Well, I take that back. That’s not quite true on the noticing. We stopped, somewhat awestruck, in front of Billie Burke’s gravesite and the gorgeous bronze statue directly behind it. I turned to Johnny. “Holy ruby slippers! Glinda the Good Witch! Also known as Mrs. Flo Ziegfeld. Color me impressed. In ruby red!”
I squatted down to see if the statue had any writing on it at the base.
“Abby”
“Hmmm?”
He whispered, “Don’t turn completely around but while you’re down there see if you can sneak a peek behind us about fifteen yards away. I’m fairly certain we’re being followed.”
I maneuvered myself into a position that appeared I was taking in the entirety of Ms. Burke’s memorial plot yet allowed me to get a glimpse of the person who’d also stopped and seemed to be taking a huge interest in the gravestone of a lighting designer from lighting from the 1950s. This particular designer never won a Tony, wasn’t written up in anything other than tech manuals for scene design majors in college and I really doubted anyone other than a dedicated technical theatre nut would be that enthralled with what amounted to one small headstone, sans photo, angels or even an inscription apart from the name and dates of birth and death.
I kept my volume low. “Not good. You’re right. Whoever it is doesn’t have an umbrella, is dressed in a hoodie and sweats and wearing sunglasses on a rainy day. What should we do?”
“I’m working on it. I suppose we could try the direct approach. Turn around and confront with ‘excuse me, but are you following us and why? And did you follow us from Manhattan after you saw us in the Endless Time van which I really need to return before they accuse me of stealing or did you already know we were coming here and why we were coming here and if it’s the latter why didn’t you come here before?’”
“Yeah, right, sure. That’s when Mister or Ms. ‘I’m in Disguise’ pulls out the gun or knife and adds to the population of the deceased right here and now.”
Johnny chuckled. “I said I was working on it. Didn’t say it was the best scenario.”
“We could run like bunnies.”
“Nah. He or she would know we’re on to them and we’d miss the chance to see Cinnamon’s grave.”
I’d spent enough time perusing Billie Burke’s memorial. But it had given me an idea. “Johnny. I’d hazard a big guess that who it is did follow us from Manhattan because they had no idea where we were going but they’re trying to figure out what we know and take advantage of that knowledge.”
“Convoluted, but I agree. So?”
“So we don’t want them to know about Cinnamon. Right?” I continued without waiting for a response. “Howzabout we make this a Johnny-and-Abby-doing-the-where-the-famous-silent- movie-stars-were-laid-to-rest’ tour? That would make sense. If this person is that interested in our doin’s, they must be already aware that we're actors who do our homework and research and that we really dive into research for roles that involve flashbacks. Well, they wouldn't know that but it would still be logical to come visit the place where notables of the silent screen have been buried. Wouldn’t it?”
“It would. You’re pretty sharp for a tiny dancer," he teased. “Here. Hand me the brochure for a sec and we’ll study it. We need to locate those stars and wander and hope that at least one is located near Cinnamon’s grave so we can at least check to see if it looks like there are any clues regarding what Colette told you. We should be able to get a quick read of her headstone if there’s anything written on it apart from name and dates.”
Johnny studied the brochure while I held the umbrella high over us. Our mysterious stalker was still raptly reading the dates on the designer’s marker.
I upped my volume so he or she would hear us and not wonder what we’d been whispering about. “We have to come back here and spend some quality time really touring. On a nice sunny day. Right now let’s just hit the highlights of the silent film stars over in the Actors Fund plot.”
“No problem. And we will. I promise. With large boxes of tissues for you since I already see you crying over your idols.”
“You’re a sweet man, Johnny Gerard.”
He grinned. “That's why you love me. And really, what’s a little rain compared to research?”
I paused for a moment, then very quietly stated, “Sadly, I’m well aware that we’re not going to find Cinnamon’s headstone with some kind of fire, rain and time-proof chest underneath holding patents. Even if we had time to thoroughly inspect that headstone without our buddy behind us realizing whose grave we’re here to see.”
He kept his volume low as well. “I didn’t want to bring that up but you’re an intelligent, if occasionally wacky woman, and I figured you’d figured that out.”
