“I’d be terrified to even try putting one on,” I told Robbie, eyeing the fashion fantasies that were now somehow in my care. “What if I damaged it?”
I’d sent her pictures of the gowns. She was ogling them from her kitchen in Beverly Hills, which didn’t give her the perspective I had on how very tiny they were.
“Oh, come on. How can you have Marilyn’s gown and not try it on?”
“Have you seen Marilyn?” I asked her. “And have you seen me? I question whether we’re even the same species, let alone the same size. Maybe if it was Jane Russell’s—she was at least taller—but Marilyn?”
“Okay, then try the Audrey Hepburn,” Robbie encouraged. “You can pull off Audrey Hepburn.”
“Just because I don’t have boobs it doesn’t mean I’m Audrey Hepburn,” I told her. My figure could most kindly be described as “athletic,” which was fine for being the manager of a classic movie theater. It hadn’t been quite so fine when I’d been expected to suit up for red carpet events with Ted over the years. I was a normal human woman, not a double-zero sylph or a curvy goddess, which seemed to be the only two shapes Hollywood designers deemed permissible.
“You have boobs,” Robbie informed me. “You just don’t have the kind that slap you on the chin when you’re on the treadmill like mine do. Not that I’m on the treadmill that often.”
“Can we stop body shaming ourselves and get back to the dresses?” I asked. “What am I supposed to do with them? They should be in some sort of temperature and humidity-controlled environment or something, shouldn’t they?”
“Probably. Do any of the museums up there have textile departments? Maybe they’d be able to rent you some space or something.”
“It’s just like Ted to give me something that will cost me rent instead of giving me the money that’s actually mine.” I slumped into a chair, facing my glittering charges. Ted had not responded to my text. “Give him the filthiest of all possible looks the next time you run into him, will you?”
“I can’t,” she said. “Because that would mean acknowledging him as someone who exists. He’s dead to me. I can’t give filthy looks to the dead.”
“You should be written up in the encyclopedia of best friends,” I told her. “Who else is dead to you?”
“After that meeting on Monday, I would have said Tommy,” she said. “But he may not be our problem anymore.”
“Oh, so we’re allowed to talk about Tommy now?”
“For a minute. Do you think he really killed that guy?”
It was the question of the day.
“I have no idea,” I said. “Detective Jackson won’t tell me anything, which isn’t exactly a surprise. You know Tommy better than I do. Could he do that sort of a thing?”
“I’ve written several hit shows based on the premise that anyone could do anything, given the right motive,” she said. “But the how and the when of it don’t make sense to me. If you’re going to knock off you partner, why would you do it so publicly? Why wouldn’t you give yourself an alibi?”
I thought about it. “Maybe doing it publicly was the point? The game is front page news everywhere now, not just on geek websites. From a crassly commercial perspective, S’s spectacular online death is great publicity.” I got up to blow a tiny speck of dust off the white My Fair Lady dress. I’d have to drape the tissue around them all before I went home. “And what do you mean about Tommy not being our problem anymore? Can’t he own a quarter of the Palace from jail?”
“Maybe, but he won’t be in much of a position to call in to board meetings from cell block C.”
“No.” I saw her point. “That’s a cheerful thought.”
“Assuming he’s actually found guilty,” she cautioned. “Let’s not forget he’s a rich white dude.”
“There’s that,” I agreed.
“And speaking of rich white dudes, I’d better go. I’ve got a breakfast meeting with one of them in the morning.”
“They’re everywhere,” I whispered ominously.
“For now,” she said easily. “But there are more of us than there used to be. There will be even more of us when you start writing scripts again.”
“And on that note…” I said.
She laughed. “Okay, I won’t push. Say goodnight, Gracie.”
I grinned. “Goodnight, Gracie.”
If I did start writing scripts again, they’d probably be about murders.
Chapter 11
“The entire world is losing its mind,” Brandon announced, the lobby door clattering shut behind him.
“I feel that way all the time,” I told him.
He was there for his regular after-school shift. It was Friday, so the lineup had changed. In keeping with our week-long salute to technology in film—which was seeming like a misbegotten idea at this point—we were showing The Computer Wore Tennis Shoes (1969, Kurt Russell and all the usual Disney supporting players) and The Honeymoon Machine (1961, Steve McQueen and Jim Hutton). In Tennis Shoes, a clean-cut college student gets a computer’s data transferred to his brain, resulting in comic hijinks, and in Honeymoon, a couple of clean-cut Navy men try to break the bank at a European casino using the government’s computer, resulting in comic hijinks. People used to think technology was so funny.
When Brandon appeared the two-thirty was under way and I was ostensibly on duty at the candy counter while mainly scouring the Internet for information on poisons. Just out of idle curiosity.
“Losing its mind about the game,” he clarified, slinging his backpack onto a shelf below the counter. “Nobody’s found a coin yet and as of today they’re each worth four million dollars.”
“Shouldn’t you be online looking for one?” Maybe I should.
He snorted, reaching for a cup to get himself a soft drink from the machine. “I’ve been stuck on a puzzle all day. I need to take a break before my head explodes.”
