The bad news was that I was supposed to be dead weight and Gilberto and Fredericka had to get me out of the Fontana Inn over the prone and semi-comatose body of Dennis. Dolores thought it would work well for Dusty to sling me over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. Since getting me to that shoulder from the floor would be a chore (I weigh about a hundred pounds but lifting me directly from the floor could be dicey) Dolores decided to start the scene once I was already draped over Dusty’s shoulder which also meant Johnny didn't have to come out to Jersey for one shot of him lying unconscious on the floor. So, I stood on the bed. Dusty stood next to it. I flopped over his shoulder upside down as Max silently counted down to “Action.”
We were off.
Disclaimer: (I figure I can sneak another in since I only had one or two at the beginning of this narrative.) If anyone is worried that the train track scene is going to turn into a nail biting, pulse-racing, reach for the tranquilizers waiting to see if Abby gets smushed—relax. I have three words for you—”negligent homicide” and “lawsuit.” The producers were taking no chances that a runaway train might actually come bearing down on me while I lay helpless on railroad tracks waiting for Jones to come along. The train was currently at rest. It would come to life at a later time today when the light was right and I was either back in the wardrobe trailer or Manhattan. The most worrisome part of this scene for me was trying not to sneeze after inhaling whatever spring flora or fauna was growing under and around those tracks.
I didn’t have to do much for the rest of that scene depicting a near-dead Thea Donovan hauled off like a sack of coal from the Fontana Inn. Shots were taken at different points inside the ‘inn’ and outside on the way to the railroad tracks but I basically played dead although I must admit I tried to make Dusty laugh by telling him every dirty joke Shay had unearthed online last week.
Then I was on the tracks, feet tied with a scarf provided by Fredericka, played by Barbie again, since the scene didn’t call for stunts by her double, Heidi. After some truly awful dialogue about Thea the sinner and deserving to be run over by a train, Dusty and Barbie took off. I opened my eyes and immediately began screaming “help!” which was it for my own dialogue for about four minutes. I suppose the writers figured a woman who wakes up after being shot only to find herself on a train track, hearing the whistle of the train and knowing that train is on its way is not going to be reciting a Shakespearean soliloquy. Still, as someone’s last words —or at least what someone thought would be the last words—go, I wished Yolanda had told the other writers to come up with something that would further the plotline and give me something to sink my acting chops into while still portraying the terror Thea Donovan was experiencing every time the whistle blew. Maybe Thea reliving her past?
Last words. Further the plotline. Reliving her past. Living in the Past. A very cool song sung by the very cool Ian Anderson of Jethro Tull. Aura Lee had told Madam Euphoria to tell me to think about Jethro Tull. I was suddenly glad I didn't have lines to say because I suddenly had an epiphany mixed with a Dumas vision. I was in Colette's apartment and I could hear Mr. Anderson singing. But not on a CD or an MP3 player. A vinyl. I flashed back to an earlier vision with me surrounded by vinyl records and Aura Lee's warning about bigots and January. This was it. I had the answer. Not to the identity of Colette's killer but the why. I nearly sat up straight and ruined the shot of the actor playing Norman Jones rescuing me. I pushed it out of my mind with the caveat to myself to remember as soon as I was in dry clothes, off the tracks and done with this particular day’s filming. Fortunately, we’d been magnificent in that rescue scene so I was actually back in my own room in my own clothes, clean and happy and free about an hour after the brilliance that had hit me on the train tracks had—well—hit me.
I called Johnny. “There’s a limo ready to take three other actors and me into Manhattan within the hour. Can you meet me at Colette’s place with a key? Or with Gordon and a key? I’m not picky.”
Johnny immediately responded, “Yes. As to the meeting with the key. I’m not sure where Gordon is but I think some arms-dealing gang-bangers are not having a good day. You sound extremely upbeat. I take it you missed the train—so to speak?"
“Ouch and more ouch over the bad, bad pun coming from Mr. Gerard, but yes, I was saved when Jones came along and even better, I had an epiphany while I was lying half-dead listening to train whistles.”
