“How do you do,” Anne said, giving me icy fingers to shake when Antonio introduced us. She gave Grady a cool nod, and scowled when Betsy excused herself to find the producer, who was late in arriving.
“I understand we have an agent in common,” she said to me.
“Matt Miller?”
“Yes. He’s going to represent my next book.”
Matt had told me not to say anything about his representing her, but here Anne Tripper was talking about it freely. “Matt’s been my agent for many years,” I said. “I’m sure he’ll do a good job for you, too.”
“He’d better. I plan to be at the top of the bestseller list by next fall. If the publisher he comes up with doesn’t meet my timetable, it’ll be the last time Miller gets a book of mine.” She fiddled with a large black opal ring on her index finger, one of three rings she wore on that hand.
“He told me he expects it to be a bestseller,” I said, “but it isn’t the agent who markets the book. It’s the publisher.”
She waved her hands in the air as if dismissing my statement. “Any publisher will fall all over itself to sell my book. They have to if they want to make their money back.”
“Signora Fletcher, she is a bestseller,” Antonio said, smiling from one to the other of us. “Her books are very popular in Italy.” Then he hastened to add, “As are yours, of course, Signorina Tripper.”
“Nice of you to remember,” she said.
Antonio seemed to start. I thought his response was to Anne’s chilly remark, but he pulled a case from his pocket and consulted his cell phone, which must have vibrated to alert him to a message.
“I’m published in a dozen countries, although God knows why,” Anne said. “I write about the impact of American industries. Americans understand what I’m saying. No one else in the world does. They just put our books on their shelves to prove that they’re well-read. They probably do the same with yours. Are you published in any important countries, other than our own, of course?”
“A few,” I said, cringing inside for the insult she’d just paid Antonio’s homeland, implying that it was unimportant. Fortunately, he wasn’t paying attention to our conversation.
Grady, however, was. Not about to let Anne Tripper outdo me, he jumped in. “Aunt Jess! Your books are translated into at least sixty languages,” he said.
“I see you have your own promoter with you,” Anne said. Her lips formed a small smile, but it never reached her eyes. She looked around the room. “Everyone seems to have brought along an assistant. Perhaps I should have as well.” Her eyes swung back to mine. “But then, I never have a problem speaking for myself.”
“I don’t imagine you do,” I replied.
“I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of each other,” she said, “but right now I have to catch Betsy Archibald. We weren’t finished with our conversation when your arrival cut it short. You don’t mind, I’m sure.” She walked away.
Grady’s eyes met mine and he directed a long stream of air toward his forehead, raising strands of hair that had tumbled down.
I gave him a little shake of my head, and he understood not to comment in front of Antonio, who looked up from his cell phone to realize Anne had departed. “She is gone?” He glanced at his watch. “Ecco! I must find the producer. The meeting, she should begin.” He gave a short bow in my direction, grabbed my hand, and clasped it to his breast. “Signora Fletcher, so wonderful to acquaint with you. I am so happy you are to be in our patch.”
He must have seen my confusion.
Antonio looked at Grady. “This is right? Patch?”
“Spot,” Grady answered.
“Ah, yes. Spot. Thank you, my friend.” He turned back to me. “I am so happy you are to be in our spot.”
Grady waited for Antonio to leave, then leaned toward me. “Before anyone comes back, Aunt Jess, would you mind if we took something from the buffet? I never got any breakfast this morning. I was running late and had to take Frank to school. I’m starving.”
“I don’t mind at all,” I said. “Let’s take a peek at what they have. I could use a little fortification, especially if I have to spend a lot more time with some of my ‘costars.’ ”
“Gosh, I’m sorry, Aunt Jess. I didn’t know what they’d be like. At least Stella Bedford is nice.”
“Very nice, Grady. And don’t you fret about this. I’ve worked with difficult people before.”
We picked up plates and napkins and walked to the end of the buffet, passing Lance Sevenson, who was berating the young woman with the clipboard. “You are to be ready whenever I need you, not wandering about the room,” he said, forgetting for a moment to use his British accent. What’s his real accent? I mused.
