Lights! Camera! Puzzles!

by Parnell Hall

  Crowley frowned. “Why do you say that?”

  “You’ve already got a story. It’s Steve’s first day on the set, and look at those girls drooling over him. There’s ready-made publicity, and you don’t have to do a thing. This whole the-director-almost-got-killed is a total bummer. You got two stories running as one and it’s just a mess. Look at that article. At first glance, you’d think Steve got killed.”

  “Maybe that’s the whole idea,” Crowley said. “Like the end of Jaws. Richard Dreyfus popping up to the surface after Roy Scheider kills the shark. It’s a real feel-good moment, everyone thinking he’s dead and here he is. People read the article, go, oh my God, and then he’s fine.”

  Angela smiled. “Do you really believe that, Sergeant, or are you just trying to impress me with your movie expertise? Because, frankly, the plot of Jaws is not that obscure.”

  Steve Hawkins emerged from his trailer amid the ritual shrieks from the girls behind the ropes. He walked over and saw Crowley holding the paper. “I’m not dead yet,” he said, imitating the character in the Monty Python sketch.

  “Good thing you’re pretty,” Angela said. “Impressions aren’t your thing.”

  “You think someone tried to kill Sandy, Sergeant?” Steve said.

  Crowley made a face. “See, this is the type of question I have to keep answering. Someone did kill Fred. That’s what I’m concerned with.”

  “Have you noticed Sandy’s not here yet?”

  Crowley started. “What!”

  “The A.D. said he’s not here.”

  “He’s not in his trailer?”

  “Guy said no.”

  Crowley whipped out his cell phone. He had the principals from the movie on speed-dial. He called Sandy’s cell. It went to voicemail.

  Crowley called Perkins, his go-to detective. “Sandy Delfin, director. Not answering his phone. Go to his address.”

  Max the gofer came running up. “He’s here.”

  A limo pulled up. A burly man in a gray suit with a bulge under his left arm got out, scanned the crowd, then opened the back door. Sandy got out and walked beside the man, and joined them on the sidewalk.

  “Hi, gang. Sorry I’m late. I had to make arrangements with Bruno. Sergeant, this is Bruno Rossi. Not meaning to step on your toes, but if someone’s trying to kill me, I have to make some arrangements for my protection. Bruno will be with me to and from the set, and during situations of maximum exposure. I appreciate your cooperation in this matter.”

  Crowley was clearly not happy, but he was putting a good face on it. “I’m sure we can respect each other’s territories. I will not come between you and the protectee, and I’m sure you’ll respect my wishes if I ask you not to contaminate a crime scene.”

  “Whatever,” Bruno said. Conversation did not appear to be his forte.

  Sandy turned to the actors. “You up on your lines? So, let’s run it.”

  Sandy set up the scene. Bruno scanned the crowd for assassins. Cora and Crowley watched from the sidelines.

  “Well, you think this muddies the water?” Cora said.

  Crowley muttered something under his breath.

  Cora raised her eyebrows. “Did you say bite me?”

  46

  They filmed the scene without incident. Bruno watched arrogantly, as if taking credit.

  In between takes Sandy said, “Angela.”

  “Huh?”

  “Position one.”

  She looked at him. “What did I do wrong?”

  “I just want to see something. Can you walk the shot for me?”

  Angela took her position and walked into the shot while Sandy looked through the lens of the camera.

  “Hold it!” Sandy said.

  Angela stopped.

  Sandy looked up from the camera. “The stocking. I mean it’s there, but you can’t see it. Could we tear the blouse?”

  “No, you can’t tear the blouse,” Angela said. “It’s a scene where she’s denying everything. You throw in a torn blouse and it’s a whole different scene.”

  “A better one.”

  “Better? How is that better? Where’s the subtlety? Where’s the nuance? You want me to play a character, or you want me to play a shrew? I can give you fishwife if you want it, but that’s not Cora.”

  “Why is a torn blouse fishwife?”

  “I’m not talking about the blouse. I’m talking about the way she plays it.”

