Two mouths formed identical “OH’s!”
Before anyway had a chance to continue the match, the final attack came. Fortunately this was more an attack in numbers, rather than words. A family of five suddenly encircled me.
“Abby? I hope you don’t mind if we call you that. Colette was our upstairs neighbor and we heard about you all the time. We feel as if we know you.”
“Oh! Uh. Sure.”
Another brown-haired, blue-eyed male reached out and took my hand in his. (Wasn’t any male in Manhattan, apart from my fiancé and Taylor Mills, blonde, red-haired or of a different ethnicity?) This guy didn’t have the Gorge of Gorgeous Kaleb or the panache of Geoff Murray but his looks reflected intelligence and his smile offered a warmth I didn’t think Kaleb or Geoff could ever master.
“I’m Julian Hayward.” He gestured toward a tall, rangy woman by his side and down to three kids. “This is Sheri, my wife. And these are our children. Tommy and Nick, our ‘Irish’ twins at ages ten and nine. This is my niece Ellie who came to live with us four months ago.” His voice broke for just a second and I knew there’d been another memorial for Julian four months ago. It wasn’t even a Dumas vision. The pain of loss was evident in Julian’s eyes.
Ellie, who appeared to be about five years old, immediately launched into a curtsey worthy of a prima ballerina. It took her a full twenty seconds to complete the move. She had me at the first six seconds. Completely charmed and totally entertained.
“So nice to meet all of you,” I smiled. It was the first genuine smile I’d let slip by in the last thirty minutes. Kids are cool and kids with ‘imp’ written all over them, like Ellie, are even cooler. I did get a vision then—a very fast and actually pleasant picture of a little Johnny and little Abby playing together. Someday.
Julian appeared to be spokesman for the crowd. “I’m truly sorry you had to be the one to endure those last moments with Colette but truly grateful for her sake that you were.”
“Thanks. And I do remember hearing Colette say what great neighbors she had. Not that it matters, but what do y’all do? Are you also involved in theatre?
Julian nodded. “Whenever possible. I do legacy writing for people as that oh-so-vital day job, but have managed to get a few gigs on Search for Serenity. Colette recommended me to the head writer when she was playing that hooker. I’m surprised I didn’t meet you then, Abby but writers are generally hidden away from the actors.”
“Well, I was only on for a few episodes. I got sent to South America to entertain a drug cartel with my—uh—talents as a belly-dancing hooker. I think they finally crashed my plane or something when the producers decided the drug cartel/pro angle wasn’t a big hit with the viewers.”
Julian grinned. “I’m so glad I didn’t write those. Not something I want on my résumé. Hard to define as well. I do remember watching you though.”
“Colette got that show for me after Endless Time dumped Vanessa’s character. She told the casting director I could play a dead hooker better than anyone she’d ever known and wasn’t bad as a live one either. Plus if I needed to actually dance for the cartel I could do so with ease."
We smiled at each other then Julian and I both blinked back tears. He swallowed before commenting, “Anyway, back to your question, if you consider scripts for soaps as being involved in theatre, then the answer is yes. I’ve been trying to get a steady television gig but those are hard to find. Um. Sheri, being much smarter and less starry-eyed, works at Argent & Sons.”
I perked up. “Really? Are you talking about the awesome bookstore on Fiftieth? The one that has the feeling like it should be in Soho or anyplace in Greenwich Village?”
Sheri responded, “That’s the place. Only a few blocks from our apartment, which is great.”
Julian added, “We’re both former Olympians too, believe it or not.” He lined the kids up for inspection as he continued, “Very different sports but we met in the Olympic dining room over a real live Vegemite sandwich. Sydney, Australia. ”
“Interesting. I always thought Vegemite was a made up name from the old Men at Work song from the Eighties.”
Julian stated solemnly but with a twinkle in his eye, “It should have been. Dreadful stuff. I’m surprised the entire U.S. team didn’t go on strike and ask to go home. If it hadn’t have been for the wonderful strawberry and cream bread breakfasts, there would have been a mass exodus. Anyway, so far, none of the kids seem to take after us in either writing or sports. Both Tommy and Nick can take apart a computer in five seconds or less and put it back together better than new. Ellie is wavering between being a Tony-winning actress or mayor of the first lunar colony.”
