Lights, Camera . . .

by Carolyn Keene

  “I don’t care what’s caused the problem,” Morris said, “as long as my computers get fixed.” He waved his hands through the air as he talked, and he looked and sounded like he was extremely edgy. “Every aspect of my production depends on those blasted machines,” he continued. “Just get her out here as soon as possible!”

  “I’ll call her right away,” I assured him. “We also talked about meeting with the Muskoka Musketeers today. When would be a good time for you?”

  “Today?” Morris said, rubbing his forehead. “We’ve got the table read this afternoon. I don’t know . . . with the computers all down . . . I can’t schedule anything right now, Nancy. Get back to me later.”

  I could tell I wasn’t going to get anywhere with him. With the computer problem, all the priorities changed. I decided to check in with the Musketeers by myself if necessary. But the first goal was to get George on site.

  George not only reported immediately, but she brought three laptops from her own private stock. She’s so into computers that she buys or scrounges outdated and half-dead ones to rebuild and reconfigure.

  “This is fantastic,” Morris exclaimed when George handed him the loaners. “Maybe we can reconstruct some of the lost files on your computers while you’re working on our machines. I’ll give one to Rita and one to Althea, and keep this one for myself. You’re an angel, George! And you are too, Nancy, for bringing her in.”

  George actually blushed—not something she does very often. But then, she’s not called an angel very often either.

  “I’m on my way to meet with Rita to get my schedules,” I told Morris. “I can take this computer to her, if you like.”

  “And I can take this one to Althea,” Luther said. “We’re working through the script today.”

  “Great,” Morris said. “George, you come with me. We’ve rounded up all the computers for you in the office. Okay, everyone, let’s get to work. We’re losing time every second—and that means we’re losing money.”

  I headed straight for Rita Clocker’s trailer. As I walked through the compound, I began to understand why Morris was verging on panic. The pace of the compound had now slowed to a crawl. People sat around or stood in groups. No one seemed to be working. A few stretched back in lawn chairs, catching some rays. Others read books, watched battery-operated TVs, or talked on cell phones.

  It wasn’t until I got to Rita Clocker’s trailer that it felt like I was on a movie set again. I could hear her voice through the thin trailer walls as I approached—and she didn’t sound like a happy camper.

  “Look, people, we’re in trouble! I need all of you working at top speed. We have to get this production back on track or you’re all out of a job. So move it!”

  The trailer door popped open and a young man and young woman burst out and ran off toward different buildings.

  I stepped inside the trailer and introduced myself. “I’m looking for Rita Clocker.”

  “You found her,” a woman said without looking up from her desk. I recognized her voice as the loud one that I’d heard as I walked up. She was somewhere in her forties, and was pretty average looking except for a gorgeous mane of dark red hair.

  “Nancy Drew, Nancy Drew,” she recited. “Oh, yes, you’re Esther, aren’t you? Let me see . . .” She pawed through stacks of papers until she finally pulled out a small folder. “I suppose you’ve heard,” she said. “Our computers are all shot. So everything’s at a standstill right now. A good time for you to get caught up.”

  She looked me up and down, her eyes sort of squinty, as if she were checking me out. “Mmmmm, I think you’ll do nicely as Esther.” She scrawled some notes on a torn piece of paper. “You’re new to this, aren’t you? I think Morris told me that. Your part’s really small right now, but it might be expanded. Go get fitted right away for your costumes, and then report to makeup. I’ll have a cameraman meet you there, and he can do some testing while they’re developing your face colors.”

  She talked so fast, I had to really focus to catch every word. And she never seemed to actually take a breath.

  “Because the computers are all out of whack, I have no idea at this point when we’ll be shooting your scenes,” she barreled on. “We’ll take up the slack time with rehearsals, blocking, and coaching. Lunch is at noon sharp in the mess hall. That’s the long metal building over on the bluff. The actors and crew chiefs are doing the table read at two o’clock in the same building. Be there. I’ll give you the rest of your schedule then.”