“Go on.”
“I’ll tell you when I see you. Let’s just say I’ve put a different spin on some of Colette’s last words thanks to Ian Anderson, his lyrics and a generally obnoxious costumed psychic who is hopefully annoying someone else in some part of the world away from us.”
The limo picked me up right on time from the inn, along with Barbie and Dusty. The guest actor playing Norman Jones lived in Fort Lee so he’d driven his own car to the shoot today.
I chatted with Barbie and Dusty about upcoming scenes and about Dusty’s twins and their latest school science project and about Barbie’s college roommate who’d schnookered her into being a bridesmaid and how awful the dress was but my mind was already in an apartment on West 46th Street.
The limo driver dropped Dusty off first on the Upper West Side. Barbie lived in one of the Actors buildings in the Chelsea area of Manhattan so it was no biggie for the driver to drop me off next right in front of Colette’s apartment house. I hugged Barbie and promised I'd ask Shay to help her think of some lie to keep from wearing the bridesmaid dress (Shay is very creative with things like that). I then hopped out of the car and joined Johnny, who was waiting semi-patiently pacing the sidewalk.
Chapter 36
Johnny hugged me too—which was way nicer than me hugging Barbie, then remarked, “I shouldn’t ask this because it’s bound to come out wrong but . . . are you sure you can handle another . . . apartment . . . again?”
“You mean another ‘dead person’s’ apartment, don't you?”
“I did but I didn’t want to be crude or rude about it.” His mouth was tight and I could see he was flashing back to my breakdown at the Cameo Theatre the day after Colette's death. “You’ve had enough stress for the last few weeks and you also just spent an hour or more on a railroad track. I just wanted to be sure you’re up for this.”
“I am. Really. After all, we were going to check out Colette’s place before we got diverted to Diamond’s and I've been gearing up for some stress. So, hopefully my emotions will be tapped down a bit about searching through her personal effects. I’m ready for this to end. If a few tears get shed during the tour, then so be it. Answers. That’s the important thing.”
“Okay.”
We were inside the lobby and heading toward the stairs. I stopped. “Johnny. I’m serious. It’s time. I’ve got this odd feeling wrapped up in old visions. I’m going to learn who killed Colette. I’m pretty sure I already know why. And I’ve got what I'm almost positive is the answer to a where for some of these answers.”
Even with my brave words, I hesitated before entering Colette’s apartment after Johnny unlocked the door. I’d thought this might be easier than the last time I’d been here since there was a slightly longer distance of time but today actually felt worse. I had no desire to self-analyze why.
Johnny glanced at me. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m good. Let’s do it.”
Johnny smiled as he looked upwards. “And Colette? Or Cinnamon? If you’re listening and you’re not acting or clowning somewhere for a heavenly audience of angels, feel free to channel any and all helpful tips for hiding places in as strong a way as possible to the Abby here.”
I nodded. “And please keep us safe.”
“Safe?”
“Yeah. Along with that odd feeling of discovery, I’m having creepy premonitions. Not total second-sight stuff; but bad feelings.”
“Then let’s do it and get out of here.” He locked the door once we were inside. “That should hold off any villains but allow the spirits of Colett
e and Cinnamon to roam free. I am also having premonitions."
“I was under the impression you didn’t get them."
“I’m not saying I’m going to rival you, your mother or great-granny Dumas anytime soon, but I must admit, I felt a ghost or two out at Harmony studios and my spine is a bit cooler than normal. I’d rather deal with friendly ghosts than pissed-off ones.”
I grinned at him. “Okay."
“So, Ms. Fouchet, what lightning bolt hit you while you were lounging on train tracks?”
“Ah. I started going over Colette’s last words again and thinking about Jethro Tull and the living in the past. And, not to get into ghost theories about Abby's bonding with the departed but for a moment I truly thought I could hear Colette voice singing a few lines including cold wind."
“Okay. Which originally led us to Kensico Cemetery. Which gave us Cinnamon’s grave. You think that was wrong?”
