A consultant on a movie set? Cyrus would be thrilled and maybe it would help my ratings. But would I really be any help to the production? “Look, Hank, I’ve never worked on a movie set before, and I’m not sure I can—”
“For heaven’s sake, Maggie, you don’t have to be Dr. Henry Lee,” Lola cut in. “You just have to help Hank make the scenes a little more realistic. It’s not rocket science, you know.”
I could see Lola was getting impatient with me. I tend to approach new situations cautiously, and Lola is just the opposite. She likes to act quickly and impulsively. She’s also way more decisive than I am. She’s a big fan of the adage: “Lead, follow, or get out of the way.”
Hank locked eyes with me. “I know you can do it, Maggie. We’ve already gone through five script revisions, and I’m still not happy with it.”
“What sort of problems are you having?” I felt a little frisson of excitement. It might be fun to get back into forensic work, even if it was just a Hollywood version of it.
“Some of the interrogation scenes are a little rough, and the dialogue needs some work. Plus we’ve added a scene where the psychologist interviews the suspect in his prison cell. This is the kind of thing you could really help us with.”
“Maggie, say yes!” Lola urged.
“At least stay and meet Sandra.” Hank’s green eyes were pleading. “I know she’d be thrilled to talk to a real-life forensic psychologist.”
“Sandra Michaels?” Lola asked. “I saw her name on the call sheet.”
Hank nodded. “She’s playing Dr. Rebecca Tilden, the psychologist who solves the zombie killings. If Maggie can stay for lunch, I’ll make sure she has plenty of face time with her. I know she’ll have a million questions for you,” he said, turning to me.
I raised my eyebrows. Zombie killings? Oh God, what was I getting myself into?
“So what do you think? A couple of hours a day on the set, working as a consultant? We’re an indie production, so we don’t have a big budget. We could swing a thousand dollars a day and it should only take a couple of hours. Would that work for you?” Hank was staring at me, waiting for my reply.
Yikes. A thousand dollars for two hours of my time?
This was no time to dither, and Mom answered for me.
“She’ll take it,” Mom said firmly.
And just like that, I was in the movie business.
I made a quick call to Vera Mae at WYME to tell her I’d be tied up on the Death Watch set for lunch but would be back at the station in time for my afternoon show.
Vera Mae is a big fan of crime shows—CSI, Law and Order, Criminal Minds, and most recently, The Mentalist. Just as I’d expected, she was thrilled to hear that I was going to be a consultant on the set.
“We need to tell Cyrus right away,” she said firmly. “He’ll be wanting to do some promos, and maybe you can even do some live interviews from the set.”
“I can certainly ask,” I promised. “Things are pretty busy here, though. I’m not sure how much time the actors are going to have to give interviews.”
“Oh for land sakes, Maggie, that’s a load of hogwash. Have you ever known an actor who didn’t love to talk about himself? Believe me, they’ll make the time to talk to you.” She gave a knowing laugh, and I guessed she was thinking of Lola.
“I suppose you’re right,” I agreed. “I can run the idea by Hank during lunch, or I can talk to their press person, if they have one. It’s a low-budget indie production, so I’m not sure.”
“Try to get an exclusive,” Vera Mae suggested. “But it may be too late for that. Once word gets out that a movie company’s in town, the entertainment reporters will be on that set like white on rice. But maybe you can jump the gun and get some good interviews in the can. Do you have your little tape recorder with you?”
“Yes, but—”
“You never bought batteries for it,” Vera Mae said.
“Guilty as charged.” Vera Mae knows me too well. I’ve been carrying a tape recorder around for months. It has a WYME logo slapped on it to make it look official, but it’s just a prop, since the batteries are dead.
I always take my own notes on a mini legal pad. I try to be unobtrusive, because subjects tend to freeze when they see me wielding a pen and paper. I noticed the same thing when I had my psychoanalytic practice back in New York; clients would clam up whenever they caught me writing down anything.
I was heading over to the craft services table for a glass of iced tea when I spotted Nick Harrison from the Cypress Grove Gazette. So Vera Mae’s prediction about a media blitz was right on target.