  She gave me a quick smile, then ducked her head back down to her desk and began studying a clipboard full of charts. I thanked her and headed straight for the wardrobe building.

  Rita’s rat-a-tat speech was still rattling in my brain, and I found myself hurrying across the compound.

  The costume fittings went quickly. They already had some dresses made up, and they just needed to alter them a bit to make them fit perfectly. I usually hate getting fitted for clothes—it’s so boring and seems to take forever. But this session turned out to be very interesting.

  “Wow, did they create that blue cloth just to match your eyes or what?” Tripp Vanilli said when I came out of the dressing room in my first costume. “Honey, you’re going to be a great Esther.” Tripp was the head designer, and admitted this was only his second film. His assistant, Julie Wilson, had done more movies, but this was her first big-time project.

  Julie handed me a long apron to put over the dress. “He’s right, you know. This dress isn’t exactly evening wear, but it’ll be great for the film.”

  “So how was Rita?” Tripp asked as he pulled some dresses off the rack. “Totally hyper, I bet. She acts like the only reason the computers went down was to inconvenience her.”

  “If you ask me, it’s kind of a blessing,” Julie said, pinning up my hem.

  “Blessing?” I repeated. “How do you mean?”

  “This whole production was a mess long before this morning,” she answered. “It’s probably a good idea for everyone to stop and take a breath.”

  “But why?” I asked. “Aren’t you just getting started? How could it be a mess already?”

  “Money, honey,” Tripp called over from the cutting board. “Not enough of it.”

  “This is a budget flick if there ever was one,” Julie added. “There wasn’t enough money to start with, and some of that’s been thrown down the wrong tube.”

  “Morris seems so sure of himself,” I said. “I’m surprised he’d let that happen.”

  “He’s spread pretty thin, trying to be both producer and director,” Tripp pointed out. “Sometimes he’s so wrapped up in one job, he loses control of the other.”

  “The sad thing is how it affects all of us—the crew and the artisans,” Julie said, standing back to check her work. “When we first came on board, everyone was like this great team—a family. We all really believed in the project and were willing to put up with the low budget in order to get the job done and make a really good film. But now . . .”

  Her voice trailed off and she just shrugged her shoulders.

  “You’ll see what we mean,” Tripp said. “Everyone’s on edge. Our little family has turned into a collection of bickering brats.” He brought over a beautiful piece of paisley material and draped it around my shoulders. “Mmmm, nice?” he murmured.

  “Absolutely,” Julie said. “Okay, Nancy, you’re through for now. We’ll get right on these, and let you know when we need you for the next fitting.”

  I thanked them and went over to the makeup trailer.

  “Well, now, no mistaking who you’re gonna be in this movie, is there?” a cheerful voice greeted me as I stepped inside the trailer. The long room smelled like face cream and hair spray. “Hi, I’m Degas.” A short man with broad muscular shoulders and an inky-black ponytail reached up and fluffed my hair. “I’m not going to be doing much here,” he said. “You’re practically perfect as is.”

  A woman bustled out of the bathroom and joined us. “
You must be Nancy Drew,” she said, “our Esther. I’m Pam.” She was pretty in a natural kind of way, but it was hard to guess her age. She could have been anywhere from forty to sixty.

  “Cosmetician to the stars,” Degas added, smiling proudly at his colleague. “You’re really lucky, Nancy. Pam has made up some of the most famous faces in the world.”

  “Have you seen this?” she asked, pointing to a large portrait of a young woman hanging on the wall. It was a blowup of a brownish photograph I’d seen once in the River Heights library. A small sticky note with the word Blue had been placed over one eye. Another note stating Reddish blond was stuck next to the long wavy hair.

  The original photo in the library was old and marred with cracks and spots and smudges. But this version had been cleaned up on the computer, and I immediately saw the resemblance between the young Esther Rackham and me.

  “You’re definitely that girl, babe,” Degas said. “Especially after we get through with you.”