I whispered, “Johnny, we may not even find a clue at all. Colette gasped out ‘Ken see and I’m almost positive that meant Kensico but, while I have these hopes that the headstone will say something like, ‘this way to the patents’ with a map, and something else saying, ‘Colette saw this the day she was here with so and so who doubtless was the one who shot her . . .’ I’m realistic enough to know we may find nothing more than her name and a date and maybe some sweet inscription. If we’re lucky. She may have only said ‘cold wind’ and ‘Kensico’ so I’d be able to eventually identify Cinnamon since her name wouldn’t have meant anything to me.”
“You do have a nice imagination, Abby. Although, you may well get your wish on the former. Not a map, but hopefully something someone wrote in that inscription that might be a real clue.” He stated loudly, “There’s quite a group of silent film stars in the Actors Fund plot. You ready? Need to take notes? You can record into my cell."
“Nah. I’ll remember everything. Simply read aloud anything pertinent and it’ll stick with me. Let’s do it.”
We headed for the circular area known as the Actors Fund plot. Couldn’t miss it. There was a huge obelisk identifying the place. In spite of the angst over finding Cinnamon’s grave and over being followed I was rather thrilled with seeing the headstones of these icons of the movies and of Broadway.
We walked on in silence for about five minutes, feeling the stillness and the peace of people who’d brought so much life and beauty in the world during the years they’d been the artists and musicians and actors and dancers and yes—clowns—that the very ground seemed to retain that life and that beauty. I’d almost forgotten we had company or that we were on a mission. I made a mental note to myself—a vow really—to return to this place anytime I felt the world was a useless place. I glanced up at Johnny and saw by his expression that his feelings and thoughts mirrored mine.
When we reached the Actors Fund plot we knew it was time for some serious acting of our own. We had to stop and peruse enough headstones, plus give enough time and excitement —not to each of them—that would be as suspicious as hauling butt directly to Cinnamon’s grave— but comments about certain people would be natural. Thankfully, we had a scenic tour guidebook that included little bios of everybody so Johnny could look stuff up and read aloud and let our pursuer know exactly whom we were talking about.
“Oh cool! Johnny, look at this. I remember this guy from my early research.” That was no lie. I did remember him. Malcolm Duncan. Born 1868. Died 1946. “He played in Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde in 1920. Amazing. I’d love to see that one and check out how they handled special effects in transformation in that era.”
We went on to the next headstone. Johnny read, “Viola Fortesque. I like it. Kind of sexy and high class at the same time. Born 1875. Died 1953. Uh. One of her silent films was called White Raven. Made in 1917. We might want to see if we can find it anywhere since the soap's flashbacks are centered on that year. Give you an idea of acting style for the not as famous ladies. I think you’ve already got Theda Bara down."
I grinned at him. I wasn’t acting as I thanked him. “Great idea. We should make a list of some of these folks and see if some kind of rare movies store can find copies of these old films.”
> “Well, even though I suggested it, don’t get your hopes up too much. Many, many of these movies weren’t stored well and they’ve disintegrated into nothingness over the years.”
“I know. But we can still hunt. Uh. Who’s over there?” I pointed about fifteen yards ahead of us.
“Romaine Callender. I think he was Latin lover type. Born 1883. Died 1976. He was pretty prolific. Acted in over forty movies, including Wuthering Heights. Hang on. You’ll definitely like this trivia, Abby. He was in the original cast of Grand Hotel in 1930. Hmm. I may have to check him out for my own flashback character although Dusty's Gilberto Davies is probably more in tune with the style."
“Yep." I closed my eyes. "Wow. Early, early Grand Hotel But since we’re in a cemetery I will refrain from busting into any of the songs from the musical version of the late Eighties although I'm sure you're quite aware that I have each number memorized and when I’m older I want to play the aging ballerina who falls for the guy who ends up dead.”
Johnny winked at me. "We'll put a ton of old-age make-up on you so I can play your much younger lover." He then stated a bit too casually, “Um. When we’re done with the Actors Fund folks we may want to wander through the plot of the National Vaudeville Association.”