Lance breathed in noisily and straightened up. “I want you at my side recording everything I say. I must have accuracy. The next book will be on my wit and wisdom, and it is your responsibility to capture it.”
“But you waved me off. I thought you didn’t want me there.”
“When I don’t want you there, I will tell you. Until then, you are to be my shadow. If I snap my fingers, I want your undivided attention. Understand?”
She hung her head.
“Understand?” he persisted.
“Yes, sir.”
Grady raised his eyebrows at me and grimaced. “Hoo boy. Wouldn’t want to work for him,” he whispered.
“Nor would I,” I agreed.
We filled our plates with an assortment from the buffet and found seats at the large conference table, which was soon occupied by the others in the room. Stella Bedford perused our selections as she passed behind our chairs, and returned a moment later, taking a seat next to Grady. “I got one of those pastries you have, hon,” she said, giving him a flirtatious smile. “They look yummy, just like you.”
Grady, who’d been taking a sip of coffee, began to cough and Stella pounded him on the back. “I always seem to have this effect on young men,” she said, grinning at me.
“Cookie, leave the boy alone,” said a large gentleman in an aqua Western shirt and string tie as he pulled out a chair next to the cookbook author. He slid a paper plate on the table—it was piled high with three different pastries, two mini muffins, a croissant, and a bagel with cream cheese—and sat heavily, the chair bouncing a bit from his weight.
“This is Jimbo Barnes, my manager,” Stella said. She turned to him. “You musta heard of Jessica Fletcher, the famous mystery writer. Well, here she is in the flesh. And this handsome guy is her nephew, Grady.”
Jimbo nodded at me and reached across Stella to give Grady’s hand a shake. “Nice to meet ya,” he said. “Hey, don’t I know you from somewhere?”
“You look familiar to me, too,” Grady said, “but I can’t quite place you.”
“The airport,” I put in.
Jimbo and Grady looked at me perplexed.
“I recognized the cowboy boots.”
“My boots?” Jimbo looked down at his feet and smiled. “These were custom-made special for me in El Paso, boot capital of the world.”
“Oh, right,” Grady said, hunching his shoulders. “I nearly knocked you down with my aunt’s suitcase.”
“You and the boy. I remember now. That’s all right; no harm done.” He pulled a red kerchief from his pocket and wiped it over the pointed toes of his boots.
“You makin’ friends behind my back, Jimbo?” Stella said, leaning into Grady.
“Don’t pay no mind to this flirt. She loves to discomfort all the men. I think it’s her hobby.”
“Now, that ain’t nice, Jimbo,” Stella said. “I just like to have gentlemen around me. Makes me feel young and pretty.” She nibbled at a cherry Danish that she’d speared with a fork, and her eyes rose to the ceiling while she contemplated its taste. Startled, she swallowed and grabbed Jimbo’s hand just as he was about to bite into a croissant. “Darlin’, do you see the color of that air vent up there? That’s exactly the shade that I want painted on the wall in my office, you kno
w, the one I built with the pictures of me with all the celebrities.” She leaned forward and shook her fork at me. “Jessica, we must take a picture together before this commercial nonsense is over. I got me this great wall at home—I call it my ‘Wall of Fame’—and it’s covered with photographs of me with every famous person I’ve ever met since the TV show started up. They’re signed, too. Ah’m gonna put our picture together right at the very top.” She patted her manager’s arm. “Where’s your briefcase, Jimbo? Get your camera.”
“Not now, Cookie,” he said, stuffing the entire croissant into his mouth. In a voice muffled by bread, he added, “The meetin’s about to start.”
Chapter Four
“Ladies and gentlemen. If I may have your attention.” A man I hadn’t noticed before had taken a seat at the head of the table next to Betsy Archibald, who carefully lined up the pencils next to her pad. He was dressed casually in a gray V-neck sweater over a white T-shirt, which half covered a gold chain around his neck. His hair was neatly cropped close to his head, but he appeared not to have shaved for several days.
