by Nero Blanc
“Can we please dispense with referring to my bozo ex-partner’s tush for just one day, Martha? Can we do that? Please?” The request, grumpy but not implacable, came from the police detective seated at the other side of the banquette table. He was dressed in casual “civilian” attire, but the choice of clothing—chinos, and a zippered jacket bulky enough to conceal a service revolver—had “off-duty cop” written all over them. “… And how’s a guy supposed to get a refill on java around here? Does everything in this joint fall apart just because a murderer’s been nabbed? Where’s Mr. Lawson? I want to file a complaint.”
“Hold your horses there, Big Al, I want to know how Belle figured out who shot the guy.” The starchy pink dress remained in place. There was no move to fetch more coffee.
“First off, it was Debra who constructed the crossword puzzle, Martha—”
“Debra?” The detective jiggled his empty cup but to no avail.
“Lay off the fries and pay attention, will ya, Big Al?” was the waitress’ quick retort. “Belle already explained this to you; Debra was the dead guy’s lady-love—”
“She created the crossword that contained the recipe, Al, as well as the secret ‘Deb’ message in the puzzle’s diagonal. I guess she must have believed that only her lover would notice it—”
“I guess she was dead wrong about that!” The waitress chortled until her retro blonde beehive hairdo shook.
“You’re a bundle of glee today, aren’t you, Martha? Now, how’s about that java?”
“It’s coming. It’s coming.” Again the waitress failed to move from the tableside. “Go on, Belle.”
“It was pretty simple, really. When the local police confronted the killer with what Rosco and I had discovered, he confessed to the entire crime … What else could he do? We had him dead to rights.”
“And … CUT!” Dean Ivald patted his cameraman on the back and stepped onto the set. “That was super, kids. Just super … We’re going to shoot it again from the top, but I’ve got a few notes here … Quinton, you were perfect, on the money; hang onto whatever you had working for you there. I liked your strong, silent ‘Rosco’ in this scene, so let’s keep it; we don’t want him too smug … Now, Madeline, you can be larger, more over the top with your ‘Martha.’ You and Big Al have a joking/teasing relationship going on, so really rib him … And the same for you, Jes; it’s tit-for-tat with Madeline, so don’t let her ‘Martha’ get the upper hand on your ‘Big Al.’ Okay, let’s take ten, and we’ll pick it up from first position.”
As the four principal actors and the extras who’d been seated at neighboring “Lawson’s” banquettes left the set and began to move off toward a soundstage table spread with rolls, bagels, fruit juice, water, and coffee, Dean reached out and took hold of Shay Henley’s arm. “Can I talk with you for just one sec, Shay, darling?”
“Is something wrong?”
“Not wrong, exactly … but I feel I’m missing the famous ‘Shay Henley breezy relaxation’ in this scene, especially as this is one of ‘Belle’s’ wrap-up conversations. The crime’s been solved. She’s back on home turf gabbing with her longtime buddies. Normalcy has prevailed … But you seem on edge, Shay. Is it because we have the real Belle Graham here? Watching? I can certainly have her step outside while we shoot this scene, although her presence hasn’t seemed to bother you before.”
The actress sighed and leaned her head on the director’s shoulder. “Thanks, Dean. I’m fine. It’s not Belle; it’s been a stressful week all around. I’ll get it together for the next take; I promise. I’m just dealing with a few personal issues.”
“Anything you’d like to share?”
“No.”
“You’re certain?”
“I’m certain.” Shay sighed, then changed the subject. “I was thinking, apropos of this scene we’re working on … Since Chick Darlessen named a character after his girlfriend, and the real Debra then killed him, don’t you think we should change the woman’s name in the script? It makes me uncomfortable talking about a ‘Debra,’ who instigated a murder. The lines of truth and fiction keep blurring.”
Ivald shook his head. “No can do, sweetheart. Too much reshooting would be involved at this point. Besides, Debra’s name appears in that crossword, remember?”
Shay nodded. “Right … name in the puzzle … It was just a thought.”
Dean kissed her lightly on the forehead and said, “Okay. Let’s take a little break, shall we, and we’ll pick it up again in a few minutes.”
