Max tapped Edwina on the shoulder. “See that,” he said, gesturing toward the two arguing men, “that guy Tanner could be living on easy street, but he’s always so busy flapping his gums at Gridhorn he’s blown his chance. No one cares how long he’s worked here or how great a cameraman he is. They only want him to do his darn job, and quit griping about how the lighting makes Miss Linwood look too old, or the angles the director wants him to film.” He made a tsking sound of disdain. “It’s ridiculous. If Tanner learned to keep his temper a bit better and kept his mouth shut more, he’d be rolling in dough by now.”
“They fight a lot?” Edwina asked, trying to sound innocent, and Max laughed.
“Like cats and dogs. Tanner should stick to his job and stop standing up for Miss Linwood. He does it all the time. Trust me, that lady can stand up for herself.”
As Max settled back on a crate and crossed his arms, Edwina was just about to follow suit before Max stopped her.
“Careful!” he warned, grabbing her arm. “You need to watch where you’re sitting around here,” he said, then reached over and pulled on something stuck to the crate. Finally, with a sudden jerk, he yanked something out of the wood and held it up to Edwina. “Pretty painful if you wind up stabbing yourself with one of these,” he said, showing her a large metal staple about three inches long. “That’d put a good-sized hole in your backside, or maybe even give you lockjaw.”
Edwina held out her hand and he gave her the staple. “Thanks, Max,” she said, then tucked it into her coat pocket as she settled back on the wooden box. As soon as she got seated, Edwina caught a whiff of something that made her curl up her nose.
“Hey, Max, I don’t mean to be rude or anything, but why do you smell like canned sardines?”
Her companion kept watching the people milling about as they readied the set for filming, and seemed oblivious to any offense. “If you must know, Miss Nosey Boots, I’ve been trying to catch the stray cat that’s been hanging around the main loading dock.”
“You’re after a cat?”
“Yeah, the gray tom, with the black stripes and one torn ear.”
Somehow, the thought of Max. all lanky six feet or so of him, crouching down around the packing crates in the winter chill and making kissing sounds to tempt out a skinny stray seemed almost comical. “You don’t seem the type.”
“Well, shows what you know, doesn’t it?” He leaned over, his eyes still on the director’s conversation. “It’s cold out there, and no animal deserves to be out in that weather.” He turned toward Edwina, his voice low and his eyes intent on hers. “And let’s talk about people who don’t seem the type. What in the blue blazes are you really doing here, girl? You certainly don’t talk like some career skirt who needs a job to keep her well- fed and in silk stockings. I’d know that upper crust vocab and blue blood style of manners anywhere. I can recognize stuff like that from a mile away.”
Edwina’s mouth dropped open, then instantly clapped shut.
A smug smile spread over Max’s face, and his eyes crinkled in triumph at confirmation his guess was correct. “Ha! Spill it. What’s the deal?” he said. “Where did they get you? You’re no assistant, are you?”
“I am so,” Edwina lied, trying to look angry instead of defensive. “Bunny hired me and I’m doing the best I can to help out.” She took a deep breath and pulled herself up as tall as she could. “And I can’t help it that my mother taught me how to talk right and pour a decent cup of coffee. I need the cash, and I’m a hard worker, so I’d appreciate you laying off, okay? It’s not my fault I need to make a living.”
Well, just about all that was true, except for the last part about having to make a living. Edwina’s mother had made sure every bit of etiquette and deportment she could find was drilled into her wealthy daughter as early as possible. Edwina made a mental note to practice a different accent and some alternative stories about herself before she started the next detective job.
“Uh huh,” Max said skeptically, his eyes following Gloria Linwood as she took her mark by the bed on the set. “Shhhh!” he warned.
“Quiet on the set!” one of the stagehands hollered.
“And…ACTION!” Gridhorn barked, and as if by magic, everyone that had been disinterested or arguing before suddenly moved into cohesive, creative order. The cameras ground into motion, the spectators stilled, and every eye was watching what the brightly lit actors would create for the archive of motion picture history.
