Cass reached into her pocket and pinched a quarter between her fingers. She then locked hands with Brandi. Brandi shot her a hateful glare and tried to pull away. Cass held tight. She then pressed the coin into Brandi’s palm and said, “Brandi, things don’t just disappear. It has to be stuck in your order book. Why don’t you look one more time?”
The audience clapped. Brandi’s glare dissolved back into sadness. She bit her lip, and the tears flowed more than ever. Cass pressed hard on the coin and said, “Please, Brandi. No one deserves it as much as you. Don’t give up. It has to be there.”
Brandi closed her hand around the coin, and Cass released her grip. Brandi once again shook the order book. This time a coin plonked onto the floor, rolled across the stage, and hit Cass in the foot. The audience rose to their feet and clapped. Cass looked down at her foot. This damn coin is giving me a headache, she thought. She picked it up, looked at Brandi, and said, “May I?”
Brandi couldn’t speak. She nodded.
Cass dropped the coin into the funnel, and the tally hit six dollars. Flash bombs exploded, confetti rained, and, in typical over-the-top StarBash fashion, all hell broke loose.
Brandi grabbed Cass into the most powerful Italian bear hug that anyone had ever lived to tell about. Cass heard the sobs. She felt the shudders. And then she heard Brandi say, “I should have accepted your apology because now I know you really meant it. I’m sorry; I should have forgiven you.”
And then she grabbed the Greasy Dishrag and twirled it over her head like a stripper. Brandi had made it back, and Hollywood was a better place for it. Hollywood was a better place, and Cass had helped to make it happen. It was a good day.
Chapter fifteen
Before the last piece of confetti had barely hit the floor, while Brandi stood in front of a hundred reporters and ten thousand camera flashes, while the rest of the cast—from first show to last—ramped up the wrap party, Micah dashed up the hill from the soundstage to his workshop. He needed to look at something.
From his desk he logged into the online film vault and found the footage from the master shot camera for that night’s show. A staple of television, this camera used a wide angle to capture all the action and all the players from the beginning of the show to the end. He loaded the footage into the computer program and hopscotched to the part where Brandi found the missing coin. From there it took about ten seconds for his suspicions to be confirmed: Cass had rescued Brandi.
Micah leaned back in his seat and shook his head. Almost anyone can be selfless if they have enough time to think about it and to arrange the circumstances so that the unpleasant act will cause as little discomfort as possible. Cass hadn’t had any of that. She’d had mere seconds to decide. She had a large sum of money at stake. Her fans wanted her to win. Her career desperately needed a win. Fifty million viewers had the reasonable expectation that she herself wanted to win. Yet, under the bright lights, under the weight of all those expectations, instead of winning she chose to help another human being. Cass Moreaux had done it once again.
And this was the same Cass Moreaux whom he had just ditched.
Micah had to wonder about his defective powers of discernment. He valued a thoughtful, steady demeanor over many other qualities, but his appraisal of Cass had been all over the map. First, before he had even met her, based on nothing but her Hollywood address, he decided that she had to be just another rotten apple. Then he got to know her, corrected his evaluation, and got it right. Then she lost her temper, he stormed off like a child, and he plopped her back over to the other side. Now he had video proof that he had been completely wrong and had to put her back where she should have been all along. He had been wrong, right, wrong, and right. He either needed to get his act together or go on medication.
In the meantime, while he sorted out these personal issues, the question of what to do next waited to be answered. While the heart clearly knew what it wanted, the head had some serious questions to ask. Namely, if the heart actually got what it wanted, what happened next? Life at the ranch? The same ranch that had killed his marriage? Life in Hollywood? Micah didn’t even want to think about that. And, thankfully, he didn’t have to because he didn’t have time to think about anything. Starting right then, the next twenty-four hours of his life had been booked solid with interviews and other StarBash promotion. And immediately after that, Lenora had saddled him with museum business on the other side of the country.
If the ranch never gave him anything else, it always gave him a safe wall of obligations to hide behind. Success breeds obligations, and more success always means more obligations. And at the ranch you ground through them because nothing ever got in the way of success. As Micah sat at his desk and thought about these things, his eyes fell upon the picture of his wife. She looked peaceful, like a day at the beach. For some reason the sight of that image, which depicted perfect contentment, began to distort the sight of the obligations that had been spawned from his latest success. They changed shape. They looked less like the by-product of success and more like feeble excuses that felt uncomfortably familiar. They tugged on his sleeve and said, “She’s leaving. What are you going to do about it?” They whispered in his ear and said, “Here we go again.” They made him wonder why he found it so difficult to draw a line in the sand.
Chapter sixteen
Micah woke up the next morning in a bad mood. He’d finished the first round of network interviews at two in the morning and had tried to catch a few hours of sleep. Thoughts of Cassandra Moreaux got in the way. Now he had to meet up with Brandi for a full day of interviews in Los Angeles and then catch a red-eye to Florida.
