Getting Old is Criminal

by Rita Lakin

  The voice stops. In the ensuing silence I just blurt it out: “Is your producer British?”

  The room erupts in screaming laughter.

  “Hoddley, m’dear.” The one I was just told was Cheryl speaks in a falsetto British parody. “She was born in Flatbush.”

  The male tells me, “That’s in Brooklyn. And don’t ever mention you know that or heads will roll.”

  I wish I hadn’t opened my mouth.

  “You make the call, Jody,” says Cheryl. “I’m not about to get screamed at by that maitre d’ again.”

  “Tim, it’s your turn,” says Jody, passing the buck to the young man at the third desk.

  “Why bother. We know what they’ll say.” He puts on a snobbish accent. “ ‘Ms. Hill is no longer welcome at this establishment.’ ”

  They laugh. Apparently they don’t care that a total stranger is privy to their snide comments about the hand that feeds them. “Call La Finestre. She’ll never remember which one of the ‘La’s she asked for. They haven’t thrown her out. Yet.” He makes an elbow/hand-to-mouth gesture that tells me he is referring to too much liquor and probably the behavior that went with it.

  My tour guide giggles, but looks at me with embarrassment.

  The voice of God blares again on the speaker. “Make the reservation for five more people. This whole frigging writing staff is having a working dinner meeting.”

  Now the laughter really erupts. “Poor SOBs,” Tim comments. “Wait ’til you see the bar bill.”

  “It’s the only way they’ll survive it.”

  “And none of them will remember a note they take!” Tim sneers.

  Bree touches my arm. “Would you like to see where the writers meet?” I think she wants to get me out of there.

  In the hall, Bree feels she needs to apologize. “There’s always a lot of tension on a show. I mean, we have so many deadlines. And sometimes the writers can be slow. I mean, they try hard, but Ms. Hill is so demanding. She comes from New York, you know, and she expects us to keep up the same standards. I mean, scripts have to be written over and over again. I mean...” She stops. She’s run out of “I means”. I’m getting the picture, though.

  Apparently the writers’ meeting has just ended. Five exhausted, angry-looking people drag themselves out of a conference room. Various ages, both sexes. They carry arms full of scripts and notebooks and look only at the floor. I hear the same hoarse voice coming from inside the room. “And I hope that by tonight one of you, just one of you, will have an idea. Any idea. Something that hasn’t been rehashed a thousand times before.” And there she is, the famous Glory Hill. Tall, incredibly skinny, with very short bleached orange- red hair and—truthfully? Very ugly. I wonder how many face-lifts she’s had, how many experts worked on attempting to change that mug, how much makeup was tried. But there was nothing that would fix that pointy jaw, the sagging eyelids, the ratty hair, the gray, sallow complexion, probably from years of smoking. Which would also explain the voice. All those experts at her command, all that beauty surrounding her, all that money— and there she is. Margaret Hamilton’s twin, the wicked witch in The Wizard of Oz. Makes millions of bucks selling beauty she can’t have. What irony.

  “Who’s she?” Glory Hill says, annoyed, pointing to me.

  “Your noon appointment,” Bree answers. I swear she’s shaking.

  She comes alongside me, dismisses Bree with the back of her hand, keeps looking at her notes, and beckons me to follow. All without missing a step. Here we go again, fast walking. This would be a great place to work if one wanted to lose weight. Or have a heart attack.

  “I don’t have much time. Taping begins in fifteen. So state your business and be brief.”

  I don’t work for her. I don’t need to put up with her tyranny, but I could see how one could get caught up. I automatically get in step with her and state my case. “I need to know about Philip Smythe, the character, and Ray Sullivan, the actor-writer. Specifically I need to know as much as you can tell me about the seducer/serial killer character he created and acted out.” Whew. See what pressure can do?

  She turns and actually smiles at me, still not slowing up. “Very precise. Organized thoughts. Maybe you’d like a job writing this show. The losers I have to put up with are pathetic hacks.”

