Magic Hour

by Susan Isaacs

  Lindsay's own hair had been under a wig cap, and they'd put on dry wigs for when she ran and a wet wig for when she came up out of the water; he'd stood there in the surf, styling it for her. When they'd called her for a scene, she'd always been ready. Where was she when she wasn't acting? In wardrobe or her trailer. Yes, it was possible for her to have gone out and come back. Sometime late afternoon, there had been a turnaround that took over an hour. There was no big deal with the lights, but the Steadicam operator was having trouble with his harness. No one saw her during that time; she always liked her pri­vacy. Nobody knew what she did: probably read mag­azines, because the trailer was filled with every maga­zine ever printed—she was probably looking for her name or her picture; they all did that. But maybe she slept, or meditated. Who knew? Who cared?

  I thought that Lindsay would have been taking a big chance if she'd tried to slip away unnoticed, be­cause of the time factor. Besides, as the hair guy ex­plained, there could always be a wardrobe or script crisis that required her presence. Also, she was just too noticeable.

  I asked if there were any other wigs around. Not white-blond ones. He said there were a couple of dark-brown ones in the makeup trailer, but they were for Nick Monteleone.

  On the TV, one of the airline stewardesses was starting to play with another one's nipples; they were standing in the galley with their blouses off. I yawned. I was so wiped out. The grips gazed at the screen, nudged each other. I lost the hair guy's atten­tion. I was too tired to care. I left the room.

  The Summerview was standard motel, an elon­gated two-story rectangle with a balcony running the length of the upper floor. It was not for the socially ambitious visitor to East Hampton: no famous news­paper columnists or politicians or fashion designers would be found rubbing shoulders over the toaster waffles in the King of the Sea Coffee Shop. It was a place for normal people who wanted to sit on a per­fect beach by day and get a little glamour by night: browse in shops they couldn't afford, or squint into passing Rolls-Royces to see if Steven Spielberg was inside.

  The Starry Night production company had taken over the whole second floor of the Summerview. I walked along the balcony. From the sounds coming from room 237, either that TV was on, too, and one of the stewardesses had found a guy—or a couple was making it in a major way. I yawned again and waited about thirty seconds for them to come, but they didn't sound like that was on the agenda for a while, so I knocked, hard. About a minute later, the costume designer, Myrna Fisher, opened the chained door about two inches and peered out at me. She was a woman in her fifties, in an inside-out negligee. I showed her my shield and said I was sorry if I'd woken her, but I had some questions, and could I come in. She said she had a ... a guest. I said I wouldn't keep them long. Just a few questions.

  She unchained the door and let me in. In the bed, with the sheet pulled up to the top of his neck so just his skeleton head showed, was Gregory J. Canfield, Sy's production assistant—all one hundred and ten pounds and twenty years of him. "Hi, Gregory," I said.

  "Hi," he peeped.

  I wanted to tell him it was okay, I wouldn't call his mother, but instead I motioned to Myrna to take a seat at the round Formica table that stood in front of the tightly closed drapes. I sat on the chair across from her. "Tell me about Lindsay Keefe last Friday. How was she behaving? Did she see Sy Spencer when he came to the set? Anything you can think of."

  For a minute, Myrna kept feeling for the buttons of her negligee, but since it was inside out, she finally settled for holding it closed. I couldn't believe she was a costume designer; with her dumpy figure, gray hair and blotchy skin, she looked like a Suffolk County payroll clerk. "It's the big party scene under a tent. Originally I was going to put her in a canary-yellow Scaasi—halter top, pouffy skirt—but then they changed the script and she had to run into the ocean, so she was in saffron silk pants and blouse. Cheapies: we had six of them. Elizabeth Gage jew­elry. Charles Jourdan mules, but she loses them in the sand."

  Gregory chimed in from the bed. "Mules are shoes. Backless, with heels." I nodded thanks. Myrna beamed at him before she turned back to me.

  "Sy came into the wardrobe trailer sometime around eleven. We'd just gotten Lindsay out of her wet clothes, wrapped her in a bath sheet. They said hello."

  "Did they kiss or show any signs of affection?"

  Myrna considered the question. "I think—I won't swear to it—he kissed her on the neck or shoulder. But I didn't believe it. They'd lost it."

  "Lost what?"

  "Their thing for each other. Well, his thing. It was always his. I've worked on three films with her, and I don't think she really..." She gave me a Know-what-I-mean? look; I gave her a Gotcha nod. "But Sy Spencer was crazy for her."

