Cold Wind to Valhalla (Abby Fouchet Mysteries Book 3)

by Flo Fitzpatrick

  Thanks to the miracle of time traveling in television scripts, I was Vanessa Manilow in the present and actress Thea Donovan, a vampy saloon girl type, in 1917. I also had one more character for about two episodes where I got to dance—Thea Donovan playing one of those vampy saloon girls. In black and white. No name provided.

  Johnny Gerard was playing his usual Gregory Noble Supercop role but also was playing Dennis Noone, an enterprising film producer in 1917. Johnny was thrilled because Johnny got to be murdered. Not as Gregory Noble, but as Dennis Noone. Barbie Shapiro was her usual bitchy self as Letitia who has lusted after Gregory Noble for three years or more and she was also playing an actress in 1917 named Fredericka Reed. A non-regular on Endless Time, Dusty Howard, had been “guest” cast as Gilberto Davies, a 1917 sex symbol a la Rudolph Valentino and in present day, as Gil Davies, Gilberto’s great-grandson. Dusty and I had more than one kissing scene. I was glad I had these scenes with him and not any of the other “guest” actors who’d been specially cast in roles for the 1917 flashbacks. Every damned one of them smoked. Amazing in a world littered with warnings about every cancer known to man (or woman) but they had packs stowed every place they could possibly grab one during breaks. I have nothing against someone smoking if they’re that addicted but I’m not partial to cigarette breath and have been known to carry massive amounts of mints with me when I’ve been put in the position of having to lock lips with a human ashtray. Anyway, Dusty seemed like a fun actor to work with.

  “Abby!”

  “Yo!” I glanced over at Max, our production assistant.

  “Can you haul it to wardrobe? And I hate to ask, but do you think you can manage to do this scene in one take? Dolores says it’s the dumbest scene in the script and she wants it over with ASAP. But we need you in your saloon costume. We’ll do a quick run-through then go ahead and shoot it. It’s just you and Johnny and there’s almost no blocking so it should go pretty smoothly.”

  I stood, called back, “No problem” and headed off to the trailer I shared with two other moderately regular regulars on the soap.

  Fontana’s Inn was open for business.

  Chapter 12

  “So, Ms. Fouchet, what did you think of our first day’s shoot back?"

  I emitted an unladylike snort over the phone. “Loved it, darlin' other than being pissed that someone is doing his or her level best to turn Vanessa Manilow into a syrupy wimpy idiot. Why would anyone hire her to spy? Dolores Ellison and I chatted about this while you were grabbing that extra cup of coffee. She agrees with me that the character change is a crock of dog poop so she and I are fighting against it and we’re going to win because the producers aren’t stupid enough to antagonize the woman who’s won so many Emmys and Tonys she can use them as doorstops in a sixty room mansion. Which reminds me—don't you think Dolores Ellison is a total perfectionist, who incidentally can out bitch every nun I had in the first grade who ever tormented me about my crappy penmanship? But she's also one of the best directors I’ve ever worked with in my life.”

  Johnny laughed. “I don’t remember penmanship being taught in first grade but maybe my school was backward. Printing yes. Cursive? And I truly doubt that you had more than one habit-clad sister dealing with you in first grade. But I agree with you about Ellison. Did you see that production of Buried Child she directed for that limited run on Broadway about three years ago? It was before we met. Amazing.”

  "You know, I never liked that play until I saw her version and was so glad they didn't end the run until I'd been in Manhattan to see it! I was sobbing so hard at the end I couldn’t move. The ushers finally told me they were going to have me forcibly removed. I think she’s fantastic.

  “I agree. And I thought overall it was a pretty good day - on Endless Time, that is.”

  I bit my lip. “Well, no one tried to mug me. No one asked me what Colette’s last words were. The only reference made about Colette, other than sympathy for me and the whole situation was to that stupid article by Graham Sumner calling me Endless Time’s star. Mandy gave me a tough time every scene we had together although I think she was kidding. I'm hoping she lets it go since we're roomies here at the inn. And I’m very glad Barbie wasn’t on set today. She might not have been so polite.”

