by Harper Lin
Granny Goes Hollywood
Harper Lin
Contents
Synopsis
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Synopsis
When a big Hollywood film production comes to Cheerville, the town is in a tizzy over action star Cliff Armstrong. But when his stunt double is killed on set, Barbara quickly deduces it was no accident and Cliff was meant to be the target.
To hunt the killer, Barbara infiltrates the movie set first as an extra, but quickly lands a speaking role against the handsome Cliff Armstrong himself. Can she prevent Cliff from a dangerous murderer lurking on set, prevent the town from blowing into smithereens, and star in Hollywood next blockbuster without blowing her cover?
Chapter One
Nothing much happens in Cheerville, at least on the surface. A sleepy bedroom district of a major city on the East Coast, it’s all Colonial style houses and manicured lawns. Topiary and book clubs are the main hobbies. Double parking and late returns on library books are the major crimes. The last serious outbreak of public violence was a little skirmish during the Revolutionary War. After a bit of firing, both sides retreated. Cheerville is dull, its people are dull, and that’s how everyone wants it.
At least on the surface.
In fact, in my short time here since retiring from the CIA I’ve uncovered murders, secret gambling rings, organized crime, and murder.
Yes, I said murder twice. There’s a lot of murder here. Something about leafy, prosperous suburbs makes people want to kill each other. And yet these ruthless killings barely make a ripple on the placid life of this town. Most of the murders are never reported as such, and the content citizens of Cheerville go through their dull routines while I keep looking over my shoulder wondering where the next danger will come from.
I’m Barbara Gold. Age: 70. Height: 5’5”. Eyes: blue. Hair: gray. Weight: none of your business. Specialties: Undercover surveillance, small arms, chemical weapons, Middle Eastern and Latin American politics. Current status: Retired widow and grandmother.
Addendum to current status: As excited as a teeny bopper going to her first boy band concert.
Why all the excitement in this excruciatingly non-exciting town? Because Cliff Armstrong was making a movie here.
If you are a woman, the name “Cliff Armstrong” is said with a catch of the breath following by a long sigh. Cliff! Aaaaarmstroooong.
If you’re a man, the name “Cliff Armstrong” is grunted in three short, powerful syllables like you’re some some maggoty new recruit addressing a psychotic Marine drill sergeant. Cliff. Arm. Strong. Sir yes sir!
Unless the guy is with his significant other, in which case he says nothing while giving annoyed sidelong looks at his girl as she swoons over the most rugged man in show business.
Cliff Armstrong is one of those rare action movie actors who manages to appeal to everyone. His hairy-chested heroics are the role model for every man and adolescent boy in the country, while he always manages to show his softer side to appeal to the ladies.
In Saving America III: The Final Showdown, right in the middle of an epic fistfight with the Russian premier, Cliff Armstrong takes time out of kicking the vodka out of a spectacularly muscled evil politician to glance at the camera, wink, and save a kitten from being trampled by the Russkie. Then he proceeds to pound the greatest threat to American democracy into borsht.
In Race Against Death, he’s chasing the bad guys when a truck suddenly blocks his way. He swerves to the side, crashes through the barrier of the overpass he’s on, and his car goes flying over a sidewalk full of busy people. Cut to a little girl letting go of her balloon and crying as it floats away. Cliff Armstrong (you must always say his entire name, otherwise you spoil the effect) reaches out of the window and grabs the balloon as his car flies past. Once his car lands safely in a hotel swimming pool, splashing all the young women sunning themselves in their bikinis, he runs back to the little girl and gives her back her balloon.
It’s that soft side to his character that gets the ladies truly swooning, not his chiseled features, square jaw, brilliant blue eyes, perfect blonde buzz cut, or impressive muscle mass.
Although all that helps, of course.
So Cliff Armstrong was coming to our town to make a film called Freedom’s Hero: The Fight for America, a historical action picture about the American Revolution. According to a breathless article in the Cheerville Gazette, the Hollywood folks had chosen our town because of its lovely town square. Actually its a triangle, because Cheerful rarely gets things entirely right, a giant triangle of manicured grass where our Colonial forefathers used to graze their cattle. To one side stands a church built in 1760 with a soaring spire. George Washington prayed there once. To either side of this church is a row of Colonial style buildings, some of them actually from the Colonial period. On the other side of the town square (or triangle) is a little one-room schoolhouse from the early nineteenth century. On the third side is an eighteenth century cemetery with the graves of several Revolutionary War soldiers as well as the early founders of the town. It’s all very atmospheric and green and pleasant, and if you set the camera angles just right and use CGI to rub out the telephone poles, it looks like you’re back in 1776.
Of course all this fuss upset the sleepy life of Cheerville. The entire town square had been cordoned off and Police Chief Arnold Grimal had all his officers working overtime diverting traffic and controlling the crowds who came to the barriers to gape at all the film equipment and hope to catch a glimpse of everyone’s favorite action hero.
I was among them, my aged heart going pitter patter as I recognized the athletic figure of Cliff Armstrong step out of a trailer.