  "What was the attraction, other than her looks?" I liked Myrna. She was a shrewdie. "That she was such an intellectual?"

  "Sleeping with brainy men doesn't make you an intellectual. Lindsay's not really all that smart. But Sy was wild for her—and not for her mind. He was wild because she was so cold. I'd never worked on one of his projects before, but my guess is that women fell all over themselves trying to impress him. Lindsay couldn't have cared less. He wasn't one of her left-wing passion pots. He was just a rich sucker who could buy her things. She didn't care what he thought, or what he had to say. It made him crazy about her."

  "But that stopped."

  "Yes."

  "Why?"

  "Well, I don't know what went on in their bed­room." She snatched a quick, happy eyeful of Greg­ory. "But you must have heard there was a problem with her performance. I'm sure that didn't sit well with him. And also, she's very boring. She talks about her approach to a character—for hours. Or she gives you a speech on racism or on world hunger. She acts like she's the only person in the whole world with a conscience—except her boyfriends with Viva Zapata! mustaches. That's ridiculous. Most of us care. Some of us are charitable. But that's not how real people talk when they're getting a seam pinned. Lindsay does, though. She can't talk about normal things, real life, because she's dead inside. And in the long run, Sy Spencer was no necrophiliac."

  "That means—" Gregory began.

  "I know what it means, Gregory." I turned back to Myrna. She was smiling, charmed by Gregory's ear­nestness. "What happened after Sy kissed her?"

  "Not much. He said he was off to L.A., that he hated to go and he'd miss her terribly. I didn't believe a word of it."

  "Anything else?" Then I added: "Anything about money?"

  "Yes. Right. She said she needed some cash, and he said all he had was the money he needed for the trip, but by that time she was going through his pockets—patting them, like police do—and she took out a wad of bills."

  "What did he say?"

  "Nothing. He let her have it. My guess is, it had happened before."

  "And then?"

  "They both said, 'I love you, darling,' 'I'll miss you, angel,' and he left."

  "Did she seem sad? Upset?"

  "Actually? Angry. She held that wad of cash like it was his balls. She squeezed as hard as she could."

  I sat in the office of the Summerview. The night man­ager had been more than cooperative. She'd stopped just short of curtsying when I'd asked to use the phone, and she'd begged to be allowed to bring me coffee. Either she was a cop groupie or she was run­ning numbers out of there. Probably numbers.

  I called Carbone at home and told him that since I'd been in East Hampton anyway, checking out Bon­nie's friends, I'd dropped over at the Summerview on a hunch; I explained how I'd gotten the catalog creep to admit he'd paid Bonnie off the books, and now I had a witness who'd seen Lindsay dredging in Sy's pocket and coming up with a bundle of cash, and another who'd taken five hundreds' worth of twen­ties she gave him to pay for underwear.

  "The case against Bonnie is starting to look fee­ble," I remarked. He didn't respond, which I took as agreement.

  I asked if he'd left Robby at the office, still reading files. Carbone said no, that h
e'd gone into the squad room right before he'd left and Robby hadn't been there. One of the other guys had told him Robby had rushed out, as if something was up. Like what, I wanted to know. Carbone hadn't a clue, but knowing how Robby lacked stamina, maybe he'd just had to hurry and get home and hit the sack.

  I hung up feeling edgy. Robby was on a rampage; he'd been enraged enough to lie about my drinking. A guy that crazed doesn't just go to sleep.

  I drove west, toward Bridgehampton, then dipped south of the highway, past Bonnie's house. No sign of Robby: Thighs had just come on duty and was parked across the street from her place. He was devouring a bologna-and-American-cheese hero; the mayonnaise on his chin glistened in the moonlight. I asked, She turn up yet? He shook his head.

  I had him come inside with me, up to her office. Bonnie had loads of files, but I couldn't believe it. For a writer, she had no sense of letters; it looked as though she'd never figured out how to alphabetize. Most of her papers were in folders or manila enve­lopes, but these were stuffed, randomly, into drawers or piled on an old-fashioned wooden in/out box. Eventually I found her Sea Change file. My heart started to hammer. I opened the folder as if half ex­pecting it would blow up in my face. But there were Sy's memo and his note: "Adore it!"