“That must be some puzzle.”
He nodded, gulping his drink. “That’s one of the reasons the Internet is losing its mind. The puzzles, the world-building—it’s way more complex than anything anyone has ever done before. It just doesn’t seem like you can win. Or, at least, not without paying a ton for clues.”
“What does that mean?”
He took a drink of soda and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Like this puzzle I’m stuck on. It’s a maze, and I could solve it in a minute if I paid for a map.”
“Real money for a virtual map?” I thought of Lisa and her comment about virtual cookies.
“Two dollars,” Brandon nodded. “Real dollars.”
“That seems like a reasonable investment for a four-million-dollar coin,” I said.
“Sure, but two dollars here and three dollars there and suddenly you’re hundreds of dollars into the game and no closer to finding a coin. That’s another reason the Internet is going crazy. Some people have spent thousands already. And they are pissed.”
I wondered if Tommy had realized there would be this kind of hostility toward how the game was played. I wondered if he and S had argued about it.
“Some people are forming alliances, trading charts and maps and codes, but it’s hard to trust someone you meet online when there’s four million dollars at stake,” Brandon said glumly.
“I would imagine so. Do you think the game’s making any profits so far?”
My teenaged employee gave me a look that implied I was an idiot. “Only about fifty million dollars.”
“What? How do you know that?”
He shrugged. “Everyone knows. Just look at the stats.”
There were very few things I wanted to do less than look at the stats. “Still, if all five coins were found today that would be twenty million they’d have to pay out.”
“Sure,” Brandon agreed.
“And if it goes on much longer, with no
body finding a coin and the payout ticking up by five million dollars a day…”
Suddenly he looked interested. “And if at the same time the payout is adding up, people are getting discouraged and giving up…”
“This could be a disaster,” I finished.
Brandon stared at me. “No way.” He shook his head. “S is a genius. Was a genius. There must be something we’re missing.”
“Maybe they assumed the coins would be found more quickly?” I guessed. “So the payout would be smaller?”
“But you wouldn’t really want that,” Brandon countered. “You’d want it to last long enough to build momentum. S’s last game was an international phenomenon. That doesn’t happen in just a couple of days.”
“That was the game with the space monsters?” I asked.
He nodded.
“Did that one have an ending?”
“Sure, you had to find them all and blast them, so the human race could survive.”
“But every player found their own monsters, right? I mean, if I downloaded it a month after you’d finished, I could still play.”
“Sure,” he said. “Or I could play again. The game would be different every time.”
“Which isn’t the case with this game,” I said. “In this game there are only five coins, and everyone’s playing the same game, or at least they’re all in the same world at the same time, right?”
He nodded.
“What happens when the coins are all found?” I asked. “The game is over, right? Nobody else will play it, or keep playing it, because why would they? There’s no more point. The revenue would dry up instantly.”
“Unless there’s another release or something?” Brandon asked. “I mean, there’d have to be, right? An expansion? A way to level up or something?” For the first time he looked doubtful. “Right?”
“Maybe.” Or maybe Tommy had realized that S Banks’s game could bankrupt him.
“I was so right!” Callie announced, barging into my office later that day.
“I never doubted you. Right about what?” I hung up the phone. I’d been talking with Lisa from the café across the street about the dessert table she’d be setting up for the midnight movie that night. The movie was Desk Set (1957, Katharine Hepburn and Spencer Tracey), one of my favorites, and we expected a big turnout.
“S Banks was totally a paid promoter for Lyquid.” Callie flopped into one of the chairs facing the desk.
It took me a minute before I got it. “The smoothie? The thing he drank onstage?”
She nodded. “The Internet is losing its mind.”
The Internet was doing that a lot today.
“There’s a rumor going around that something in the drink killed him,” Callie went on. “People are demanding a recall. They’re saying it’s tainted.”
“Is that true?” I opened my laptop and started typing in a search.
“Who knows? The point is, I knew he wouldn’t have taken a drink on camera like that if he wasn’t paid to. What?”
I’d stopped mid-type. “If he was paid to take a drink onstage,” I said, figuring it out as I spoke, “people must have known he’d do it. At least some people.”
“I mean, okay…” Callie said.
“And if one of those people wanted to poison him…”
Her eyes flew open. “Omygod! Do you think that’s how Tommy did it?”
“That’s how I would have,” I said. “Not that I would have,” I amended.
“I mean, sure,” Callie agreed.
“The question is, would Tommy have known S was going to drink from that bottle onstage?”
“How do we find out?”
Which is when I noticed the headline that had popped up on my newsfeed.
“What?” Callie asked, seeing the look on my face.
I turned the computer screen so she could see it.
“Tech entrepreneur Tommy May released on bail as police follow multiple leads,” she read. Her eyes widened and she stared at me. “Sooooo…he didn’t do it?”
I stared back at her. “That’s one question. Here’s another: If he didn’t do it, who did?”