  I smile. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m a retired person. However, I’m working with the Florida police, who believe Ray Sullivan may be a serial killer who has been murdering elderly women for as long as eleven years, using his character’s name.”

  Glory Hill actually stops in her tracks. Her eyes light up. “Ray Sullivan. I fired that drunk from playing that part. And you’re telling me he continued acting it out in the real world? Hot damn! I could redo this story as a sequel. Is Feldkin still his agent?”

  “Slow down,” I tell this whirlwind. “First things first. I want to know where he got the idea from. In fact, I want to know everything about this story line—and could we please sit down somewhere?”

  She has incredible reflexes. Without missing a beat, she practically pulls me into a room that looks like a costume storeroom. There are two metal folding chairs. She points to one and takes the other. She kicks the door closed and lights up a cigarette. “Nobody but me can do this. Got it?” She takes out a portable, foldable mini-ashtray and looks at her watch.

  “Got it.” I guess I better talk fast.

  Now I have to put up with her secondhand smoke. And the costumes will probably smell by the time we leave.

  “Ray came up with the idea. He felt his character of Philip, the rich, lazy playboy, was getting stale. When we’d work late hours and he’d drink a lot, he ranted about his rich old aunt Dorothy, whom he hated and had to take care of all the years she was sick, and how he wished he could have killed her and put her out of her misery. He was stuck with taking care of her until she died. I encouraged his rage. Turn your anger into a story, I told him. Good drama. I told him to write it up. He was around sixty at the time, and not only could he write it, it was perfect for Philip Smythe to evolve into this sexy older, sophisticated gent who went bonkers and started killing old ladies. But here’s the funny thing. The next day when Ray was sober, I congratulated him on his story idea. He didn’t remember it.”

  Glory Hill is a great storyteller herself. I’m sitting on the edge of my seat. “But, but—”

  She shuts me up. Ms. Hill, I realize, does not like to be interrupted.

  “When I told him, he gave me this funny look. He said he loved his aunt Dorothy and willingly took care of her. Ha-ha. That’s booze for you. Some people cannot hold their liquor.”

  I smile, thinking of her secretaries’ imitation of her drinking habit. “But being smart, Ray recognized a good plot when he heard it, and so began that story line. Even though, I must admit, he wasn’t comfortable writing it. Audiences thought it was great. And scary. And, my dear, the ratings shot up to the sky.”

  “Do you remember the aunt’s full name?”

  “Yeah, she was some heiress, Dorothy Sullivan. Ray was the last in a line of a very rich family. It’s in my files.”

  “The story line. What was in it?”

  “So Ray, the writer, had Philip, the character, go from one retirement home to another. He’d pick a woman who had no living relatives. They must be real old and near death, or have an illness that would kill them soon. On a certain date, he helped them leave the world forever.”

  I can hardly sit still, I’m so excited. Everything fit. He was our man, all right. “What did he gain by killing them?”

  “Ray didn’t want to write the cliche of Philip Smythe being after their money. No, Philip was a mercy killer who dearly loved the old biddies and didn’t want them to suffer. But he always took a souvenir.”

  I want to jump up and down for joy. Maybe this is the missing piece. “Such as?”

  She laughs. “He was a killer with class. Whatever he took was in excellent taste. He took a painting or an Oriental rug or a rare piece of an
tique jewelry.” She looks at her watch again and taps her long bright orange Cruella De Vil finger-nails along the edge of the chair.

  I spoke faster. “Why did you fire him?”

  “Because we began to realize the audience was freaking out. Soaps are about love and sex, not about scaring the crap out of the viewers. We were getting terrified letters. Especially from old broads who were afraid to go to sleep at night. Now, get this, you’ll love it: I told Ray to kill Smythe off or put him in jail, or have him find God and repent. Just stop the story. He agreed. It was even making him queasy. But Ray, the actor, wouldn’t do it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Ray, in his tuxedo, would get on the set and fling the script against a wall and say, ‘Philip Smythe has to keep killing!’

