by Nero Blanc
Belle put down her pencil, shoved aside the sheet of graph paper upon which she’d begun constructing a new crossword for Newcastle’s Evening Crier, shivered, and gazed at her dog Kit. The lanky, multicolored mutt lay curled in happy, puppy dreamland near the base of an overworked space heater. The electronic device was struggling in vain to keep the house’s converted rear porch at a temperature that could be deemed remotely habitable and pleasant. Studying both the dog and the heater, Belle momentarily considered stretching out on the floor beside Kit and borrowing a little of her furry warmth. Instead, Belle sighed, pulled the long cuffs of her bulky cable-knit sweater over her hands, hunched her shoulders, and wondered whether she should search for her down vest—and then whether the interminable dark days of winter were ever going to depart.
The phone rang, interrupting her gloomy reverie. She reached for it, forgetting to peel back her sweater-mitten. The combination of clenched fingers and wool sent the receiver spinning to the floor, where it clattered sharply against the painted wood floorboards. The sharp noise woke Kit, who immediately sprang to her feet and began barking at the garden door.
“It’s okay, Kitty. It’s just the phone,” Belle said as she bent to rescue the receiver. “Nobody’s outside … Nobody would want to be outside … Shhh …”
“… I can’t believe Legal didn’t set this up! They should be shot!” a male voice bellowed when she finally lifted the chilly plastic receiver to her ear. “I mean, I can’t do everything, can I? And if you consider how fast they got contracts out to the others … They’d never pull a stunt like this with a cast member, I’ll tell you that much. In a word, the show’s technical consultant should at least be awarded the same courtesy as the actors!”
Belle squinted in confusion while her eyes drifted back to the crossword on her desk. “Pardon me? Who’s calling?”
“Chick Darlessen, of course.” The voice on the other end of the line sounded outraged—more than outraged. Belle couldn’t detect whether it was a result of her query or his own personal problem. She was about to inform her irate caller that he’d gotten the wrong number when he blurted out an aggrieved, “This is Annabella Graham, isn’t it? The crossword editor? The crossword sleuth, I should say?”
Belle took a moment to answer. To say, “You have the wrong number,” seemed a tempting response, but she realized he would only call her back. So she reluctantly admitted, “Yes …”
“Well, my idiot secretary got something right! Glory be! She assured me she had you holding on the line, Ms. Graham …”
Belle looked at the spot on the floor where the phone had fallen, as if it might yield some vital piece of omitted information: words on paper, or perhaps individual letters scattered across the wood forming the missing link in this peculiar conversation.
“… As I was saying, I can’t believe Legal made such a heinous blunder. I’ll take it upon myself to apologize for them. Yours should have been one of the first contracts issued, instead of waiting for the word from me—the creator.” It was said as if he had a direct line to the real Creator.
Belle ran a hand through her blonde hair; it was a habitual gesture when she was perplexed. Her frown of incomprehension increased. “I’m afraid I really don’t know what you’re talking about Mr.—”
“The M.O.W., of course”
“M.O.W.?”
“Movie of the week …? Anatomy of a Crossword! The TV movie.” He sighed audibly and ferociously. “Okay, here it is—the M.O.W. I’m the screenwriter … more significantly, the creator of the show … And you’re going to be our technical consultant? Yes? No? Yes? Right? At least, you’re supposed to be—if Legal hadn’t totally screwed up and failed to contact you two months ago … And, please, please, please don’t tell me you’re unavailable. I’ll just shoot myself in that case … I mean, we need you on the set, like yesterday. Look, Anna—”
“It’s, Belle … My name is, Belle. Not Anna.”
Belle’s eyes returned to the streaked, frosty window panes. A number of thoughts raced through her brain: first, April Fool’s Day was a long way off; second, although this Darlessen person was obviously upset, he didn’t sound completely irrational or necessarily dangerous, that is, he didn’t seem typical of one of the prank callers she had become accustomed to; and third, “Legal.” That was always a potent word as far as she was concerned. As a constructor and an editor of a newspaper’s daily crossword, as well as the creator of a number of puzzle collections, she knew about deadlines and what was or was not binding—contractwise.