I didn’t have time to think about S, Tommy, motives, or games for the rest of the day. We were going all-out for the Desk Set midnight movie party, our grand finale to Technology Week, and there was a lot involved. Most of the movie takes place in the reference department of a media conglomerate on the cusp of computerizing, so our decorations were obvious but detailed. I had to trail a fake philodendron across the balcony landing. I had to haul an old metal desk up from the basement and arrange a rotary phone and a rolodex on it. I had to position a water cooler at the end of the concessions stand, and litter the lobby with reference books and pencils.
We were going to hold a Reference Desk Trivia quiz from the stage before starting the movie, and in addition to the usual popcorn and candy, a food truck parked outside would be selling fried chicken—a nod to the dinner Katherine Hepburn cooks for Spencer Tracy one rainy night. Lisa would be serving her goodies from a stand in the lobby.
One of Callie’s film student friends with a passion for set design had used cardboard and aluminum foil to construct a surprisingly realistic replica of the film’s EMERAC computer. It even lit up and made a boop-boop-be-do sound that made me happy every time it went off. My only regret was that my budget didn’t extend to costumes. I would have worn the hell out of that swing coat Hepburn bought for herself. I made do with a pencil skirt and twin set that I found in Robbie’s closet in the big house. At the last minute I twisted my hair up and stuck a pencil in it.
We expected a good crowd. Not only was it a great movie, but our Friday night parties were starting to become a cool local thing. Which is just what I’d hoped and worked for.
I got nonstop texts starting at about five. Monica said she was going to be there, and she was bringing both Abby and her salesperson Kristy. Bringing Kristy had been my idea. I hadn’t managed to talk to her earlier in the day, and I hoped I’d have a chance that night. I wanted to know how friendly she’d gotten with S the day before he died.
Another text, from Hector, let me know that he and his cousin Gabriela would be coming, so I put a “reserved” Post-it on the seat next to the open space in the back row where her wheelchair would fit. My phone pinged regularly with incoming updates from friends, customers, and vendors, so when I got a text from a number I didn’t recognize I didn’t think twice before clicking it.
I’m sure you heard I’ve been released, but the cops are still coming after me. We need to talk. I’ve sent a car to pick you up. I need your help.
It was from Tommy.
Tommy needed my help? Why would he ask for my help?
I looked up from my screen to the rush of activity all around me, everyone making the last preparations before the doors opened at eleven. Then I looked at the text again and registered something. Tommy hadn’t asked for my help. He’d expected it.
That expectation felt horribly familiar. This text from Tommy was insanely similar to the “I need you” note I’d gotten from Ted.
The adult and rational part of my brain knew that Tommy wasn’t Ted, but his attitude was identical. He needed something, and his need was the priority. Of course he expected me to drop everything to show up for him. People probably did that every day of his life. And maybe I would have too, once. But I wasn’t that person anymore. I blew out a breath and replied.
I’m working. If you need to see me tonight, you can find me at the Palace.
Blog Post: Desk Set
1957
Yes! I’ve wanted to write about this one for so long. I know I say this a lot, but I LOVE this movie!
You have to understand. For so many years I wanted to work in the Reference department of a massive New York broadcasting company, and I wanted Bunny Watson to be my b
oss. I wanted to be excellent at something interesting, surrounded by clever, fun colleagues who all like each other. I’ve grown up a little since then, but not that much. I’d still kill to work for Bunny Watson.
For those of you deprived individuals asking, “Who’s Bunny Watson?” I give you Katharine Hepburn at the perfect point in her career. She was forty-nine when she made this film. No longer the effervescent young thing of her early screwballs, not yet the arch dowager she’d become. She’s the Katharine Hepburn who knows who she is and likes it. She trusts herself. And in this movie, as Bunny Watson, she’s simply a joy. She’s a rare tropical fish, and you’ll know what that means when you see the movie.
Okay, so what’s it about? It’s about the modern American workplace (circa 1957) and how people like the girls in Reference were worried about being put out of their jobs by a computer. Ah, technology! It’s always been a love/hate relationship. We love the flashing lights and beeping noises, we hate the idea of it being better than us.
Let me start with some history. Before there was the Internet, there was the Reference department—a room full of books and smart women. When anyone wanted to know anything, they called the girls in Reference to find out.
The Reference department we’re concerned with here is part of the Federal Broadcasting Company, a fictional TV network. We meet the three women who work there as they answer the near-constantly ringing phones. “Reference Department, Miss Costello, Miss Blaire, Miss Saylor…” This is where all the single ladies work. Played by Joan Blondell, Dina Merrill, and Sue Randall, they also talk about clothes, give unsolicited dating advice, and loan each other money. Have I mentioned how much I wanted to work there?
Overseeing this bookish paradise is Bunny Watson (Hepburn) the best boss ever. She sweeps into the office with a breezy “Morning kids, wait till you see what I snagged at Bonwit’s.” (That’s a now-defunct department store.) She’s been shopping, yes, but she also worked until ten the night before and was over at IBM for an early meeting to look at their new computing machine. Work/life balance? Bunny Watson invented it.
Movie Palace Cozy Mystery Boxed Set: Books 1-3 Page 56