“You’re rambling.”
“I am.”
“So, the scrapbook didn’t pan out?” he asked.
“How did you . . .?” I stopped. “Never mind. Gordon Clark, right?"
He grinned. “Yep.”
“Well, the scrapbook did not yield the secrets of the ages—but—somewhere in Manhattan there are pages missing that might.” I told him about the pages that had been torn. “I have no idea if the book is missing one page, fifty pages or something in between. But I now know how to bake Maudie’s Best Cream Cake with fourteen eggs and about six cups of white sugar. For the cake. We’re not even getting into the frosting. Which reminds me, I'm hungry which is ridiculous. I have got to learn to limit my food intake even when I'm loony. Where was I?"
“Educating yourself.”
“Ah. Yes. Forget sugar and murder and funky old photos. What’s the dish about Senator Edge?”
We proceeded to fill one another in on our activities since Johnny left Colette’s this afternoon.
Johnny told me about the scene at Teterboro airport and the scene at the courthouse in Manhattan and the scene with Senator Edge’s wife, four hookers and a well-known lobbyist all protesting they had had nothing to do with the Senator. “It's juicier than most of the stuff we do on the show. But it's also sad. Ron Edge finally had a little eye-opener about who his dad really is. The only good thing is that he truly knew nothing about the Senator’s activities so he doesn't have to testify against him. Personally I had a terrific time watching his dad squirm but I also felt very sorry for Ron.”
I filled Johnny in on everything I’d found in the scrapbook—which was zippo—and the fact that I hadn’t yet had a chance to go through any of the literature or vaudeville or theatre books I’d brought home.
“What about the journal?”
I stared at him. “Oh blech. I totally forgot. Want to take a look?”
He stared back at me. “To be honest, I think it can wait until tomorrow.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. You need some rest. Didn't Max post the schedule for the week's shoot? I believe we're both bungee jumping off cliffs. Parasailing into the Hudson. Crossing the GWB on a high wire."
“Cute. Very cute. Obviously you failed to read the actual post, well at least for my scenes. I'm indoors. Intimately indoors. Like a bedroom at the Fontana Inn. It appears that Thea Donovan and Gilberto Davies are about to engage in wild monkey sex.”
Johnny’s eyes widened. “Would you explain to me what does or does not constitute wild monkey sex? For instance, can domesticated simians have wild monkey sex?”
“I’m not an expert, but I do believe much of it is the degree of sweat pouring from naked bodies during the event,” I stated solemnly. “Tamed bodies or not.”
“Do you suppose wild monkeys sweat while doing what wild monkeys do?”
“I have no idea. I don’t even know if wild monkeys, tame monkeys or capuchin monkeys have sweat glands.”
“Teeth.”
I could feel my brows shooting into my scalp. “Teeth?”
“Especially the capuchin dudes. Although I’m sure experts would agree that wild monkey sex involves a lot of biting along with the sweating.”
“That’s just painful. Not wild or sexy. Honestly? I think it’s bananas.”
“My explanations?”
I grinned. “Nope. The bananas are part of the wild monkey sex. Massive amounts of bananas tossed around the room before, during and after the event.”
We laughed until exhaustion set in. Then we stared at each other and became too serious. Johnny finally exhaled.
“While we’re on the subject of wild monkey sex, I'm getting very tired of never being alone with you."
I coughed. "Ahem, Mr. Gerard. In case you haven't noticed, Shay is not here."
"I have definitely noticed. I merely did not want to assume you were in the mood since I know you spent the afternoon poring through a scrapbook that doubtless made you less than happy considering who it belonged to."
"I'm fine. Really. Have even been musing that a few major Johnny moments would help in that quest for happiness."
"Well, in that case."
Johnny took my hand in his and led me back to the bedroom. We started with some gentle kisses that quickly escalated to clothes being tossed and hand roaming and longer kisses that were definitely destined to lead to wild monkey sex.
Until someone started pounding on the front door. Which meant they were actually at the front door and not downstairs buzzing.
"Ignore it." Johnny muttered into my ear, which happened to be the area being kissed at that moment.