“That’s Howerstein,” Grady whispered to me, “the producer.”
“Daniel would like to go over the schedule,” Betsy announced, nodding to two young people holding stacks of folders. The pair efficiently distributed them to those assembled around the table. The logo for Eye Screen Productions was prominent on the cover.
“I won’t keep you long,” Howerstein said without preamble. “We have a lot to do and only a few days in which to do it. I know how important your time is.” He emphasized the “your,” but from the way he kept glancing at his watch, I had a feeling it was his time he was concerned with. He riffled through several papers in his folder and drew one out. “We have planned the shoot for the middle of next week. We should be able to complete all four spots in that time frame. A car service will pick up the talent at their hotels each morning. Please let Jason or Lucy, our PAs—that’s our shorthand for production assistants—know where you are staying.” He pointed to the young man and young woman who had helped pass around the folders. Jason raised his hand and smiled.
“We’ll start in the morning, going one at a time, continuing on the next day for whatever we haven’t finished. We’re holding the location for a third day, but I don’t think we’ll need it,” Howerstein continued. “Please come prepared with your lines memorized. There aren’t a lot of them.” His gaze took in those of us around the table.
“Yes, please do,” Betsy put in. “Every second costs money in production. And—”
Howerstein cut her off. “I hope you’ve had an opportunity to meet each other this morning. And to—”
“And to meet Mr. Tedeschi from Permezzo,” Betsy interrupted again, cocking her head at Antonio, who took her introduction as a cue to speak.
“Yes, yes,” he said, pushing back his chair and getting to his feet. “Permezzo are so pleased to have such distinguished celebrities as yourself endorse our service.” His eyes roamed around the table till they made contact with each of us who was to appear in the commercials: Stella Bedford, Lance Sevenson, Anne Tripper, and me. “We have a little surprise for our distinguished guests, a gratificazione. ” He reached into an attaché and withdrew four packets, which he passed to us. On the front of my thick envelope, in an elegant script that must have been hand-lettered by a calligrapher, were the words “Jessica Fletcher Knows Permezzo.” “Open, open, please,” Antonio said, smiling benevolently at his recipients, his palms pressed together in front of his ample girth.
I lifted the flap of the envelope carefully, reluctant to damage the paper with its beautiful writing. Across the table, Lance Sevenson’s assistant watched as he ripped the packet down one side and extracted the slim red leather case it contained. He lifted the lid, pulled out a platinum Permezzo card, and, holding it between his index and middle fingers, waved it at Antonio. I opened my package to find the same thing, as did Stella.
Anne Tripper, who’d waited to see what our envelopes contained, left hers unopened on the table.
“It is a little gift from Permezzo,” Antonio said, his eyes twinkling. “We have put twenty-five thousand dollars on it for each of you to buy whatever you like.” He raised his eyebrows waiting for the response.
“I hope you don’t think that’s all the money you’re paying me to be in your commercial,” Lance said, “because if you are, you’ve got another think coming.”
Betsy had been leaning forward to see our reactions to Antonio’s present. She frowned. “Really, Lance, this is not the time,” she said coldly.
Antonio’s face fell. “You misunderstand,” he said sharply. “This is from the heart, a gift for you. This is not business.”
Anne smirked.“It’s all business, Antonio, or we wouldn’t be here,” she said, sliding her unopened package into her red purse.
Lance, who was sitting next to her, snatched up her hand and studied her large ring. “Buy yourself that black opal?”
“What business is it of yours?”
“Gems and stones are my business,” Lance said, grinning at her. “It’s bad luck if you buy an opal for yourself. Bet you didn’t know that.”
Anne pulled her hand away with disgust and hid it under the table. She started to say something in return, but I raised my voice to be heard above other conversation.
“Thank you, Signore Tedeschi,” I said. “This is very generous of you. I’m sure we all can put it to good use.”
He smiled at me, but it was a sad smile.