  “I thought our charming Ms. Shapiro finally decided she liked you?”

  I raised my eyes to the ceiling of my room at the hotel, “Yeah. Sure. When she’s not plotting how to attract the attention of one Johnny Gerard and I do mean Johnny Gerard and not Letitia going after Gregory Noble. And you know she's enough of a diva to not be happy when another actress is labeled the star of her show and make no mistake—she believes it’s her show. So, I will be trying not to offend Barbie and I’m personally furious when some offensive idiot so-called journalist does the offending in my stead without me being able to defend the offense.”

  Johnny howled. “You haven’t been away from your roommate long enough. That was a Shay statement if I ever heard one.”

  “And you understood it perfectly.”

  “I did.”

  Another pause. “So, Mr. Gerard. Since you only had one scene today before leaving me to deal with Mandy are you able to update me on all the research you’ve—researched?”

  Pause. Then, “Funny you should mention that.”

  “Oh no. You really are researching, aren’t you? Do I want to hear this?”

  A longer pause. “I’m trying to piece together what Colette Currie said to you and see if there’s any sense I can make out of it.”

  “I thought I was getting away from this,“ I groaned.

  “Abby, I understand. You want to push all of this out of your head and ride merrily off into the Fort Lee sunset like you’re in a silent movie with a happy ending. But you can’t. Someone shot her. Now, because of that offensive jerk Graham Sumner, the whole stinkin’ city and country is aware that Colette spoke to you and I’d prefer to figure out what needs to be figured out before you find yourself on the wrong end of that someone’s wrath or greed or whatever. It’s been over a week since the shooting. Quite frankly, I’m hoping that now that the initial shock and horror has worn off a bit, you might be able to sift through the noise.”

  I sighed. “Are you trying to tell me my brain is a jumble of junk and that’s why I can’t come up with anything coherent?”

  “Yep. Pretty much.”

  “Thanks a lot. Although, I have to admit, you're spot on with that assessment. So, when do you want to sift through what passes for my mind and memories?”

  “I was thinking—now.”

  “Wait a sec. Where are you?”

  “Downstairs in the lobby of this luxurious and splendid hotel. You shall find me at the bar sipping a martini. The bar, by the way, is surprisingly quiet and peaceful. There’s the bartender, me, and some old guy who probably acted as an extra in silent films back in the heyday of Fort Lee’s rivalry with Hollywood.”

  “Well, dang. I thought you’d gone back to Manhattan after the shoot this morning.”

  Johnny laughed. “No way. Now that we’re filming, every reporter and his brother knows that Abby and Johnny are on Endless Time again and that we are filming in Jersey and the smarter reporters also know that you and I are more than friendly cast mates. I’ve been screening calls all day. I checked with the super at my building who said various vulturey journalistic types had been camped outside. So I’m staying here. I’ve been holed up in my own little room that blessedly has fantastically fast Internet although it's not my own little room since I too am sharing.”

  “Aha! That explains all.”

  “So—you coming down to the bar or not?”

  I grinned. “Are you buying me dinner?”

  “No. Endless Time is buying us dinner. It’s part of our per diem or so Max informed me. I will, however, buy you a drink because I don’t think they’re springing for that.”

  “Fine. Five minutes.” I stopped. “Wait. Make that ten. I’d like to look like a woman who di
d not spend her day digging in, over and around spittoons and sifting through filthy old trunks for hidden patents and fresh bodies, which, you might recall, we did not uncover today before you took off. Not even with all my simpering and blushing. I believe that’s included in tomorrow’s line-up. The uncovering of patents that is. Hopefully the simpering and blushing will be done away with once Dolores rains havoc with Yolanda about her guest writers and gets Yolanda to rain havoc in turn.”

  I met Johnny downstairs in the hotel bar exactly ten minutes after we’d hung up. I’m a fast clean-er-upper and I’d showered before he called so all I’d had to do was refresh my make-up and fluff up my hair a bit. Plus I dug out the little green lacy dress with ruffles and a handkerchief hem out of my suitcase where I’d tossed it in the hope that I might get the chance to wear it at some point while on location. I was very glad that opportunity would be with my fiancé.