  I had Thighs read over my shoulder. I told him the case against Bonnie was falling apart, and he might as well pick up a few points by helping it collapse, bringing in the file showing that although Sy hadn't written, Sure I'll make your movie, he hadn't rejected her screenplay either, not by a long shot. You're sure you don't want the points? Thighs asked. You found this. Hey, I told him, it's okay, buddy. You'll be doing me a favor. I don't need points anymore; I've gone as high as I can go in the squad. And all I've been doing lately is sabotaging the case against Bonnie. Carbone and Shea already think I'm on some crazy crusade to clear her, and since she's going to get cleared any­way, you might as well be the hero. I sensed Thighs was no great fan of Robby's, so I added: I guess you've heard Kurz is nipping at my ass on this one. He wants to nail her. I'd appreciate it if you could help me out. Thighs said, My pleasure.

  Good: I wanted a witness that the memo and Sy's note really existed. I couldn't believe that if Robby came back he would actually destroy them. But I wouldn't have put it past him to lose them for a few days. I figured any guy who could eat bologna, American cheese and mayo was my kind of guy, a human septic tank, so after I left, I stopped at the deli, got a six-pack of Yoo-Hoo and some Ring-Dings and Devil Dogs, and brought them back to Thighs. That sealed the deal. Jeez, he said, Steve, thanks a hell of a lot. Let me pay you for all this. You sure? Oh, hey.

  He was mine.

  Moose began to bark as I pulled into my driveway, and I had such a surge of gladness that I forgot I was stupid with fatigue. I pictured walking in to the dog's delirious tail-wagging, hand-licking greeting, then rushing into the pineapple room, sitting on the edge of the bed and having Bonnie put her arms around me, draw me close, press her cheek against mine and whisper, Please, just hold me. The homeyness of it made it such a enticing vision.

  I squared my shoulders, stood up straight and braced myself. I knew from AA how fatigue can make you vulnerable; you cannot stand firm when all you want is comfort. The mood I was in, it wouldn't be the consolation of booze that would seduce me. It wouldn't be wild sex. It would be sweetness, and soft conversation.

  I strolled inside, gave Moose an indifferent, platonic pat and checked my answering machine. Just Lynne: "I guess you must be very busy. Good night, Steve. I love you and I'm thinking about you. Speak to you tomorrow."

  I was wiped; maybe that was why Lynne's under­standing irritated the hell out of me. Why, for once, couldn't she say, You self-centered fuck, why can't you take two minutes and pick up the phone? But then I thought: No. You had to appreciate how se­rene she was, how adult, how truly superior. Only then, fortified, did I go in to see Bonnie.

  She put the Stephen King book she'd been reading on the nightstand. She'd taken a shower, washed her hair; it was shiny and wet, pulled back tight, braided. She'd changed into the clean pink T-shirt I'd brought from her house. The plaid blanket was pulled up high, prim, almost to her neck, as if she'd decided to become the definitive old maid. Except she gave me her wonderful, welcoming beacon of a smile. "Hi!"

  "How's it going?" Hey, forewarned is forearmed. I was on alert. I could afford to be slightly friendly.

  "It's going okay," Bonnie said. "I had a couple of minutes of panic. I mean, I've been making jail jokes, but when I actually think about it—"

  "Then take it easy on yourself. It's been a rough time. Don't think about it."

  Hearing Lynne's message had really cleared my head. Bonnie was the next couple of days; Lynne was the rest of my life. The only thing that made me edgy was sleeping in the same house with her. I'd be okay. I was so knocked out I'd probably be asleep as soon as I took off my shoes. But I was troubled by a picture of Bonnie tiptoeing through the dark house and slip­ping into my bed and murmuring, Please, just hold me. Any touch—her fingers grazing my chest, her legs brushing against mine—might make me lose all sense. I couldn't afford to be faced with that. My palms started to sweat. I pretended to be kneading sore muscles and wiped them on my pants. I decided I would just lock the door of my bedroom.

  Then I sat, but I maneuvered the chair so it was farther from her bed. Okay, this was better. The situa­tion was under control. "Let me give you the Lindsay Keefe story," I said. I told her, in detail, everydiing I'd learned in the course of the investigation.

  She sat with her arms hugging her knees, like a kid at a campfire listening to a riveting ghost story. I waited for her to say, Wow! Good work!

  Except she just shook her head and said: "Get a good night's sleep. You need it."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean, you'll think better in the morning."

  "Stop that patronizing crap. It irritates the hell out of me."

  "You call this a case against Lindsay?" Bonnie de­manded.

  "She had motive. He was going to fire her."