“I’m going to have to ask you to step back a moment, Mr. Darlessen. Whoever was supposed to contact me from Legal, didn’t, and in reality, I haven’t a clue as to what you’re talking about. Sorry.”
Another aggravated sigh greeted Belle’s response. “I’m going to personally murder those morons at the studio. I am! I swear I am … This is the last time I sign on to do anything with Groslir, I swear … Look, we’ve got Shay Henlee, Dan Millray, Andy Hofren—”
“To do what?” Belle asked. She recognized the names: all famous actors whose monikers had appeared numerous times in Bartholomew Kerr’s Evening Crier gossip column.
“To do what?! Why, to film your story, of course!” Darlessen groaned.
“My—?” Looking at Kit, who was now circling around as though creating a nest in a bed of leaves before lying down, Belle realized she was as out of sync as her dog. There was Kit, acting out some stone-age memory of caves and campfires, while her human companion, ensconced in a chilly rear porch of an eighteenth-century New England town house, was coping with impossibly glamorous names—movie stars’ names—and the disembodied voice of a man who claimed he’d written a TV show about—Her?
“You know! The one where you solved the crime at that snowbound country inn … remember, the suspicious recipe … and the crossword …? And the husband who woke up dead the next morning …?”
Belle didn’t answer for a long minute. She couldn’t, although she vividly recalled the situation to which Chick Darlessen was referring: the secret and unsettling alliances and animosities of the couples involved, as well as the startling amount of media attention the murder had received. The wealth and notoriety of the victim and his erstwhile friends had insured that. But to imagine anyone wanting to make a television movie … Belle shook her head while her glance drifted across her office—a puzzle motif run rampant. There were black and white captains chairs, the wood floor was painted to resemble a crossword grid, curtains were hand-blocked with a similar scheme, and a lamp whose rectangular shade held four of her most clever word games. There was nothing remotely glamorous in sight.
“Are you still there, Ms. Graham?”
“Yes. Yes, I am.”
“So, when can you get out here? I assure you I’ll make … Look, Legal can scramble up all the necessary—”
“Out where, Mr. Darlessen?”
“To Hollywood! Well, Culver City, really. That’s where the studio is. We’ll have a limo pick you up at LAX …”
Belle took another breath. “Mr. Darlessen, you’re going to have to bear with me because I’m not really sure what you need, or want, from me.”
There was another groan on the other end of the phone as well as a sound like a yelp of despair before Chick Darlessen painstakingly began to explain the situation to Belle. His pitch had been “gobbled up” by heavyweight producer Lew Groslir; Shay Henlee and the other actors had jumped at the chance to do something innovative, something breakaway and interactive; Groslir had wooed megabuck director, Dean Dilva, from another project in order to work on Anatomy …
He concluded in a suddenly honeyed tone. “… Look, with all the screw-ups here, I can certainly understand your hesitation, Anna, Ms. Graham, Belle … Consultant’s get paid, of course … hotel, first-class airfare, you name it. But if you want to negotiate for a higher salary, or perhaps a buy-out, my agent, Lee Rennegor, is your man. Blood from a stone, that’s the type of guy he is—”
“Well, Mr.—”
“Chick, sweetheart. Call me Chick, please.”
“Chick … This is all so new. I’m going to have to talk to my husband—”
“Rosco Polycrates, right. I got a bio worked up: ex-cop, now a P.I.… But I couldn’t get a pix on him. What is he, camera-shy? The invisible man? How would you describe him? From a Greek-American family, right? Maybe a Magnum type?”
“Magnum?”
“We’ve had a little problem with that part, too … Lance diRusa’s going to be testing—”
“Lance diRusa?!”
“You disagree with the choice? We can talk. I like your thinking—he’s never been one of my favorites, and nothing’s inked yet—you want someone beefier? I hope we’re not talking a guy with a gut? A Raymond Burr-type … You know what I mean … You remember him? Perry Mason? Nah, you’re probably too young for that.”
