by Harper Lin
Then people started screaming. Some of the extras ran to Cliff Armstrong, clustering around his body and hiding him from view. A man carrying a medical case with a big red cross on the side rushed from behind one of the cameras, pushing aside the extras.
Then something happened that made everyone turn.
Cliff Armstrong ran out from the church.
Chapter Two
“What happened?” we could hear him shout from above the hubbub.
“He’s alive!” a woman shouted.
The medic had cleared away the extras and we could see him kneeling by the torn body of Cliff Armstrong, while another Cliff Armstrong stared from the edge of the village green.
“Bert!” the living Cliff Armstrong said. “It’s Bert, my stunt double.”
He turned to the crowd of fans. “I’m all right, everyone. It was only my stunt double!”
The fans cheered, which I thought was rather inconsiderate to poor old Bert.
Cliff Armstrong took another look at the torn-up village green with its three craters smoking from the recent explosions, and a shudder ran through his body. His rugged features disintegrated into a wild, panicked expression, and he ran off into the warren of trailers and trucks the film crew had set up on a side street. Within a moment he was gone.
And we were gone a moment later.
“Everyone needs to leave now!” a security man shouted. He looked like he was in charge. “Guys, get these people out of here!”
The cops and security people moved in. The security guard nearest to us said, “Filming is over for the day, folks, you need to go on home.”
As he said this, he ducked under the barricade, stretched out his beefy arms, and began walking toward us, a very effective way to make us move back. The other security guards, joined by the police, did the same.
“What happened?” someone asked.
“An accident,” the security man replied. “A terrible accident.”
Was it? I glanced in the direction of Vance Randolph. The director looked livid, shouting and waving his arms at a group of people standing at the foot of his high chair. One of them had raised his hands in a confused gesture, obviously protesting innocence.
The explosions hadn’t been planned until the next take. I could understand one going off by accident, although with a professional Hollywood crew even that was unlikely, but three explosions? Someone had been trying to kill Bert.
But why? And why in such a public fashion?
We walked a couple of blocks to where Octavian had parked. Neither of us said a word. Octavian had been stunned into silence. I, on the other hand, had a mind that was going at a hundred miles an hour.
“Could you take me home?” I asked. “After that I think I need to rest.”
More like think through this murder and do some background research.
Back home, with my tortoiseshell kitten Dandelion curled up in my lap and a hot cup of tea by my side, I scoured the Internet for information about Cliff Armstrong, Vance Randolph, and anyone else I could find associated with this production of Freedom’s Hero: The Fight for America.
I ended up with more information than I could handle. Any movie with stars this big attracts a huge amount of attention. There were entire websites and discussion groups devoted to the film, and they had barely begun filming.
Narrowing it down, I searched for a stuntman named Bert associated with the picture. Bert Raffers, 28, and a dead ringer for Cliff Armstrong. No wonder they hired him. It turned out he had been the star’s stunt double in several pictures. I couldn’t find out much more about him, though. He had virtually no online presence except a Facebook page switched to private. I saw no reason why anyone would have wanted to kill him.
Could they have intended to kill Cliff Armstrong? That didn’t make sense, though, because whoever killed him had access to the explosive charges, and was thus associated with the film. The director had called for the stunt men to get into place, so the killer would have known it was Bert running across that field. Even if they had intended to kill the nation’s biggest action star, I didn’t see any motive.
I didn’t see any motive for either of them.
I leaned back in my chair and sighed, stroking Dandelion as she purred contentedly on my lap. Staring at the screen for the next several minutes didn’t give me any new ideas. For the moment this case had me stumped. I simply didn’t know enough to make any inroads into this mystery.
Unfortunately, that meant my next step was that going see someone who almost always knew less than I did.
I was merciful on Police Chief Arnold Grimal. I didn’t visit him until late in the afternoon. No doubt the poor man was swamped with enquiries from the film director and crew, plus frantic calls from big shot producers in Hollywood, all while trying to lay down the groundwork for a murder investigation.
A groundwork made of sand. Grimal was useless at anything more than directing traffic and handing out speeding tickets.
When I showed up at the police station it was abuzz with activity. I passed Vance Randolph heading out the door, fuming with obvious stress and flanked by two men in expensive business suits who looked like lawyers. Through the glass partition that screened off the front end of the station from the offices in back, I saw a very stressed Arnold Grimal spot me, roll his eyes, and flee into his office.
After fast-talking the desk sergeant, who had become accustomed to my unannounced visits to his boss, I went to the back and knocked on his door.
“Busy,” Grimal grumbled from the other side. I opened the door.
To my astonishment, Grimal really did look busy, a rare state of being for him. He had a phone to his ear and was typing furiously on his computer. Even stranger, there weren’t any boxes of Chinese takeaway on his table.
Grimal put his hand over the phone and told me in a harsh whisper, “I said I was busy.”
“I’ll wait,” I said, closing the door behind me and sitting down without being invited. I was never invited. I had to invite myself.