I laughed, grateful for the first humor I’d come across at this event outside of my own story telling about Colette, then grinned at the kids “So, did y’all get any of the great food? No Vegemite here.”
Ellie beamed and bounced her ribbon-tied pigtails up and down. “I ate a bunch. I really liked those brownies. And those chocolate cakes that aren't really chocolate. Whoa. Like awesome! Somebody told me they’re leaping cakes!”
“Ah. Close. I found them at this German bakery over on Amsterdam and Seventy-Seventh. They’re actually called lepp cakes. I like them too.”
“You have excellent taste,’ she stated with the tones of a middle-aged matron. “Oh! I liked your funny talk about Auntie Colette and you on the stage.” Her huge eyes suddenly filled with tears. “She was so nice. She’d come over all the time and sit for us and she and I would do plays together. She taught me all five ballet positions, too. Did she ask about me before she fell asleep? Is she in heaven now? Can she hear me?”
I choked back my own tears. “I believe she is. And I believe she can hear you and see too. I know I’m going to continue talking to her. I just don’t want her to see me when I’m feeling sad or doing something naughty!” I glanced quickly at the Haywards wondering if I’d just stuck my foot into a theology they didn’t want to endorse. They seemed okay with it.
Ellie beamed at me through her tears. “Wow! That’s neat. Hey, Miss Abby—do you think you can come sit for us sometime? I’ll teach you poker just like Auntie Colette taught me.” She solemnly stated, “I might even let you win a hand or two.”
If she hadn’t had me before, that did it. This was one hard-to-resist scamp mixed with smart.
Her brothers—or I guess I should have said cousins—bobbed their heads up and down.
The tallest boy (Tommy?) spoke next. “If you come baby-sit, you can tell us all about the soap opera? Aunt Colette used to let us watch it when she’d come over ‘cept you weren’t on it. Well, she’d let me watch. She said Ellie and Nick were too little.”
Nick and Ellie both narrowed their eyes at this. Nick spoke for the pair of them. “I’m big enough. I’m eight. Ellie’s still a baby though. She’s still four.”
“Am not! I’ll be five next month!” Ellie firmly declared.
Julian smiled and assumed a stern tone that fooled no one. He was obviously a pushover for his brood. “And none of you are watching any daytime dramas until you’re thirteen!” He winked at me. “But Abby, please feel free to drop by any time. We’re very casual. And you don’t have to sit for any rambunctious, sneaky children. Or even teach ballet unless Ellie charms you into doing so. Just come visit. I know you have a busy schedule but there’s always something fun going on at the Hayward house with these three.”
I’d felt as though I’d just become a Hayward adoptee. And I liked it.
Chapter 11
The wind was whipping off the Hudson and entering every crevice it could penetrate in our food service tent in Fort Lee, New Jersey. A light rain was doing its best to try to seep through but so far the cast and crew of Endless Time remained dry. We were, however, quickly reaching saturation levels of caffeine and carbs before starting the early morning shoot.
I honestly didn’t care if the tent blew away and I got soaked. I was out of Manhattan. Away from questions. Away from Colette’
s friends, relatives and ex-um-mers. Even the nice neighbors who wanted to take me to their collective bosom. They hadn’t had a chance to ask the all-important “What did Colette say?” but I figured it had to come sometime. At any rate, we were about to begin several weeks of filming in the Fort Lee area. Weekends off—sometimes. Days or afternoons off if an actor wasn't in a particular sequence. Much of our filming was dependent on the weather so we had to be prepared to do outside scenes when that outside wasn’t pouring rain, snow, sleet or tornado force winds. The soap had hired a guest director for this particular series of episodes; seventy-two year old Dolores Ellison, who had a rep for being a perfectionist while also coming up with quirky ideas. One of which had been her suggestion that, rather like a jury in a high-profile murder trial, the cast of Endless Time stay at a hotel in Fort Lee. She reasoned that the commute was too long, we needed to absorb the atmosphere in the town, which was quite different than Manhattan and we could do some great evening and early morning shoots, saving everyone time. I was thrilled. Out of Manhattan. Away from questions. Etcetera, etcetera and see above. Plus, I’ve always liked being on location even if the location is only across the Hudson River. There’s something about getting a feel for a place that helps when becoming a different character who happens to be tied to that place.