  "So she'd hire a lawyer and fight it. Or hire a publi­cist and leak word about what a disaster Starry Night is and how she couldn't compromise her standards of excellence by working on such a consummate piece of schlock."

  "Come on. Word was around the movie business about what a disaster she was. If Sy fired her, it could ruin her." Bonnie gave me a fast roll of the eyes, a supercilious you're-not-an-insider look. "I want you to stop being so fucking condescending, Bonnie."

  "Who do you think Sy was? A 1939 mogul with a big cigar, a Louis B. Mayer who could say, 'You'll never work in this town again'? No. Sy was a first-class producer, which is a good thing to be. But Lind­say's a star. One crummy performance wouldn't do her in."

  "You're the one who said her agent was probably begging Sy not to fire her."

  "That's his job. But what if Sy had told him to stuff it and did fire her? Lindsay would survive. Listen, she's as cold and calculating as they come. I'm sure she knew getting the ax wasn't going to help her career, but she also knew it wouldn't hurt it, not that much. Certainly not enough to kill for."

  "You're assuming she's rational," I said.

  "Do you have any evidence that she's not?"

  I edged forward in the chair. I wanted to convince her, get her over to my side. "I have to trust my gut in this business, and I'm telling you, she's flawed. Beau­tiful, yeah, but something major is missing. A realiza­tion that she's human. And when Sy withdrew from her, first as her number one fan, then as her boy­friend or fiance or whatever the hell he was, it was a sign she wasn't perfect. And she couldn't take it."

  "I hate to say it, but you have a better case against me."

  "You know, you can read all the stupid mysteries you want, but you're still a total ignoramus when it comes to homicide."

  "How did she get from the set in East Hampton—without being seen—to Sandy Court?"

  "I'll figure it out."

  "How?"
/>   "What are you, her goddamn defense lawyer?"

  "And even assuming she knows something about a rifle, beyond holding it right so she looks like she knows how to shoot, where would she have gotten the weapon?"

  "In a gun store, you jerk."

  "You have to register in New York State, don't you?"

  "They have to record the sale of rifles. But she'd give a false name."

  "And the gun store owner wouldn't recognize her and be overjoyed that Lindsay Keefe had bought a .22 from him? He wouldn't tell the world? Tell the po­lice?"

  "She's an actress," I insisted. "Do you think she'd walk in with blond hair and tits, or would she dis­guise herself—maybe in one of Nick Monteleone's wigs?"

  "Where would she have hidden a rifle? Under the bed she was sharing with Sy? In Mrs. Robertson's cookie jar?"

  I got up. "Anything else?"

  "Don't get angry just because I don't agree with you. Listen: I used to be a pretty good shot. My dad gave me a Martin for my twelfth birthday, and I went hunting with him and my brothers on and off for the next six years. If I had to shoot someone through the head from what ... fifty feet?"

  "Yeah."

  "Okay, if I decided on the spur of the moment to blast Sy, could I get him in the first round? Maybe. If I'd planned a murder, took target practice, I'd say I'd have had a good chance. But to think someone like Lindsay—who had a couple of hours of instruction with some sex-crazed white hunter she'd been sleep­ing with—is going to be able to fire two bullets into Sy and score bull's-eyes both times, then you should hang up that gut you trust and go into another busi­ness."

  I didn't say good night. I didn't say anything. I just stalked out of the room.

  *17*

  This is why I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep: The gallon of coffee I'd drunk during the day. My fears about Bonnie. Fear one: The case against her was unraveling, but the sideburnless, crew-cut, pink-faced assistant D.A., who looked like a cross be­tween a pig and a Ku Klux Klan grand kleagle, might still be able to get an indictment and then a convic­tion. Fear two: Bonnie, knowing her own innocence (or her own guilt), would steal out of the house dur­ing the night, and none of us would ever see her again. Fear three: She'd slip into my bedroom, and I'd have to reject her. Fear four: Knowing I'd never be able to reject her, Bonnie would slip into my bed­room, keep me at it the whole night, then use her hold over me, get me to build a case against someone—anyone—else. Fear five: Bonnie Bernstein Spencer was a killer, whose rage was surpassed only by her coolheadedness and coldbloodedness. The girl with the great smile was a criminal genius, who would always be one step ahead of the smartest cop. Fear six: Bonnie was what she seemed to be, a good and smart and thoroughly decent human being. If I did manage to prove her innocent, she would spend the rest of her life alone, without ever having had some­one to love her.