by Mollie Hunt
She smiled, her eyes glazing as she thought of her beautiful actor cats.
“Um, Rhonda,” I began, “you sounded upset on the phone. Is something wrong, besides the accident, I mean?”
The smile faded and she hesitated. “On the table there.” She nodded to a swinging bedside contraption cluttered with breakfast remains, Kleenex boxes, a plastic water pitcher and glass, a TV remote, a carnation in a jar, and even a few get well cards though she had been in hospital less than twenty-four hours. There was also a pad of yellow lined paper and a collection of pens. “The notes. I made notes.”
I looked closer and sure enough, tucked in among the leaves of the pad was a folded page. She nodded feverishly as I began to pull it out.
“Lynley,” she beckoned. I moved closer. “Take it,” she said in a near whisper. “It’s a compilation. All the things on-set that have... gone wrong.”
I opened the page and began to read her shaky handwriting. When had she written this, I wondered, trying to decipher the tangled scrawl, and exactly what sort of pain drugs was she on at the time?
“Not now. Take it with you. Don’t tell anyone, don’t let anyone on the set see it.”
I refolded the note and put it in my pocket. “Okay, but what does it mean?”
“You’ve handled these things before, I know you have.”
“What sort of things?” I asked warily.
She looked around, as if to check for spies in the curtains. Then she mouthed, “Murder!”
Chapter 10
Cats, as a rule, dislike change. For some cats, even a shift in furniture or a new routine can set them to hiding or acting out.
“Does this have anything to do with the hex thing you were talking about the other day?”
Rhonda blanched and put her finger to her lips, the old-fashioned shush sign. “Yes,” she hissed. “But there’s more to it. I have a theory.”
I was trying to keep that you’re-crazy-anxious-on-meds look off my face, but apparently I was unsuccessful.
“You think I’m making this up?” she accused. “Well, I’m not.”
“No, no. I don’t think you’re making it up. I agree, something is happening on that set. But what do a few accidents...”
“Not accidents! Deliberate, calculated harm.”
“Okay, maybe. But even if it’s calculated, it seems more like a prank gone bad than anything approaching murder.”
“Not so. Someone on or near that show is a hex, and by hex I mean an entity, an evil person. She is using her supernatural powers to disrupt the production any way she can.”
“She? How do you know it’s a woman?”
Rhonda shrugged. “Hexes are usually female. But I don’t for a moment think she’s acting at random here. I think she has a target in mind. She’s out to get someone. I don’t know who or why.”
Not only was my friend sounding crazed, she was being paranoid as well. I knew Rhonda was a bit on the superstitious side. As she had mentioned before, most show people were—careful not to walk under a ladder on Friday the thirteenth and that sort of thing. I’d listened to her chatter on about good luck charms, bad mojo, and other mysterious practices, but I’d never seen her this obsessed before.
“Are you telling me you believe in this hex...” I was about to say garbage, but switched to the more neutral word, “stuff?”
She scrunched down into the bed, wincing with unexpected pain. “Read the notes. Just read the notes.”
“Okay, I will. I promise.” Consciously brightening my countenance, I put in, “but I’ve got to get going now or I won’t make the call time. That would never do, now would it?”
“No, go.” She took a breath and forced a smile. “I’ll let you know when they move me. And if you could get some pictures of the boys on set—I know it’s not strictly allowed, but I miss them so, I’m sure Gerrold would make an exception in this case.”
Especially if Gerrold doesn’t know about it, I said to myself. “Sure thing. I’ll text them to you.”
I could see Rhonda relax, a sigh upon her hospital-dry lips.
“Break a leg,” she said and then laughed at the irony of the old theatrical slang.
I began to walk to the door, then turned back when I heard her mumble something I didn’t catch. “Pardon?”
Clear amber eyes gazed directly into mine. “I said, let’s be careful out there.”
* * *
Let’s be careful out there.