“Ah’m gonna skip on over to Tiffany’s when we leave here,” Stella said, winking at Antonio. “Would you like to come along? I always like having a handsome man on my arm when I’m buyin’ jewelry.”
“No. No,” Antonio said, recovering his cheerful demeanor, “but you buy for yourself something very beautiful for a beautiful lady.”
“Don’t you worry your head about that. I surely will. And I’ll show it off to you, too.”
Anne gave out a loud sigh. “Can we get this meeting going, please? You may have time to go shopping,” she said, giving Stella a baleful look, “but I have important appointments today.”
“Hon, there ain’t nothing more important than buying diamonds,” Stella said, putting on a show of tucking her card in her cleavage.
Howerstein jotted down something on a piece of paper, folded it in quarters, and wrote a name on the top. From where I sat, I couldn’t see whose name it was. He gestured to Lucy, the production assistant, and handed her the note.
Antonio cleared his throat. “Yes. We will begin now. I begin by saying that Permezzo has a celebrated history in Europe,” he said, launching into what I expected might become a long speech. “We were first to include concierge service for our marvelous customers.” He flicked his fingers as if shooing something away. “The other cards,” he said, making a face, “they have only a few things.”
“If I may?” Betsy broke in.
Antonio frowned at her, but she quickly added, “We are providing everyone with a history of this wonderful company so they can see how important it is. Inside your folders, ladies and gentlemen, you’ll find this elegant brochure.” She held up a colorful booklet with a picture on the cover of a smiling couple clearly delighted with Permezzo’s services.
Antonio nodded at Betsy. “Yes, yes, this is a very good piece,” he said, turning back to his audience. “You will see how we took all the experience of our competitors who develop their service in the twentieth century, and we—how you say?—do them better. Permezzo is on the toe to take over the twenty-first-century market to create the premier business service for successful executives, like yourself.”
He prattled on for a few more minutes, praising his company’s foresight in anticipating and delivering what the sophisticated traveler would need in the new millennium, but when he paused to take a breath, Howerstein jumped in.
“Thank you, Mr. Tedeschi,” he boomed. “We are all big Permezzo fans here. And it is our goal to m
ake Permezzo a household name in America. How are we going to do that? Well, we’ll start with the commercials we’re going to shoot next week.” He lowered his voice as if giving confidential information. “If any of our distinguished guests have questions for Mr. Tedeschi, we’ll arrange to keep the conference room open as long as you need it following the meeting.” Howerstein shot a smile at Antonio. “Right! Now, let’s go over the scripts and the storyboards. I’m certain Mr. Tedeschi will tell you that what’s key for Permezzo’s success is that the spots we’re about to film go off smoothly.”
Antonio bobbed his head in agreement and flopped back into his seat.
The production assistants, carrying trays, circled the table offering everyone bottled water and clearing away our plates from the buffet. For the next twenty minutes, we reviewed the material in the folders, going over sheets of paper that laid out the assignments for each day of shooting, who the crew would be, where the talent—us—was supposed to be at each point in the production, and what our lines were for the commercial. He also explained the storyboard, an illustrated version of the spot, something like a comic book page, giving not just the characters and dialogue but also a rough idea of camera angle, props, and wardrobe.
Lance raised a hand to get Howerstein’s attention. “I have an important question,” he called out. He poked his assistant, Lena, with his elbow, and pointed his chin toward her pad.
She quickly picked up her pen and sat with it poised over the paper, ready to take down the conversation verbatim.
“Yes, Mr. Sevenson?” the producer said, tapping on the face of his watch.
“Who is going to be directing this illustrious group, and why has he not deigned to attend this meeting?”
The scratching of Lena’s pen was the only sound in the momentary silence that followed Lance’s query.
Betsy jumped in before Howerstein could answer. “I can answer that. Our agency, Mindbenders, has selected a prominent Hollywood director, Adam Akmanian. He directed the hit On the Planet Pluto.”
Madison Avenue Shoot Page 4