  We spent the first hour eating some of the best food I’ve ever tasted—which is saying something for a food hound who freely admits to being such— served by the classiest, most attentive-without-being-obtrusive waiters I’ve ever wanted to over tip. Fort Lee, New Jersey. Who knew? We mainly talked about Johnny’s buddy surviving the survivalists in the wilds of the Western United States and the great new ballet class I’d discovered at a studio in Upper Manhattan only three weeks ago. I told him about the equestrian club which was only a few miles from Fort Lee that I was considering joining so I could grab the chance to ride some very fine horses whenever we weren’t involved in filming, reading scripts, filming, memorizing scripts or—filming. I’d really gotten to like riding in the spring when I’d been in Prague, although the big ride I’d been forced to take during a snowstorm hadn’t been all that lovely. But it was nice to know that in an emergency in the wilds of —say—Fort Lee, I could get on a horse and not get tossed in the first five minutes.

  Several of our cast mates were also dining at the hotel but no one was prying into anyone else’s business. Waves were cheerfully exchanged across the room but we weren’t forced to fend off anyone who seemed determined to sit with us. It was nice. Quiet. Like a real night out with no worries.

  It couldn’t last and it didn’t. Johnny the smooth, romantic charming date waited until I’d downed a delicious piece of cheesecake topped with real raspberries and real whipped cream before pulling out a notebook and plopping it onto the table. He’d even kept the paper and the pens I’d spotted in his bag away until our awesome waiter had removed all foodstuffs and plates and crumbs so there’d be a clean place to write.

  I narrowed my eyes as Johnny picked up the notebook (the plopping had been for dramatic effect and he and I both knew it) and clicked his pen. I asked, “Really? Now? This moment?”

  “Yes, Abby. Really. Your stomach is sated, you’ve had two glasses of wine which is enough to make you relaxed but not enough to render you sloppy and it’s time to start this investigation.”

  “Fine,” I growled. “Okay, here’s what Colette said which I have churned over in my feeble brain for over a week trying to make sense of and can’t. Ready? Great. She said, and I quote, ‘History repeats. I don’t know what history she was talking about. Nada. Then she said, Move. He.’ Which may have been an attempt to say movie. I really couldn’t tell. Then she said it was important.” I shivered and slowed my words and tried to concentrate. “Then she said, ‘Cold. Cold. Wind. Cinna cinna mon. Clown. Ken see . . .move . . ee. . . real. . .harm.’ Are you getting all this even though I told you everything the day after she died when you forced me back to the Cameo Theatre where I really, really didn’t want to be?”

  “Hush. Wait. That sounded rude. Don't hush. I meant just take a breath for a second.” Johnny frowned. “I’m going to play Gregory Noble, detective, Ms. Fouchet. Are you willing to trust me?”

  I stared into those green eyes. Trust him? Shoot, I’d follow him off one of those cliffs in the Palisades if he asked.

  He didn’t need to know that since I don’t want a fiancé with a spiraling ego, so I merely nodded. “What do you want me to do? You’re not going to hypnotize me are you? I swear I’ve repeated what Colette said.”

  Johnny shot me a look that could best be described as disgusted with my cowardice. “I am not going to hypnotize you although it would probably improve what is normally your far better brain power at this point. I want you to sit back and take another sip of wine while I slowly recite each bit of that jumble you spilled out. Then we’re going to go through these words slowly and clearly. We don’t need the repetition. You’ve memorized it. I’ve memorized it. We need the meaning. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  I sipped and let Johnny take the thirty seconds needed to scribble what he’d referred to as that jumble. He nodded at me. “Okay. Let’s take these a few at a time. ‘Cold wind.’”

  “I have no idea. Maybe she felt a draft backstage? Maybe she was cold since she was dying at the time.” I chewed my lip and tried to focus on words and not the image of Colette.

