by Nero Blanc
Barreling down the freeway, yelling into the leather-scented air of his Bentley Arnage T, Groslir began creating a list of potential Hollywood rewriters, down-and-out New York playwrights and mercenary novelists who could quickly take Chick Darlessen’s miserable place. “I shouldn’t have hired him in the first place,” he groused. “I don’t care whose idea the story was! That’s what script doctors are for—to make the original guy’s concept fly. I should have just bought the damn pitch and told Chickie to take a hike. Big mistake, Lew. Big mistake. You give a writer like him an ounce of power, you throw the whole Hollywood balance thing out of whack. It’s like messing with the environment. This is a pyramid system … like food … ya gotta remember that, Lew. An empty carb—that’s what Darlessen was … And how may empty carbs does a body need?”
But then the producer’s brain suddenly veered in the opposite direction: Hollywood murders, and the major media ink they generated. The sorry tale began to look less like a potential problem and more like a probable gold mine. “On the other hand … maybe we’re dealing with a PR bonanza here, Lew,” Groslir almost cooed. “A dead writer? I like that. It’s a hook, a good hook. And a sexy babe in a prison jumpsuit? I like that even better. This is beautiful. We’re golden. This is money in the bank. And I’ll betcha we can keep generating headlines till the show actually airs …”
As Groslir dodged the BMWs, Miatas, and Mustangs on the inbound 101 Freeway and began plotting his next move in Culver City, the cast and crew of Anatomy of a Crossword blissfully and ignorantly hummed with unaccustomed contentment and a new-found verve. As yet, no one had heard the shocking news of Darlessen’s death or Debra Marcollo’s arrest. As a result, the first order of the morning’s activities was the welcoming of Sara—the real Sara—whose keen and perceptive eye would help the movie’s “Belle” and “Rosco” unveil the “murderer.”
Ordinarily, the introduction of a replacement performer would have been a subdued affair, made tense and sometimes hostile by an overtaxed schedule, actors unwilling to reshoot scenes, costume refittings, and new lighting requirements as well as the hothouse camaraderie that exists in any theatrical venture. But from the onset, Sara was Sara, and her appearance among the falseness of stage “gilding” and “marble” had an eerily regal air, like Queen Elizabeth embarking on one of her famous “walkabouts.”
“Oh, my,” she said as she handed Dean Ivald her white-gloved and gracious hand. “You have perfectly recreated my cozy little nook back in Newcastle. You dear man! How very, very flattering! And that portrait of my great-great-grandfather? Why, no one could tell me I wasn’t face-to-face with the genuine oil … It looks as much unlike him as the original.”
No one interrupted as Sara paraded through her “sitting room,” although a few eyebrows were raised behind her back. “A cozy little nook” would not have been the term on most on the onlookers’ lips. And calling the director “a dear man” seemed tantamount to referring to the evil movie doll “Chuckie” as “Pinocchio.”
Rosco and Belle remained in the background while Sara met her fellow actors as well as the grips and scripts girls, the makeup and wardrobe artists. “Isn’t this simply lovely?” the grand old lady stated in her clear, patrician tone. “We’ll be one enormous family all toiling about in this cavernous place. Like ants.”
“And we all know ants have a queen …” Belle heard a voice behind her murmur. She turned and glimpsed Miso Lane in the background. To whom he was speaking, Belle couldn’t see. “Didn’t I tell you she was a dead ringer?”
Belle frowned, instantly cold, instantly wary and fearful for her friend’s safety. Death and Sara were not words she wanted put in proximity. Belle pushed her way toward Miso. “What do you mean by ‘dead ringer’?” If there was a more diplomatic method of opening the conversation or a more subtle way of discovering what Miso had meant by the term, Belle didn’t stop to consider it.
The location scout/Polaroid junkie regarded her. “A ringer for the genuine article,” he answered with a glib, dismissive shrug. “The real item.”
“But she is the real person,” Belle countered.
“That’s what I’m saying.”