Oh, sorry. Cliff! Aaaaarmstroooong.
Sigh.
He was dressed as a Revolutionary War officer, complete with tricorne hat, a blue jacket with bright brass buttons, and white tights that nearly caused half the crowd to faint.
The female half, that is.
To our surprise and delight, he waved at the cheering, swooning crowd and started to head our way. A man with a clipboard and headphones cut him off and said something, pointing at the grassy area where they were going to film a battle scene. A row of extras dressed as British soldiers faced a row of extras dressed as Minutemen. Several cannons were set up too, along with men on horseback who looked quite dashing until Cliff Armstrong came out of his trailer and eclipsed them.
The crewmember put a hand on the movie star’s arm, who jerked away with a snarl. A moment later his face beamed at us as if nothing had happened, and he walked right out of the movies and into our lives.
“He’s actually coming over!” said Octavian, my new boyfriend.
Oh, had I not mentioned he was with me? I seemed to have forgotten all about him.
We stood behind a row of traffic barriers with a couple of policemen and several security officers keeping us in check. I was amazed we didn’t all break through the barrier, trample the cops and donut boys, and rush over to our hero.
But we stayed where we were. I think we all wanted to make a good impression.
If making a good impression meant shrieking and waving autograph books over our heads, that is.
“Hello Cheervillians!” he said. “It’s great to be here in your beautiful town on this beautiful day.”
At least I think that’s what he said. It was hard to hear over my shrieking, which reached an o
ctave I hadn’t been able to manage since age thirteen.
He went down the line, signing autographs, shaking hands, and posing for selfies. When he came up to me and Octavian he actually put his arms around the both of us. I nearly had a coronary. Octavian looked close to cardiac arrest himself.
“It’s so nice to see a happy couple still married after all these years,” Cliff Armstrong said in his booming voice so all could hear.
Octavian and I gave each other an awkward glance. We had been dating for only a few months. Neither of us had the guts to correct our hero. In any case, he had already moved on. After more shaking hands and selfies and autographs, including autographing one young woman’s inner thigh, he stood back and raised his hands.
“Such a warm welcome. Thank you! Thank you! It’s always nice to meet my fans.” He put on an expression of mock worry. “You are my fans, aren’t you?”
“Yes!” we all screamed. Octavian and I included. Octavian looked like he was seventeen and not seventy. I suspect I looked the same. I certainly felt that way.
“Great!” Cliff Armstrong shouted. “because we have a very special treat for you today. We’re about to shoot one of the stunts for Freedom’s Hero: The Fight for America. I’m the hero of course.” He chuckled modestly. We roared with laughter.
“Now this is one of the battle scenes we’re filming today, and in it I’m leading my men against the British. They outnumber us, as usual, but we don’t care because we’re Americans! There’s going to be a lot of firing going on. Don’t worry, all the muskets are loaded with blanks. You’ll also see the cannons go off and explosions in parts of the town square, um, triangle. Keep back and you’ll be safe. Please cooperate with security so we can get a great shot.
“In the scene before this one, I’m in the church professing my love to Liberty Smith, that’s Gwendolyn Parker’s character.”
A grumble passed through the female half of the crowd. How dare that cheap, two-bit actress get a series of love scenes with Cliff Armstrong!
“The British are going to move in from over there.” He pointed to the opposite end of the village green. “And I’m going to rush out of the church and lead my men in a charge.”
We applauded. He took off his tricorne hat and swept it down to his side as he gave us an old-fashioned bow. Then he continued.
“So we’re going to do a few practice takes charging across the grass here. After that we’ll go live with the special effects. That’s when we’ll be firing blanks and charges set in the grass will be going off. You’ll see me fly in the air at one point. Don’t worry, because that’s not me. It’s my stunt double. And he won’t really be getting hurt. A springboard hidden in the grass will make him fly forward, and a small charge between the springboard and camera will make it look like he’s blowing up.”
“You die in this movie?” some guy gasped.
Cliff Armstrong put his fists on his hips and let out a belly laugh. “Have no fear! You can’t kill America! In the next take I’ll get up, brush myself off, and lead my men to victory!”
Everyone cheered. Cliff Armstrong flashed us a sparkling grin, then turned and strode back to the set.
What followed started out surreal and ended up startling. The British soldiers moved to the far side of the village green, the men all in a row with their muskets at the ready, flanked by their officers and some cavalry. A few cannons were set in front of them. I thought I recognized one of the mounted officers as a villain from another of Cliff Armstrong’s movies, but I couldn’t remember his name. The Minutemen stood in a disorganized rabble in front of the church as if they weren’t expecting an attack. Several cameras were set up in various locations—one close to the British line, one on a high crane for a bird’s eye view, another next to the front steps of the church, and two more at the midpoint of the village green, where I supposed the two sides would meet. They were all mounted on trolleys set onto what looked for all the world like miniature train tracks. This, Octavian explained to me, was so the cameras could move alongside the action to get smooth tracking shots.
