“Hello? Mr. West?”
“Be right there,” a voice came from the recesses of the house. A few seconds later, a small man, to the point of looking frail, appeared from the back of the house. He wore creased jeans, a blue button-down dress shirt, and a dark green bowtie. Teri pegged him as fiftyish, but his thinning hair might have added ten or fifteen years to his actual age.
“Mr. West?”
He extended his hand. “Spencer West, attorney at aw, at your service.”
Okay, Teri thought, so he’s got a sense of humor. But if it was intended to disarm, it failed completely.
“I’m Teri Squire.”
“Of course you are. I recognized you right away. Love your movies.” He said it almost too glibly, as if he had rehearsed the line.
“Which one is your favorite?” she asked.
He hesitated for a moment then smiled. “Okay, you got me. I never saw any of them. Then again, I don’t get out much.” He turned toward the back of the house, gesturing with his hand for her to follow. “Come on in.”
He led her to what had probably once been a den, but now served as an office. The lighting was poor, but just bright enough to see a gunmetal gray desk stacked with papers, a row of filing cabinets beside it, and a worn leather couch. The walls were obscenely bare, lacking the accoutrements every other law office she had ever seen had sported: diplomas, law licenses, certificates, and pictures of notable clients or acquaintances. She had once heard what some lawyers call their “me” walls referred to as the “proof” wall. By hanging law school diplomas and law licenses on the wall, they proved their legitimacy to clients who sat in their offices. But Spencer West lacked any such proof; only an attorney at aw sign on his front door.
West grabbed a few files from the couch and stacked them on the floor, clearing a spot for Teri. “Have a seat,” he said, but Teri remained standing, just in case she needed a quick getaway.
“Mr. West, I think you’ve got the wrong person,” she said. “I’ve been wracking my brain, and I’ve never heard of Lester Crowell.”
West sat in a wooden chair behind the desk. “It’s Leland Crowell. And I hardly think you’re the wrong person. Are there any other actresses in this town named Teri Squire who’ve won two Oscars?”
Her silence provided his answer.
“I didn’t think so.” He swiveled his chair around and picked up a file folder from a small shelf, then spun back around to face her.
“Please, Ms. Squire, sit.”
She slowly lowered onto the couch as West opened the file folder and thumbed through its contents. “Leland was a very troubled young man. He had it in his mind to write the great American novel. Unfortunately, he got writer’s block on Chapter One. So he tried his hand at screenwriting. He had a little more luck there. Fewer pages, more white space, and all that. At least he was able to finish one.”
“Mr. West, I don’t mean to be rude, but could you get to the point?”
“Everyone’s always in a hurry. Yes, of course, the point. The point is that he thought you’d be perfect for the lead in his screenplay. I can’t say, myself, whether you are or not, since I haven’t read it. Nor have I seen your movies. Not my cup of tea—no offense intended.”
He paused in his monologue, as if inviting a rebuttal, or at least a defense.
“And?” Teri asked.
“And so he left his screenplay to you in his will.” He paused again then added, “Right before he killed himself.”
If West expected to shock her with that last revelation, it worked. Her face flushed, the heat rising along with her eyebrows. “That’s crazy,” she said.
“I’ll admit it sounds a bit off, but nevertheless he did it. You are now the proud owner of the sole screenwriting accomplishment of my client, Leland Crowell.”
“I don’t want a screenplay. I can’t even read it unless it gets submitted through my agent—” She stopped, aware that she no longer had an agent. “Or my lawyer.”
“That would be true if you were worried about Leland suing you for stealing his screenplay or his idea, but that’s not a concern here. He gave it to you, so the screenplay is yours. Legally. You don’t have to worry about the deceased signing a release. Which he clearly can’t do, anyway.”
“What am I going to do with a screenplay?”
West leaned back in his chair, a bemused smile on his face. “Ms. Squire, I’m just a dumb ol’ lawyer, and I don’t really know what you Hollywood types do with screenplays. I’ve heard tell, though, that sometimes you read them. Sometimes you even turn them into movies. I happen to have seen some of those movies. Not yours, though. Sorry. But maybe if you make Leland’s screenplay into a movie, I’ll come see it.”
