alt.sherlock.holmes

by Gini Koch

  “He wouldn’t tell me. Said he didn’t want my experiences colored by his prejudices. I assume it’s one or two of the other girls—he’s dated most of them before.” She smiled. “He’s very sweet, and very protective, too. I’m lucky to have him as my... director.”

  The pause was slight, but it was there. Sherlock ignored it, however. “I’m sure you are. A lot’s riding on this show, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. My career, Andenson Production’s credibility, ad revenues, probably more. It’s kind of daunting, but Mr. Camden, Mr. Jackson, and Mr. Antonelli keep telling me I’m up to the task.”

  “Then I’m sure they’re right.” Sherlock stood. “Ready for us to see you on film?”

  “I am!” Dawn led us out of her dressing room. I’d expected to go to the room Jackson was in, but she went right past it—the sound of printing ongoing behind the door—and led us out of this area.

  We were back on the set, and it remained chaotic. I spotted Irene talking with several people, all of whom looked like they were actors, but didn’t try to catch her attention.

  We passed craft services and Dawn waved to the people working it. They all waved back. The crew we passed all seemed agitated, but when Dawn came by they all stopped and said hello to her, waved, or similar. Clearly she was popular on the set. This was interesting, since Camden wasn’t around and there was no reason for them to pretend.

  We reached a camera that was off to the side. The man sitting there looked incredibly bored.

  “Hi, Dennis,” Dawn said. “These are reporters from the Times, and they’d like to see some of my screen test.”

  “Sure, Dawnie.” Dennis stood up. “Come with me, folks.”

  We walked around behind the set and to a different set of rooms. There were fewer rooms here, but they were clearly important—Sound and Effects, Editing Bay, and Computer Room. All three had red lights above their doors and signs that said No entry when red light is on.

  All the red lights were off and we entered the editing bay, which had a lot of computerized equipment and a big screen. Dennis sat down, fiddled with some knobs, and suddenly Dawn was on the screen.

  She was still wholesome and lovely, but now I could see the star power. The camera loved her, and made everything she did or said seem better—funnier, sadder, more romantic.

  “Amazing,” Sherlock said quietly. “I believe Andenson Productions is right. You’re going to be a big star.”

  “Aw, thank you,” Dawn said. It was dark in here, but I could see her blushing. “You know that’s for the public to decide. Sometimes you can think you’re going to be a star and all you are is a great wife, mother, and grandmother.”

  “Your grandmother sounds like a wise woman,” Sherlock said kindly, “but having seen this, I think you can plan for something a tad more exciting.”

  Before I could chip in or Dawn could say anything else, the door opened and a man I’d seen on the set stuck his head in. “Dennis and Dawn, there you are. Great. Miraculously, we’re going to start filming.”

  “Cliff’s back?” Dawn asked eagerly.

  The man shook his head. “Sorry, sweetie, he’s not. But Joey’s going to give it a shot.”

  Dennis groaned quietly. “This should be hell. Thanks, Mitch, we’ll be right there.” Mitch nodded and shut the door, and Dennis eyed us. “Dawn, you run along. It’ll take longer for them to set you up than me.”

  “Okay. See you on the set,” she said to us, then trotted off as she’d been told.

  Once the door was closed again, Dennis crossed his arms over his chest and glared at us. “You’re not reporters.”

  “IN FACT,” DENNIS went on, “I know exactly who you are. So, why are you here and why are you lying to Dawn?”

  “Who do you think we are?” Sherlock asked, unruffled.

  “I don’t think, I know. You’re Sherlock Holmes, the British detective out of New York.” He looked at me. “And you’re Doctor Watson. From New London College. You think any of us who were working that season of Campus Queen wouldn’t know you both on sight?”

  “No, and we weren’t trying to fool anyone,” Sherlock said soothingly.

  “Other than Dawn.” Dennis sounded extremely protective.

  “Only to get honest answers.” Sherlock cocked her head a bit. “You all seem very fond of her.”

  “She’s just a kid, a sweet kid, who’s not into drugs or booze or partying or all that other crap.” He looked quietly upset.