The director, Vance Randolph, sat on top of a high chair that looked like what lifeguards use at the beach. He had a megaphone and a handheld radio. Sitting on either side of him were a couple of young and quite nubile female assistants.
“OK, places everybody,” Randolph barked through the megaphone. “Ready? OK, roll ‘em!”
The British started marching across the green, the camera moving alongside them. The Minutemen milled about in apparent fear, the camera near them focusing on one of the soldiers as he shouted “Look!” and pointed at the approaching enemy.
Then the doors of the church burst open and Cliff Armstrong rushed down the stairs, the camera by the steps moving alongside. He shouted at his men to get in line and they formed up.
The Minutemen leveled their guns and fired.
Or at least pretended to. There was no sound, no smoke, but a couple of the British clutched their chests and fell. Then Cliff Armstrong drew his sword and shouted “Charge!”
The Minutemen charged. The British pretended to fire, and the Minutemen started to drop. Then the British artillery officer shouted “Fire!” and one by one the cannon crews went through the motions of shooting their pieces. Several Minutemen threw themselves in the air and landed on the ground. Some were quite acrobatic about it. I supposed they were stuntmen.
“Cut!” Vance Randolph shouted through his megaphone. “Minutemen, you’re coming up too fast. We want to draw this battle scene out. British soldier number 43, you’re supposed to fall on the first volley. Why are you still standing?”
“Sorry! I’ll get it right next time,” British soldier number 43 called back in a nasal Bronx accent.
“How inconsiderate of him not to die on cue,” Octavian chuckled.
The scene was set up again. The British entered the village green, Cliff Armstrong rushed out of the church, and the battle ran through its paces once more. This time one of the Minutemen fell on the first volley instead of the second like he was supposed to, and Cliff Armstrong didn’t shout “charge” loud enough, so it was back to the starting line.
“If only all wars could be fought this way,” Octavian said, “it would save a lot of hardship and suffering.”
This went on for a couple of hours. Some spectators drifted away, only to be replaced by newcomers. Octavian and I stayed, because we both admired Cliff Armstrong (for very different reasons) and because we were curious to see the stunts and special effects when they were finally played for real.
We got more than we bargained for.
The director blared into his megaphone again.
“OK, folks. Let’s get down to it. Stunt men, take your places. This is the last rehearsal before we set off the explosives. Soldiers and artillery people, load your weapons with blanks. We want the effect of the smoke for cameras one, two, and three, but we’re going to hold off on the ground explosions until the final take.”
The actors and extras loaded their muskets. While I’ve never gone for black powder shooting like some hobbyists and hunters, preferring modern efficiency over nostalgia, I’d always appreciated antique weapons demonstrations.
Of course these were modern replicas, but they loaded the same way. The soldier took a premeasured charge of powder wrapped in a paper cylinder, tore off the end of it with his teeth, and poured the powder down the barrel. In real life the packet would also contain a bullet, but of course these didn’t. Then the paper would be rammed down the barrel with a ramrod to make a seal before the bullet was put in. A small amount of black powder was also put in the firing pan. Then the lock was pulled back. This had a wedge of flint that, when the trigger was pulled, would snap down, striking a steel plate and sending sparks into the pan. The powder in the pan would ignite, and a small hole leading from the pan to the gun barrel allowed the powder inside to ignite. Boom. Bullet goes flying out. The artillery worked pretty much the same, except with a slow-burning match to light the po
wder in the pan instead of flint and steel. A beautiful bit of old-school engineering and physics.
Well, beautiful if you aren’t on the receiving end.
Once everyone had loaded their weapons, the director told the cameras to roll and the whole scene played out again. Cliff Armstrong rushed out of the church and got his men lined up. The British fired, flame and smoke gouting from their muskets, and a few of our boys fell. The Minutemen fired back and some of the Redcoats fell.
“Looks like everyone’s finally dying at the right time,” Octavian said.
“They’re professionals,” I replied with a giggle. I’d taken to giggling around Octavian sometimes. I’d never been much of a giggler. He could have that effect on me, though.
“Charge!” Cliff Armstrong shouted.
The Minutemen charged. The Redcoats hurriedly reloaded and fired, more of the American patriots falling.
The cannons opened up with a boom, and I was surprised when an explosion burst right in front of Cliff Armstrong. I thought they were holding off on those until the final take.
Cliff Armstrong apparently thought the same. He stumbled back, mouth agape.
Another explosion burst to his right. All the extras froze in shock. The director shouted something in the megaphone that I didn’t catch. Cliff Armstrong ran to the left in an obvious panic …
… and straight into the next explosion.
His body flew several feet into the air and came down with a thud.
As soon as it hit the churned-up earth I knew he was dead. The body landed with a flop, completely limp, arms and legs askew. Living bodies do not do that. Trust me, I know.
For a second there was no sound except for the ringing in our ears.
“Medic!” Vance Randolph shouted through his megaphone. “We need a medic on the set!”