  “You sound angry.”

  “Angry? Good thing you got a bodyguard.”

  “Now look here—”

  “Hey, I’m in this scene too,” Steve chimed in. “And it makes a big difference if I’m dealing with a torn blouse. If that’s the case, we gotta reshoot it, because my reactions are going to be nowhere near the same.”

  “He’s gotta reshoot it anyway,” Angela said, “if he wants a torn blouse in the shot. How far behind is that going to put us?”

  “You think I can’t catch up?” Sandy said. “You haven’t seen me in action.”

  “And I don’t want to,” Angela said. “Are we shooting a feature film or an NYU student project?”

  Sandy held his temper. Angela was a star, and there were people watching. Still, Cora got the impression he wanted to mash her head into the sidewalk.

  “We don’t have to shoot a torn blouse,” Sandy conceded. As she walked away, he couldn’t help adding under his breath, “If you can’t handle it.”

  Angela turned back. “What was that?”

  “What was what?”

  “What did you say?”

  “I didn’t say anything. You win. We’re doing it your way.”

  Steve had heard what Sandy had said, but he didn’t jump in. It occurred to Cora he had a keen sense of self-preservation.

  As Angela flounced off to her trailer, Steve grabbed Sandy by the arm. “So when are we going to shoot the punch-ins?”

  Sandy reacted as if beset by bees. “I don’t know.”

  “Because it matters with my schedule. I know what we contracted. If we’re adding days for punch-ins—”

  “I’m not adding days for punch-ins. We’ll fit them in somewhere. I just have to see how much we need.”

  “When are you going to look at them?”

  Sandy sighed. “Tonight at dailies. Betsy. Call the editing room. I want to screen the Hyatt Regency footage tonight at dailies.”

  Betsy scribbled a note. She walked away, pulling out her cell phone.

  “Dailies?” Crowley said.

  Cora shook her head. “You’re not going to impress Angela if you don’t know what dailies are. Every day, at the end of shooting, they screen everything they shot the day before.”

  “Why the day before?”

  “The stuff they shot goes to the lab. They pick it up the next day. The editor gets it ready for screening.”

  “Where will they do that?”

  47

  UNTITLED PUZZLE LADY PROJECT screened dailies at a small screening room at 46th Street on Seventh Avenue, two floors up from the editing room.

  Not everyone attended, especially not the stars. Indeed, some Hollywood legends never watched dailies, and claimed never to have watched their own movies.

  Always present were Sandy, the script supervisor, and the editor.

  Often present were any and all gofers, the production manager, and Cora and Melvin.

  The added starters that day were Steve and Sergeant Crowley.

  The film rolled. Angela and Fred walked out of the Hyatt Regency. Fred’s face was clearly visible.

  Seeing Fred gave Cora a bit of a turn. It was hard to believe he was dead. He didn’t look like a young man about to take his own life. Not that she thought he had.

  “You’ll have to reshoot that one,” Steve said.

  “Not if we got it from another angle,” Sandy said. “We probably do.”

  They watched a few more takes. All were similar.

  “These aren’t going to work,” Steve said. “Can’t you send me
and Angela over to the Hyatt with a second unit while you’re setting something up?”

  “Can’t do it,” Sandy said. “We mocked it up to look like Vegas. Nothing will match.”

  “If we can’t reshoot it we’ll have to cut it.”

  “Cut Angela swinging the golf club?” Sandy exclaimed. “Are you out of your mind?”

  Steve recoiled in shock. He was not used to directors speaking to him like that.

  Sandy immediately recollected himself and rushed to placate his star. “It’s all right. We haven’t seen all the footage yet. There must be something we can use.”

  There was. The last master shot on the roll was from a different angle. It showed Angela’s face, and, for the most part, Fred’s back.

  “There,” Sandy said. “That’s useable. At least most of it. We can always cut away to the valet driving up. We only need you in the car. That we can shoot anywhere.”

  “What do you need in the car?”

  “It’s coming up.”