Teri stood. “I don’t want his screenplay.”
“Please, sit down.” The sharp tone in his voice surprised her. When she sat again, he said, “If you don’t want it, then burn it, shred it, do whatever you want with it. It’s yours, after all, to do with as you please. I guess you could even disclaim it.”
“Disclaim it?”
“Yes. Leland has made a bequest to you, and you could disclaim it, if you choose. It’s a simple legal matter of signing a disclaimer.”
“What would happen if I did that?”
“It would go to his alternate beneficiary. Leland’s mother. But if you decide you don’t want it, you could always give it to Annemarie, yourself.”
“Who’s Annemarie?”
“Leland’s mother. She wants to deliver it to you personally. Would that be all right?”
Teri shook her head. This was just too frickin’ bizarre. First her agents fire her, then some nutcase she’s never heard of wills her his masterpiece screenplay—oh, yeah, she was sure it was just great—and now his mother wants to hand-deliver it to her. She felt like she had stepped into an episode of The Twilight Zone.
“Have you got it here?” she asked. “Why don’t you just give it to me?”
“Annemarie has it. Besides, don’t you think it’s the least you can do? Come on, she just lost her son. He apparently worshipped you. He said in his will that he wrote his screenplay specifically for you, but that you refused to read it.”
“No one ever told me about any screenplay by a Lester—”
“Leland.”
“Leland Crowell. It would have gone through my agent or my company or someone else, but it never came to me.”
“Well, it’s coming to you now. You don’t have to like it. You don’t even have to read it. But can’t you at least be gracious to a poor old woman who’s just trying to carry out her son’s last wishes?”
Teri stood again. She paused, as if she wanted to say something. But what? The bequest was downright crazy, but the mother’s request was imminently reasonable. How could she possibly deny the poor woman something so simple?
“Have her call me,” she said at last.
Then she turned and left.
CHAPTER 7
Teri sat with her legs curled up beneath her on the couch, a stack of screenplays on the coffee table. Through the sliding glass doors, smoke hung heavily on the horizon, obscuring the views of the Santa Monica Mountains with a London-like fog. This was just one more thing that made her long for home in the Hill Country of central Texas, with perennially clear skies and no fear of forest fires, earthquakes, and mentally disturbed screenwriters.
Yeah, about that screenwriter. Lester Crowell, or whatever his name was. When Teri first moved to Los Angeles, seeking a future in film while simultaneously seeking to escape her past, she knew that the movie business dominated the landscape of the city like no other industry in no other town. To use an old Texas expression, you couldn’t swing a cat by its tail without hitting an aspiring actor or director. Or, as it turned out, a screenwriter. Teri knew that screenwriters were sometimes the invisible building blocks in the movie business. After all, without a screenplay, there could be no movie. Most movie fans could name the stars of their favorite movies and could usually name
the directors. But ask them to name the screenwriter, and their eyes glazed over, as if you had just asked them to explain Einstein’s theory of relativity.
You mean somebody writes those things? I thought the actors just made it up as they went.
She looked at the stack of scripts on the coffee table, some of which had been in her hands, yet unread, for months. Mike sent a load over just that morning, his last official act as her agent. And, as far as she was concerned, as her boyfriend. He assured her that, even though he was no longer her agent, he intended to help her find the next great screenplay that would springboard her back to the top. If that actually happened, and if her star should rise again, she had no doubt that he would swoop back in, take credit for it, and demand his cut.
She grabbed the top script on the pile, flipped to the back, and looked at the page number on the last page: 142—too long. It seemed as if everyone in town was writing a screenplay—waiters, bartenders, store clerks, schoolteachers, cab drivers, and suicidal nutcases—but very few of them seemed to know what they were doing. At roughly a minute of screen time per script page, no one wanted anything more than 105 to 115 pages these days.