I shook my head. “I just think it happens to have a double meaning. I’m not sure which one Colette meant and I know this isn’t making sense." I inhaled. "Johnny, take a look at that shelf.”
“Which shelf? There are at least eighty in this place. She was a worse book hound than the two of us put together.”
“Not the books. Under the books. The bottom shelf right across from us.”
“The vinyls?”
“Yep. Check it out. Colette’s got about fifty vinyl records neatly placed in alphabetical order by band or Broadway show. What hit me on those train tracks was what hit me the first time I started really musing on Colette’s words when I did have a little vision about vinyl records.” I slowly rose from the couch, walked the three steps it took to get the shelf and then squatted on the floor. “Okay. Keep fingers crossed. I’m skipping Broadway musicals. She was into retro groups; just like me. We’ve got AC/DC and Aerosmith and we’ve got the Grateful Dead. Jumping on through and being grateful she was neat enough to file alphabetically we’ve got Queen and Rainbow and pretty soon we’re at the ‘T’s.'” I paused and held my breath. I let it out and quietly stated, “Some people list them under ‘J’ but my CDs are under the 'T's' and so are Colette’s albums.”
Johnny had joined me on the floor. “Jethro Tull."
“Yep. Wowser. I swear she has every vinyl recording Tull ever made. We’ve got the biggies. Aqualung. Benefit. Thick as a Brick. Stand Up. This Was. Later stuff like Crest of a Knave. Even the Christmas Album. We also have one of my favorites—Minstrel in the Gallery. Which, as every good Tull fan knows, includes the very lyrical, very dramatic, pretty awesome tune called Cold Wind to Valhalla."
“It’s a shame there’s no electricity still on,” Johnny stated. “I wouldn’t mind hearing a little music while we search for answers. Not to mention more light would be helpful.”
“Yeah, well, with any luck all shall soon be revealed. Or the only thing that shall be revealed is that I’m an idiot.” I smiled at him. “Of course, if you really want inspirational music, I’ll be glad to warble a little Tull for you right now.”
“Much as I love your voice, I don’t think we need the neighbors hearing Songs from the Wood or Cross-Eyed Mary belted out just now and deciding to pop in, thereby interrupting our search.
“Good point.”
I slowly eased the vinyl record out from between two other Tull albums. Minstrel in the Gallery is not a double CD, so it shouldn’t feel like a double vinyl set, but this copy was bulkier than a single.
I sank back against the shelves and opened the sleeve of the album as wide as I could. “There’s definitely something in here and I’d be willing to be it’s not liner notes or interviews with Ian Anderson.”
“I’m not taking that bet,” Johnny said. “I’m ready."
I stuck two fingers into the sleeve opening and carefully pulled out several items. Or perhaps I should say several different items stuck together. There were two pages, scrapbook size, with torn edges. Attached to the second page via a large paper clip was a business envelope. Taped to the envelope was a key and a sticky note.
I couldn’t move. Johnny took envelope and key from me and read aloud from the sticky, “Locker number 317 at the 46th Street Gym.”
I groaned. “I hope she didn’t hide stuff in there that explains everything. I’m not sure my nerves or patience will last.”
“Don’t give up. Let’s take a look at those scrapbook pages first.”
“The first one is blank.”
Johnny smiled. “This, my darlin', is why God created the back side of things. Pull it away from its mate and let’s check out the other side.”
I did. “Oh my God! Johnny, look!”
Johnny peered over my shoulder, “I assume that’s Cinnamon? She was beautiful!”
I couldn’t speak for a second or two. My eyes were filled with tears. Finally I was able to breathe and softly whisper. “According to a very tiny inscription under that photo, yes, that’s Cinnamon. But Johnny, it’s also—Colette.”
“What?”
“They could be twins. Really. I keep forgetting you never met her.”
He shook his head. “There wasn’t even a picture at her memorial. I did know she was African-American but had no idea what she looked like.”