Linwood walked from the bed to the high, arched window, and put the back of her hand dramatically against her forehead, her face full of fake desperation.
“Oh, I can’t believe how lonely it is to be in this tower, all by myself! It’s not my fault that I got lost outside, wandering in the storm, and now I’m trapped in this stone castle, with a mindless beast downstairs.” She clutched at the heavy velvet curtains and pretended to peer outside, even though it was only a painted backdrop and someone in the walkway above, shaking a box of fake snow down to represent a snowstorm.
“Whatever will I do with my time? The beast seems so mysterious and dangerous” she said loudly, then put her hand over her eyes, as if she were crying. “And what will I do, now that most of my clothes were lost when I ran away from those wolves in the forest?”
Edwina had to bite down the laughter that threatened to loudly erupt. Looking around the ring of people who were observing the scene unfold, she could see many of them transfixed by what they were watching, their faces deadly serious as Linwood recited her lines. Tanner, the main cameraman, was gazing at Linwood with a soft, rapt expression on his face, which surprised Edwina. She was pondering that, when the fake door on the movie set crashed open and the man in the fur suit leaped in, his hands raised in front of him to look like ferocious claws, his face contorted in mock rage.
“There you are! Beautiful lady, you cannot escape me,” he yelled, then threw back his head and gave a full-throated wolf howl. “You are trapped in my castle, my lovely, and now you will be mine!”
Linwood gave a timid squeal and clawed helplessly at the window, doing her best to appear terrified, as the beast ran around the bed and jumped at her, apparently overcome with some sort of primal emotion. With all the fake fur glued to his face, Edwina couldn’t tell if he was trying to portray lust, or hunger, or something else entirely.
It was meant to look ferocious, but it would’ve been much more effective if one of his fake-fur covered feet didn’t accidentally snag on the oriental carpet and throw off his balance. His leap wound up being an awkward mid-air flail, capped off by slamming into Miss Linwood’s midriff and crashing to the floor in a tangle of limbs.
“Cut!” Gridhorn yelled, his face flushing nearly purple with anger. “Cut, cut, cut! What in the world was that, Greg? You idiot! Didn’t I tell you to watch where your feet were going?”
Gloria Linwood extracted herself from underneath the Beast, who was apparently named Greg, and jerked herself to her feet. Her carefully coiffed hair was a smashed mess, her clothing askew.
“That’s it! That’s the living end! I’ve had it!” she screeched, pointing a quivering finger at the director in accusation. “I should’ve never agreed to do this picture, Albert, and I should’ve never worked with you again. I thought maybe you’d hire a good writer this time and actually make a halfway decent movie for once, but look at what I’ve gotten stuck with instead!”
“Gloria, wait a minute,” Gridhorn said, taking big steps toward her, his arms outstretched in placation. “Darling, you’re our shining star, and I want to make you happy. What can I do to make you happy?”
“Fire the writer, and get me some real dialog!” she sputtered. “Or even better, how about you just drop dead?” The aging actress clutched her robe around her as if it were her shattered dignity, stuck her chin up in the air, and marched off toward her dressing room. Bunny jumped up from her chair to hurry after Linwood, her face full of concern.
“You know, she’s right,” a clear
voice piped up just beyond the bright lights on the set, and Gridhorn spun on his heel.
“Who said that? Tanner, was that you?”
“Mr. Gridhorn, that lady deserves better, and you know it,” Tanner said with a nod. “I’ve worked with you on all sorts of pictures, but an actress of Miss Linwood’s caliber should be in some big production, not having to run around in her underthings being chased by” — he gestured toward the fur-suited beast, who was standing shakily on his feet and scratching at one of the patches of fake fur glued to his cheek — “by whatever that guy’s supposed to be. What is he anyway; the Incredible Dog-Faced Boy?”
Gridhorn stomped closer to the cameraman, every eye in the room following him. His eyes narrowed as he stopped in front of Mr. Tanner, who was still holding onto the handle of his camera.