  “That was it, the booze had taken over. Maybe even drugs. Who knows? He was getting crazier and crazier. I like that in my writers, but he fell off the edge. He was drunk on and off the set. I had no choice. The network made me dump him. So goodbye, Ray.”

  Wow! I can hardly wait to call Morrie.

  Glory snaps her little ashtray shut and she’s on the move again.

  I rush after her. “Did you ever hear about him or from him again?”

  “Funny you should mention that. I get a note three times a year. Not signed, but I know it’s from him.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He includes a photo. A rug. A rare piece of jewelry. You know, like all the souvenirs he took on the show. I thought he was just teasing me. To tell me what I’ve missed by firing him.”

  I feel my heart popping out of my chest. “Please tell me you saved the photos.”

  “Of course I did. I never throw anything out. Everything goes in my memoirs. If I ever stop working and write them. A lot of people will be sorry when I do. You want them?”

  “You bet!”

  Looking at the watch again. She reaches the stage. “Time’s up. We’re through talking. Go back to my office, and tell Tim to go into my private files and get the photos for you. Videos of those shows, too, if you want them. Make sure he makes copies of the originals and you sign for them. I want first rights to the story of his trial. Hmm, I wonder if they’d let him out to play himself? Goodbye, Mrs.—uh, whoever you are.”

  And the whirlwind is gone.

  I can’t believe it. I have all the proof the police need!

  And, while I was at it, I got a huge pack of autographed eight-by-tens of all the stars on both her old show and her new one to take home to Dora Dooley.

  FIFTY

  ALL SYSTEMS ARE GO

  I call Morrie from home. “This is Gladdy. I have something very important to tell you.”

  I can hear Morrie getting angry. “What did I tell you? You didn’t listen, did you?”

  “Before you make a tsimmis out of it, I have positive proof. Positive proof that Ray Sullivan is a killer.”

  That stops him. “Then get it over to the station right away. I’ll have the task force waiting for you.” I guess he isn’t mad at me anymore.

  Ida picks up on my excitement. “So you got the goods on him.”

  “He’s finished.”

  “When are they gonna rescue Evvie?” Sophie asks.

  “It better be soon.”

  Bella is concerned. “But won’t she be sore if they take Philip away from her?”

  “Not when she realizes that he is a killer after all.” I exchange glances with Ida. She knows how difficult that will be.

  I hug them all. “See you later.”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll be waiting.” Ida actually has tears in her eyes. “Good luck.”

  The huge conference room in the Fort Lauderdale police station is filled. The task force from all over the state and from Georgia, as well, listen to everything I report. The most chilling moments are watching actor Ray Sullivan, playing Philip Smythe, murdering one of the cast member “widows” on video.

  Hearing him say, “‘Parting is such sweet sorrow,’” as he pushes the actress under the bubbles in the tub, horrifies me. I could imagine how it was for Esther Ferguson at the last moments of her life.

  And now I am told what the task force has found. Widow after widow dying suddenly at the end of Philip/Ray’s planned stays at each retirement home. They’ve already discovered seven so far. Unlucky women who had no families, so no one raised any questions. When Esther Ferguson’s family showed up, Philip must have panicked. She’d hidden the fact of her family by changing her mailbox address, but when Alvin and Shirley came to visit unexpectedly, that sealed Esther’s fate. That was his fatal mistake. He panicked. He should have left Esther alive. But he was too rigidly set in his patterns.

  And none of these retirement complexes ever dug deep enough to see these coincidental deaths. I shudder. They are still searching. How many more will there be? Evvie, oh, Evvie, we’ve got to get you out of there.

  Oz Washington comes over to congratulate me. He sees how nervous I am. “I’m worried about getting my sister out safely.”

  “It will be all right,” he tells me. “I make fun of my bud, Morrie, but he’s one hell of a good cop.”

  “Can I have that in writing?”

  He pats me on the shoulder and joins the others. They are all action now. Gathering up materials, conferring with one another, making phone calls.

