“Why is that important?” I asked.
Grady looked at Donna. It was clear that they had discussed this before.
“Kids are bombarded with ads and commercials,” Donna said, “not only on television, but on every computer site they visit. Even outside. Wherever we go, there are ads—in the stores, on talking billboards at the subway station. The buses are covered in ads, inside and out.”
“As adults, we can tune them out,” Grady put in, “but kids are attracted to them. They can’t always make the distinction between what’s the truth and what’s simply a sales pitch. Sometimes I can’t either.”
“So you’re hoping that if Frank sees how commercials are made, he won’t find them so intriguing,” I said.
“Or at least he’ll understand that the purpose of a spot is not just to entertain him,” Grady said, “but to try to sell him something.”
“Well, I’m glad I’m not doing an ad for a product that appeals to children,” I said.
“We are, too.”
Chapter Six
MINDBENDERS NEW YORK SHOOTING SCRIPT—“JESSICA FLETCHER KNOWS PERMEZZO”
PRODUCTION COMPANY: EYE SCREEN; ADAM AKMANIAN, DIRECTOR
SLATE: © PERMEZZO
Low lighting—an eerie feeling—CU of Fletcher in library setting—copies of her books on shelf behind her.
FLETCHER: Hello . . . I’m Jessica Fletcher. . . . It’s no
mystery why I always carry my Permezzo
card when I travel to do research for my
novels. . . .
Wider shot—Fletcher in front of green screen—foreign locales play behind her.
My work takes me across the country and around the world. . . . But whether it’s familiar places or exotic lands . . . I know that with my Permezzo card I’ll be welcomed wherever I go, and under any circumstances. . . . (Chuckle from Fletcher.) And believe me, I’ve found myself in some pretty unusual and challenging circumstances.
Medium shot of Fletcher back in library.
Permezzo’s no-limit charging and expert concierge service is the best in the business, always ready to help me land a reservation at a popular restaurant . . . change my flight at the last minute . . . or find a special gift for a favorite person. . . . Well, I’d better get back to work.
She turns to her computer keyboard—looks back at camera over her shoulder.
I carry only one card when I travel . . . and that’s Permezzo.
Fade on Fletcher working at keyboard.
VO: Jessica Fletcher knows Permezzo. You should,
too.
“I don’t like that line about Permezzo being the ‘best in the business,’ ” I said.
“Why not?”
“Well, I don’t really know if that’s the case. Is it the best? I don’t want to say anything that’s not truthful.”
Robin Stockdale, a drama teacher at the high school and a frequent director for Cabot Cove’s regional theater group, had agreed to go over my lines with me so I would be able to return to New York prepared for the filming. For the last half hour, we’d been sitting at my kitchen table in Cabot Cove, dissecting the script, analyzing the lines, and discussing how best to say them.
“Jessica, this is a commercial,” she said, circling the problem copy. “No one expects you to have done comparative research on the veracity of the client’s claims.”
“I understand that,” I said, “but the agency must believe that people will trust what I say—or else why would they want me to make their commercial?”
“Exactly! I’ll bet they were thrilled when Grady suggested you. I doubt he could have talked them into it if they’d been resistant. Not that Grady isn’t persuasive, but these are advertising professionals, Jessica. Mindbenders is an established agency. You have to assume they know their business. You have to trust them.”
“I do. But still . . .” I trailed off.
“Is there another problem with the script?”
“Well, Permezzo is not the only card I carry when I travel. I would rather not say that it is.”
Robin laughed. “Jessica, I have never seen you so unsure of yourself.”
“It’s not that I’m unsure of myself,” I said, getting up to turn off the stove when the whistle on the kettle began to sing. “But my name is going to be out there. I don’t want to make a statement about a product if I don’t believe in it.” I opened a cupboard and took down two mugs and the box of tea bags.
“If you don’t believe in Permezzo, why did you agree to do the commercial in the first place?”
I sighed and gave Robin a sideways look.
“Okay, don’t tell me. Grady, right?”
“I couldn’t let him down,” I said, shaking my head. “He’s doing well in this job and I wanted to help him. And it’s not that I don’t believe in Permezzo. I’ve been using the card for years, before I ever heard about the commercial.”
“Well, let’s talk about that. That can help you with your motivation. If you don’t know why you’re saying something, you’ll never be able to pull off the line. A good actress believes what she says. When the camera zooms in on you, we’ll know by looking in your eyes if you’re speaking from the heart. So, tell me in your own words: What do you like about Permezzo?”
“They have a very attentive and efficient concierge service,” I said, smiling at a thought.
“Why are you smiling?” Robin asked.
“You’ll probably think I’m old-fashioned,” I said, setting our mugs on the table next to a plate of sugar cookies I’d baked that morning. “What I like best is that their telephones are always answered by real live people. I prefer to talk to a person without having to wade through multiple voice prompts and menu choices delivered electronically.”
“You mean a person actually picks up the phone when you call Permezzo?”
“Yes.”
“That’s certainly unusual,” Robin said, dunking a cookie into her tea.