“But you can only be a dead ringer if you’re not authentic to start with,” Belle persisted.
“Ah, the wordsmith splits hairs … Hey, she looks good,” was Miso’s less-than-illuminating reply. “She looks real good. It’s just super to have her out here with us—her and everything that comes with her.” Then he melted away as another bank of lights flashed on, revealing Sara in a different location on the sound stage.
“Rosco,” Belle whispered as soon as she found her husband, “I really don’t like this.”
Rosco smiled and shook his head. He was enjoying watching Sara revel in the limelight. “She’s having a great time, Belle, lighten up. Who wouldn’t enjoy having a fling like this at her age?”
“But—”
“I know. You’ve got a hunch things here aren’t all they seem to be—”
“It’s more than a hunch.”
He looked at her, his expression serious now. “You love Sara, and you’re worried because she’s not as young or spry or tough as she looks.”
“That’s not the problem.”
“I promise you, there aren’t any sinister types skulking around here or back at the hotel.” He laughed in the hopes of sounding reassuring enough to banish her concerns. “And if there were … well, that’s why they’ve flown in the Polycrates Agency—”
“But what if getting Sara to fly out here is part of a plot of some sort?”
“Plot?” Rosco wrapped an arm around his wife’s shoulder. He was still smiling. “What exactly do you mean by, plot?”
Belle thought. Up to this moment, her worries had been too amorphous to name. “Well … kidnapping, for one … Sara’s brother’s an important U.S. senator, after all … and … and he does a lot of work in foreign relations … and he is here in California. Maybe it’s an international—”
“Don’t you think your alien cartel would have found it easier to nab Mrs. Sara Crane Briephs in her own home? After all, the stalwart Emma’s hardly muscle man material. Though I’d guess she’d put up a better fight than most housekeepers.”
Belle considered the suggestion. “Okay, then … Miso Lane and his buddies—or their confederates back East—rob White Caps while Sara’s in California. All that silver and those antiques—”
“Al Lever’s already on that, Belle. He’s got a squad car patrolling Sara’s neighborhood twenty-four-seven. And her house may be ancient, but she has a very sophisticated alarm system—only Tom Cruise would be able to get around it, or his stunt double.”
“Ho, ho.” Belle fell silent for a moment, then said, “I still have a bad feeling, Rosco …”
It was at that moment that Lew Groslir arrived and drew Dean Ivald aside. From the expressions on the men’s faces, Belle and Rosco knew they weren’t discussing camera angles or lighting design. After a brief consultation, Lew headed off to the production office, and Dean raised his voice so that he would be heard throughout the studio. “People, may I have your attention for a moment, please? Would you all please drop what you’re doing and move into the Lawson’s Diner set and take a seat? I’m afraid I have some unpleasant news to share.”
CHAPTER 18
“So?”
The word was said in almost perfect unison by Dean Ivald and Lew Groslir. They both laced it with the same amount of over-the-top incredulity while their faces conveyed a complementary measure of annoyance, agitation, and impatience. Following the general announcement concerning Darlessen’s unfortunate demise, the two men had retreated, along with Belle—the focal point of this pointed exchange—to the production offices that overlooked the Anatomy of a Crossword set. Rosco had not been invited to join this intimate powwow, which had been deemed an “artistic discussion,” meant only for the “creative family.”
“Look, Belle, honey,” Lew continued, “you don’t thr
ow two months of pre-production down the toilet just because you’ve got a dead writer. Do you have any idea how many writers there are in L.A.? We can replace Chick in twenty minutes if we need to.”
“And that’s the beauty of it, really,” Dean added. “Because Chick managed to get his rewrites for those final scenes into my box over the weekend, we don’t even need to replace him. We’re set, we’re ready to roll. If we have any questions, at all … well, that’s what we hired you for, right?”
“It just … doesn’t seem proper,” Belle insisted. Like everyone else on the set, the news of Chick’s murder had upset her, and understandably sent her into a mild state of shock.
