My fellow sufferer, Johnny, was roaming the room that supposedly represented the little love nest of Thea and Dennis in the Fontana Inn, circa 1917 but in reality was the warehouse in Brooklyn where we normally filmed the sexy bedroom scenes for any episodes of Endless Time. As Thea, I was lying on top of silken sheets (which weren’t silken but some spandex polyester blend which looked as shiny but were far cheaper) wearing a camisole, tap pants, garters and hose and pretending to be asleep. "Dennis Noone" was peering into all of Thea’s jewelry boxes and movie scripts searching for the hidden patent that would end up getting him killed. The twist in this flashback was that Thea was the licensee for the patent. This whole scenario creeped me out since it was too close to Cinnamon Garrity, female patent holder from around the same year, who may well have died to keep hers safe less than ten years later after she’d come up with the celluloid silver thingee.
Johnny was in the process of opening a large music box to let loose the tinkly, tinny sounds of Beethoven’s Fur Elise when Max began shouting to all the cast and crew members involved in this scene or anywhere near this scene, “Emergency! Out! Everybody! Out now! Don’t panic but we need to evacuate this building. And I mean now! Actually—panic! Just don’t trample anyone.”
After a brief second or two of stunned silence, everyone did as told. Johnny grabbed my hand and kept me close as we hauled it to the nearest exit. Fortunately the warehouse had numerous exits and since smoke didn’t appear to be billowing anywhere, we were all able to leave by means of the doors nearest our positions. But even with adequate exit opportunities fear and chaos began to hit big-time. Cameras crashed to the floor as cast and crew hurdled over chairs and small tables and tried to avoid sliding on the coffee mugs that had also ended up on the floor when the small tables toppled.
Max began a roll call less than three minutes after he’d yelled emergency and a large group had gathered in the street a good four blocks from the warehouse. I only realized I’d been unconsciously holding my breath until all Endless Time personnel had been accounted for when I started feeling lightheaded. Once I heard the collective sigh of relief after the “Yo’s!” announcing, “present!” had all been accounted for, I figured it was time to inhale.
A blinding flash hit me. I blinked then pointed and yelled, “Paparazzi! ” in the general direction of the photographer who’d managed to arrive at the scene in time to take photos of panicked and frightened actors, including Abby Fouchet and Johnny Gerard in less than normal attire. We were not happy.
That went double for the rest of the cast and crew. I’ve never seen a group of normally sane people turn into a mob, but suddenly, as one, crew members, stand-ins, assistants, and cast began chasing the photographer toward his SUV that was parked illegally about three blocks from the warehouse. Sadly, he kept his camera. I wondered which paper he worked for—if any—and if he’d gotten more than that one shot of me in my 1917 undies.
Nothing to be done. After he’d driven away, accompanied by rocks and shoes and anything anyone had that made for good throwing, Johnny and I weaved back through the mob and found Max. Johnny kept calm but his voice was that of a man ready to live up to a red-haired temper. “So, what the hell just happened? Not the stalking photographer. I do realize anytime we’re filming some joker is bound to show up and hope for a juicy picture. Which he got today. Creep. Ten to one he’s on the payroll of Metro Quest."
“You talking about the emergency?” Max asked.
“Yep.”
“I’m not sure. Give it another ten minutes or so. I was told by emergency services to get everyone out and down the street as far as possible but keep them together. Maybe we’ll get more information which looks about to be imparted by the hunky dude from the arson and bomb squad who's waving at us.”
I had to agree with Max’s assessment. Hunky dude. A handsome man in a SWAT type uniform, holding a helmet that appeared it could withstand a blaze, an explosion or a space odyssey was calmly gathering the Endless Time cast and crew into one area, even further from the warehouse.
“Ladies and gentlemen! We’re about to send you home. It appears there’s no actual basis for this threat but we’d rather be certain before anyone comes one foot closer to the building. Tomorrow morning should be fine.”
Max was angry about the entire situation. “Excuse me, but what exactly is the ‘no actual threat’? I mean are we talking poisoned gas? Fire? Nuclear weapons? Pipe bomb? What the hell is going on?”