“Are you saying I’m not making a good picture?” he asked, his voice dangerously calm.
Tanner shifted from foot to foot, his face uncertain. “I’m just saying she deserves the best, that’s all. She’s earned it, after all she’s been through.”
As Gridhorn opened his mouth to respond, the cameraman put up a hand to stop him. “I know, I know. You’re going to say I’m fired, but let’s be realistic here. You can’t afford anyone else, you don’t know any other cameramen in Chicago, and we need each other. I’ll try to keep my opinions to myself.”
“About time,” Gridhorn bit out, but Tanner seemed unfazed.
“Unless it concerns Miss Linwood. Someone’s gotta stand up for her, and I guess that’s gonna be me.”
“Fine,” Gridhorn said, his voice rising in volume, his face reddening. “You stand up for her. We all want Miss Linwood to be happy, and I’ve got nothing better to do than listen to the grumblings of a cameraman who should be worrying more about how to frame a shot and less about how a two-bit actress is feeling at the moment.”
There was a bark of bitter laughter, and Clyde Baxter, who was sitting two chairs over from the other camera, threw his script down onto a nearby table, upsetting his coffeecup. “That’s it. I can’t concentrate with all this shouting. Albert, I’m going to use the office for some editing. I’d advise you don’t disturb me,” he said, his tone sounding like a warning as he stomped off toward the small office that doubled as the editing lab.
Edwina watched it all unfold with interest, taking mental notes about who was doing what, and apparently Max was, too.
“This movie’s not exactly Shakespeare, is it?” he said dryly, and Edwina gave a loud huff of agreement.
“Not even close. I think that cat you’ve been chasing outside could cough up a hairball with better dialog than what they’re saying. Who wrote this stuff, anyway?”
Max leaned over and pointed across Edwina, toward a solitary figure sitting in a folding chair at the side of the set, glasses sliding down his nose as he flipped through the script and made notes with a large pencil. The man’s tweed button-down vest had a large stain on the front, as if he’d dropped a greasy sandwich down it, and a few long, dark hairs were carefully combed over his balding head. “That guy over there is Mr. Wickett, the writer. I’d bet you a fiver he’s probably sitting down because he’s so tanked he can’t stand up.”
Edwina’s eyebrows went up. “That’s the writer?”
“Yep, more or less.” Max dug around in his shirt pocket and pulled out a pack of gum, holding out a stick to Edwina. “I guess he used to be really well-known around Hollywood, but now Gridhorn can hire him cheap because no one else will. Too many scandals, too many times he never showed up for work or missed a deadline.” He popped a stick of gum in his mouth and chewed a couple of times, then added, “Seems like a decent enough fellow otherwise, I guess.”
“He gets along with Gridhorn? Would you say he’s a good writer, though?”
Max stood up and brushed the front of his flannel shirt, as if the drama they’d just witnessed had somehow left crumbs of debris on him.
“Good writer? That hack?” he asked, then gave a lazy smile.
“Not on your Nelly.”
Chapter 8
“Maybe I should go with her,” Edwina said, her eyes following the Gloria Linwood’s retreating back, but Max adamantly shook his head.
“Not if you know what’s good for you, you won’t. Let Bunny handle it. You really want to get in the middle of that?”
Edwina didn’t have to even think about her answer. “Not really.” Her goal was to find out who was blackmailing Miss Linwood, not to cater to her temper tantrums or to be a real assistant. As far as Edwina was concerned, the less she had to be around Gloria Linwood, the better, as long as she was able to keep up the pretense of helping her. There was enough turmoil on the set without her chasing it down the hallway.
She was already starting to put together some ideas about who would have access to Linwood’s personal life enough to be able to blackmail her, and after seeing some of the actress’ behavior, Edwina was less sympathetic to her plight than she probably should be.
Max gave a snort of amusement. “See? You’re smarter than you look. Didn’t take you very long to figure out being Linwood’s punching bag isn’t the best place to be, did it?”
He started to walk off toward the cafeteria, and Edwina loped after him.
“Where are you going?”