She tossed the script on the floor beside the couch, grabbed the next one, and looked at the last page: 112. Okay, length was good. How about the story? She flipped to the start and began reading. By page three, she had reached three conclusions: the writer couldn’t spell; the writer couldn’t construct a reasonable sentence; and the writer didn’t have a story to tell. She tossed the script on the floor. Usually Mike had readers at the agency weed out scripts before they reached her, but apparently the readers no longer made time for has-beens. It seemed to Teri as if Mike had simply grabbed a stack of scripts and sent them, then probably checked off “help Teri find a script” on his to-do list.
She grabbed the next script just as the doorbell rang. She wasn’t expecting anyone, and she had banned Mike from the premises. Maybe he was sending over another batch of scripts. Or maybe it was Mona. They had talked by phone after Teri’s return from the attorney-at-aw’s office, and Mona had been just as perplexed as Teri by the bizarre turn of events. “Look at the bright side,” she said. “Sounds like you had a potential stalker who decided to take himself off the board. You got lucky.”
Teri opened the drawer in the coffee table and grabbed the deadbolt key next to a .22 handgun she had won in the last shooting competition she entered before leaving Texas. The time she entered the mixed division and actually outshot all the men. The prize gun that was now gathering dust, just another memory of a distant past.
Key in hand, she went to the entryway and peered through the peephole. The back of a woman’s head, gray hair wrapped in braids, filled the viewfinder. Who the hell was this? Teri punched her security code on the alarm pad, then inserted the key into the deadbolt and unlocked it. The woman on the porch turned as Teri opened the door. Her appearance momentarily shocked Teri, face grotesquely made up with bright red lips. She reminded Teri of Carolyn Jones as Morticia in the old The Addams Family sitcom. Or maybe Yvonne DeCarlo as Lily in The Munsters.
Then Teri saw the screenplay the woman gripped in her hands, and a light clicked on. “You must be Ms. Crowell.”
“Call me Annemarie. Mr. West said you’d see me.”
“How did you find out where I live?”
“Some things about Hollywood never change. You can still buy maps to the stars’ homes on almost every street corner.”
Yet another reminder of how vulnerable Teri could be, or could have been if Lester Crowell had turned out to be a stalker. On the other hand, the way her star was flaming out over the Hollywood sky, it wouldn’t be all that much longer before no one knew, or cared, who she was or where she lived.
“May I come in?” Annemarie asked.
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting anyone. Yes, please come in.”
Teri stepped away and escorted the strange woman inside. Annemarie stood stock still in the entryway and scanned the interior of the house. She seemed to take in a portion of the view, then shuffled her feet and turned a bit, a pattern she repeated several more times, almost as if taking a panoramic photograph for her memory. If the neighborhood this woman lived in was anything like the neighborhood where her lawyer lived and worked, Teri’s house must look like pure luxury to her.
Teri led the way to the den, with Annemarie following slowly behind. “Please, have a seat,” Teri said as she resumed her place on the couch.
Annemarie perched on the edge of a Queen Anne chair across from Teri, her back rigid, the screenplay held primly on her knees. She looked out the sliding glass door at the smoky horizon then scanned the den, repeating the panoramic routine from a seated position, shifting slightly in the chair as the camera of her mind swept around the room. For a moment, the two Oscars held her attention then her eyes swept across, and locked on, the stack of screenplays. It was as if she were mesmerized by the very sight of them.
“I’m very sorry about your son,” Teri said.
Annemarie tore her eyes away from the scripts. “Coffee.”
“Excuse me?”
“I believe it’s customary to offer a guest coffee. Or tea.”
“Well, you can see that I’m very busy.” Teri gestured at the stack of screenplays. “I hope you’ll understand if I don’t.”
Annemarie stared at the stack of scripts again, then suddenly met Teri’s gaze so sharply that Teri had to look away. The woman’s eyes were dark to the point of appearing black, and they were totally devoid of emotion. Annemarie looked at the scripts scattered on the floor, then back to Teri again.