To make things worse, he also suspected that Lenora had a new scheme stewing in the cauldron. For her the cars had always been an afterthought—second fiddle to the real star of the show—and she didn’t trouble with them. But now, with a mountain of work still to be done on the rest of the museum, she had suddenly become interested, going so far as to personally book his flight to look at a car. It had to be a Lenora scheme. But was it an everyday pain-in-the-butt scheme, or was it a lock-the-doors-and-call-the-lawyer kind of scheme? In the end Micah decided to just get the trip over with as quickly as possible. The ranch would be virtually empty because the show had ended and the museum staff would be going home for the weekend. He’d hop over and hop right back. How much trouble could she get into in just two days?
He threw some clothes into a suitcase and headed out the door.
***
At six o’clock in the evening that same day, after the last of the StarBash cast and crew had left the ranch, after Micah had been conveniently ushered out of town, Lenora stood on the upper deck of the museum’s operations center. She wore a white lab coat and looked out over a dozen technicians who sat in two semicircular rows, facing away from her. They punched keyboards, studied computer monitors, and occasionally glanced up at the giant screen on the wall in front. The arrangement looked like a busy NASA control room. Lenora liked that. The Lenora Danmore Museum might not send anyone to Mars, but it most certainly had the power to open up other worlds for all who dared to step into her footprints.
“Listen up, people. It’s going to get busy, and you must stay in character at all times,” said Lenora. The technicians swiveled in their chairs and looked back at her. “And don’t be afraid of a few glitches. We call them hiccups…or brain freezes…or senior moments. It’s part of being human. If one of your cast members has a deviation, you are to follow low-level protocol. If that resolves the issue, send them to their next cue. If it doesn’t, send them to the shop and grab one of your backups. You are not to power down under any circumstances. This will be just a short test. If everyone does their job, you will be on your way home for the weekend in less than an hour.” Lenora’s team of wonks then swiveled back around and resumed their work.
The giant screen on the wall showed a live shot of the circular drive in front of the museum. A red carpet lined the walkway from
the curb to the opened museum entryway doors. Limousines, luxury cars, and a smattering of requisite eco cars waited in line for the red carpet. These shiny vehicles carried a large variety of android cannon fodder—presented as nondescript, rich investors—because a grand opening with only one guest wouldn’t fool anyone. It also gave the crew a chance to warm up before the main event. Lenora carefully observed that warm-up now.
A limousine pulled up to the red carpet. Uniformed valets opened the car doors, and the fashionable occupants emerged, he in tails and she in a shimmering evening gown, their perfectly believable human images gently kissed by a thousand camera flashes as they walked an invigorating gauntlet of photographers. These guests then rendezvoused with the ubiquitous velvet-voiced, microphone-wielding, red-carpet MC. He’d been programmed for wit and charm, and to lob sycophantic questions about beauty and prestige to the VIP guests. This type of personal interaction carried inherent risk, but the scene required it. Besides, even the most human of humans looked plastic in these particular affairs, so Lenora felt confident that her plastic MC would be safe. She had put her best technician on it just the same. At the end of the carpet a small cadre of snappy servants stood at the ready with champagne, hors d’oeuvres, and a pleasant escort into the exhibit.
Lenora liked what she saw, but it really didn’t matter. Turning back wasn’t an option. The job had to be done that day.
When the black BMW pulled up to the curb, Lenora resisted the urge to rally the troops. In case anybody ever asked, they had to be able to say that it had been just another day at work.
Cassandra exited the car. She wore a little black dress with pearls and a skinny smile. She looked tense if not a little suspicious. Lenora had expected something along those lines.
“And here’s Cassandra Moreaux, one of Hollywood’s hottest actors right now, thanks to her impressive showing on StarBash,” said the MC, as Cass passed through the gallery of photographers. “Let’s see if she has time for a few words.” He pointed the microphone at his target, waited for her to enter the kill zone, and said, “Cassandra, are the rumors true that you and Brandi Bonacore are in negotiations to do a movie together?”
Cassandra studied the MC closely for a few seconds and then said, “What a beautiful voice you have. I don’t recall ever hearing it before. What’s your name?”
“Rallye Rollins, BBC London, and thank you very much. That’s a compliment I’ll cherish forever.”
Cassandra removed a phone from her black handbag, punched at the keys for a few seconds, and then looked up at Rallye. She had obviously searched his name. Clever. But not clever enough. Rallye Rollins had a website, social media presence, and an unflattering online DUI mugshot.
“Yes, that’s right.” said Cass. “Brandi and I are doing a movie together, and I’m super excited about it. We should have more information for you in a few weeks.”
Now tell me, Cassandra,” said the MC, “you have conquered the big screen, the little screen, and the stage. What other surprises do you have in store for your fans?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t dare answer that, darling. A lover must have some secrets, or what’s the fun in being a lover? Now, tell me, Mr. Rollins, exactly how many rows are there on an ear of corn?”
This ambush question caught Lenora off guard. She grabbed the handrail to steady herself and tried to bark out an order but was too late. The MC had already begun answering. And he did it perfectly.
He said, “I’m afraid I’m not much of a farmhand, my love. Now, if you’re looking for a man who knows how many diamonds are on a Rolex, then our future together looks very bright.”