  “Just into sleeping with the director.” Sherlock spoke evenly.

  Dennis shrugged. “The heart wants what it wants. Sure, he’s slept with every woman on this set, but it’s different with Dawn. Cliff’s in love with her, it’s really obvious. Maybe not to him, Joey, or Tony, but it’s easier to see if you’re a little removed. And she’s head over heels for him. So, that’s really not the problem. She’s twenty, she’s old enough to make her own choices.”

  “Really?” I blurted out before I could stop myself. “She looks sixteen.”

  “That’s why she’s the lead,” Dennis replied.

  “So,” Sherlock said, “what is it that you’re upset about, then?”

  “Nothing. Other than you two lying to her.”

  “And now you’re lying to us, and obviously. Please don’t.”

  Dennis eyed Sherlock. “You’re here investigating what’s happened to Cliff, aren’t you?”

  “We are.”

  “Well, take a look at Andenson’s financials. Because I think Cliff’s run off with the company’s money.”

  “Why on Earth would you think that?” I asked, again before I could stop myself.

  Dennis sighed as he stood up and headed for the door. “Because none of us have been paid for two weeks and counting.”

  WE FOLLOWED DENNIS out of the editing bay and back into the chaos, which was getting markedly louder and more chaotic. I had no idea how anyone worked successfully in this kind of atmosphere. The entire Campus Queen experience at New London, murders included, had been less frenetic than five minutes on this soundstage.

  Adding to it all, Detective Straude and his partner, Detective Saunders, had finally arrived. While I got along just fine with Straude, Saunders and I had never gotten on. If Sherlock or the police found any evidence of a real crime, I half expected Saunders to accuse me of being the perpetrator.

  Several people approached us. “We hear you’re from the Times,” said a normal-looking woman in her mid-forties.

  To his credit, Dennis didn’t say anything. He just grunted and hurried off, back to where Dawn had found him.

  “John, this is Kara Rieke,” Sherlock said. “That’s Julianna Whitesmith.” She pointed to another woman who also looked mid-forties. She was taller and blonder than the first woman, but they both had a certain look about them.

  “And I’m Anna Wooten,” the third one said, shoving in so that the three of them formed a semicircle around us. She looked late thirties and was a brunette. But otherwise, she reminded me of the two blondes. There was something overly fake about them, an air of trying just a bit too hard.

  I quickly perused my notes to avoid Sherlock’s if-you’d-but-done-as-I-said-you’d-know-this-already look. “Ah, Kara and Anna from the Real Families of Suburbia and Julianna from the Real Families of SoCal, correct?”

  The three women beamed. “That’s us,” Julianna said. “And we’d love to do an interview with you, if you have the time.”

  “They want Dawn, girls, just like everyone else,” a bored male voice said. A beefy young man who looked a few years older than Dawn joined us. He flashed us a sympathetic smile. “You know us reality whores—we’ll do anything to get our names in the papers.”

  “Speak for yourself, though apparently you’ll do anything for a photo op, George,” Anna snapped.

  “Bros before hos, babe,” George said with a smirk. “Especially you hos.”

  I risked another look at my notes. This would be George Benning, late of Campus King: Ohio State. He w
as a good-looking man, but visibly disgusted, with himself and everything around him. I figured him for the show’s male villain. He also looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t say why.

  “Of course, if you stopped trying to drag girls off into dark corners against their will,” Julianna said, “you might have better shots taken.”

  “Not in front of the nice people from the Times,” Kara said with an extremely fake smile I assumed she thought was fooling everyone. “That’s all in the past, isn’t it, girls?”

  “Oh, we’re not that nice,” Sherlock said. All four of them tittered, but I was quite aware that Sherlock wasn’t actually making a joke.

  We were spotted and three more women raced over. “Yoo-hoo,” another blonde who looked mid-twenties called. “What are we missing?”

  George rolled his eyes. “Oh, good. The party’s complete.”

  “This isn’t the entire cast, is it?” I asked him as she and the other two women shoved in. Sherlock and I were literally surrounded.

