lay down at my feet. On my feet, actually.

  "Everything I can think of to say is a cliche—but I hope he didn't suffer."

  "I hope not."

  "Well," she said, "I guess you weren't just cruising the neighborhood and felt like a cup of coffee."

  "I guess not." All of a sudden I realized I had seen her before. Probably at the post office, getting her mail.

  "I guess you have some questions," she said.

  "Yes."

  But I didn't ask any. I got busy pretending to for­mulate a question while studying her cow pitcher. What I was actually doing was checking out if Bonnie had a body worth writing home about under that big T-shirt. Naturally, when I caught myself doing it, I got pissed because I'd always made it a point never to think about sex during work hours (which is gener­ally a snap, homicide not being generally conducive to hard-ons), and also because wanting to know what was under her T-shirt made me feel ridiculous. If she were in a movie, she'd be the heroine's good-natured girlfriend, a tomboy with a heart of gold. But for someone who wasn't attractive, she was so attractive. Here I was, half hoping she'd need something on a high shelf. She'd have to stretch up her arms; her shirt would rise and I would get to see her ass. It made me feel like a louse. Since AA and especially since Lynne, I'd stopped my bad-boy crap, my auto­matic concentration on anything female, my reflexive coming on to almost every woman I met.

  "Tell me about you and Sy Spencer," I said quickly. "How long were you married to him?"

  "Three years—1979 to 1982." She poured the boil­ing water through the coffee filter. "You don't take notes?"

  "I think I can manage to remember 1979 to '82." I'd forgotten to take out my pad. Suddenly it felt like a block of lead in my jacket pocket. "Amicable di­vorce?"

  "Even if it hadn't been, do you think I'd shoot him seven years later?"

  "I'm open to all possibilities."

  "Well, I didn't shoot him." Her manner was sol­emn, sincere, proper; if Bonnie Spencer's mouth was from the city, the rest of her had grown up in that nice non-New York hometown, wherever it was.

  "Good. Now, do you want to answer my question? How was the divorce?"

  "Amicable."

  "Fair settlement?"

  "I got this house."

  "Just the house?"

  "Yup."

  "Was there any litigation?"

  "No. Both of us were just overflowing with amica­bility. 'Bonnie, please take the alimony.' 'No, Sy, but thanks so much for thinking of me.' "

  "Why no alimony? He was rich."

  "I know. But back then, I didn't care about money. Oh, and I was in my wronged-woman phase: 'Do you honestly think a monthly check will make up for the loss of a husband, Sy?' " She shook her head. "God, was I morally superior. You can imagine Sy—and his matrimonial lawyer. They must have been shouting 'Hallelujah!' and jumping up and down and hugging each other."

  I didn't like this. At the same time I was being vigilant, trying to figure out just what was wrong with Bonnie Spencer—because I knew there was something wrong—I was finding there was some­thing about her I really liked. Maybe I was just intoxi­cated by the homey atmosphere—being at that bright-polished wood table in the fresh-smelling country kitchen, watching a woman open a cupboard and think for a second before choosing from a bunch of mugs. Maybe it was that big hairy black mop, Moose, warming my feet. I could just feel myself let­ting go, my brain turning to mush. Bonnie put the cow pitcher and a sugar bowl down on the table and handed me a mug of coffee. The mug said "I love"—the "love" was one of those hearts—"Seattle!" and had a cartoon of a smiley animal with funny-looking flippers.

  "I know it's tacky," she said. "It was a choice be­tween tacky and chipped."

  "You didn't get any alimony at all?" I tipped the pitcher. The milk came out of the cow's mouth. It was so dumb.

  "I never dreamed I'd need it. See, when I met Sy, I was a hot screenwriter. My movie—Cowgirl—had just opened. It got great reviews, did decent business. And during the time we were married, I wrote five more screenplays. Three of them were in develop­ment." She sat down across from me at the table. "When you're a big success right off the bat, you assume it's going to go on forever."

  "It didn't?"

  She shook her head. "No. Cowgirl was my first and only movie. Nothing ever happened with any of the others. Anyhow, Sy offered to pay me alimony at least three times. But I wanted to show him I could be independent. And you know what? In the long run, it really was better this way."