Nick is a good-looking guy, tall and athletic looking with a boyish smile and dirty blond hair worn on the longish side. There’s enough of an age difference that he thinks of me as an older sister, not potential date material. Today he was wearing what I call Cypress Grove casual: a snowy white golf shirt, neatly pressed khakis, and Reeboks.
He was juggling a paper plate filled with doughnuts and Danish pastries in his right hand and a jumbo-sized coffee in the other. Like most reporters, Nick can’t resist the lure of free food—offer him an Oreo cookie, and he’ll follow you anywhere.
When he saw me, he gave a sheepish nod. He balanced the paper plate on top of the coffee cup and I watched, fascinated, as he reached for a sugary bear claw.
“Having an early lunch?” I teased him.
“Actually, this is a snack. I’m having lunch with the cast and crew in half an hour. I’ve managed to score an interview with one of the cast members.”
“Really? I’ve been invited to lunch, too. Who are you seeing?”
Nick and I always trade information—we often cover the same stories, but we’re not really rivals or even competitors. After all, we work in different media and we use a lot of the same sources. I met Nick when I first came to town and we’ve been friends every since. We’ve sat through loads of boring civic speeches and rubber-chicken dinners together at the Cypress Grove Press Club and shared a lot of laughs. He’s cute, laid-back, and young enough that there’s no temptation to have a romantic relationship.
I held his coffee while he flipped through a tiny notebook he always carries. “Sandra Michaels, the formerly fat actress.”
“That’s what you call her—the formerly fat actress?”
“That’s what the tabloids call her. Not very nice, is it?” Nick had an adorable smile, complete with a Mario Lopez dimple. “Do you know anything about her? They gave me a press packet but I haven’t had a chance to read it.”
“All I know is that she plays a forensic psychologist. It’s a major role, maybe the second female lead. I’m not sure. I’ll be meeting with her today as well.” I filled him in on Hank’s offer to be a consultant on the set and he gave a low whistle of approval.
“Wow, it sounds like a sweet gig.”
“I hope so. Lola talked me into it.” Nick grinned; he knows how persuasive Lola can be. “You seem to know more about Sandra than I do. What’s with the ‘formerly fat actress’ bit?”
“She used to weigh over two hundred and thirty pounds and her acting career was in the toilet. Then she slimmed down through a really intensive diet and exercise program. She’s writing a book about it and I think there’s even a TV deal in the works. She told Access Hollywood she’s lost a hundred pounds.”
“A hundred pounds? That’s impressive.” Back in Manhattan, I saw patients who were “emotional eaters” and it was hard to get them to lose even ten pounds. “And she did it all on her own? That’s really amazing.”
“She claims she did it through sheer willpower, no pills or surgery.” He peered at his notes. “According to USA Today she said she knew there was a skinny person trapped inside her, screaming to get out.”
“Hmm. A skinny person screaming to get out?” I gave a little snort. “I wish I could say the same. I always feel like there’s an entire Sara Lee cherry cheesecake outside me, screaming to get in.” I paused, watching a pair of grips setting up long p
icnic tables under a grove of straggly palm trees. Some shiny silver catering trucks were rolling in and I figured they were getting ready to set up the noontime picnic.
“Anything else?” I prodded Nick.
Nick raised his hand to shield his eyes from the blinding sun. “Here’s a little gossip piece from TMZ. It seems Sandra and Adriana St. James are archenemies, but I’m not sure why.” He scribbled a quick note to himself. “I need to check that out.”
“I think you may get your answer at lunchtime. The first thing that struck me is that half the people on the set can’t stand Adriana. It’s going to be hard to find anyone to say anything good about her.”
I thought of her snarky remarks to Lola earlier that morning. She certainly wasn’t angling for the Miss Congeniality prize with that acid tongue of hers, and those jabs about my age.
“I can’t believe you’re really a psychologist,” Sandra said half an hour later. “It’s so exciting, I’ve never met one before.”
We were sitting side by side on folding chairs at lunch, which seemed to be a Paula Deen southern barbecue served buffet style. I had to pick my way past piles of barbecued chicken and blackened ribs to fill my plate with french fries, hush puppies, and corn bread. Carb city, but everyone else seemed to be enjoying it. I bet I was the only vegetarian on the set. I’d added a scoop of coleslaw as a vegetable along with some limp lettuce that was intended as a garnish.