“Yes?”
“Yeah. Lots of vaudevillians also went on to act in silent movies. Sadly many of them died in poverty and that’s where they were buried. Which was truly nice of their fellow vaudevillians.”
I glanced up at him. He nodded slightly.
“Anyone in that group I might have heard of?”
Johnny pretended to be absorbed in the guidebook. “Well, let’s see. The Hungarian violinist Rigo Janczi; also known as the Gypsy prince. Um. There’s a Victor Balasz Balasic Jr. who died in 1943. Oh this is neat. He was part of a family of acrobats and vaudevillians.”
“That is neat. Um. Who else?”
“Um. Marcelino Orbes. Better known as Marceline. He was a clown, created a character very much like Charlie Chaplin’s Little Tramp. Oh, damn. This is sad.”
I already knew since Johnny had told me all about Marceline Orbes back in the diner in Hell’s Kitchen, but I played along. “What is?”
“He committed suicide in a Manhattan hotel in 1927. Six dollars to his name. He did do a couple of movies but I guess Chaplin really took over the comedy market in films, especially with the tramp character. What’s kind of interesting is that Chaplin sent flowers to his funeral. Nice.”
We’d reached the National Vaudeville Association plot by this time. We stopped to pay our respects to the Hungarian violinist and spent about five minutes at Marceline’s gravesite. This was partially to establish an interest in everyone we could but partially because I felt this comedian and clown had a kinship with Cinnamon. Not only in the characters they’d created but also in the way they died. One by his own hand. One, we were pretty certain, by the hand of someone else. Both alone. Both filled with sadness in their own ways.
We found two more silent movie stars who were buried in this particular area. Johnny read aloud to be sure our buddy (now about twelve yards behind us) would hear every line. He’d just finished telling me the story of a Lolita Hefowitz who had been a rodeo star in shows mirroring the Annie Oakley Wild West productions, then become a stunt woman for silent movie westerns, riding horses and lassoing bad guys.
Johnny grinned. “She has a quote below the marker. Can you read it?”
I peered over his shoulder and couldn’t help laughing. “She says, ‘Look up and see me ghost-riding in the sky.’ Okay. That’s way too cool. ”
“It is.” He checked the guidebook. “Written by Ms. Hefowitz herself and put in her will to be engraved on her headstone. Ms. Fouchet, this should be your role model. She died at a very old age. Broke, but happy. And just think about this. You’re already following in her footsteps on the way to fame and fortune and stardom and you can ride a horse!"
“I wouldn’t classify Endless Time as fame and fortune. Well, except for you, oh Gregory Noble, and I sure wouldn’t classify myself as a star."
“Well, I was also remembering when we both did Boundaries and all of Manhattan knew our names."
“Snort. They only knew my name because I was the one screaming at everyone that you were innocent of nefarious doin's. Anyway, maybe I'll end up as the female star of the Endless Time movie flashbacks since it appears I'm the only idiot eager to do wild stunts and half the scripts are nothing but hanging off of cliffs or riding horseback or getting tied to train tracks. Dang. I’m getting tired just thinking about all these activities on my agenda.”
Johnny’s right eyebrow suddenly shot up. He inclined his head very slightly toward a marker next to that of Ms. Hefowitz. I have great eyes. There it was.
“Hey, Johnny. Who’s that next to Lolita? Looks like she’s got a quote as well. I wonder if it’s as fun.”
“Let’s check it out.” We walked quietly over to the spot, already knowing what it would say. At least the name and date. We hoped the quote would provide a clue to Colette’s death and perhaps hers as well.
We leaned down and I found my eyes filled with tears. I quickly blinked them away in case our stalker noticed the difference in my emotion.
Johnny read aloud. “Gabrielle Garrity. Born 1899. Died 1929. She was a clown too. Which was surprising. I don’t think there were many female clowns in those days. Silent movies, too. She did it all.”
“Yes?”
“She does have a quote on her marker. It isn’t as fun as your riding buddy, but it’s far more literary and really quite beautiful. ‘For the listener, who listens in the snow.’”