I blinked, rubbed my eyes and blinked again. All five-feet one and the softly waving silver head of Dolores Ellison was headed my way. A chubby calico cat was perched on her shoulder. Both Dolores and the cat appeared perfectly comfortable with that location.
“Abby? Correct?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I responded.
A snort. “Make it Dolores or I’ll call you Abigail.”
I liked her already. “You got it. What’s the kitty’s name?”
“Lennon. After John. He sings. He’d probably play guitar if I’d let him. And don’t let him know he’s a cat. He thinks he’s merely another part of my anatomy—at least until feeding time when he remembers he has his own taste buds, which he uses a bit too much.” She smiled. “My right shoulder is becoming permanently dented by his considerable weight.” Her features changed back to a more business-like appearance. “So, did you get the changes in the script for today’s shoot? I truly apologize for sending them so late, but I was scouting locations all weekend and didn’t get a chance to read that amazing first piece of trash until yesterday morning.” She shuddered. “Just because most of the world believes soaps have stupid scripts doesn’t mean we have to agree.”
I shuddered along with her. “I did get the changes and I must say I’m extremely grateful you asked for them. I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of Vanessa Manilow climbing the cliffs of what used to be Fort Constitution in her skivvies at 3:00 am. While I try not to diss writers because I’m well aware their job is tough, I have to say this—the prose also wasn't exactly Pulitzer worthy.”
Dolores nodded. “You got that right. I too am very careful about putting down other creative folks, but confidentially? The script stunk.”
“They did kind of redeem themselves though with the hotel scene. It sounds way more fun and I like the idea I’ll be saying my lines inside instead of trying to shout them into the wind while trying to balance and hold on to whatever lacy underthings I’m sure wardrobe has planned. Saloon girl togs are much nicer. I wore them for a big We Are El Paso festival back when I was in high school. History of the city kind of thing. Very fun. El Paso is not known as a theatre town so this was a great chance to exhibit my dancing skills.”
“Well, I’m from Detroit. When I was growing up, we were just getting into the Motown sound which I adored and I often wished I’d become a member of a girl group band. So music was great but the theatres in Detroit were pretty much non-existent. I used to take the train to Chicago to see shows. One day I just stayed.”
“Until you became a Tony wining director,” I grinned.
“Ha! Listen, don’t let on, but I’m truly looking forward to directing my first daytime drama. It’s so—cheesy. Which does not mean the scripts can be bad. By the way, I’ve saved you from yelling into the wind, but you’re still going to have to do some stunts on those rocky hillsides. Not in your skivvies. Are you okay with the idea of bouncing off a cliff?”
I nodded. “As long as I’m clothed and padded and in reasonable certainty that I won’t die or be permanently injured, I’m fine.”
“Fantastic! Okay. I’m off to greet and meet your campadres. Go memorize. You have a rehearsal in forty-five minutes. And, shocking as this may be, I’ve been told I’m a lovely person off set but a bear as a director, so learn those lines well, girl.” She smiled sweetly.
I saluted, grabbed a mug of coffee and the super berry and protein power shake the food service company had kindly made for me, then headed out of the tent into the wind to hide in what we were calling the faux Rambo Hotel set.
The real Rambo Hotel had been the site for numerous film shoots back in the heyday of Fort Lee’s early movie productions. It was located in what is referred to as the Coytesville area of Fort Lee and had remained as a bar until the 1970s. It was currently privately owned and Endless Time hadn’t even asked the owners if we could use the space. We needed a place that would work as both a saloon set and an old hotel we could destroy during one of the scenes and that meant building a new set. We weren’t even asking for permission to call our hotel the Rambo Hotel since we didn’t want any association with the Rambo movies from the Seventies to get in the way of our plot. The faux saloon had been renamed Fontana’s Inn, which was also how the cast referred to this particular series of episodes.
I curled up under the bar and focused on the new lines that had been messengered to me yesterday morning. I was glad I was forced to maintain this focus. Studying kept my mind from drifting back to the memorial and from the fear that had been with me ever since Omar first accosted me. The fear and certainty that someone was out to wrest Colette’s last words from me and possibly shoot the livin’ fool out of me to keep me from telling anyone else. The maddening thing was that I didn’t know why someone was determined to learn about those last words. What Colette had said had been gibberish and I couldn’t fathom how they related to anything so important it was worth killing someone to obtain.