  The footage of Fred in the car rolled. It was the reaction shot Cora had taught him.

  “Oh, that’s good,” Steve said.

  “Yeah,” Sandy said. “It’s all we need. It sells the scene. No one’s going to notice you weren’t actually in the exit.”

  Steve smiled. “Movie magic.”

  “Exactly,” Sandy said. “We can get it tomorrow. Betsy, make a note to wardrobe. Bring Melvin’s Hyatt Regency clothes.”

  “Do they fit him?”

  “Ask them. They have Steve’s measurements. They’ll make them fit. Bring Angela’s wardrobe too, in case I need her in the shot.”

  “Got it.”

  “And have the teamsters bring the Vegas car. Make sure they know which one it is.”

  “There’s only one.”

  “I didn’t say count them. I said make sure they bring it.”

  “Will do.”

  For the first time since the screening began, Sandy settled back in his chair. Cora could see him visibly relax.

  Another crisis averted.

  48

  Steve left right after that, but Crowley opted to stick around. They were screening scenes from the Empire State Building, and he hoped to see something that would give him a clue about the light falling.

  That seemed stupid to Cora. The camera would be pointing in the opposite direction, photographing the actors. It wouldn’t show the director at all. But she stayed too.

  It was excruciating. First they had to sit through the scenes in front of the Empire State Building, and there were a zillion of them.

  Cora thought she knew why. After the ordeal of working with Fred, Sandy was getting a huge kick out of working with a legitimate actor, and he was trying subtle nuances with the scenes that hadn’t been possible before. Even Angela was better, and she was pretty good to begin with.

  The scenes were a lot of fun. That didn’t make them worth watching ten times in a row. Which is what ended up happening. Every time Crowley got geared up to see the light falling scene, he was treated to another EXT: EMPIRE STATE BUILDING ENTRANCE–DAY.

  Cora could tell he was getting antsy. “I’m not sure this is worth it,” she whispered to him.

  He ignored her, and sat rooted in his chair. He had come to see the take where the light fell, and knew damn well if he got up and left it would be the next scene shown.

  Cora smiled, and leaned back in her chair. She wondered if it would seem crass to fall asleep watching her own damn movie.

  It rolled. She could tell the moment the camera clicked on. The first thing she saw was the elevator doors. The assistant cameraman clacked the slate and Sandy yelled, “Action!”

  Sandy’s voice was very loud. He was on the dolly, near the boom mike.

  The elevator doors opened, and Angela and Steve got out. The camera stayed on Angela as she walked to the rail, then widened to include Steve as she called him over. He didn’t go to her, of course, he said his line and crossed down to the third viewfinder. The camera stayed on Angela as she followed him, then pulled back for the two-shot.

  Sandy swore, and there came the sound of a crash.

  As Cora had predicted, it was all off-camera, the tripod tripping and the light falling. If Crowley was hoping to determine whether Sandy had actually knocked into the tripod, he learned nothing new from the scene that had been shot.

  Except it kept going. Without Sandy to yell, “Cut!”, no one turned off the camera and it kept rolling.

  The actors reacted in shock, then rushed to see if the director was all right. Someone must have knocked the camera slightly, because it had been focused on the viewfinder, the rail, and the sky beyond, but it slowly swung left and picked up part of the observation deck.

  It stopped on the gofer girl.

  She stood there, watching the scene.

  She didn’t look shocked. She didn’t look horrified. She didn’t at all look like the distraught young woman Cora remembered talking to before taking the elevator down the night it happened. She had expressed guilt for not keeping the director safe, which was her job.

  She gave no evidence of it here.

  For Cora’s money, she looked like she knew it was going to happen.

  49

  The set the next day turned out to be EXT: COPACABANA–DAY, the scene they failed to shoot because Fred got killed. None of the footage Sandy had shot was useable, on two counts: Fred was in it and Fred was terrible.

  “Back to the scene of the crime,” Cora said, as she parked her car and joined Crowley on the sidewalk. “Does that help you any?”