Chapter 18
I checked, double-checked and re-checked the ropes to be sure they wouldn’t come loose. I checked, double-checked and re-checked the harness to make sure I wouldn’t fall out of it. I’d checked, double-checked . . . ah hell, I did everything I could think of to make sure I’d live through the next two or more hours of filming to be shot on a ledge off a small cliff in Fort Lee, New Jersey. As to ropes, well, I learned how to do a basic lasso when I did the show Will Rogers Follies where I also learned how to 'hog-tie' (and why isn't that "dogie-tie" since one ties calves and not little piglets)? I'm digressing. I have no idea how to tie a rope around my own person that I’m positive will remain intact as I shimmy off a cliff. I'd had to rely on the stunt director for that and pray that he liked me and also that he didn’t want to be responsible for large insurance pay outs should Abby Fouchet slip out of one of those knots and come crashing down on top of turf, rocks and members of the camera crew waiting to film what could be the best shots of this plotline. Definitely the most interesting. Or most insane.
The idea was to have me, first as the vampy actress Thea Donovan, rappelling down a rope to land on this ledge thingee to escape the villain (as yet unknown and unseen in this episode) then the scene would shift to the present and I’d be Vanessa Manilow again on the ledge thingee but sort of bouncing from side to side of the cliff, on the rope, to escape bullets flying from the rifle of the present day villain (as yet unknown etcetera, etcetera.) It was not the most dangerous stunt I’d done in my life (the hot air balloon scene that first introduced my character last year was pretty hairy) but it wasn’t exactly the safest either.
So. I did it. Rope tied, I went sailing down from one spot on the wall of the cliff to another until I reached that lovely oasis called a ledge, accompanied by certain sounds and language I hoped would not be picked up on the microphones, including, “Oh shee-it! Ouch! Ow! Damn that hurts. I thought they padded this sucker? Why is that one rock jutting out exactly where the front of my hip is hitting? Who found this horrendously hideous half-cliff anyway? No wonder the stunt folks didn’t want to go rappelling. It’s 'ra-ppulsive!' Oh, cute, Abby. Keep dreaming up bad puns to avoid the pain of whapping into hard rock every five seconds. Damn. Ow. Ouch! Shee-it!”
And so on.
Once I hit the actual ledge, I plopped my butt on the ground and sin
cerely offered a prayer that I wouldn’t have to do this again. That the camera crew had nailed it in one take.
Whatever deity was in charge of rope climbing and descents today wasn’t listening. Three times I climbed back up to the top of the cliff and three times I bounced down. My words that should—and would— be stricken from the final edits before airing two o'clock Eastern, one Central, remained constant. My actual dialogue just got louder with the “ows!” and “ouches!” I now knew why Dolores Ellison was such an awesome director. She was a fiendish perfectionist. On climb three I found myself stifling an impulse to toss a basic lasso around Ms. Ellison and see if she’d like to rappel down sans padding.
Finally after “Take Three” I was able to ensconce myself in a little corner of the ledge with about twenty minutes of free time before I started the bounce from one of the ledges to the other—off the cliff wall. I took a moment to inspect the rope for any rips or gaping holes, then gratefully slugged down the thermos of water the set crew had placed into a crevice on that ledge earlier in the day. I sank against the rocky wall to begin contemplating the view of the Palisades and my life to date.
Which immediately shifted to the contemplation of yesterday’s trip to Valhalla and the cemetery. After Johnny and I read the inscription on Cinnamon’s grave, we spent another thirty minutes roaming through the rest of the headstones and markers in the National Vaudeville Association plot trying our best A) to keep from looking behind us because we knew our stalker was still stalking and we didn’t want our stalker to know we knew he or she was still stalking. B) to find interesting things to read on graves or in the brochure that would confuse our stalker into believing this really was only a sentimental research excursion for the semi-Method actors to soak up background atmosphere for silent movie personalities and C) to avoid starting a huge discussion in an effort to decipher anything we could about that particular inscription which would thereby nullify A and B.
Cold Wind to Valhalla (Abby Fouchet Mysteries Book 3) Page 12