I stared at the words on the page, determined to concentrate on them only and not on any other words or images and wondered when Johnny would show up.
Gregory Noble (Exclaiming) “Vanessa! What on earth are you doing digging into that spittoon? It’s filthy!”
(No lie. Thankfully, it’s also quite fake but honestly, writers—does Gregory Noble think Vanessa is a complete idiot not to know it’s filthy? Can we all give a big honkin’ ‘duh’ here?)
Vanessa: (Simpering) (Really? I have to simper? That is so not in character, guys! Vanessa has brains and nerve and verve. No simpering. I refuse.) “Believe me, Greg, I’m aware of that. But I’m certain there’s something hidden under the actual spittoon basin.”
Noble: “You think it could mean something?”
(Okay. There’s a ‘duh’ for the scriptwriters for that line. Nah, Supercop, it doesn’t mean anything; I just love diving into the leavings of tobacco spit. It’s a hobby. Or a career changer. I’m planning on taking it on the road.)
Vanessa: (Who obviously echoed my own feelings about the ‘duh’.) “Of course it means something! Oh, my God! Take a look at this. I’m not sure this has anything to do with the lost patents, but it’s interesting.”
Gregory Noble joins her: “It appears to be a message—perhaps for a meeting?”
Vanessa (hesitant) “ Looks more like it refers to assignation held in 1916. Nothing to lead us to where the patents could be hidden. I . . . I feel as though we should put it back. It—it—seems intrusive. Like prying into someone’s bedroom.”
Noble: (softly) “I know, Vanessa. I sympathize. But we need to find out all we can before someone gets hurt. Or killed.” Even more softly. “I don’t want that someone to be you.”
(Vanessa blushes profusely.) (Say what? They’ve got me blushing on cue? Do they not realize blushing on cue does not show up on the little TV in someone’s college dorm room? Blushing is not an action.)
Gregory crosses to Vanessa. As she lifts the spittoon to retrieve the envelope, the scene shifts to 1917. Vanessa is now Thea Donovan, an actress playing a saloon girl in a silent movie being filmed at the Fontana Inn. Thea is putting that note back under the spittoon. A slight smile lights the corners of her mouth.)
The plot for these episodes was fairly simple (as soaps go) but since it involved flashbacks, it meant a lot of costume changes, set changes and—most important in terms of acting— character changes. Our characters were supposed to be investigating stolen patents for movies. I’d done a little research and discovered that these suckers were like gold and they were also lifted with as much abandon and glee as a pickpocket in Times Square during New Year’s Eve. Or the licenses were simply ignored. If a movie was being shot using an unlicensed patent for the specific new camera or light or material for film, the “patent police” could actually come in and shut the studio down. But patents were impossible to get, so a ton of new (and established) producers simply went ahead and used the inventions necessary to create a quality finished product while hiding in warehouses disguised as factories so the patent police couldn’t find them. Sometimes they’d shoot ridiculously impossible location shots on the cliffs of the Palisades so the patent police wouldn’t attempt to raid the set.
In our story, a present day character (new to Endless Time) named Isaac Silverman the Fourth discovers that his great-grandfather, Isaac Silverman the First, had created a patent for a new material for film that would make it virtually indestructible and was murdered for it. In 1917. Great-grandson Isaac is subsequently murdered in the present day before he can find the patent and cash in on what would amount to over a billion dollars in unearned royalties. So Endless Time was flashing back to the 1917 murder to find clues in solving the present day murder (and provide the cast with the opportunity to play silent-film characters which sounded like a neat thing to do) while also solving the 1917 murder and discovering where the patent had been hidden that clearly showed Isaac Silverman the First had been the creator and not Joe Schmoe from Uncertain, Texas (which really is a town but that’s a tangent so I’ll try not to launch into the longitude and latitude and the coolness of bizarre names in towns in America but Texas in particular even though I adore that kind of trivia.)
Cold Wind to Valhalla (Abby Fouchet Mysteries Book 3) Page 7