The director walked over to the coffee urn, filled a Styrofoam cup, and added cream and sugar as the real Rosco approached him from behind and said, “Have you got a minute, Dean?”
Dean turned and smiled. “Sure. What can I do for you, ‘Cute-buns’?”
Rosco laughed. “I’ve never heard that one before.”
Dean’s smile grew. “It was from your wife. She thought you’d get a chuckle if I dropped it into the script. So, what’s up?”
“I was wondering if we could swing by your office for a minute and pick up those .38 slugs? I’d like to run them down to the range in Inglewood during the lunch break … see if the folks down there recognize them.”
Dean looked to the studio’s concrete floor and shuffled his feet for a second. “Ahhh, yes, well, we have a little problem there.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning … they’re gone. Someone’s taken them.” Ivald raised his eyes to meet Rosco’s. He shrugged. “Don’t look so disappointed, old chap. It saves you from ruining your lunch hour by spending it mired in L.A. traffic. In the long run, you get the same blasted results. Clearly, somebody wanted the bullets back, and it certainly wasn’t the pistol range in Inglewood.”
Rosco made no attempt to hide the irritation he felt. He gritted his teeth and let out a low growl. “Were the shells hidden, at all? Didn’t you lock them up? Keep them safe?”
The director shook his head. “They were in the center drawer of my desk. I never lock the office. There’s nothing worth taking in there. Besides, we’re all friends here, right?”
“And who could’ve known where they were?”
“Clearly, whoever put the bullets in the gun saw Don Schruko hand them to me, or me show them to you. I don’t think it takes an Einstein to figure out what I did with them after that. My desk would be the first place anyone would look.” Ivald downed what coffee remained in his Styrofoam cup. “I don’t enjoy being pushed, Polycrates … Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m scheduled to do another take on this Lawson’s coffee shop scene.” He crushed the cup, tossed it into a trash can, and marched over to his cinematographer.
Rosco filled a cup with black coffee and returned to the the darkened Vermont-country-inn set where he’d left Belle and Sara. His face failed to conceal what he felt: annoyance, frustration, and the uneasiness of having too many questions without enough answers.
“Let me guess,” Belle said after he flopped down beside her on the overstuffed couch. “Dean Ivald’s lost the bullets?”
Rosco looked at his wife; he was obviously surprised by her willingness to ask the question in front of Sara. “Sara?” he said, “You know?”
“I had to tell her, Rosco,” Belle acknowledged, taking his hand in hers. “I couldn’t keep her in the dark any longer. I’ve just about had it with these endless Hollywood secrets and disingenuous behavior.”
“Those value judgments aside,” Sara said as she moved from a rocking chair and joined them on the couch. “Is your wife correct or incorrect in her assumption that our dear director has misplaced the ordnance in question?”
“Oh, the shells are gone. No doubt about it.”
“Humph,” Sara sniffed. “Isn’t that convenient?”
“How did you know Dean had lost them?” Rosco asked Belle.
“It was Sara who guessed,” Belle admitted. “When I told her what had occurred, she said it wouldn’t surprise her if the bullets were never seen again.”
“Who knew you were capable of such p
essimism, Sara?”
The older woman sat up straight and gave Rosco a theatrical scowl. He responded by chuckling.
“Oh, laugh all you want, young man, but it seems to me that ‘lost’ isn’t as appropriate a term for our missing bullets as ‘stolen.’ Knowing that one has possession of live ammunition that wrongly appeared on a movie set might be a fine inspiration for blackmail.”
But Sara’s theory was cut short as Miso Lane dashed into the darkened area. His voice was a high-pitched and terrified rasp. “Did you hear? Did you hear the news? Someone put real bullets in Andy’s gun yesterday! If it wasn’t for our key grip, Dan Millray would have been killed!”
CHAPTER 32
The meeting for the cast and crew that Lew Groslir and Dean Ivald had called was rife with hostility, fear, and a mounting spirit of rebelliousness. Belle could feel the stormy emotions surging around as though they were a physical presence, like gray and foam-flecked waves crashing onto a beach. The actors, grips, cameramen, make-up artists, props and wardrobe people, lighting designers, script girls, best boys, and still photographers were all crowded into the “White Caps” set, the largest gathering spot on the soundstage. Only Dan Millray, the potential victim of the live-ammunition-for-blanks accident, was missing; a circumstance, Belle decided, that the producer and director must have felt was a blessing indeed. Having released the actor when his scheduled filming was completed, they obviously had no desire to call him back for this messy debate. There were enough irate voices to deal with.