“It is. And there’s another thing. When you’re traveling overseas on business, you need someone who can serve as a travel agent to help you rearrange your plans when something unforeseen comes up. Permezzo does that.”
“I thought you had a travel agent.”
“I do. Susan Shevlin, the mayor’s wife, has been my travel agent for years.”
“Can’t she help you when you’re on the road?”
“She often does,” I said. “It was Susan who suggested I get the Permezzo card. While I would hesitate to call and wake her up in the middle of the night to reticket me if I missed a connection in Tokyo—which happened once—I have no such compunctions when it comes to calling Permezzo. They’re open twenty-four hours a day. And I’m assured of getting someone who will be able to understand my problem, and work with me to fix it.”
“Why don’t you rewrite the commercial to say just that?”
“I don’t think that would make me very popular with Betsy Archibald.”
“Who’s she?”
“The creative director. Besides, I’m not even sure I could say all that in sixty seconds. That’s a special skill, fitting a lot of information into a short period of time. And I hesitate to rewrite someone else’s copy unless I’m asked. It would be disrespectful.”
“Well then, what are you going to do?”
“Learn my lines, and when the time comes, raise my hand to object.”
There was a knock at the back door. I waved in Seth Hazlitt, my old friend and one of Cabot Cove’s preeminent physicians. Seth had chuckled when I’d telephoned from New York to tell him that I was going to appear coast-to-coast in a commercial for Permezzo.
“I hope they’re paying you well,” he’d said.
“More than well,” I’d replied. “I’m going to donate the money to charity.”
“Assuaging your guilt?” Seth had said. “I thought you never wanted to endorse a product. Seems to me I might have heard that over the years.”
“Your memory is too good,” I had said befo
re hanging up.
“I hope I’m not interrupting,” Seth said as he came through the door, settled in the seat next to Robin’s, and helped himself to a sugar cookie. “Had a feeling I might find one of these here.”
“We were just finishing up,” Robin said. “If you don’t need me anymore, Jessica, I have to check in with the theater group. They’re meeting this afternoon to decide what the spring play should be.”
“Of course, Robin. I hope I haven’t kept you away,” I said, escorting her to the door. “Thank you so much for your help.”
“It was nothing. You’ll do beautifully. You’re a natural actress. Anytime you want to join us, we’ll find a part for you.”
“That’s very kind, but I’m afraid my travel schedule makes it too difficult to make any long-term commitments.”
“You’ve used that excuse for years,” Seth said after Robin had left.
“Now, don’t you start,” I said, going to the sink to wash our mugs.
“Just remarking on the obvious. I’ve managed to find a little extra time in my busy life to contribute to raising the cultural level of my fellow citizens.”
“And I’ve enjoyed watching you onstage. I make a much better audience member than I would an actress.” I dried the mugs and returned them to the cupboard.
“So you say.”
“Have another cookie,” I said. “You can’t criticize me with your mouth full.”
Seth took a second cookie and chewed it thoughtfully.
“Would you like some tea?” I asked, drying my hands on a dish towel. “I’m fresh out of coffee. I’m out of just about everything. That’s why I asked you to give me a lift to the grocery store.”
“Got any milk?”
“I think I can squeeze out half a glass,” I said, taking the bottle from the refrigerator and emptying what little was left into a glass.
“Sit down, woman. You’re making me crazy with your nervousness.”
“What am I doing?” I asked, taking the chair I’d abandoned a few minutes ago.
“If you wring out that dish towel any more, it’ll be nothing but shreds.”
I looked down at the coiled mass of cotton in my lap and carefully spread it on the table, smoothing out the wrinkles I’d twisted into it.
“What’s on your mind?” Seth asked softly. “As if I didn’t know.”
“It’s Grady.”
“Thought as much.”
“He has so much going for him, Seth. He’s smart and personable, and knowledgeable in his field. Donna says he’s the sharpest accountant she knows.”
“And she would know, being an accountant herself,” Seth said.
“Just so. Grady has a wonderful home, a wonderful marriage, and a wonderful child. I’m so proud of him.”
“Yet he seems to have a knack for picking the wrong company to work for. Has he done it again?”
“I’m not certain, Seth, but I’m worried that might be the case. A producer complained to him about a payroll issue. Grady was concerned and told me he was going to see what he could find out. I called him at the office before I left for the airport, but he was in a meeting. He hasn’t called me back.”
“You’re probably worrying for nothing, Jess. A man with a job and a family doesn’t always have time to chat on the phone with his aunt.”
I looked up, startled, but then I laughed. “You always know what to say to put me in my place.”
“You don’t need to be put in your place,” Seth said, leaning over to pat my arm. “But I do think you’re making a mountain out of a molehill.”
“Why do you think he didn’t return my call?”
“He probably needs to do a little more investigating, like a certain relative of his, and doesn’t want to draw a conclusion until he’s sure of the facts. I’d say that’s a responsible way to approach the problem.”
“You’re right, of course. Now, why didn’t I think of that?”
“Must be the influence of the city. Fogs the brain. Grady will get back to you in good time. If I know my Fletchers—and I think I do—he’ll wait until he can speak to you in person before he spills out whatever it is he finds.”