  Johnny reached over and squeezed my hand. “I know this is tough. I do. But try to forget—if possible—that Colette was dying. Words, Hon. Only words.”

  “Words.” I took a deep breath, dabbed my eyes with my napkin and stated, “I have no idea what else cold wind could mean. Not right now anyway.”

  “We'll leave that for the moment.” Johnny scanned the words and phrases again. “I’m going to jump ahead to something else here. Are you sure she said cinnamon? That’s just way too odd not to be a major clue. Think about it. Relive hearing how she said it.”

  I closed my eyes and forced myself to go back to that moment when Colette desperately was attempting to relay something she considered important. “It was cinnamon. The only thing I could think of was that she could smell it somewhere backstage. I don’t remember that scent myself but then again, I wasn’t concentrating on odors other than leftover gunshot whatever. So I do not have a clue about cinnamon.”

  “Go on.”

  “Clown.”

  Johnny leaned back in his chair. “That’s bizarre. What on earth would make her bring that up?”

  I shrugged. "Again, I'm clueless." I started gazing around the dining room at posters from old silent movies, spotting sexy poses for Theda Bara, cute poses for Clara Bow, a sexy depiction of Ramon Navarre doing a tango with a shadow and one of Charlie Chaplin in his traditional Little Tramp costume looking like he was about to chased by the Keystone Kops. I stared at that one for a long time while Johnny ruminated over the words. I do better with pictures and sounds.

  “Johnny. I have just been filled with illumination.”

  “Cool! Hit me.” He smiled. “Not literally— although I’m sure the impulse has drifted through your mind after me forcing you to do all this.”

  I waved that off. “Chaplin.”

  “Oh-kay. I’m not following.”

  “I began researching early films right after Yolanda told me we were doing this series of episodes. I know you did too. Anyway, I suddenly remembered more about Charlie Chaplin’s Little Tramp character. Which most people don’t always consider as a clown— including me, even though I love that character. Now, what most people also don’t know, because this particular person didn’t have a long or distinguished career, was that one of the first female clowns in vaudeville and film also created a Little Tramp character for a couple of movies. Mainly, she was a performer for the whole Orpheum and Hippodrome vaudeville circuits so she’s not covered much by all these books about Fort Lee or even Hollywood. I can’t believe it didn’t hit me before now but I simply didn’t piece the two things together. The clown's stage name was Cinnamon.”

  Chapter 13

  “Cinnamon?”

  “That’s the name. Just the one name; like Cher or Madonna. I’m sure of it. I even saw a picture of her side by side with Chaplin —both of them in that hobo kind of costume although she had painted her face super heavy with ghastly clown white make-up that totally obscured her features. There was
a very brief quote underneath saying she said she adored that character—Chaplin’s that is— and felt there was room for a woman to establish something equally funny. I can’t remember her real name but I know she was originally from New Orleans. Maybe the cinnamon idea came from those wonderful beignets they make down there? Yum. The picture was in black and white but maybe she had cinnamon-ey colored hair?”

  Johnny beamed at me. “I have no idea what it could mean it terms of why Colette was spilling all this, but I like it. Two words that might relate to each other in Colette’s mind. Clown. Cinnamon.”

  “Hand me your notebook, would you? I need the visual for a second on the rest of what Colette said.” I scanned over the words. “Big honkin’ jeté here but I may be on a roll with Cinnamon and clowns.”

  “Okay. Shoot.”

  “Boy, you’re violent tonight, aren’t you?” I grinned. “‘Hit me.’ ‘Shoot.’ What up with that, Gerard?”

  “Gregory Noble getting into his Supercop persona. Or maybe my brain is going with simplicity with words. Happens when I sense enlightenment about to—get lit. Doesn’t matter. Go on. Let’s hear your next brilliant idea.”

  “Well, I was thinking about one of the other phrases. ‘Ken-see.’ I thought at first she might be referring to her cousin, Kenny-Ann but there’s nothing even approaching a ‘see’ in her name and why wouldn’t she simply say Kenny-Ann if that’s what she meant? It’s just as easy to say Ann as it is ‘see’, isn’t it?”