I nodded. “We used to joke that she was the perfect politically correct color for shows. Dark enough for Deena in Dreamgirls and light enough for a flower girl in a melodramatic Jack the Ripper circa London Eighteen-Eighties." I bit my lip, remembering that laughter and felt the loss of my friend harder than I had since the moment she’d died in my arms.
Johnny put his own arms around me and held me. “It’s okay. She’s with you. Even non-visionary Gerard here is sure that Colette Currie's spirit is in this room with us.”
We took a few moments to gaze at the photo of Cinnamon Garrity. Finally I voiced what we were both thinking. “Colette was African-American. Colette was a mirror image of Cinnamon Garrity, who was never photographed without her clown white make-up. Now we know why, given the era when she was performing.”
“Yep. Gabrielle Cinnamon Garrity was also black. And obviously related to Colette. DNA that strong doesn’t lie.”
“So who the hell is Mr. Currie?” I stared at Johnny. “Help me up a second, okay? At this momentous moment fraught with revelations, I’m embarrassed to announce my stupid foot’s gone to sleep!”
He rose, then pulled me up to my feet. “What’s on that second page?”
“I’m still in shock. I forgot to look.” I carefully held it up. “Another photo. Would you swing the flashlight over that page?”
He did. We both squinted at the trio of Cinnamon, her neighbor and partial biographer Daniel Asher and a toddler who appeared to be about age three. The photo clearly showed all three standing about fifty yards from Belvedere Castle in Central Park. The child was in the middle, holding hands with each adult. Big smiles on all three faces.
“Can you read what it says under the photo”?
Johnny lifted the page up toward what little light was still streaming through the window. “Gabrielle, Daniel and Charlie. October 1927. I wonder who snapped the shot?”
“That’s two years before Cinnamon died. Curiouser and curiouser. I turned the page over. One more photo. The same little girl but a couple of years older. It was a more professional looking photograph. The handwriting beneath was stronger and more masculine. It read, “Charlotte Garrity Asher. April, 1930.”
“Charlotte. And Charlie. Like the inscription in the Wallace Stevens book.”
Johnny nodded. “The child of Gabrielle Garrity and Daniel Asher.”
“She definitely looks like both of them.” I suddenly felt sad. “I don’t even know this story but I’m sure it’s not a happy one.”
“Keep fingers crossed that whatever’s in this envelope provides some explanations. Otherwise we have to go fight with her gym over using that key and hunting down whatever Colette kept in that locker.”
“Okay. Want to do the honors?”
“Won’t t
ake much. This envelope looks like it’s at least seventy years old. They did make a better grade of glue back then but at this point I’m amazed it’s stayed sealed.”
He gently opened the flap and drew out two sheets of paper. “Letter.” He glanced at me. “No offense, Hon, but every bit of color in your face is completely gone. Want to sit?”
“Good idea. Let’s hit the couch.”
We set the scrapbook pages on the coffee table, then sank down onto the couch. “Do you have enough light?” I asked.
“If you’ll hold the flashlight for me, I can manage to read it. Thankfully, the penmanship is quite legible. Unlike yours, by the way. No wonder the nuns gave you ‘D’s in cursive in grade school.”
I smiled. “If I ever have to leave anything cryptic and important, I’ll have to use the computer for future generations. Although with texting now being way too prevalent, no one will understand real sentences anyway in about two years.” I inhaled. “Okay. Thanks for the slight reprieve in the tone of emotion. I’m now ready.”
“Caught that, did you?”
“I know you Johnny Gerard. And I know that you know me and you know when my feelings are getting a bit too ragged. But I’m fine. Really.” I aimed a beam of light at the first page Johnny held in his hand.
He slowly began to read aloud.
“January 10, 1939
My darling Charlie,
“You’ll be fifteen tomorrow. You’re a woman now and I want you to hear some truths about your life before the whispers and the hate catch up to you. I hope you still remember your real mother even though she died when you were not quite five years of age. She adored you, Charlie, and she did everything she could to ensure your life would be happy. I’ve done my best to complete that mission.
Cold Wind to Valhalla (Abby Fouchet Mysteries Book 3) Page 24