“No ribs?” Sandra said, staring at my plate.
“Vegetarian.”
“Oh,” she said uncertainly.
Sandra was mid-forties, probably a decade younger than Adriana, and had flowing blond Stevie Nicks hair plus a wide Julia Roberts smile. She dressed young, but her body was toned and she could carry it off. She was attractive in a sort of flashy, in-your-face kind of way, just like one of the Real Housewives of Orange County.
She looked eerily young in the bright Florida sunlight, almost Photoshopped, from her gleaming white veneer to her flawless skin. I wondered if she’d had some “work” done. Or maybe her California good looks were the result of healthy living. After all, she had lost a huge amount of weight, all on her own.
“I’m so glad you agreed to be a script consultant,” she said. “Just between us, some of my scenes are real clunkers. The dialogue is forced and I think the writers are pretty clueless about forensic psychology.” She paused with her fork in midair. “That’s the writing team over there. I guess you’ll be meeting with them eventually.”
She gestured at two young men at the end of the table. They were wearing Death Watch T-shirts and baseball caps and looked about sixteen years old. One of them was playing air guitar, with his head thrown back like a rock star, while his friend thumped an imaginary drum on the tabletop.
“Wow, they look . . . young,” I said. “Almost like they should be out skateboarding.”
Sandra scrunched up her face into a frown. “And they have five Emmys between them. Can you believe it?”
I nodded. “It’s a youth-driven business.”
“I’ll say. This is probably the last movie I’ll do,” she added.
“Really? I thought I read somewhere that you loved acting.”
“I love performing,” she corrected me. “But after a certain age, the roles dry up. I don’t want to end up like Mia Farrow, playing someone’s grandmother when I hit fifty. I’m lucky that I’ve got some other irons in the fire.”
“Really? Like what?”
“Well, I’m not supposed to talk about it yet, but I guess I can tell you.” She gave a girlish giggle. “I’ve got a deal with the Style Network for my own health and beauty show.”
“That’s wonderful, Sandra.”
“Yes, it is, isn’t it?” She sighed happily and shot me a grin. “My agent thinks that the book deal will drive the TV show and they’ll work off each other. Synergy, he said. That’s pretty cool, right?”
“Very cool.”
“I probably need a manager, as well as an agent. I’m going to look into that.”
“I’m sure you’ll find the right person to guide your career,” I told her.
After playing with her food for a couple of minutes, Sandra glanced at her watch. “Oh, I promised to give that cute guy from the Gazette equal time. Nick somebody or other; you don’t mind, do you?”
“Of course not; go ahead. Nick’s a friend of mine. We can catch up with each other tomorrow. I’ll be back here in the morning before I do my show.”
“Make sure you ask Maisie for a copy of the script.” She wrinkled her nose, pulling back her chair. I noticed she had hardly touched her lunch and wondered if extreme calorie restriction was the secret to her weight loss. She stood up and patted her flat stomach. She was wearing tight white pants that were practically spray-painted on her and a yellow ribbed tank top. Not a ripple of flab or bulge anywhere. “Wait till you see the dialogue. I don’t think anyone would talk like that,” she confided in a whisper. “Especially not a forensic psychologist.”
I nodded. “How will I find Maisie?”
“She’s the continuity girl, so she always sits next to Hank during the shooting. But it would be better to catch her now, at lunchtime. Once she gets on the set, you won’t be able to talk to her.” Sandra shielded her eyes from the bright sunshine and then pointed to a model-thin girl at a neighboring table. “Look, there she is. She’s the one with the red hair and that cute Boho top. She always has extra copies of the script and I know she’ll be glad to give you one. You’ll have to see some of that dialogue to believe it.”
“It’s that bad?” I said mildly.
Sandra rolled her eyes and gave a little shudder. “I can’t even describe it to you; I know I couldn’t do it justice.” She reached over and gave my arm a friendly squeeze and the half-dozen thin gold bracelets she was wearing clanked together. “You’ve gotta help us with this, Maggie. I’m counting on you.”