"How? Every neighbor on this floor is going to either start calling nine-one-one or campaigning to get me evicted."
He sighed. "Fine." He tossed me my tee shirt and jeans and quickly began pulling his own on. I spared one delicious look at his backside musing that if he were in the show Hangin' it would have been a Broadway smash hit.
I yelled, "Quit knocking! We're coming! We're coming!"
Johnny snorted. "Sadly, no, we're not."
"Hush. Bad, bad Johnny."
"Frustrated Johnny."
We grinned at each other then headed back into the living room.
Johnny marched to the door and was smart enough to look through the peephole.
A tall woman dressed in a long leopard-skin patterned caftan, red turban with beaded dread locks flowing underneath and down her back, sporting absurd granny-laced red boots on her feet stood in the entranceway.
"As I live and breathe! Jane Doe!" I exclaimed.
"Wearing her Madam Euphoria work garb," Johnny noted.
She took a step into the room and hugged me while simultaneously lifting me off the floor. "I just flew in from New Orleans, kids. Didn't even stop to change. You wouldn't believe the looks I got on the plane. Once I hit Manhattan no one even noticed." She set me down.
"I thought you decided to cut your hair," I said. "No?"
She pulled off the turban and proudly displayed a nearly-shaved 'do.' "I did. The dreads are fake. Found 'em at this really cool little occult shop in the French Quarter. Kind of a combination of voodoo, Santeria, Wiccan and good ol' fashion Southern magic."
"Which reminds me. Did you get a chance to meet Auraliah Lee, or I suppose I should say Aura Lee?"
"Oh yeah. I see what you mean about her ensembles. That woman could open a shop for dance recitals, Broadway shows, movie studios and Halloween just by leaving her closet open. I ran into her three times in only one day, which happened to be the first day of the convention and each time she had on a new outfit. The last costume was sort of a cross between an alien from Star Trek any generation and Rocky Horror Picture Show a la Magenta. Silver tights and huge shoulder wings and a Bride of Frankenstein wig. On a hundred and seventy pound woman barely five foot tall when wearing ballet pointe shoes. Which she was." She grinned." But she adores you, Abby. She's the one who suggested I fly back early since she was on her way to meet with a client in Samoa."
I groaned. "Oh no."
"Oh yes."
Johnny sighed. "What is it this time? Do I not exist in the future? Is there a centuries dead duke or prince about to reveal the mystery surrounding his murder? Or is this something useful, like a vision of who killed Colette Currie?"
"None of the above, although this does involve Colette's death."
"Wait. How do you know about Colette? No offense but your psychic abilities seem to end with Abby visions," I stated.
Jane chuckled. "I wish I could say that I had a vision or a word from beyond but it was less interesting and far more practical. Yolanda called me."
"Ah."
Johnny was less patient than I, especially when interrupted during what Shay has been known to refer to as "high aerobic pleasurable" activities. "Jane. Spill it. Then arrange a date with Abby at Leroy's soul food place in Harlem for whenever and go back to New Orleans."
"Testy, testy, Mr. Gerard. First
of all, I am not going back to New Orleans. My brother Jimmy, remember him? Owns the cab? Well, he broke an arm and a leg skateboarding with his kids so he's not driving right now and I'm subbing until he can manage. Secondly, I definitely plan to meet with Abby at Leroy's at a time and day of her choosing. Thirdly . . . " her tone suddenly turned ominous, "I hope we can do that because Aura Lee did have a vision. Said to tell Abby to look out for January and for bigots."
I blinked. "So I avoid winter and people I already can't stand?"
Jane shrugged her shoulders. "I honestly have no idea. Personally, I wouldn't have flown back here to deliver that message. But Aura Lee was insistent. Said it would help you solve the murder."
"I do wish that woman would spend less time on her wardrobe and more time clarifying her clues." I exhaled. "Okay. I'll try and figure out what in tumbleweed storm that's supposed to mean."
Johnny smiled. I know his smiles. This one was the "thanks so much and be on your way now," smile.
Jane got it. "I get it. I'm going. I leave you to your romping and rolling. I have a little of that to do as well or did I tell you, Abby?"