  "Why did the marriage break up?" She was clearly not a New Yorker, because instead of giving me a socio-psycho-feminist analysis of the relationship, she clammed up. "Come on," I urged. "I know this may seem like an invasion of your privacy, but someone's been murdered. I need a picture of this man's life—a complete picture."

  It took her a while, but finally she opened up. "When we met, in L.A., Sy was trying to produce his first movie. I guess I was the important one—the toast of both coasts. Okay, the semi-toast. He loved coming along for the ride. He met a lot of people. You know, contacts.

  "I don't want to make it sound as if he was using me. I think he truly thought I was ... well, won­derful. And he was so smart and worldly that when he proposed I thought: Gee, if this man is in love with me, maybe I am wonderful. Anyway, pretty soon he made his first movie, and then his second. And let me tell you, Sy earned his success. He wasn't just another rich guy who wanted to get into the movie business to date actresses or impress his friends in Cleveland. He was a born producer."

  "What makes a born producer?"

  Bonnie didn't have to think for much more than a second; she'd done her legwork on Sy a long time ago. "He has to have a good story sense; Sy had a great one. And the ability to get people excited over his vision. And be a trendsetter. If everyone else was making heartwarming movies about farm families with lovable old grandpaws and alfalfa blights, Sy would make something stylized and science-flctiony because he loved the script and believed it would make a great movie."

  "So he became a big producer. What happened to you?"

  "Nothing much. I stopped needing an unlisted number."

  "You're not saying he dropped you when you stopped being a hot screenwriter?"

  "Yup."

  Yup? "Where are you from?" I asked.

  "Ogden, Utah. Is Moose bothering you?"

  "He's okay."

  "She. Can't you tell? She loves men. She drops me in two seconds flat for anything in pants. She's the town slut." Real fast, Bonnie's doting dog-lover smile faded. She glanced away, up at the wall clock, but she wasn't interested in the time. I made a mental note to check on her reputation.

  "How did Sy drop you?"

  "How? Not too hard, considering how much he wanted out. He told me—very gently—he had been having an affair with someone. Some society lady, like his first wife, except this one didn't look like she ate oats and neighed. Anyway, he told me he was in love with her and it was causing him enormous pain to be hurting me, but that he would appreciate a divorce so he could marry her."

  "But he didn't marry her."

  "No, of course not. He just wanted out. He was having the affair anyway, so he used it. I guess he thought it would be easier for me if there was an­other woman; he knew I could accept love a lot better than him saying, 'Hey, Bonnie, I hate taking you places because you're taller than me and a has-been."

  "And you weren't angry at this kind of treatment."

  "Of course I was angry! If you go back seven years, I bet you'd find twenty witnesses who heard me yell­ing: 'I hope you die, you louse.' But time passes. And the fact of the matter is, we wound up being friends."

  "When was the last time you saw him?"

  "I'm not sure." But she was! Damn it, I could feel it. She lifted her chin, examined a pot holder on a hook and pretended to think. "A few days ago, I think. I dropped in on the set."

  "And b
efore that?"

  "Let's see ... Oh, about a week before. He asked me to come over, to see his house."

  "Did you stay long?"

  "No. He just gave me the fifty-cent tour."

  "How good friends were you?"

  "Pretty good friends."

  "Did you spend a lot of time with him?"

  "Not all that much."

  "Did he visit you here?"

  "He dropped by once or twice. But we were mainly phone friends. He was my colleague, my col­laborator. See, I hadn't written any screenplays for a few years, but last winter, when I gave it another shot, I sent it right off to Sy. I mean, I hadn't seen him since the divorce, but I knew he'd give me a fair reading. And he really liked it!" She massaged her forehead. "Oh, God almighty, I can't believe he's dead."

  "What about the script?"

  "What? Oh, we were developing it together. It was a kind of female-buddy spy movie."

  "What exactly does 'developing' mean?"