  “No. A few have managed not to run over here salivating. Don’t expect it to last.”

  Risked a look around. Irene was nearby, between us and the stage. I caught her eye by accident. She smiled slowly, winked, and sashayed off. I felt the heat rising in my face and looked back to the new arrivals.

  “Sarah Foster,” Sherlock said, pointing to the newest blonde. “Campus Queen: Berkeley. Along with Elizabeth Gale, Campus Queen: Notre Dame, and Amanda Rice, High School Confidential: Alabama.”

  Elizabeth had red hair and looked late-twenties, or possibly early-thirties. Amanda looked early twenties and was a brunette. They were all conventionally attractive. And, unlike the first three women, didn’t reek of the same desperation. It was still there, but not as strong.

  All of them were looking at me expectantly. “Ah, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” I managed.

  “I think he’s a new male lead,” Julianna said to the new arrivals. “Far too handsome to just be a reporter.” The other women nodded in agreement. My face felt even hotter. George laughed and winked at me.

  “I’m with the Times,” I muttered.

  “I have headshots if you’d like an autograph,” Amanda said.

  “I do, too,” Elizabeth added quickly.

  “Oh, I’m sure we’ll take our own photos,” Sherlock said. “I was wondering, though—how do all of you feel about the situation?”

  “Which one?” Elizabeth asked with a short laugh.

  “There’s more than one?” Sherlock asked ingenuously.

  “Oh, good lord, you can take your pick,” Anna replied. “We have no scripts, our director’s AWOL, roles are being reassigned as we speak—still without a script again, let me remind you—and the crew keeps losing things.”

  “What kinds of things?” Sherlock asked.

  “You name it,” Julianna said, “and it’s gone. Props, costumes, personal items. We either have thieves or we have raccoons.”

  “I haven’t seen any woodland creatures,” George said. “Present company excluded.”

  “We hate you, too, George,” Kara snapped. “Even Dawn hates you, and that’s saying a lot.”

  “Dawn loves me,” George said with a laugh.

  “Really?” Sarah said. “That’s why she won’t be alone with you and makes one of us come with her if she has to be?”

  George opened his mouth, but Elizabeth put up her hand. “The reporters aren’t interested in this little on-set friction. But Julianna’s right. They tell you it’s so much more professional in the big leagues, but you can’t prove it by this crew.”

  “Well,” Sarah said, “the crew members we’re used to are all great. It’s just the new ones that are problematic.”

  The others nodded. “True enough,” Amanda agreed. “Anyway, it’s a madhouse here.”

  There was nothing I could see that actually dispelled any of their complaints, so I merely nodded and continued to take notes.

  “Could you go into detail about what’s been taken or gone missing?” Sherlock asked.

  Mouths opened, but before any of them could talk, a man’s voice rang out. “All principals to the set!”

  The actors’ mouths closed. “Back soon,” Amanda said.

  “Wait around for us,” Kara added.

  “Oh, we will,” Sherlock said, as they all trotted off.

  We wandered back over to craft services, in part because that would keep us out of the way, and in part because apparently Sherlock was quite the fan of free food. I’d not known this about her before today, but added it to my List of Sherlock’s Idiosyncrasies.

  A young man shorter than me rushed over to us. “Excuse me, Ms. Holmes, but Joey asked me to tell that he left what you wanted in the production office.”

  “Thanks, Avery,” Sherlock said. “How are you enjoying being the main production assistant?” To me, she added, “Avery’s been with Andenson since Campus King: Ohio State.”

  Avery managed a weak smile. “It’s not all the glamour you hear about, I’ll say that.”

  “So you know George, then?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Good guy. A little too into the girls, but he’s always got your back.” Someone shouted his name and Avery sighed. “Duty calls. See you around. Have a latte.” He raced off. It was starting to feel like we were being given the party line. And they were way into their coffee around here.