“Who’s to say what’s proper and what isn’t?” Lew responded as he began to pace in front of the one-way glass that separated the trio from the studio below, and the cast and crew who were now milling about in a funk. “Think about it for a minute, Belle. Do you think Chick would want us to pull the plug on this baby? His baby. His special project. No way, José. I mean, what began as merely another dynamite notion in his impressive repertoire has become Chick Darlessen’s final—and maybe best—achievement, his swan song, if you will … Because in the long run, his death virtually guarantees him an Emmy nomination … And it’s so quintessentially Hollywood—SCREENWRITER GUNNED DOWN BY GIRLFRIEND IN MALIBU BEACH HOUSE … What you have there is the full range … what’s that word I’m looking for?” Lew rubbed the fingers of one hand together as if the elusive phrase were a bit of cloth he was plucking at. “… panoply! That’s it! The full panoply of emotion. You have to love it.”
Dean clapped his hands together. “Now that’s the story we should be shooting, Lew—sex … violence … the Pacific Ocean, foamy and frothy … drugs … alcohol … buff lifeguard wrestles semi-nude, foxy lady to the ground on a Malibu beach. Talk about ratings.”
“I’m not—” Belle started to protest, but Lew raised his arm like a traffic cop and silenced her.
“You’re a genius, Dean, an absolute genius.” Groslir grabbed the telephone and punched in a series of numbers. As soon as he was connected, he spoke so rapidly that Belle had difficulty following his words. “Tracy, sweetie, get me a writer, any writer, I don’t care who, as long as he can spell the names right. I want a dramatic treatment drawn up on this Darlessen—Marcollo murder case today. And get it registered with the Writer’s Guild by five o’clock this afternoon, before some other sleazeball beats me to it.” Lew dropped the receiver into the cradle and took a deep breath. “Okay, now, where were we?”
“I don’t think I can do this,” Belle said, attempting to sound resolute and forceful. “And I also think both of you are asking for more trouble. Three people have been seriously injured already.”
“Three? Three? Where the hell do you get three?” Lew demanded.
Belle counted off on her fingers. “Greg Trafeo, your first Rosco; Nan DeDero, and now Chick Darlessen.”
Lew threw up his hands. “Oh, come off it, will ya, honey? For one thing, Trafeo was out on Sunset Boulevard when he had his accident … Stuff like this happens all the time in L.A. What am I? A damn babysitter all of a sudden? I’ve got to keep an eye on every employee on his day off? This is business, toots. Grow up, will ya?”
Belle stood. “I don’t intend to sit here and have someone talk to me like that, I really don’t.” she began to walk toward the door.
“Hey,” Lew said with a malevolent chuckle, “I’m the producer, sweetheart. I’ll talk anyway I feel like talking—especially now that we don’t have a ‘creator’ anymore. Now, sit back down, this meeting isn’t over until I say it’s over.”
Belle turned back to Lew. She gave him an icy stare, then folded her arms across her chest; however, she remained standing. “Mr. Groslir, a friend of yours has just been murdered,” she said. “I can’t say I knew Chick well enough to call him more than an acquaintance, but that doesn’t prevent me being saddened by his death … But I have to tell you that despite what you say about Greg Trafeo’s accident, as well as Nan DeDero’s, I now have very serious misgivings about having asked Mrs. Briephs to come out here, and at this point, I believe it would be best for us all to return to Massachusetts.”
“Don’t make me laugh. You have a contract, doll. And Mrs. Briephs has a contract, in case you haven’t noticed. Even your damn husband has a contract thanks to Lee ‘squeeze-blood-from-a-stone’ Rennegor.” Lew pointed his finger at Belle to emphasize his threat. “You take a hike on me, and I’ll sue all three of you into the next universe … We’ve got a major weekly publication on board—all ramped up to publish that puzzle of yours to coincide with airdate. You welsh, and they’ll have you in court before I can even phone my lawyer. You’ll spend the rest of your days in a Boston breadline begging for a cup of watery broth. And I’ll own White Caps lock, stock, and barrel by the time I’m done with Mrs. Briephs.”