The hunk paused and calmly surveyed the crowd. All of us, including the about-to-blow-a-gasket Mr. Gerard and Max, were being good. We were quiet. We weren’t screaming or hollering or running around in circles. I guess he figured the grown-ups were allowed a little information.
“An anonymous tip came in less than thirty minutes ago stating that there was a bomb inside the lobby of the warehouse where filming was taking place.”
We’d been quiet. Now we weren’t even moving.
A second hunk in a SWAT uniform suddenly appeared behind the speaker and whispered something to him. Hunk number one’s left eyebrow rose about half an inch. He turned back to the Endless Time crowd.
“Anyone here named Ms. Fouchet?”
I raised my hand. “That’d be me.” I swallowed.
He motioned for me to join him and hunk number two. Johnny came with me.
“Yes, officer?”
“We found a note tacked to the bulletin board in the lobby. Addressed to you.”
“Oh-kay. That’s normal. What’s the problem?” I asked.
“The problem is that the note was obviously left there by someone who wanted everyone out of the building and chose to dream up a bomb scare to achieve that goal. Thereby causing a good deal of trouble and committing a felony.”
My eyes widened. “Oh, whoopee. What’s it say?”
He unfolded a slip of paper. “It says, ‘Ms. Fouchet. You don’t seem to take warnings very well. Perhaps a large explosion is necessary for you to understand. There is no bomb in the building but there could have been one quite easily. Forget Colette. Now. Before the next bullet or bomb is aimed directly at you.’”
Chapter 26
“Doesn’t anyone use a phone anymore? Or the United States mail? They’re quite efficient these days. Or even stay comfortably at home and send an email? Can someone explain to me why it is all the killers I know have to leave cryptic messages and or bodies for me in strange places?” I mused. “It’s embarrassing.”
“It’s because you’re a second-sighted occasional ghost-bonder,” Shay mumbled.
I inhaled. "That has nothing to do with leaving threatening notes.”
She snickered, “Ha! You admit it? Right? Dead people seek you out and give you information on what they're doing in the afterlife by zapping you into visionary visions.”
I leaned back in my chair. “They kinda do, don’t they? Maybe I should go back to Texas and start a Fine Arts academy for small children. Far less chance of dead people popping up around me. I like kids. They like me. This could work. Minette would be thrilled."
Johnny glared at both of us. “Stop it. Both of you. We need to figure out who and why and we need to do it before the next bomb does more than scare.”
I shivered and wrapped my hands around the warm cup of tea Ivan had just set in front of me. He then sank into a chair to join Shay, Gordon Clark, Ivan, Johnny and me in a cozy table near the kitchen in Pancho Villa's, a Mexican diner about four blocks from Shay's and my apartment. It was the day after the bomb scare and no one was in the mood to do anything physical beyond lifting a fork so we’d chosen a place that served the spiciest salsa this side of El Paso as the place to meet and camp and eat and drink and talk. “Any brilliant ideas?”
Johnny shook his head. “Not really.”
“Well, I’m wondering if our theories about patents and hidden silent movies are all a crock.”
Gordon nodded, “Go on.”
“Okay. Whoever left the note and then politely called in th
at bomb scare from the clichéd but oh-so-convenient public telephone booth didn’t say ‘tell me what you’ve found. Where are the patents? Where’s the money-making silent flick?’ Nope. They told me to lay off trying to find out who murdered Colette.”
“Maybe whoever killed her already has that information,” Johnny stated. “And Colette’s last words to you were meant to point to the killer rather than to lead to anything tangible.”
Ivan tentatively raised his hand.
“Ivan, my darling, it isn’t first grade. We give you leave to speak,” I stated graciously.
“Thanks so much.” He frowned at me. “I simply felt in this group it’s best to give fair warning one plans on speaking before immediately being drowned out."
“Good point. We’re listening. Spill it.”
“Fine. My personal opinion is that it’s time for a serious list of suspects to be drawn up and figure out means, motive and opportunity for Colette’s murder, for the shooting incident on the cliffs of New Jersey—and do not say ‘great title!’ Shay Martin, or I will dump you off my client list which would be bad for both of us."
“On the cliffs of New Jersey.” I smiled. “I hate to agree with Shay, especially when she hasn’t voiced an opinion I know quite well she shares, but Ivan's right. It really would make a marvelous title for a steamy suspenseful Gothic romance. Sorry. Go on, Ivan.”