Grimal went back to his phone.
“Yes sir. A most terrible tragedy, sir. Yes, we have every man on it. Yes, I’m calling in overtime on all my officers. Yes, we’ll find the suspect.”
After a few more minutes of cringing yeses, Grimal finally got off the phone, leaned so far back in his chair I thought he’d topple over, and let out a big sigh.
“State police?” I asked.
“No,” he said, rubbing his eyes, “Some important producer in Hollywood. They’re all flipping out over there. They’re convinced the explosion was meant to kill Cliff Armstrong and not Bert Raffers.”
“What do you think?”
“It was murder,” he said with a moan. “Oh, God, why does this have to happen on my watch?”
Grimal was being uncharacteristically astute.
“Why do you think it was murder?”
“These guys are pros. As far as I can see, no accident like this has ever happened on a major Hollywood movie set. Plus Cliff Armstrong was supposed to be running across that field, not Bert.”
“But the director called for all stuntmen to be on the set.”
Grimal nodded. “I know, but Cliff Armstrong is like a lot of the big action stars. He likes to do his own stunts, or get as close to them as the insurance people allow. If the studio had its way he wouldn’t come near any of those explosives, even when the safety is switched on like it was supposed to be.”
“So who was at the switch and set off the explosives?”
“Not the head stunt technician. He was away from the switchboard talking with one of his assistants. We have several witnesses to that.”
“So someone could have walked over to the switchboard and blown up anyone on that field? That’s pretty poor security.”
Grimal shook his head. “The switchboard is encased in a heavy duty steel box that can be shut and locked any time the technician walks away for even a minute. Then the electrical connection is disconnected. As soon as
the explosions happened, the head technician and several other people rushed over to see what was going on. The box was still locked and disconnected.”
“Huh,” I said. Not a very intelligent thing to say, but I had nothing better.
“Huh,” Grimal agreed.
“So why did the stuntman run out into the field instead of Cliff Armstrong?”
“Not sure. I’ve brought over a couple of plainclothes police officers from Apple Bluff. I can’t use any of my guys because they’ve been all over the set for the past few days. They’d be recognized. The Apple Bluff guys will check things out.”
“Wait. They’re going to continue filming?”
“Yeah. There are hundreds of millions of bucks hanging on this. The producer explained that if they shut down for even a few days they’d lose millions, and the production schedule might have to be pushed back. That means it wouldn’t get out in time to be next summer’s blockbuster.”
I raised my hands in frustration. “A man’s been killed!”
Grimal sighed and rubbed his temples. “I know, I know. I tried to talk them out of it but they wouldn’t listen. When I threatened to shut them down anyway, I got a call from the governor telling me to mind my own business. That’s how he put it, ‘mind my own business’. Like this isn’t my business!”
This last statement came out as an infantile whine. As much as I looked down on Grimal, I had to sympathize with him on this one. These Hollywood people were being greedy and stupid. If the murderer would go to such lengths to kill someone this famous this publically, he or she would be sure to strike again.
“Why is the governor coming down on you?”
“He and Vance Randolph went to college together. They’re old drinking buddies.”
“Wonderful.”
Grimal stood. “Anyway, I have a lot of work to do. I appreciate you coming to check this out but—”
“I’ll get to work.”
Grimal’s face turned into a mask of existential despair.
“B-but …”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be discreet. Besides, if I crack the case you know I’ll hand over the credit to you, just like with that secret casino.”
Grimal’s eyes strayed to the plaque on the wall, an award given to him by the governor for excellent police work busting a hidden gambling ring in Cheerville. Actually he had been covering it up to help out an indebted relative until I changed all that. To be fair, he did help out in the ensuing gunfight, but I did that vast majority of the work.
But I have to hide my past in the CIA, so I never get to take credit for anything. One of the downsides of the job, and it doesn’t stop being a downside after you have supposedly retired.
Grimal’s face lit up with a sudden inspiration. Inspiration was so rare with that fellow that I did a double take.
“You can’t go onto the set,” he said, pointing at me. “Only cast and crew are allowed on, plus the police.”
For a moment I was stumped. Grimal beamed at me like a happy cartoon lighthouse.
The beam switched off pretty quick once I remembered something I had read in the Cheerville Gazette.
“They’re looking for extras. I’ll sign on as an extra. That’s how your plainclothesmen are getting on the set, aren’t they?”
Grimal groaned. His eyes rolled back in his head and he fell back onto his chair.
I waited for him to say something, but he looked temporarily paralyzed. I reached over his desk, patted him on the shoulder, and left.
It looked like I was going to be in the movies.
Chapter Three
Joining a major Hollywood production proved easier than I thought, and far less glamorous. I checked the ad I had seen in the Cheerville Gazette. It gave a local address and office hours, and noted that they were looking for people of all ages and both sexes. “Costumes provided.” That sounded nice. While my grandson complained that my clothes were too old fashioned, nothing in my wardrobe could pass for eighteenth-century fashion.