It was Louis Gable who led the charge. Perhaps his decision to be the first to speak was due to the fact that he played the innkeeper in the film, and therefore felt it incumbent to serve as the group’s “host” and spokesperson, or perhaps the choice grew out of his many years in the business and a sturdy mistrust of all those who wore producer’s caps. Whatever the actor’s motives, his formerly congenial self was gone; in its place was a white-haired man whose ruddy cheeks were not due to the cold of a wintry, Vermont country inn, but to outrage, choler, and a fondness for single malt scotch. “And how long were you going to keep this nasty little secret quiet?” Gable’s once-companionable gaze raked the producer and director. “Someone could have been killed!”
“Any one of us!” Ginger Bradmin added. Her voice was shrill. Her body all but quivered with fury. “Not just Dan, although, he was clearly—”
“Now, Ginger, what you’re assuming isn’t entirely—” Quinton began, but she spun tigerlike on him.
“You shut up! Just shut up! You have no idea what I was going to say—”
“That Dan was in the line of fire—”
“All of us were!” Ginger spat out.
“Your scene wasn’t even—”
“We were all there for Millray’s death scene, remember? Dean wanted us to be—”
“You can’t blame our director for the fact that you—”
But she countered Quint’s efforts with a swift and dismissive: “I don’t know why you were hired for the part of Rosco anyway. Lance would have been far better.”
“Now, boys and girls,” Dean Ivald called above the din. “Let’s not allow former marital relationships to get in the way of—”
“Butt out, Dean,” Ginger hissed, “I’ll talk to my ex in any fashion I choose. It’s no concern of yours.”
“Miss Diplomatic,” Quint tossed in. “I hope you’re not considering working in future Dean Ivald productions. Besides, the reason I was cast—and not lover-boy Lance—is that the role calls for an emotional quality and approach that’s steady and perceptive, not hot-headed and hair-triggered.”
“What you know about perceptive, Quint, could be written on the head of a pin.”
It was Andy Hofren who succeeded in curtailing this spat between the former spouses. “And I could well have become a murderer in real life. That’s very upsetting, Lew. If it wasn’t for Don Schruko …”
Carol Von Deney turned to gaze at Andy—staring steadily down at him as she stood a good four or five inches taller. The witch of the show was either still in character, or her present caustic and arrogant demeanor belonged to the true Carol. “The point isn’t that an actual homicide nearly occurred during the film’s murder scene, Andy. Or that you might have become a real-life killer and Dan Millray a none-too-willing corpse. The point is that a weapon with live ammunition was left sitting casually—and carelessly—on the set. As Ginger has been trying to explain, anyone here could have picked it up, pointed it at any other person present, a script girl … one of the still photographers … my make-up man … anyone, and jokingly announced, ‘Bang, you’re dead!’, and pulled the trigger—”
“That’s absurd, Carol,” Madeline Richter interjected. “No one here would be that foolhardy.”
“No?” Carol parried as her sharp glance returned to Andy Hofren. “You don’t think the trigger-happy clown who plays my charming husband isn’t capable of an idiotic stunt like that?”
“I won’t be spoken to in that fashion, Dean,” Andy all but shouted at the director. “If you can’t keep your cast—”
“Phone your agent if you’ve got a complaint, Andy,” Carol countered. “I’ll say anything I want.”
“Gentlemen … ladies,” Louis Gable ordered, “let’s remember why we’re here—”
Lew Groslir cut off the actor’s words before he could expand on his insurrection motif. “That’s right. Let’s remember why we’re here, everyone. Now, I admit this live ammo thing was an unfortunate mistake … but that’s all it was: an accident—”
“Just like the other accidents?” a voice called out. Belle turned to see who was now openly challenging the producer, but whoever had spoken remained anonymous. The question, however, grew in strength and urgency, and was echoed by many members of both crew and cast.