Those were the words the sergeant told his officers before sending them out into the perils of police life on the old television show, Hill Street Blues. I don’t know why I remembered that since the show had been off the air for decades, or why I would relate it so strongly to Rhonda’s concern. I wasn’t a cop; I wasn’t in danger. And where was this treacherous out there, anyway? Was it on the set of McCaffrey & Jack? Or was it everywhere? And conversely, was anywhere truly safe? In a hospital room at Providence? I didn’t think so.
It didn’t escape my notice that Special Agent Paris had said essentially the same thing to me. Be careful. But I was careful. I considered myself to be essentially a careful person, at least most of the time.
I mused on these and other aspects of my enigmatic morning as I crawled through two-thirty traffic on my way to Oaks Bottom. Clark Gable and Cary Grant were curled up in their carriers as if nothing was amiss. I was so thankful they were mellow about the upheaval in their lives. In my vast cat experience, most felines were not so adaptable to change.
Once at the site, I parked in the designated lot, put the cats, carriers and all, into the little red wagon that had been left for that purpose and set out for the basecamp tent. The weather was cooperating with the scene today and it was pouring down rain. I pulled the hood of my coat up over my head, put my glasses in my pocket so they wouldn’t get spattered, and tugged the squeaky wagon along the gravel road.
Long before I got to the tent, I began to hear music, a Mexican calamity of horns and drums. It immediately flashed me back to hot beaches and younger days. By the time I pulled the boys under the tent flap, I was feeling almost festive.
The big tent was filled with a milling, mingling crowd. Most people carried suitcases and garment bags—the extras. They were loosely queued up to a table where Roger was going through a checklist and handing them tax forms to fill out. They were all dressed in the rattiest of clothing and I wondered what we would be shooting this time.
Along one side of the tent bright halides glowed, their spot intensity reflected in a row of mirrors. A few people sat in the high director chairs getting their hair and makeup done by a girl in tight jeans and a sweatshirt nearly as ratty as the extras. She was remarkably made-up herself, with maroon-streaked frizz pulled back from her face in a tousled chignon. She seemed to be working at all stations at once and handling the controlled chaos with speed and grace.
I didn’t recognize the others, but Ray Anderson’s distinctive ebony curls were getting the royal treatment from a black bottle of expensive-looking product. When he glimpsed me in the mirror, he smiled and beckoned me over.
“Hey, Cat Lady!” he greeted in his cultured and trained voice.
I squeaked my way across the room, drawing more than a little attention from onlookers and cast alike. “Hi, Mr. Anderson,” I said shyly.
“Ray, doll. You must call me Ray. How are our favorite stars this afternoon? I take it they rested well?”
“They’re good. They are amazing cats. All this commotion doesn’t bother them one bit. In fact they seemed more nervous in my quiet house than they are here. I guess it has to do with what they’re used to.”
“Rhonda is real good with them. She takes them everywhere she goes. Some of the scenes get pretty noisy—well, you can imagine, it is a cop show after all. Shooting guns and things dropping from above. A lot of the sound effects are put in later, but it’s never quiet on set, and usually downright blaring loud.”
“I saw Rhonda today at the hospital.
She says hi to all.”
“Yeah? How’s she doing?”
“As well as can be expected. The break was really bad and they had to operate. Now she has a rod in her leg and can’t put any weight on it for several days. They’re sending her to a nursing home to recover and learn how to get around without walking. She’s not sure when she’ll be back to work. But I’m in for the long haul,” I added when I saw the look of horror on Ray’s face. “Don’t worry, Jack’s still got your back.”
Ray laughed at the familiar tagline.
“Keep still, Mr. Anderson,” the makeup artist commanded, “or you’ll end up with mascara in your eye.
Ray settled down instantly. “Sorry, Hana.”
“If you’d let me do you in the trailer with the rest of the actors, there wouldn’t be so many distractions,” she grumped.
“But I like the distractions.” His gaze moved to my reflection in the mirror and he winked. “Thanks, Cat Lady. Gerrold will be happy to hear. He’s been having a few kittens of his own.” Ray smiled, carefully this time so as not to interrupt Hana’s handiwork.