Dean could see that Lew’s verbal abuse was getting him nowhere with Belle. “All right, all right, Lew,” he said, “let’s settle down.” He rose and placed his long arm over Lew’s shoulder. He was nearly a foot and a half taller than the producer, and standing in such proximity, they seemed to belong on a cartoon frame from the Mutt and Jeff comic strip. “Let me talk to Belle privately for a minute or two, okay? I think we can work something out.” As he spoke, Dean walked Lew toward the exit. And without giving him a chance to reply, gently pushed him out, locked the door, and turned to face Belle.
“Why don’t we sit down? And don’t let Lew’s bluster bother you, Belle. He’s under a lot of pressure. He means well. That tough-guy stance? That’s simply facade … Producers need to display a certain sangfroid if they’re to stay in business. It’s a cutthroat town. You don’t get to the top by acting like a diplomat.”
Belle dropped her hands to her sides and flopped back into the chair. She sighed. “I don’t know, Dean, I would just die if anything happened to Sara.”
“This has been a stressful day.” Dean took his own deep breath, and released it slowly. “I mean, look at Lew. He never behaves like that.” What’s a little white lie between friends? Dean thought. In reality, Lew is a notorious hatchet man. “I’ve known him for twenty years, and I’ve never seen him this distressed, never known him to raise his voice like that. He’s clearly upset about Chick … Of course, we all are … But he’s right, Belle; Chick’s death and Greg’s auto accident had nothing to do with our operation here in Culver City. They’re just a rather unfortunate set of events. And, after all, Chick’s killer is in jail. Who can Debra Marcollo harm now?”
“I just have a very bad feeling about the future.”
“Sara will be perfectly safe, Belle, and you have your husband here, on the set, to ensure that.” Dean placed his hand on Belle’s. “And, I’m afraid Lew’s also right about the contracts, dear. He would look very, very foolish within the industry if this project were to fall though at this point in time … Now, I know it may sound mercenary to you, but Chick’s death makes this show an absolute, guaranteed ratings bonanza. It could very well sweep the Emmy Awards. If Lew were to lose that kind momentum, that kind of prestige, he’d come after you—and Sara—with a legion of lawyers … And, I’m sorry to inform you, he’d win his case, hands down.”
Belle sat quietly. She could think of nothing to say that might refute Dean Ivald’s allegations. A look of complete defeat showed on her face.
“Belle,” Dean said, patting her hand, “This will work out. Trust me.” Belle remained silent, so he pushed on. “We’ve lost very little time with all these issues, and I see no reason why we won’t be finished with Sara by week’s end—as scheduled. I hope you don’t feel like you’re being forced into this.”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do feel I’m being coerced, and I don’t like it … But I also realize I don’t have a choice …”
“No, I’m afraid you don’t …” Dean took a long pause, then added, “Oh, and another thing, Belle, dear, I’d like you to do me the biggest favor …”
> “Yes?”
“I don’t think it would help Mrs. Briephs’s performance if she sensed there was any … well, animosity or acrimony between you and Lew. Your friend needs to be relaxed; it’s the only way to get a believable performance out of a non-professional. For her sake, I’d like you to put on an enthusiastic exterior—even if you’re not feeling it inside. The show must go on.”
Belle was again quiet. Finally, she said, “I don’t know … I have to think this over. I’m not a liar. And I’ve never hidden anything from Sara.”
“And that’s laudable. A trait both you, and she, can be proud of.” Dean stood. “But, remember, it’s for her benefit … Now, why don’t you take a few minutes to think things over while I step outside and give you a little privacy.” He walked to the door. “Keep in mind, Belle, that everyone loses if you take Mrs. Briephs back to Massachusetts now. And most of all … Chick loses. He dies a forgotten man in the city he loved, if this show isn’t aired.”