  "It means working on a project—the script, the financing, trying to get a good director or a star in­volved. But Sy never moved on a project until he was satisfied with the script. And mine—it's called A Sea Change—wasn't quite in shape to be sent out. But he had a lot of great suggestions. I was rewriting based on his suggestions."

  "And then he'd produce it?"

  "Yup."

  "Was he paying you a lot?"

  "Well ... he wasn't actually paying me yet. But if I'd asked, he would have given me option money."

  "Why didn't you ask?"

  "I guess the same reason I didn't want alimony. I didn't want to seem greedy. I know, that sounds stu­pid. No, it is stupid. But Sy always worried that peo­ple—women—were out for what they could get from him. I didn't want him to think that of me, either time. Anyway, I knew he'd be fair once we got roll­ing."

  "How do you support yourself? Family money?"

  She laughed and looked around the kitchen. "Does this look like family money?"

  "You live in Bridgehampton all year round?" I was really surprised.

  "Sure. Oh, I see; you thought this was my sincere little summer cottage where I go to get away from my forty-room Sutton Place triplex. No, this is it. I sup­port myself by writing. I do the 'Happy News' col­umn for the South Fork Sun. I'm sure it's the high point of your week: weddings, babies, anniversaries. 'Penny and Randy Rollins of Amagansett's famed Wee Tippee Inne celebrated their nineteenth anniversary with a gala extravaganza—featuring Penny's world-famous fish chowder!' And I write copy for mail-or­der catalogs. Stuff like 'White swirls of rayon chiffon set aglow by luminescent faux-pearl buttons.' "

  "You didn't resent Sy, that you had to give up screenwriting, give up all that high living for some­thing ... less exciting?"

  "Resent? A woman tends to resent a man who says, 'I don't desire you anymore.' " She looked away, em­barrassed. Then she went on: "But that's on a per­sonal level. Professionally, how could I resent him just because other people weren't hiring me as a screenwriter? That wasn't Sy's fault. Eight studios and fifty thousand independent producers rejected my scripts. They said they were sweet. Sweet is movie speak for insignificant. But in all those years I never doubted that Sy wished me well."

  "Did you ever talk about anything beyond this new project?"

  "Sure. Look, I know his friends, his family."

  "Any brothers or sisters?"

  "No. Just Sy. Both his parents died since the di­vorce. But he had aunts, uncles, lots of cousins. I knew them all; we went way back. When I met him, he was still publishing his poetry magazine and trying to get his first movie produced, and his office was still in the Spiegel Crown Kosher Provisions build­ing."

  "Spiegel?"

  "Spiegel was his name originally: Seymour Spie­gel." She shook her head. "He changed it the sum­mer before he went to Dartmouth. I never under­stood why. I mean, what did he think he would say at graduation? "These are my parents, Helen and Morton Spiegel. Their name used to be Spencer, but they Judaicized it.' Or if he was going to change his name, why not go the whole route and call himself Bucky? I mean, Sy is not a quantum leap from Seymour."

  Just then, Bonnie got stopped by some memory of Sy. Her eyes opened too wide, the expression people use when they're trying not to cry. She stood up and got busy sponging off what looked like a clean stove.

  And then it happened again: the imposition of self-control, followed by the conscious shifting of the gears of her personality. When she turned around, she was composed—but with just the appropriate de­gree of concern. "Do you have any ideas about who killed him?" she asked. Sincere. Saddened. Full of sympathy. Full of crap.

  "Do you?"

  "No," she said. For a woman her age, she looked like she had a great body. I tried to figure out where I'd seen her before. Maybe running. She had the slim, muscular legs of a runner.

  "Think back over the last few weeks. Was Sy angry at anybody?"

  She leaned against the kitchen counter and smiled. "Everybody. When he was making a movie, anyone who gave him a hard time was an enemy. It was funny, because for all his charm he was aloof, and always in control. When we were married, we'd have fights where I'd yell, kick the refrigerator, and Sy would watch, like he was watching an actress doing an improvisation: Wife Losing Her Temper.

  "But when he was producing—God, that was an­other story! Goodbye charm. And forget aloof. His money and his reputation were on the line. He never yelled—that wasn't his way—but he'd lace into peo­ple in this icy voice. It could really get scary—all that fury expressed in this absolutely cold manner. Let me tell you: he got his way."