There was the beginning of a commotion at the front of the tent, then the crowd parted as Bear steam-rolled toward me waving a frantic hand.
“Cat handler! You! Hey, we need cats at one, ASAP.”
I turned to the frenzied man. Bear was the perfect nickname. Short and a bit on the burly side, he had the rumbling gait of the roly-poly black bears I’d seen in the Canadian wilds. His build was muscular, though a certain Oregonian pallor spoke more of athletic clubs than of outdoor activities. His head was shaved and he had a grand tattoo that went from his neck down his left arm to who knew where under his tight navy tee shirt.
“One?” he repeated when I didn’t hop to.
“What’s one?”
Bear gave a grunt and chattered into a microphone rigged to a headset at the side of his face. “Get someone to basecamp, take cats to one.” He glanced over at me. “Are they ready to go?”
“I guess,” I faltered. “We just got here, but they’ve been fed and used the litter box, all the things Rhonda had on their schedule.”
“Want me to take a look, Bear?” Hana asked.
“Yeah, then send her down. Gerrold’s just about ready to begin on the first shot.”
Hana whipped out a soft-bristled brush from her kit, and I noted it was marked with felt pen, Cats. “May I?” she asked me, nodding to the carriers.
“They’re not harnessed. They won’t try to bolt in all this commotion?”
“Nah, we do this all the time. Don’t worry—Lynley, is it? They’ll be fine.”
She opened both gates, took the cats out, and sure enough, sat them down in a vacant director’s chair while she gave them a once over.
“Do you mind if I take a picture?” I asked as she spiffed their whiskers and sleeked their fur. “I promised Rhonda I’d text her some photos of the boys. She misses them so.”
Hana hesitated, then said, “Yeah, I guess.”
“Gerrold won’t like it,” Ray grinned slyly.
“Gerrold won’t know,” Hana returned with a giggle. “Besides it’s for Rhonda. It’s not like Lynley’s going to put them up on Facebook or anything. You aren’t, are you?”
I shook my head no.
“Gerrold just doesn’t want someone to leak key plot elements or shots of the stars, and the easiest thing is to forbid all photos across the board.”
“I’ll never tell,” Ray conspired.
I clicked a few pics with my phone and immediately sent them to Rhonda. Within seconds, I got back a smiley face emoticon and a heartfelt thank you.
“There. All good.” Hana stood back and admired her work.
I had to admit, beautiful as the big orange tabbies had been to begin with, whatever she had done brought out highlights and textures I hadn’t known where there.
“Wow!” I snapped off one more picture of the two boys side by side on the sling-backed chair. Clark Gable was languishing with front feet crossed studiously and Cary Grant was sitting tall a little ways behind him. They couldn’t have been more picturesque had they been professionally posed.
From across the tent I heard someone calling, “Cats! Cats over here!”
“I think that’s my cue,” I told Hana and Ray. “Wish me luck.”
“You’ll do fine, Cat Lady,” Ray grinned.
“Quit moving, Ray!” Hana ordered. “See you later, Lynley. Bring the boys by anytime for a touch-up.”
I returned the actor cats to their carriers and made my way through the crowd of extras to the front of the tent where my chariot, in the form of a three-wheeled smart car, awaited. A boy of about Seleia’s age with curly dusk-red hair, freckled complexion, and hazel eyes stuck his head out the side window and smiled. His attempt at a beard was sparse but not unattractive, especially since the smile was so genuine and compelling.
“Hi, I’m Freddie. You must be the new cat wrangler.”
I nodded to the wagon with its burden of carriers. “You got me. Lynley Cannon.”
“Pleased to meet you, Miz Cannon. Put ’em in the back and get in. I’ll take you down to the set.”
“What about the wagon? Do we just leave it here?”
“Yeah, leave it. Someone will be around to gather it. Probably me,” he laughed.