  “After a couple of hours or so, no one will be able to see the difference,” Pam said, gently dabbing my face with globs of a sheer cream.

  “If I already look so much like Esther, how come it’s going to take that long?”

  “That’s showbiz, babe,” Degas said. “Welcome to the movies.”

  It took even longer than they’d thought, because they stopped periodically to videotape my head from every possible angle. They made up my face and fashioned my hair for daytime, nighttime, working, barn dancing, and gardening. And they barely stopped talking the entire time.

  A lot of the conversation was about people I didn’t know or hadn’t even heard about. So I steered them in another direction. “I hear this production is having a little trouble getting off the ground,” I said.

  “Staying off the ground, you mean,” Degas said. While Pam held the camera, Degas was pinning different hair extensions on my head. I’d just had my hair cut to shoulder length, and Esther’s hair was supposed to be about a foot longer.

  “This isn’t exactly a big-budget production, you know,” Degas continued. “We’ve certainly been there before, right, Pam?”

  “Ohhh, yes,” she said. She squinted one eye as she looked through the viewer with the other.

  “And small films have to cut corners sometimes,” Degas said. “We all get that. But this production . . . whoa, it’s been a train wreck. One problem after another just eating up the money. And there’s just not that much extra to spare.”

  “But from what I’ve heard, every film production has problems along the way,” I said. “How is this one any different? Some people have said that Morris might not be able to handle producing and directing. Do you think that’s it?”

  “Hey, it’s a nutty business to begin with,” Degas said. “And you’re right—there are always disasters along the way that eat into the budget. But this one is different somehow—and I don’t think it’s really Morris’s fault, do you, Pam?”

  “No, I don’t,” she agreed, putting down the camera. She looked over at the portrait of Esther Rackham. “The things that happen . . . well, they just don’t seem to be accidents, that’s all. It’s like this whole production is jinxed. Reminds me of a picture I worked on thirty years ago. No one ever figured out who—or what—was causing all the problems. Some even thought the ghost of the main character was kicking up the trouble . . . didn’t want her story to be told. Finally had to close the whole production down for good . . .”

  Pam’s voice just sort of faded off as she ended her sentence. I glanced over at Degas. He raised one eyebrow and pursed his lips as he looked back at me, but he didn’t say anything.

  By the time the two of them had finished with me, my head had been pulled, plastered, and peeled, dabbed, jabbed, and scrubbed—at least a dozen times. Amazingly, when I finally left the trailer, my face felt soft and tingly.

  I was also hungry, and late for lunch, so I headed straight for the mess hall. It was one of those metal temporary buildings assembled on the grounds just for providing food to the actors, crew, and staff.

  “Wow, you look different somehow,” George said when I joined her at a long table. “Your eyes are all made up,” she said, “and that’s actually a cool lipstick shade. Bess would be proud.”

  “I wish she were here to see it for herself, before it gets eaten off with my sandwich. How’s it going with the data recovery?”

  “It’s going to take time,” George said, sipping a soda. “Whatever happened to those machines, it was a thorough destruction.”

  “A computer virus, maybe?”

  “Maybe. I should know more by the end of the day. At least I brought a couple more laptops from my own stock that they can use this afternoon.”

  We had to eat quickly, because the table read was scheduled for two o’clock, and it was already one thirty. But between bites I managed to tell George about my sessions with the wardrobe and makeup teams.

  When we finished eating, George and I joined the others who were assembling at the end of the room. George handed over the two laptops, and then left to go back to work on the production company’s machines.

  The rest of us took seats around a large table. Morris sat at the end of the table. His assistant and Rita Clocker were on his left, and Althea Waters and Luther sat on his right.” This is always one of my favorite days when I’m filming a movie,” Morris said, “the first time I get you all in the same room at the same time. Some of you already know each other, but let’s go around the table anyway and introduce ourselves. I’ll start,” he said with a wide grin. “This is the table read for the movie Stealing Thunder, and I’m Morris Dunnowitz, producer/director.”