“That won’t be until I see him next week.”
“True. So I suggest, madam, that we take your mind off this conundrum by making a visit to the local supermarket, where you can stock up on coffee. That way, the next time I have one of your sugar cookies, it will be accompanied by the proper beverage.”
“Doctor, you always prescribe the best medicine. I’ll get my coat.”
Chapter Seven
A bouquet of flowers and a split of champagne in a silver ice bucket greeted me when the Waldorf-Astoria bellman escorted me into my room. I went to the desk and picked up the card leaning against the vase: “Welcome back to New York. I look forward to seeing you on the set.” It was signed “Antonio Tedeschi,” but I was pretty sure it had been sent by Betsy Archibald. She had been a tad less than cordial when I’d called to ask about accommodations for the out-of-town “talent” who were in the commercials.
“No, it’s not a problem,” she’d said on a long sigh. “I have to make a few phone calls, get the producer to issue a new call sheet, alert the car service. Just don’t change your mind again, please. I don’t want to hear tomorrow that you prefer to stay in a more modern place downtown. The director drove me crazy insisting on a hotel in the Meat-packing District. He wanted a hipper neighborhood than Park Avenue. I don’t suppose you need a hip neighborhood, do you?”
“Park Avenue is perfectly fine for me,” I’d rushed to say, having had my fill of the city’s more avant-garde lodging. I’ve never thought of myself as “hip” and knew I’d be more comfortable in what I considered a “grown-up room.”
“Then we’ll have a reservation for you at the Waldorf,” she said before hanging up. “A car service will pick you up in the morning. You have an eight a.m. call. That’s when you have to be at the location. Don’t be late.”
I had sent Grady an e-mail telling him where I would be staying, and thanking him and Donna for their gracious offer to have me room with them. I would be happy to take them up on their hospitality another time, but not when I needed to be rested and clear thinking for the morning’s work.
I took a moment to take in my surroundings. My room was spacious and freshly decorated in a classic style, featuring a queen-sized bed covered in a quilted ecru silk, which matched the paint of the walls and harmonized with the buff carpeting accented with small blue medallions. The soothing color scheme was enlivened with an armchair in a muted red and white floral and, at the large windows, red and blue striped drapes. There was more than enough room for my toiletries in the marble bath, and I was delighted to find a plush terry-cloth robe hanging behind the door.
As I always do, I unpacked my things and put them away in a cherrywood armoire, which also held the television. Even if I’m staying in a hotel for only one night, I prefer to hang up my clothes in a closet or put them in a drawer rather than to live out of a suitcase.
I was meeting Matt Miller later, and had a little time to relax before changing for dinner. I hung up my suit, put on the robe the Waldorf had provided, and curled up in the armchair to look through the materials in the Eye Screen folder once more. On the front cover was the company logo, an ice-cream cone with an eye where the ball of ice cream usually is. On the back cover was their tagline: “We all scream for Eye Screen!” An echo of my days in the school yard when as children we chanted “I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream.” I wondered if children still did that.
I had my lines memorized by now, as well as those of the others whose scripts were included in my folder. I reviewed the call sheet, which listed all the crew members. There were at least forty people named, eight of them production assistants. I gathered that the key prop was the person in charge of the prop crew, but what did the key grip do? And the gaffer? In addition to their roles on the set, the sheet listed the names and telephone numbers
of everyone associated with the shoot. Sure enough, I found my name and cell phone number under the TALENT section, together with Matt Miller’s phone number under AGENT. We had an eight a.m. call, and the next column said car svc, which I already knew. I was to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and downstairs in the lobby by seven fifteen for the ride to the set.
As far as I could tell, no detail was left off the call sheet. There were the names, addresses, and phone and fax numbers of the hotels where certain important people were staying—the director was at the Gansevoort—and lists of people representing the agency, the client, and the editorial company, even though all of them probably wouldn’t attend the shoot. Betsy Archibald would be there, of course. Her name was under AGENCY, as well as the names of several other Mindbenders staff. The company phone numbers were listed but not Betsy’s cell number. I wondered if she preferred not to be called directly. Antonio Tedeschi’s name stood alone under CLIENT. The commercial was being shot on location at an office building north of the city. At the bottom of the page was the name and address of the local hospital, something I hoped we wouldn’t need.
I sifted through the papers, scripts, driving directions, and storyboards, and sighed. There was no more to learn from these pages. All my questions would be answered in the morning.
“Jessica, I’d like you to meet Kevin Prendergast. He’s one of the principals of Mindbenders.”
Matt Miller stood next to a slim man of medium height, not handsome but with pleasant features and arresting light green eyes. His long black hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and he wore a button-down yellow shirt and navy slacks. The sleeves of a blue cashmere sweater were looped around his neck.
“So nice to meet you,” I said, shaking hands.
The waiter pulled out the table and I slid onto the banquette. “You don’t look old enough to run an advertising agency,” I said.
“Looks can be deceiving,” he said, smiling. I had the feeling he had heard that observation before.
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