“Yes, I see,” said Cassandra, with a smile. She then moved on down to the end of the red carpet to be escorted into the exhibit.
“That’s a wrap, everyone,” said Lenora. “You did a good job. Now go home and enjoy the rest of your weekend. Don’t even bother shutting down. I’ll take care of it for you.”
***
Cass walked through the museum doorway and felt like she had walked right back into her mother’s life. The exhibit displayed one of the sets from her mom’s last movie. Cass had watched the movie a thousand times and had come to associate it with her mother’s life in a thousand different ways. And now here it sat, in the real world, real enough to see and touch. The illusion had begun, and Cass wholeheartedly embraced it. She melted into her assigned seat—front row, center—and stared at the set.
The movie had been a breakout vehicle for her mom, a herald of better times to come. Against this backdrop of hope, Lenora’s crime looked all the more terrible, but today Cass didn’t care. She’d been transported back in time, and if the live portion of the exhibit had captured even a scintilla of the original magic, then Cass would soon be closer to her mom than she’d been since the day she had died.
Unlike the other exhibits Cass had seen, this one included traditional theater seating for about a hundred people. The setting for the scene depicted the dank and crowded storage basement under Zander McCreery’s theater on Forty-Second Street in Manhattan. It looked like a storage area for a theater that over the years had collected more than its fair share of props, costumes, and set pieces. This included long bulging wardrobe racks and costumed mannequins stage left, hanging chandeliers and several rows of modular staircases stage right, and a jail cell at center stage.
The houselights dimmed. Cass’s heart raced. And then she heard a voice that she loved. It belonged to her mother, as taken from the soundtrack of the movie. She played the role of Violet, and Cass listened as this part of the production played offstage.
Violet: Here I am, Mr. McCreery. You called for me?
McCreery: Who are you again?
Violet: Violet Baker, fourth understudy for Hazel.
McCreery: Understudy! I don’t need an understudy!
Violet: …and wardrobe assistant…
McCreery: That’s what I need. Take these costumes down to the basement.
Violet: Yes, Mr. McCreery.
The sound of a squeaky-wheeled costume rack echoed through the theater followed by the sound of a rattletrap elevator.
Violet then stepped onto the stage, and Cass’s emotions galloped completely out of control. She tried to tell herself that she only saw a shadow…a mirage…but her mom looked so real, so alive. She wore a casual outfit consisting of a red-and-yellow-striped fitted midriff top, red high-waisted shorts, red-and-yellow ankle-strap wedges, and a blonde ponytail. It looked very 1950s and very sexy—as her mother had done so well at that time. Cass took a long, slow breath and tried to settle herself enough to enjoy her mom’s performance.
A spotlight followed Violet as she pushed the costume rack over to the others at downstage left and mumbled dejectedly to herself. She said, “Understudy to Hazel-the-halfback. Might as well be understudy to a rock for all the good it will do me.”
She suddenly grabbed a tattered straw hat from a nearby rack, put it on catawampus, and said, “Hi! My name’s Hazel! I’m built like a tree stump and haven’t missed a day of work since the hay cart ran me over!”
The audience laughed. Cass laughed through her tears.
Violet tossed away the hat and started transferring costumes from rack to rack. A particular gold-sequined evening gown caught her fancy. She held it up to admire and noticed a nearby mannequin dressed in a man’s suit facing her direction. She showed him the dress and said, “What do you say, mister, can you see me in this? No? Well, that’s just too bad because maybe I can see me in it.” She quickly slipped on the gown over her clothes, pointed at the mannequin, and said, “And maybe I can see a whole lot more than this…if you care to know.”
Cass joyously mouthed every word of dialogue. Now it came time for her mom to sing a song, a song that Cass knew very well because she and her mom had sung it a thousand times. Violet sang to the mannequin:
I see the top of the playbill, and maybe it’s not so far
I see the lights on the marquee and t
he day you know you’re a star
Camera flashes and cover stories and getting spotted on the street
Long lines and sold-out shows for a hundred dollars a seat
And Mister, if it’s all the same
I can also see the day
When someone knows my name
Violet turned her attention back to the costume racks but soon heard a stirring. She looked up and saw that the mannequin had come to life. Violet became mesmerized. She slowly walked toward him. He sang:
Say there, pretty thing
Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?
Onstage, on-screen
Or maybe you’re just the checker at the grocery store
The man suddenly turned back into a mannequin. Violet looked disappointed. She gave him a knock on the shoulder, and he toppled over. She sang:
I can see fairy tales that never will be
Glass slippers and little red Martians
Pixie dust and wild hobgoblins
How come I can’t see the fairy tale inside of me?
How come I can’t see the fairy tale inside of me?
Violet spied another mannequin nearby. This one was dressed like a cop and had a hand out as if directing traffic. Violet faced him and sang:
I see a private dressing room, and my name is on the door
I see the hills of Hollywood and midnight flights from shore to shore
Hopeful actors and clever playwrights and money makers gather ’round
They wait in line behind the faithful autograph hound
Death of a Movie Star Page 14