"What?"
"I'm engaged! Yep. To the cook at Leroy's. Billy Vandyke. Who is the new owner as well since Leroy is retiring, considering he's ninety-two now."
I hugged her. "Awesome! Congratulations. Uh, does this mean occasionally freebies on the ribs if I'm with you?"
"Honey, you don't even need to be with me for freebies. Billy adores Vanessa Manilow. He quit watching the soap in protest after they took her off." She winked at Johnny. "He tolerates you as well, so feel free to come in with Abby."
We hugged again. "Thanks for the info on January and bigots. And let's get together next week. Thursday? I'm not scheduled for any cliff-rappelling or passionate sex scenes that I know of."
"Speaking of which . . ." Johnny growled.
Jane laughed. "I'm outta here. Have fun, children."
She left. Johnny leaned down to kiss me and Johnny's cell immediately rang from the table in the living room where he'd dumped it. He stopped and hauled it to the table.
"Dammit, Johnny, don't answer!"
"I must. I told Gordon to call if anything new happened." Phone to ear. "Yes?"
Silence and nods for about two minutes. Finally, "Yeah, I'll be there. But Kieran, you're going to owe me big time for this."
He turned to me. "I need to provide my father with the tape of the Cobbler sisters. He says he needs it for Senator Edge's arraignment which apparently is going to take place during night court to keep the media from crowding the courthouse."
"Really? And he couldn't have gotten this after the arrest?"
"He was busy glad-handing the media at the time so apparently he simply forgot and I didn't think of it either. I'm so sorry."
"Hmm. Maybe this is what Aura Lee and Madam Euphoria were talking about with the 'beware the bigots'? As in Senator Eddie Edge? Beware that they are interfering in my love life even when they're on their way to jail?"
Johnny grinned. “To be continued.”
“The kiss or the insanity?”
“Probably both. But definitely the kiss."
I smiled. “In that case, next time we get the chance to be alone? Bring bananas.”
Chapter 25
If there are any television or movie viewers out there who still have the impression that filming a sex scene is as exciting as either participating in that particular activity in the comfort of one’s home or even watching the finished product on TV, let me disabuse that notion right here and now. Filming a sex scene is not romantic, exciting or sexy. It’s excruciatingly boring and often physically painful because one has to hold one’s neck and head in ridiculous poses for ridiculous lengths of time to allow the cameras to film faces that are not in shadow and do not display a ton of hair cascading across a lover’s nose or eyes. Body parts have to be filmed in a way that looks tender, erotic, exotic, passionate, etcetera without revealing too much (most soaps are PG in the ratings even though there's a ton of major sheet sweating.) Lighting has to be correct and that lighting is generally not cool temperature-wise, so the amount of sweat has to look perfect. Not enough to suggest a stinky marathon by Olympic runners but enough to suggest that good old-fashioned wild monkey sex.
Lighting. And cameras. Which means people dealing with lighting and cameras. Which means people crowding the set to make sure the actors are lit and shot properly during the sex scene. No pressure there. At least with the whole PG thing those activities usually are a bit less—I’d say intrusive— but that’s too Freudian to mention. Skip it.
But along those lines, there’s the costume consideration. Body parts cannot come popping out of skivvies or corsets. Especially during the daytime. Especially when actresses or actors are more interested in creating a solid performance than auditioning for porn. Especially when a script change calls for the actor and actress to be engaged to one another off-screen and therefore a bit more interested in one another's body parts than needs to be known in between commercials for dog food and dishwashing detergent. Yeah, Yolanda, upon her arrival back in New York had decided to turn Vanessa/Thea Donovan into a total slut and have her engaging in relations with not only Dusty/Gilberto but with Gregory Noble/Dennis Noone.