The address was in a small office building a little away from the town center. The production company had taken over an entire floor and most of the parking lot. As the elevator doors opened, I was confronted by a burly security guard.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” he asked in that tone that security guys always use, which manages to be both polite and menacing at the same time. It sounded a little extra menacing since he turned up the volume. People do that a lot with senior citizens. He did not move out of my way, leaving me still standing in the elevator.
I put on my sweet little old lady smile. “I’m here to apply for the job of extra for the movie.”
“Oh, right.” Mr. Menace stepped aside. “Second door on the left. You want the Assistant Casting Manager.”
“Oh, thank you, young man. So exciting to be in the movies, isn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t know, ma’am.”
The door he indicated was open. Inside was a small office with little more than a digital camera on a tripod in front of a white backdrop, a desk, and a frazzled woman in her thirties sitting behind it. She was typing like mad on a laptop. I knocked lightly on the doorframe.
“Oh, thank God!” she shouted as she saw me.
“Um, is everything all right?”
She sprang up from behind the desk. “Please tell me you’re here to be an extra.”
She was almost shouting, but I don’t think it was because I was on the wrong side of seventy. I got the impression that she always shouted. Five takeaway cups of coffee and half a dozen soda cans sat on her desk. I suspected they were all empty.
“I am. Are you the Assistant Casting Manager? Do you have an opening?”
“Do I have an opening? I have a giant, huge gap! I have a Grand Canyon of unfilled positions. Getting extras in this hick town is almost impossible. Do you have any acting experience?”
As a secret agent I had been acting for most of my professional career.
“I’ve done some theater,” I said, which was true in a way. “I’ve never been in a movie.”
Unless you include a training video on how to throw grenades.
“It doesn’t matter!” the woman said, waving her arms in the air. “You’re the right age. We need old people.”
“Well, I’m glad someone does.”
“Here, let me get some head shots.” The Assistant Casting Manager hustled me to a spot between the backdrop and the camera. I was surprised. No one hustled people my age. It was more than a bit rude, but I’d deal with some hustling as long as I could get onto the set.
She busied herself with the camera, hands twitching, feet shuffling. It seemed this woman found it impossible to stay still.
“There are decaffeinated brands, you know,” I offered.
“Waste of money. Smile, please. Now look frightened. Angry. Patriotic.”
“How does looking patriotic look like?”
“Pretend you’re seeing the American flag for the first time.”
“Is Betsy Ross in this movie?”
She looked at me over the camera. “Who?”
“Betsy Ross.”
“Is she some local actress? Is she available?”
“No, she designed the first American flag.”
“Wow! Do you have her phone number? I’ll call her right away.”
“I don’t think she’s alive.”
“Oh well,” she shrugged, bending behind the camera again. I tried to look patriotic, imagining myself at the opening of one of my grandson’s soccer games, when the star of the high school chorus would come out to sing the Star Spangled Banner. A nice gal, but her singing voice was so bad her rendition of the national anthem verged on treason.
“I said look patriotic, not bored and slightly horrified,” the woman grumbled. “Never mind. You’ll do.”
“What are these photos for? I’m just going to be in the crowd scenes, right?”
“Mr. Randolph likes to inspect each extra we hire.”
“Especially the fe
male ones?”
The Assistant Casting Manager laughed. “Don’t worry, honey. I’m 35 and I’m too old.”
“Likes spring chickens, eh? How original in a Hollywood director.” Sarcasm isn’t really my forte, but this time it came out naturally.
She gave a little shrug. “Oh, he’s not so bad. It’s all consensual, and they’re all of legal age. Do you know he’s memorized the age of consent in every state in the union and most foreign nations?”
“The second part of your statement doesn’t support the first.”
“You sound like my high school English teacher.”
“Do I have the job?”
“Of course you have the job!” she replied, thereby confirming that it was her decision and not the director’s, meaning he really did want to check out the photos for potential conquests and not for any professional reason. I was curious about this aspect of his character. It sounded like the sort of thing that could cause disruption and rivalries among a group of egotistical people stuck together on a high-stress project. I’d seen the same dynamic on missions.
“Is Mr. Randolph very forward?”
The Assistant Casting Manager chuckled. “You’ve obviously never been to Hollywood. He’s not nearly as bad as some people in this business. Stardom and wealth act like magnets to some women, especially if they are aspiring actresses. It’s not so much that we’re getting groped on this set, it’s that woman are flinging themselves at the stars and then tossed away like an empty pizza box the next morning.”
“Oh dear. Who should I watch out for? I mean, I know some young gals among the extras. Who should they watch out for?”
“Like I said, there’s not much harassment on this set,” she replied as she handed me a form and a pen. “Please fill this out. The problem is when the girls go for one of the guys, thinking they’ll be the special one and won’t get rejected like all the last. They always do. Some are dumb enough to go off with one of the other actors and the whole thing repeats itself. The bigger the star, the worse they are.”
“Like Vance Randolph.”