  “I don’t see how. I’m not even sure which trailer is the crime scene anymore.”

  “Didn’t you write it down?”

  Crowley snorted. “I’m not used to crime scenes moving around. When they do, I’m sure as hell not used to one coming back.”

  “Aren’t they in the same place?”

  “Angela’s is. The director’s is. It’s the other two I’m not sure of. They gave one to Steve. Is it the one Fred was in, the crime scene one? I’m just not sure. It’s not even where it used to be. The one they gave Steve has been moved next to Angela’s. The other one has been shifted to the middle. So none of them are in the place the crime scene used to be, regardless of which trailer he was actually killed in.”

  “Wouldn’t there be markings from the crime scene unit? Fingerprints? Chalk outline?”

  “They tend to clean up pretty well for the star actors. I’m sure I could find something. The thing is, there’s nothing about the crime scene trailer I particularly want to study.”

  “Then why are you talking about it?”

  “You asked me about it!” Crowley cried in exasperation.

  “Oh.”

  “Did you have a reason for asking me about it?”

  “Just making small talk,” Cora said. “Did you talk to the gofer girl?”

  “She’s not here.”

  “Oh?”

  “Nothing sinister. She’s running an errand. Something the production manager asked her to do. I don’t think she was sent away just so I couldn’t talk to her.”

  “That shot of her last night looked pretty suspicious.”

  “Give me a break.”

  “Hey, who was it who wouldn’t ask where she was last night because he didn’t want to call attention to her?”

  “That’s standard procedure.”

  “Oh, really? You just got through telling me this was something you’d never encountered, and suddenly it’s standard procedure.”

  “I’m frustrated. This crime isn’t making any sense, and everything I want to investigate is a pain in the ass.”

  “Present company excepted?”

  “Oh, you’re a tremendous pain in the ass, but I don’t think you’re my trouble with this case.”

  “Any clues?”

  “Don’t you think I’d have led with that?”

  “You said you were frustrated. You really ought to call Stephanie.”

  �
��Don’t be dumb. You know exactly what I mean. I want to talk to the girl last night, she isn’t there. I want to talk to her this morning, she isn’t here.”

  “She’s just on a routine errand.”

  “I know it doesn’t mean anything. But the more I can’t talk to her, the more I think it’s important.”

  “And the next thing you know she’ll be dead,” Cora said.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “That’s what you’re thinking. You’re thinking she has something very important to tell you, but you’re never going to get to hear it, because of one silly excuse after another until suddenly it’s too late.”

  “What in the world makes you think I’m thinking that?” Crowley said.

  “Because that’s what I’m thinking.”

  “You want me to check on her?”

  “No, I want you to assume she’s okay and be very surprised when she turns up dead.”

  A car pulled up and double-parked in the middle of the street. Sandy got out and tossed the keys to a production assistant, then headed for the set.

  Cora nudged Crowley in the ribs. “Notice anything different?”

  “Yeah. He drove himself this morning.”

  Cora rolled her eyes. “So close. Come on.” She hurried after the director. “Hey, Sandy. Where’s your bodyguard?”

  Sandy shrugged sheepishly. “Don’t need him. That was a bit of an overreaction, don’t you think? Who’d want to kill me? In broad daylight on a movie set? A stupid idea. But after Fred, can you blame me? You want to catch the killer, Sergeant, so we can stop being scared and get on with our lives?”

  “That would be my prime motivation,” Crowley said dryly.

  “Are you mocking me, Sergeant?”

  “Not at all. This is a crime. Serious stuff.”

  That was not exactly the tone Sandy was looking for. For a moment it seemed like he might pursue it, had not Crowley’s attention been distracted.

  The gofer girl was getting out of one of the company rental cars with an armload of shopping bags.

  Crowley stepped up to help her.

  “Thanks, I got it,” she said. She grabbed the bags, and hurried off in the direction of the costume mistress.

  Crowley restrained himself from stopping her. He waited until she’d finished her deliveries, and was getting a cup of coffee from the catering cart.