  His words were accompanied by the muted clackclack of his assistant’s fingers flying over the keyboard of one of George’s computers.

  “Althea, you’re next,” Morris said.

  “Hi, everyone, I’m Althea Waters, the scriptwriter. You all know what the movie is about. I call it Stealing Thunder because it’s about stealing money from the sale of anvils, and in Greek mythology, the Cyclops made thunder by beating on anvils.”

  Luther beamed with a broad smile and nodded as she spoke. I could tell he liked her.

  One by one we all introduced ourselves. The directing, production, filming, and recording crew chiefs were all there, as well as the entire cast. I jotted notes in my pocket-size, black-leather notebook as each person spoke.

  “As most of you know, I’m Herman Houseman.” The man who was speaking was very handsome—fiftyish—with thick brown hair and a deep voice that carried all through the room. “I will be playing the hero of this story, Mr. Ethan Mahoney, an early settler of this quaint town who made a killing manufacturing anvils. And whose fortune would have been much more substantial were it not for those nasty fellows.”

  Mr. Houseman swiveled in his chair and shot a mock glare across the table toward the two men sitting to my right.

  “Hold on there, Ethan,” the one next to me said with a gorgeous grin. “We were just doing our jobs. Hi, everybody. I’m Luke Alvarez, and I play John Rackham.” He stopped to nod toward the guy on his other side. “And this is my brother in real life, Ben, who plays my screen brother, Ross.”

  “Hey, all,” Ben said, with an equally sparkling smile. The Alvarez brothers were young and really good looking. Although they both had thick shocks of dark wavy hair and enormous brown-black eyes, they weren’t twins, and each had his own distinct charm. I was sure I’d seen them in small roles on television dramas.

  After everyone was introduced, the table read began. I quickly learned that a table read is just what it sounds like. All the actors read their parts aloud from beginning to end. Morris read the scene setups and the action, and the others followed along in their own copies of the script. Althea had done a good job of telling the story in an exciting way, and all the actors seemed to enjoy reading through their parts.

  Most of my scenes were with Ben and Luke. According to the legend, when a steamer full of
money came down the Muskoka to buy some of Ethan’s anvils, the Rackham brothers successfully ripped it off and were never heard from again. Although she tried, Esther failed to stop them, and she went to her grave without ever revealing their whereabouts. As we read our parts, the brothers and I seemed to get into a groove right away. It helped me shake off my initial nervousness.

  When we got to the end of the script, everyone was quiet for a moment. Then we spontaneously burst into applause. It was sort of like the cheers that sports teams give themselves before the big game.

  “Okay, everyone, that’s it for today. Take the evening off—tomorrow we start shooting. Make sure you know when you’re required, and where. Rita has all that info. Thanks for a great read.”

  “Well, now, this is going to be fun, don’t you think?” Ben asked me as we stood. “I haven’t seen you before. Have you worked in television? Film?”

  “Ummm, no, nothing like that. I’m a real beginner at this—and a local resident, actually.”

  “No kidding,” Luke said. “Well, Morris said to take the evening off. For us, that means fun on the town. How about being our tour guide?”

  “Yeah,” Ben agreed. “How about it, Sis?”

  “Nancy!” George’s voice interrupted me before I could answer Ben and Luke. I turned to follow the sound of her voice. She was standing in the doorway and motioning to me to join her.

  “Give me a few minutes, guys,” I told the Alvarez brothers. “I need to talk to my friend.”

  “Hurry back,” Luke said, smiling and waving at George. “She’s more than welcome too.”

  I walked to the doorway to join George. “What’s up?” I asked her.

  “Come on, you’ve got to hear this,” she said. She led me outside the building to a clearing near the edge of the bluff. As we walked, I began to hear voices—loud and angry.

  “All the excuses in the world won’t let you off the hook this time,” I heard Rita Clocker say. Her voice was easy to recognize.