  "Was he angry at anyone the last time you talked?"

  "Lindsay, I guess."

  "But they were living together. They were sup­posed to be in love."

  "Well, I've got to tell you: the love part is debat­able. But even if they had been, this is the movie business. An executive producer doesn't love an ac­tress who's jeopardizing a twenty-million-dollar project. Sy told me the dailies were awful, which really surprised me because her success isn't just based on blatant beauty; she's a talented actress."

  "But you think Sy got disillusioned with her?"

  "Sy had a gift for falling in and out of love pretty easily."

  "Let's put love aside. Was he annoyed with her? Angry?"

  "Furious. He said she was just coasting—not put­ting any thought or energy into the role because it wasn't an 'important film.' That really ticked Sy off, because it was an article of faith with him that any movie that's true, that moves audiences—even a screwball comedy—is an important film. He believed in Starry Night. And Lindsay didn't. What made the problem even worse was that she has such a monu­mental ego she couldn't see how flawed her perfor­mance was. And naturally, she wouldn't try to fix what she'd decided wasn't broken. Let me tell you, if he hadn't gotten killed, he would have made her life a living hell."

  "So he was ready to steamroll Lindsay?"

  "Yup. And the director too."

  "What's his name?"

  "Victor Santana."

  "Why was he mad at him?"

  "Because Santana had gone gaga over Lindsay and couldn't or wouldn't get her to change."

  "Anyone else?"

  "Oh, his usual hate list. The director of photogra­phy they'd hired—a French boy genius—was shoot­ing too pastelly. The line producer was bellying up to NABET—the film technicians' union—too much. Sy was angry at everyone."

  "Okay, then who of the movie people was seri­ously angry at Sy?"

  "I don't know. I'm not part of the Starry Night company."

  "How about Lindsay Keefe?"

  "My guess is if you tell a critically acclaimed actress—a movie star—that her performance is putrid and then, no matter how many little adjustments she makes, that the dailies are still awful ... well, you figure it out. But even I wouldn't believe she'd shoot him because he criticized her work."

  "Who else?"

  "I don't know."

&
nbsp; I looked her straight in the eye. "He was your ex-husband. He could talk to you."

  "We didn't talk all that much."

  "You talked enough. What else was on his mind?"

  "He never really said anything specific."

  "Tell me anyway."

  "Well, I just want you to know this is my interpre­tation of what he didn't say."

  "Go ahead."

  "This is a very expensive movie for an independent production. I think maybe he was a little concerned that his backers were upset. The people who in­vested might have heard about trouble on the set, and they might have gotten anxious."

  "Who were they?"

  "Specifically? Beats me. I think a couple of them may have been from his days in the kosher meat busi­ness." She paused. "You know there are some rough people in that industry."

  "Yeah, there's mob money in it."

  "From the little Sy said, though, these guys didn't sound like out-and-out goons. More like businessmen in suits and ties, except with five-pound gold ID bracelets."

  "Was that all? No one else with a grudge?"

  "I'm pretty sure." I waited while she thought. "Nope," she said at last. "No one else. Definitely."

  I stood and faced her. She lowered her head so I was looking down at her dark, shiny hair. Her breath­ing became quick, shallow. I knew I was getting to her. Not just the cop: the man.

  "Bonnie, you're smart, observant. Sweet too, and I mean that as a compliment." She tried to look me in the eye—casual. But her face had flushed bright pink. "You're not being straight. I get the feeling you're holding back, and that concerns me."

  "I'm not holding back anything." Just for an instant her voice caught in her throat.

  I moved in closer. "You could help me solve a mur­der, Bonnie."

  "I can't. Honestly. I've told you everything I know."

  "Listen, if things were going lousy with Sy Spen­cer's movie, with Lindsay, who would he confide in? Who knows the business? Who knows him? You."

  "Please. I've told you everything he told me."

  "I've got to tell you: something about you doesn't feel right. What are you hiding?" She turned her head away from me. "Come on, do you want me to start thinking maybe you were involved?"