  Morrie walks over to me. “By the way, about his aunt Dorothy? He didn’t kill her. He was away at boarding school.”

  “That’s a surprise. I was so sure he did it. Morrie,” I ask, looking at my watch, “it’s already nearly three o’clock. When are we going up to Palm Beach?”

  “Tonight. Late.”

  This upsets me. “Why?” I want to go now.

  “Because we decided it was better to move in fast, with everyone asleep; Ray Sullivan should be off guard and hopefully we can pull him out of his apartment without many people aware of it. Hope Watson and Donald Kincaid will let us in.”

  That is if Evvie doesn’t start screaming and wake the entire place. The plan is sensible, but I am very nervous. I feel Evvie needs me. Now.

  “Dearest, wake up. Please. It’s almost four.” Evvie shakes Philip’s shoulders gently.

  He pushes her away. “Tired,” he mumbles into his pillow.

  She starts to pull the drapes.

  “No,” he shouts. “No light.”

  She knows how badly he slept last night. In fact, for the last few nights, it seemed like he was having more and more headaches. And more nightmares.

  She is about to open the door and go downstairs, but she hesitates. The last thing she wants is to run into that cop, Donald. Something is very wrong in her room with Philip—and outside as well. Something is brewing. Part of her wants to confront this stranger, and another part doesn’t want to believe her imaginings. Maybe Donald is just what he said—a guard at WalMart.

  Evvie picks up the phone and orders room service.

  The day drags on. I twiddle my thumbs while the cops continue to discuss their plans. They have maps of the facility and they are marking routes. When they need to know something about the lay-out of Wilmington House, they call me. Otherwise, I’m left on my own.

  Evvie doesn’t know what to do. He woke up for a while, took some pills, then went back to sleep again. The food she ordered for him was cold now. She thinks she might read, but the light would bother him, and she won’t leave him.

  She finds herself thinking of Gladdy. She wonders where she is. She needs to talk to her sister. Maybe she can call from the kitchen, but she’s afraid Philip will wake up and catch her.

  I go for a walk. My fingers itch to pick up the phone and call Evvie. I want to tell her to get out of there. Now! But if Philip is right there next to her... What if something goes wrong? What if she gets hurt?

  When I get back, dinner is brought in. Everything tastes like cardboard to me. I can’t eat.

  He finally wakes up.

  “Are you all right? Evvie asks.

  “My
migraine’s really bad today. Nothing much to do but try to keep very quiet until it’s over.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “Just sit here by my side.”

  “I will.”

  He closes his eyes again.

  There is nothing for her to do but think, and her thoughts are troubling. Something is the matter with him. She can’t keep pretending there isn’t. She’s been feeling this for some time now, but resisted its implications. It’s as if Philip is at war with himself. And it’s coming out in his dreams. It’s important, but her mind won’t reveal it to her. Maybe it’s because she’s afraid to know.

  I come back to Morrie’s office. It’s empty. I have such a headache. I didn’t really sleep much last night, so I lie down on his small couch for a few minutes.

  The next thing I’m aware of is Oz gently shaking me. I leap up. It’s actually dark out.

  “I can’t believe I slept.”

  “You needed the rest.”

  “Are we going?”

  “Yes. Everyone’s outside ready to roll.”

  Evvie convinces Philip to eat a little dinner.

  “This is not fun for you.” He pats her hand.

  “I don’t mind. Philip, dear, I know something is bothering you. Can’t you share it with me? Maybe I can help.”

  He looks at her and she can’t read his expression. His eyes grow dark and distant. Then he smiles. “Whatever are you talking about?”

  Oh, Philip. Why are you lying to me?

  Evvie is utterly exhausted. She lies down beside him and falls asleep.

  At last, we arrive at Wilmington House. The trip seemed endless to me. Everyone is taking positions.

  “Stay in the car, Glad.” The night air is cool. Morrie hands me his jacket to keep warm.

  I take the jacket, but I jump out. “No way am I waiting here. I’m going with you.” I grab on to his arm. “Don’t even try to talk me out of this.”