I digress. Costumes. Let’s talk about corsets. A little item that doesn’t usually enter into filming TV sex scenes but would in the one Johnny and I were shooting today since this particular encounter was between Thea Donovan and Dennis Noone and Ms. Donovan being a fashionable woman of Nineteen Seventeen would be wearing lacy tap pants, a camisole and—you guessed it—a corset. The only good thing about the year 1917 was that the corset was longer and not tightly laced in order to provide the wearer with an eighteen-inch waist. Nonetheless, it was constraining, confining and excruciatingly uncomfortable for the hour or more I’d have to wear it before ending up in the camisole and tap pants. I silently cursed the producers for not pushing the time frame up to about 1924 and letting Thea cavort in a little slip under a jazz-baby flapper shimmy but I did emit an audible small sigh of frustration and regret.
Max, our production assistant, heard the sigh. “Problems?”
“Nah, not really. I’m good. Maybe a bit curious as to why we seem to have like thirty extra folks crowding into the bedroom of the Fontana Inn.”
“You.”
“Me?”
“Security. After Friday’s incident on the cliff, no one wanted to take chances someone could sneak into the set and a hotel is a great place for sneaking.”
I groaned. “Oh man, the producers must hate me—putting them to all this trouble. I’m surprised they haven’t quietly tucked a pink slip into my corset and added a one-way ticket to a small, deserted island off the coast of New Zealand.”
Max chuckled. “Are you kidding? They love it! Publicity, girl, publicity. The soap magazines flew off the shelves yesterday. And take a look at this.” He handed me a newspaper. The Metro Quest. “You’re on the front page two days in row. First there was the cliff shooting and now Graham Sumner has some story about the last words spoken by Colette Currie to one Abby Fouchet leaked by Shay Martin. Plus we're filming a hot sex scene featuring Ms. Fouchet and Mr. Gerard. Honestly, the producers are thrilled. And extra security isn’t that expensive, especially here in the warehouse.” He opened his eyes wide. “You don’t think . . .?”
“No! I know TV execs are supposed to be greedy, disgusting, amoral creepniks, but I truly do not believe they’d stage a shooting simply to bring in more viewers. Nor do I believe there was any involvement by any management types to murder my friend Colette and arrange to have me be there in time to hear those last words.”
Max relaxed. “Well, good. I don’t either, really but the evil thought did drift through my wicked brain when I arrived at the warehouse this morning and discovered we had not only a contingent of brawny tough-looking, stone-faced security folks but an even bigger contingent of journalists from the Jersey, New York and the
Connecticut papers. Wouldn’t surprise me to find someone from Ohio by this afternoon. Or El Paso, Texas. I’m sure your hometown is lapping up all the attention being paid to their native daughter.”
I almost snorted. “Doubt it. I think they're more concerned with possible smuggling of various unsavory items in and out of the border town of Juarez. And I hope none of the folks from papers here, there or everywhere expect to get any comments from me. Aside from the fact that today’s filming should last for hours, I have no plans to spill any secrets other than perhaps how women were able to procreate after being cinched into a corset for hours upon end.”
Max grinned. “And that would be?”
“The speed with which they got out of the suckers and into bed. That’s all I got for ya. Ah! Good. I see my intended approaching for six hours of fake passion."
Johnny was indeed approaching and semi-dressed in the equivalent of 1917 jeans and a poet shirt currently unbuttoned and flapping. He looked gorgeous. He also looked a lot more comfortable than I.
I spent those next six hours in and out of bed. Undoing my hair. Re-pinning my hair. Getting kissed. Dropping a dressing gown on the floor. Re-dressing in the dressing gown. Getting kissed again. Being lowered to the bed. Getting up again so the cameras could capture the lowering from a better angle. Leg in air. Leg down. Arms in air. Arms surrounding Johnny. Arms back up. Arms slowly coming down for—yeah—better angles. TV fake sex aerobics. So exhausting I almost forgot I was doing all this with Johnny.
Then there was the ignominious moment when, in the throes of fake passion, I literally fell off the bed. The good news was that I fell onto a very plush rug so nothing was injured. The bad news was it was all on film and I was well aware that even though that footage wouldn’t make it to the TV screens, the entire cast and crew would get to see Abby tumbling from bed to floor in slow motion and from every angle at the end of the day when tapes were reviewed and massive hilarity would immediately ensue.
Cold Wind to Valhalla (Abby Fouchet Mysteries Book 3) Page 17