“I’ll get a copy and read it tonight,” I promised.
Chapter 5
I caught up with Maisie, the continuity girl, and introduced myself just as they started to clear the tables. She was pretty, with a sprinkling of freckles across her nose, and like most of the female cast and crew, she was wearing tight designer jeans. “A script? Sure, no problem.” She pointed to a trailer that was being used as the production office. “Tell them I said it’s okay. Anything else you need, just let me know.” She snared a bottle of Crystal Geyser from the lunch table and grabbed a clipboard off the table. “I thought you were media, but somebody said you’re also a psychologist, right?”
“Guilty as charged. I used to have a practice back in Manhattan before I moved down to Florida. Now I have a radio show on WYME.” Word travels fast on a movie set, I decided. Maybe Lola had been bragging to Hank? I doubted Adriana would bother talking about me; her whole focus was always on herself.
“We’re shooting a big scene in a few minutes,” she said. “It’s the finale scene when Adriana finally meets up with the killer. Would you like to watch? I can sneak in another folding chair next to mine. You have to promise not to make a sound, though.”
“Thanks, I’d love to. And I’ll be quiet as a mouse; shrinks are really good at that.”
She pulled a headset over her glossy auburn hair, mumbled some words into it, and looked serious. “Are you saying Jesse is ready to go on the pond scene?” She glanced at her watch and her eyebrows shot up. “Right now?” A short pause and then, “Okay, I’ll be there in three minutes. Set up an extra chair next to mine. We have company.”
“Jesse is the AD, the assistant director,” she explained, yanking off the headset and looping it around her neck. “I’m afraid we’ve got to hustle. Hank goes nuts if anyone is late when we start shooting.”
“Why are you shooting a big finale scene now?” I asked breathlessly. She was making tracks past the picnic area and I was scrambling to keep up with her, my kitten heels sinking into the spongy soil. “I thought the movie was just starting?”
�
�Oh, we always shoot scenes out of sequence.” She tossed a grin over her shoulder. “You get used to it after a while. It makes it tough on these New York method actors who have to spend hours gearing themselves up emotionally for a scene. You know, they have to ‘find their motivation,’ whatever that is. So pretentious! Those kind of people drive Hank crazy,” she confided. “Hank thinks that all you need to do is know your lines and not trip over the furniture.”
“That’s what Laurence Olivier used to say,” I told her.
“Yeah?” She looked doubtful and I wondered if she’d even heard of the great British actor. “Well, here we are.” She scurried onto a roped-off area at the edge of a small beach. The sun was glinting off the still waters of Branscom Pond and Adriana was standing at the edge of the shoreline, looking impatient. She was fanning herself with a huge straw sun hat while a makeup girl flitted around her, touching up her lipstick.
Adriana was inspecting her work in a small hand mirror and shaking her head in dismay. “You know I hate this color lipstick,” she whined. “What is it? Old-lady red?” She grabbed the tube and looked at the bottom. “Even my grandmother wouldn’t wear this color. It’s going to add ten years to my face. Why can’t I have something bronze instead? We need to get Marlene back doing my makeup.”
Her voice was shrill, the undertone deadly. I could tell this was an old argument and the makeup girl calmly took the tube away from Adriana and returned to her work.
Maisie slid into a canvas-backed chair next to Hank and patted an empty chair beside her. She immediately picked up her copy of the script and I noticed it was full of handwritten notations. “Have a seat, Maggie. This should be a good scene. Adriana confronts the killer and he takes a shot at her.” She leaned over and smiled. “Don’t worry; he’s a lousy shot and he misses.”
“You certainly made a lot of notes,” I said, pointing to her script.
Maisie nodded. “Some of these are wardrobe details and hair and makeup descriptions. Everything has to look exactly the same from shot to shot. You know, continuous. The actors and the props have to be identical to where we left off shooting. So if Adriana was wearing a white scarf during the last frame of the last bit of footage, she has to be wearing the same scarf in this scene.” She paused and held up her index finger. “And it has to be tied the same way. Plus her hair has to look exactly the same. You’d be surprised how easy it is to miss little things like that.”
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