Lew Groslir raised his hands as the words “accident” and “jinxed set” ricocheted around the vast and barnlike structure. The gesture, intended to be palliative, had a curiously worried appearance, as if the producer were the victim of an armed robbery. “If you’re talking about the equipment that fell on Nan DeDero—”
“She complained on a number of occasions that she felt the set wasn’t safe,” Louis Gable argued.
“Probably because Gable was on site …” Belle heard a voice behind her mutter. The reply was very sotto voce:
“Oh, come on … Nan’s been around the bend so many times, she probably forgot he was one of her castoffs.”
“Not from what I witnessed,” the first voice chortled. “Besides, don’t you remember the stories that started circulating just after those two got hitched? Battery and everything …?”
“You’re kidding. From that harmless, old coot?”
“Scout’s honor … What was that headline I liked so much …? HAWAIIAN HONEYMOON WITH ADDED PUNCH. Besides, Louis Gable wasn’t always old. Or paunchy … or Mr. Altruism as he is today.”
Belle turned around to see who the gossips were, but the area was so packed with other concerned members of the Anatomy set that it was impossible to detect who the purveyors of those particular pieces of dirt might be.
There was a general stir of discontent while Lew Groslir fluttered his manicured hands, and Dean Ivald issued a stern “People … people … We need to wrap things up here. Unfortunate circumstances shouldn’t make us forget that we’re professionals here.”
“Not all of us, Dean,” another malcontent sang out. “You hired one actor who wasn’t union when you cast her—”
“Who said that?” the director fumed. “Which one of you is daring to cast aspersions on Mrs. Briephs or her performance?”
No answer was forthcoming. Ivald pursued the question for another moment, before adding a cold and cautionary “That’s an ungracious and mean-spirited comment, especially when I consider how pleasant and welcoming you’ve all been to Mrs. Briephs.”
Belle glanced at Sara, who was standing beside Rosco. She seemed to be taking this newest controversy in stride. Her head was
held high with pride. “Might I have a word, Dean?” she asked in her typically calm and blue-blood manner. Then she faced the group as if addressing a political rally of voters who were critical of her brother’s senatorial leadership. “You all have been so very kind, and so very forgiving. If I had known that prior membership in the actors’ unions was of such paramount importance, I certainly would not have accepted Dean’s and Lew’s invitation to join the cast.”
No one responded to her statement. In fact, an awkward unease seemed to settle on the crowd. In the silence, Ivald forced a laugh, then continued in a louder and brighter tone. “We’re all tired … I know that … And it’s a strain working on such an emotional project. You can’t have a film project about a jealous spouse and a dead rival without it taking its psychic toll … I tell you what … why don’t we take a breather. It’s Thursday afternoon …” He looked toward Lew Groslir who returned the glance with an almost imperceptible nod that Belle recognized as being part of their good cop-bad cop routine. “… What do you say, Lew? We take Friday off and resume filming our final scenes Monday? I think our boys and girls deserve a bit of respite, don’t you?”
The producer gazed at the director as though he were carefully pondering a suggestion he hadn’t previously considered. “You’re the artist, Dean. If you feel we can afford the time—”
“I believe we can, Lew,” Dean called cheerily back, “and I believe we should. No point in running these marvelous thespians ragged, or our devoted crew.” He graced the group with a doting and parental smile. “Now, my hunch is that we’ve got a serious prankster among us—and maybe a joke that got more than a bit out of hand. After all, Dan himself, pulled quite a terrifying stunt during his death scene, and before we go any further, I think we should all give Mr. Schruko a nice round of applause for being on his toes and saving the day.”
The cast and crew turned to face the key grip and gave him an enthusiastic ovation. He humbly waved his hand in an all-in-a-day’s-work gesture.
“Now,” Dean continued, “I’d like to give our prankster an opportunity to come forward. There’ll be no repercussions; a joke’s a joke. You all have my contact numbers: home, cell, car … If there’s information you wish to share, or a suspicion, or even a confidential confession, call me … Or ring me up if you’d simply like to chat about other concerns. Perhaps you’re having issues with a fellow performer or crew member, or you saw something you’re troubled by … Perhaps you’ve heard rumors you don’t like or understand. I’m here for you. I want the remaining days on Anatomy to go smoothly. Give me a jingle. We’re in this thing together.”