“Thank you. Uh. The Cameo Theatre. The cliffs of New Jersey. And the bomb scare with the note-leaving in the Brooklyn warehouse. That’s it, right? Those are the three places associated with our killer?”
“Well, they might have followed us to Valhalla and the cemetery but then again, that could have been a loony fan or even one of Senator Edge’s minions trying to find out what else I knew about the Senator’s activities—which reminds me— and not to go too far afield from suspects and warehouses— but Kieran told me he's now finding out about some heavy-duty campaign finance thievery associated with Edge,” Johnny stated.
“Aren’t the terms campaign finance and thievery redundant?” Gordon inquired. “No need to answer. That was a rhetorical question. I’m with Ivan. Suspects. Would you civilians like a story board with photos and squiggly notes?”
Shay beamed at him. “I love it. Can we get one?”
I growled, “Can we just do this without the props? Since Johnny and I have to film tomorrow which sort of constitutes work and so does everyone else; work that is, not film there’s not a ton of time and I think we’re all capable of remembering who did what and why and how and all that without visual aids.”
Shay smiled sweetly. “Ignore her. She gets very cranky after being shot at or running out of buildings in fear for her life. I do not understand it. Ms. Fouchet needs to grow a spine.”
Ivan chuckled. “She may also be cranky after getting her photo taken and plastered all over Metro Quest. Standing in the street in her undies after running out of that building in fear for her life.”
I nearly jumped out of my chair. “Are you serious? I was afraid that the sneaky paparazzi was from Sumner’s rag. But did they actually stick a picture of me in that stifling corset and the way-too-short tap pants in the paper? Not to mention my hair was all over the place and I had very little make-up left after participating in massive wild monkey sex with Johnny which unfortunately wasn't real.”
All heads at the table nodded.
“Ah, dang and doo-doo. Y'all could have told me. Somebody could have told me.” I stopped. I sighed. “Where is it?”
As if on cue, my four companions reached under the table and brought out a copy of Metro Quest.
I glared at them all. “Really? One clipping wouldn’t do? All my buddies had to have their own private, personal copy?”
Johnny sighed with sheer pleasure. “It’s worth the two dollars. I plan to blow this up poster size and hang it in my bedroom.” He handed me the paper.
“Smokin’ Slut City! I look like I’ve recently finished the opening number from Best Little Whorehouse in Texas! Or perhaps was just paid by Senator Edge along with Peach and Cherry Cobbler for services rendered!”
The enterprising photographer had indeed snapped the shot while I’d been standing with cast and crew out in the street. Since I was the one who had the “crawled out of bed after a night of major copulation” attire and we’re not talkin’ thermals, naturally I was the one who got her picture taken.
I shrugged and handed the paper back to Johnny. “Nothing I can do other than ask why your gorgeous chest is not also gracing the front page of every tabloid in town. Don't answer. I remember you had the presence of mind to button up once we hit the exits. Thank God the show is PG rated and my outfit is actually more modest than what half of Washington Heights teenagers wear during a hot July day. Lovely. Now that everyone is thrilled with Abby’s publicity shots, can we get back to work?”
Those buddies all assumed somber expressions I was well aware were fake. But at least the nods indicated we might be able to forego any extra commentary on the photographic portfolio of Abby Fouchet that included hanging from a cliff ledge dodging bullets and the one that had shown up the day after Colette’s murder with me trying to hide my face as I left the Cameo Theatre. One sneaky reporter had recognized me that night and taken the photo without alerting his buddies. He wanted—and he got—the exclusive "money" shot.
I frowned. “Suspects. And before we go any further, excuse me for being blunt, nosy, undiplomatic and probably rude to our favorite detective but is the N.Y.P.D. doing anything to solve Colette’s murder?”
Gordon smiled at me. “Yes and no. They’re in a worse boat than we are.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning all of us here are going on the assumption that the folks who asked about Colette’s last words at her memorial are the ones who might have had motive. It’s not a great way to whittle down all the people who ever knew her, but it’s all we’ve got. Whereas the N.Y.P.D. doesn’t really consider nosiness a motive. The good thing, albeit somewhat annoying, about our particular suspects is they all seem to have motive.”