“It must be difficult finding just the right script to suit a woman of your—talents.” Annemarie made the last word sound like an epithet, as if talents were a four-letter word.
“It’s always tough to find the right script,” Teri said. “For any actor.”
“Then my loss is your gain.”
“Excuse me?”
“My boy Leland wrote this for you. It’ll make you famous.” Annemarie spoke in a low voice, almost a monotone. She held up the script, clutching it in what Teri could only describe as talons. Long curved nails painted as red as her lips. She began to sway, as if the weight of the screenplay threw her off balance. Unconsciously, Teri watched the movement, her eyes slowly moving back and forth with the swaying.
“Ms Crowell, I don’t want to sound conceited, but I’m already famous.”
“Leland is a very talented writer.”
“I’m sure he was,” Teri said, correcting Annemarie’s misplaced use of the present tense.
Annemarie’s swaying took on more length and momentum. Teri’s eyes continued to follow, and suddenly she felt incredibly sleepy, as if the past few sleepless nights had finally caught up with her.
“It’s hard for screenwriters to get noticed in this town,” Teri said. “There’s a lot of competition.”
“This will make a lot of money for you.”
“Again, Ms. Crowell, I don’t want to sound conceited, but I already have a lot of money.”
“Yes, you’re already famous, and yes, you’re already rich. You’re also yesterday’s news. This will make you tomorrow’s headline.”
The words stung, more so even than Bob Keene’s hanging the “poison” label on her. Bob was a businessman, driven by money, and she could understand his motivation, whether she agreed with his judgments or not. That didn’t threaten her ego, though it certainly disrupted her peace of mind. But in Hollywood, perception was everything, and as long as the public perceived her as a talented actress, an Oscar-winning actress, then she could survive the insults of business people who didn’t have a single creative bone in their bodies. So for this odd woman to come into her home and tell her she was relegated to the trash heap, with her career hinging on the most likely inane screenplay written by a dead psychopath—and surely the writer didn’t fall far from the nut tree that now sat across from her—was more than Teri could bear.
Teri wanted to formulate the words to throw Annemarie out of her house, but all she could come up with was, “I’m sure it’s very good.”
“Don’t patronize me, Ms. Squire.”
“I’m not patronizing you.”
“I hear it in your tone. You think you’re special because you make movies and because you live up here in your fancy house. You don’t give a damn about people like my Leland who go to your movies and fawn all over you as if you mattered.”
“That’s not true. I appreciate my fans. I—”
Annemarie pulled a small photograph from inside the front cover of the screenplay and handed it to Teri. Teri kept her hands in her lap, but pulled her eyes away from Annemarie’s swaying to look at the picture. It showed the face of a thin man, drawn and gaunt, with deep-set eyes that had dark circles painted beneath them, and long scraggly hair. A face obviously ravaged by hard living, the kind of face usually associated with the homeless who panhandled the downtown streets in Los Angeles. She found herself strangely hypnotized by the photo, yet at the same time, tearing her eyes away from Annemarie’s sway seemed to have lifted the sense of drowsiness that had overtaken her earlier.
“That’s my boy,” Annemarie said. “You should at least know what he looks like. She gestured toward Teri with the photo, but Teri kept her hands in her lap. Annemarie placed the picture back inside the screenplay.
“You read this screenplay,” Annemarie said, “then you make this movie. You owe it to Leland.”
“Why do I owe it to Leland?”
“Because he wrote it for you. And because he died for you.”
“Ms. Crowell, Jesus died for me, but Leland didn’t. I don’t know why he killed himself, but it wasn’t for me. I didn’t even know him.”
Annemarie slid back in her chair and stopped her swaying. “Making money in the movies is all about making a big splash and getting attention. I read the papers. I know all about the ‘buzz.’ A movie doesn’t have to be good if there’s enough hype. But my boy’s screenplay is good. It’s better than good. And what better hype than playing up a story about a writer who died just so you would read his screenplay? It’s got blockbuster written all over it.”
The Bequest Page 3