“Got to get my smokes. After all that hoo-hah we just witnessed, I think I deserve a break. All the scenes they were ready to film have Miss Linwood in them, and she’s not going to do anything until Gridhorn smooths everything over.”
“Do you go to the breakroom?”
“Just to get my cigarettes. Gridhorn doesn’t let us smoke inside. He says it’s a fire hazard,” Max said, a note to absolute contempt in his voice. “As if we don’t know to put out our butts in a coffee can after we smoke ‘em. He makes us go outside on the dock, or up to the roof. You know how often there’s snow up on that roof?”
Edwina followed him through the door into the cafeteria. The sudden heat on her face was welcome, after being in the cavernous main area of the warehouse. Tanner, the cameraman, was pouring himself a mug of coffee from the tall urn, but the room was otherwise unoccupied.
The faint scent of bay rum wafted by, and she sniffed appreciatively. It was one of Edwina’s favorite scents.
“I like your aftershave, Max,” she said, and when Max looked surprised Tanner chuckled.
“You think Max is wearing aftershave? Really?” he said, seemingly pleased he could get a dig in on Max. “That’s not his style.” He smiled at Edwina. “Thank you for the compliment. It’s one of my favorites, too.”
As he walked out, carrying his newly full coffee mug with him, Edwina heard Max mutter something about Tanner under her breath, and Edwina bit back a smile as she pretended not to hear what he’d said.
There was a line of wooden cubbyholes against the righthand wall, and Max dug around in one, finally pulling out a pack of cigarettes and a box of matches.
“Want one?” he offered, but Edwina shook her head.
“No, thanks.” Edwina had never picked up the popular habit of smoking, which was one of the few things she did that pleased her mother. She’d had it drummed into her head that ladies didn’t smoke, but the truth was it was just too smelly and annoying a habit for her to take it up.
“Suit yourself.” Max grinned and checked his wristwatch. “Olivia’s coming by, and I don’t want to be late.”
“Olivia?”
“Olivia Green, my girl,” he said, striding toward the door. “She’s bringing me lunch, and oh boy, that girl can cook! She keeps up these deliveries, and I’m gonna get me a big belly.”
Chapter 9
After Edwina had walked around the cavernous warehouse twice, talking to several of the stagehands and craftspeople while they tried to find things to occupy themselves, she finally admitted defeat. If she kept snooping she was worried she’d arouse suspicion that she wasn’t Miss Linwood’s real assistant, so she circled around the warehouse and trudged towa
rd the movie star’s dressing room.
As she turned into the darkened hallway, heading toward the small rooms the actors used to get ready, she suddenly saw the unmistakable silhouette of Gustavson, pressed back against the wall in the hallway, in deep shadow. His head was turned away from her, as if watching for someone. Edwina paused, mid-step, unsure if she wanted to walk by a man who’d seemed so belligerent before, and finally ducked into an empty doorway, hoping she hadn’t been seen. After a moment of silence, she cautiously peered around the doorjamb, holding her breath, but it appeared Gustavson hadn’t seen her coming.
Edwina put a hand on the wall, trying to think how to get past the angry man. If she did, she could alert the security guard that there was an unauthorized visitor on-site, but she suddenly heard a sound coming down the hallway.
It was Albert Gridhorn, strolling along as if he didn’t have a care in the world, idly whistling. He walked by the doorway, unaware of Edwina’s watching eyes, with a script tucked under his arm and a bouquet of yellow chrysanthemums in his hand.
Gustavson lurched out from the shadows, and stood in front of the startled director, causing Gridhorn to hold up the flowers as if they were some type of defensive weapon.
“Who are you? I didn’t hire you. What do you want?”
“Mr. Gridhorn? Can I talk to you for a minute?”
Gridhorn shook his head.
“Sorry, buddy, but I don’t have the time. They’re already setting up for the next scene.” He gestured with the flowers toward the closed door of Gloria Linwood’s dressing room. “I’ve got a leading lady to placate, and not much time to do it in.”
A Fatal Affair Page 4