Shay perked up. “Such as?”
Gordon motioned for Johnny to take over. “You’ve got this written down, right? Why don’t you do the honors?”
“You do realize he was dying to be leader of this session, don’t you?” I asked.
Gordon grinned. “I’ve known him for over seven years. If I hadn’t made the offer he’d never give me another comp ticket to a show he's in and I hate to say it but I am quite a theatre nut. Go ahead, Gerard.”
“Thank you. Now that the preliminary b.s. is over”—a look at the entire crowed that said ‘it better be’—he continued. “Let me start with the ones I considered least likely to have murdered Colette Currie, due either to motive, means or opportunity. Which would be our naked chums Billie-Clare Buchanan and Geoff Murray, who—”
Ivan interrupted, “I honestly don’t know how they could have done this. As Johnny pointed out, they were naked. Not a lot of places to conceal a gun!”
I shook my head. “But the gun could have come from the prop room and no one would have noticed either one of them back there since who the heck knew who exactly was in the receiving line yet. Let’s be honest. Naked actors backstage would be no big shock for that show.”
Johnny added, “She’s right. Not the best way of putting it but Abby’s absolutely right. Either—or both—Billie-Clare and Geoff could have easily stayed backstage, sent for Colette and who would have cared that two less naked people were greeting the audience?”
“Motive?” Gordon inquired.
Johnny grimaced. “That's where it gets dodgy. Honestly? I don’t know, ladies and gentlemen. I think the primary reason we originally put Billie-Clare and Geoff on the list was because they were a bit too chatty and pushy at Colette’s memorial. Which could mean they were truly desperate to find out what she said or could mean they’re simply chatty, pushy people.”
Shay lifted her chin slightly. “I say leave ‘em on. T
hey had means and opportunity and really, anyone in America using the ‘g.e.o.f.f.’ spelling for a name that should be spelled ‘j.e.f.f.’ is being damned pretentious and therefore makes a great suspect. Not to mention what the hell kind of name is Billie-Clare Buchanan for anyone brought up in California?”
Four people turned to stare at Shay. Since she’s my roommate and best friend I figured I was the one with the right to say, “Hush it, Shay; that is way beyond not helpful.”
She shrugged and took another sip of her iced tea and wisely stuffed half a taco in her mouth after mumbling, “Go on, then.”
Johnny held his hand up. “May I do this without interruption? Pretty please?”
We stayed silent, which could have meant compliance or could have meant we were making no promises as to whether we’d let Johnny Gerard hold the floor without juicy commentary.
“Next up. Taylor Mills. Colette’s ex. Motive? Possible greed over the patents we’re not sure exist or that old film we’re also not sure exists. Means and opportunity? Well, gang, guess what? Since the back door to the Cameo Theatre was unlocked, we can give all our suspects the big M and O.”
I raised my hand. Johnny nodded graciously, “As you so royally stated earlier to Ivan, we give you leave to speak.”
“Thank you so much. Taylor’s motive might not have had anything to do with patents or old movies. From all reports, including his own words, Colette dumped him, so he might have shot her out of misguided passion and lust. Or a nicer motive—discovered she had an inoperable brain tumor and would be facing an agonizing death so he shot her to let her die quickly.”
“Wait. Didn't Yolanda do that one for Carla and that bozo she married right after divorcing Gregory Noble after he discovered she tried to kill him?” Shay inquired. "Come on. One would think that an actress who’s been on the bloody thing would understand this is not reality.”
“Hey! Let me tell me you innocents--which I guess would actually only be Gordon since the rest of us have way too much experience with daytime dramas--but having done two episodes of Search for Serenity and countless episodes of Endless Time I can safely state there isn’t a plot written that hasn’t been taken from real life. The only reason people find the plots outrageous is they tend to happen to the same person or they all happen within two days so you’ve got Nevada in a coma after falling down during her twelfth marriage ceremony, which is really only ten marriages because she’s married Beecher twice, and then she pops out of the coma and shoots the nurse who was trying to poison her I.V. with a lethal hit of an undetectable substance and . . .”
Cold Wind to Valhalla (Abby Fouchet Mysteries Book 3) Page 18