I hefted the carriers into a bin-like contraption behind the seats and squeezed into the front. At four o’clock, it was gloomy dusk, and the little car had its headlights on, the fancy dashboard lit like the winner’s circle at a cat show. I was glad to see the rain had let up, though the clouds still threatened with thunderstorms to come.
“They’re running a little late,” said Freddie. “Another, um, setback. Mr. Gerrold came in this morning to find someone had misplaced all the props for scenes five and six. At least that was what they said. How you can misplace a whole case of props, I can’t figure, though. Usually Zoey’s so careful about that kind of thing.”
“Did they find them again?”
“Yeah, but it took three hours. They were all messed up and some had to be replaced. Zoey improvised, but I think she’s going to catch h... Oops, Miz C. I mean heck.”
I laughed at his self-censorship. “Don’t worry about it, Freddie. It does seem like a serious situation.”
“Oh, it is. Every hour of filming is planned down to the minute. It costs big bucks to rent this place and pay all these people. It’s all got to come in on time or the production loses money. And that’s a quick road to being canceled before the pilot even airs.”
“It sounds like you know a lot about the television business.”
“The industry? Sure. I was almost raised on set. Grace, the costume supervisor, she’s my great aunt.”
“Then you might be just the person I need to talk to.”
As we bumped along at Freddie’s whim, sometimes on the gravel road, sometimes cutting onto a sidewalk, and once taking a detour right through the midst of the woods, I considered what I wanted to say. I was curious about the hex thing that Rhonda had hinted at, but I didn’t want to come off as a weirdo, nor did I want to bring her into it if I didn’t have to.
“Speaking of this morning’s snafu,” I began ambiguously, “I’ve heard that some people think there’s a problem on the set.”
Freddie’s head pivoted toward me. “What do you mean?” he asked defensively.
“To be honest, I’ve heard a rumor that this show is hexed.”
The little car lurched toward the ditch, then swung back again. “Where’d you hear that, lady?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I suppose it’s one of those things that gets around,” I tossed out. “Maybe it’s just theatrical folklore. You know, like ghosts. All the old theaters claim to have one.”
“This is no ghost!” Freddie growled. “This is something bad. Yeah, okay, there’s a few of us who believe it’s a hexter.”
“Hexter?”
“That’s what they’re calling it—her. Naven—h
e’s a grip—says hexters are always women. I don’t know. The only hexes I’ve seen were in movies, and they were just horror flicks, not the real thing.”
“So do a lot of people think the problems on the set have been caused by a supernatural being?”
“I dunno. I figure the evidence is pretty convincing, but everyone has their own theories. One guy thinks it’s the Zombie Apocalypse, though I don’t get why zombies would want to steal props.”
“No, I think zombies are more into the brain-eating deal. No one’s brains are missing, I assume.”
Freddie laughed. “Hard to tell sometimes.”
I squirmed on the hard seat. “So what’s this convincing evidence?”
“Well, it’s a matter of extrapolation,” he reflected. “There are just too many incidents to pass them all off as bad luck, accidents, mishaps, and coincidence.”
“Like what?”
He shrugged, slowing the car as we began to descend a particularly steep hill. “I mean, it’s easy to blame Zoey for losing the props, and maybe I’d even buy it if Zoey weren’t so obsessive about her stuff. She always knows where everything is, all million little pieces of it.”
“Could someone have moved the boxes by accident?”
“Sure. Taken one by one, everything that’s happened could have been this or that perfectly reasonable situation. But who would put two cardboard cases of props, clearly marked Property Department, in the freezer? Who?”
“Good point. What else has happened?”
“Oh, a bunch of stuff. Once the charter bus ran out of gas when we were shooting up in the forest. That was a pain and put us back half a day.”
“I don’t suppose someone could have forgotten...”
“To fill it up? No siree! I know because it was me. I had the bus filled at the gas station before we left. Thirty-two gallons, more than enough to go the eight miles to the set and back, even if it was a second gear road part of the way. I had the gas station receipt to prove it.”