  Straude and Saunders wandered over to us. They both nodded to the caterers, who remembered them from New London as well. Lattes and fresh donuts were handed out immediately, earning the catering crew a beaming smile from Saunders, a quiet grunt of thanks from Straude, and a wink from Sherlock. I gave up and accepted a maple bar and another coffee; by now it seemed expected and I didn’t want to be rude. The fact that the coffee and foodstuffs were quite delicious had nothing to do with it.

  More chaos, rushed and random milling about, and shouting ensued. But, at long last, Jackson was in the director’s chair, so that was progress of a sort. Everyone was in their places, except for one. “Where the hell is Dawn?” Jackson shouted. “I need my leading lady.”

  Sherlock stiffened, and put her food and drink down onto the table. “Watson, quickly.”

  “What is it?” I asked as I followed suit. Sherlock strode towards the dressing rooms, almost running, and the detectives and I followed. Saunders was also tall and a fast walker, but Straude and I were both jogging to keep up.

  “The most professional actor on this set is Dawn Niles. She was told to get to the set and she left us to go to the set. Therefore, the last person I’d expect to be missing from said set is Dawn. I hadn’t seen her, but I assumed she was behind something waiting to make an entrance. Clearly that isn’t the case.”

  We reached Dawn’s dressing room and Sherlock flung the door open without knocking. The room was devoid of anyone, Dawn in particular, and it looked just as it had when we’d left it.

  Sherlock spun and headed off towards the back of the stage. Then a woman’s scream rang out and Sherlock broke into a run.

  WE REACHED THE area behind the main set, where the rigging was. A web of metal catwalks—laden with ropes and pulleys, sandbags, light bars, and other things I couldn’t identify—arched overhead.

  The screamer turned out to be Irene. She looked white and was shaking. And she was pointing up.

  A pair of bare feet were just visible in the middle of a particularly clustered group of ropes hanging from the highest part of the rigging.

  “Get someone up there immediately,” Straude barked. Mitch and a couple other men were scrambling up even before he’d given the order.

  “From the way the feet are hanging, whoever’s up there is unlikely to be alive,” I said quietly. “Though I’ll do my best.”

  “I know you will, Watson, but I fear we’re too late.” Sherlock sounded angry and upset.

  “You think it’s Dawn?”

  “I know it is. Note the toenail polish.”

  I did, now that she mentioned it. It was
fuchsia.

  “Watson, we need some evidence gloves,” Sherlock said quietly. I dug through the duffel and pulled out a pair for her and for me.

  The body was lowered to the ground, laid out by Straude and Saunders, and confirmed as Dawn Niles. I leaped to her, but the angle of her neck and her open, staring eyes told me that there was going to be nothing I could do. Even so, I checked her vitals and tried CPR.

  I closed her eyes gently. “It’s no good. She’s dead.”

  “Nice to see that required an Oxford education to determine,” Saunders said under his breath. “My own damn eyes wouldn’t be good enough.” I ignored him.

  “Any guess as to how long?” Straude asked, flashing Saunders a dark look.

  “Less than thirty minutes,” Sherlock replied. “That’s the last time we saw her alive.” She looked around and up. “You there! Leave things alone. Touch nothing and get the hell down here.” Her voice radiated authority, more than Straude’s had, and the men on the catwalk hurried down.

  Everyone else had gathered around by now. Jackson stared dumbly at Dawn’s lifeless body. Irene hugged herself. Some of the female crew members cried quietly; some of the male ones, too. The rest of the actors seemed unsure as to what expressions they should be wearing, though Amanda gave Joey a calculating look. She was the youngest-looking of the reality stars and it didn’t take Sherlock’s genius to guess that she was hoping she’d be the one to step into Dawn’s role.

  I heard the sound of a man running, then the sounds of someone shoving through a lot of people. Antonelli reached us and stopped dead. “How did this happen?” he asked.

  “I don’t know why she’d have been up there,” Mitch said. “There was no reason for it. But it looks like she was and she slipped and fell.”

  “She didn’t slip, she didn’t fall, and this wasn’t an accident,” Sherlock said briskly. “Lock down this set,” she said to Saunders, who nodded and stepped away to call in reinforcements. “Lee, make sure no one leaves and no one disturbs anything. Watson, with me.”