“No, it’s not that—”
“Lance is a buff chunk of male, no doubt about it. He turns on the fern viewers big time, but it’s all smoke and mirrors with him. I’ve been thinking Quinton Hanny. Major audience, there … Maybe the biggest. The demos—that’s demographics—are positioning the show to be a hit with the gals … Twenty-five to forty-six, that’s our money market … Of course, Shay’s a total fox, so the Annabella Graham part’s gonna have its sexy side … You know, bod and brains. That’s why we can’t go too … eh, large … with Rosco.”
Belle stared at the phone. Shay Henlee, she thought, the Annabella Graham part, paid consultant, limos, Hollywood agent … It was all too much to consider. “I’m going to have to call you back, Mr.—”
“Chick, honey … Please …! ‘You, Belle … Me, Chick,’ But, what’s to call back? You and me can make a deal right now … Verbal, that’s what we call it in L.A. terms, you know, like a spoken agreement … Verbal’s binding in this biz; save’s on ink, know what I mean …? But, hey, I can type up a deal-memo and fax it to you in twenty minutes if you want a little something on paper.” His voice speeded up, blipping though the phone line in an unnatural and unnerving rush. “… And if you’re worried about how many hours this gig is gonna chew up, ’Cause let’s face it, who isn’t under pressure all the time, I got great news for you. One week! That’s it! ’Course, Dean needs four to shoot this baby, but all I’m asking from you is one! A mere seven days away from home and hubby … and dog, too, right? You got a dog …? Sure, everyone in the East has a dog.”
“I—”
“Wait, wait, I got another news flash: weather.”
“Weather?”
“As in: What’s the temperature in Newcastle, Massachusetts right now? ’Cause here in So-Cal, it’s a sunny seventy-eight degrees. You could be poolside as we speak, palm trees swaying, private cabana, the whole nine yards … You got snow back there?”
“Yes.”
“How long’s it last? I mean, when’s it all kaput? March? April …? Actually, that’s gonna work in our favor, ’cause we may have to do some second-unit pick-ups. Snowy hillsides, quaint country inn, snow plows, that sort of thing.”
“Second unit?”
“Forget it, Annabella. No need for you to worry your pretty little head … I’ll bring you up to speed later. But my point is this; you could be outta there and livin’ the high life. Sunny Malibu, T-shirts, sandals … in-line skates down at Venice Beach … You like to skate? And without ice? ’Cause you could be on a plane tomorrow, if you want. You talk to Rennegor, he’ll get Groslir to throw in a pair of Rollerblades.”
“I don’t know … I think you are going to have to write this information down and fax it to me. I want to talk it over with my husband. I need to consider what you’re asking me to do.”
There was a long, anxious pause on the line’s other end. “Sure, sure … gab with your hubby … Sara, too, and all your buds back East. Whatever … Dynamite characters, each and every one … believable, but quirky, you know … New England, Katherine Hepburn, Wilford Brimley, all that, cute but no pushovers … The ‘suits’ just ate up your folks … But while you’re deliberating, maybe you could do me just the smallest favor?”
“Yes?”
“That crossword that proved who done it? You know, the one you found at that country inn, with the recipe?”
“Yes, I remember.”
“Well, I’m gonna need you to make a new one for the show. One without the real folks’ names in it.”
“I—”
“Don’t say a word. We’ll talk tomorrow. Brainy gals like you gotta think, I know. I’ll shoot off that fax to you pronto. Oh, and one other little item … If you call back with a big, fat ‘Yes’—and I’m sincerely praying you will—I’ll need to dispense our design team to Newcastle ASAP. Get some snaps of the police station … Your happy home … Sara Briephs’s digs … That coffee shop where you all—”
“Lawson’s?”
“Righteroonie! Lawson’s! Love, love, love it! My team should take an hour per locale—max.”
“I’ll need to—”
“Don’t say another word! Just think, think, think while I fax, fax, fax!”
After supplying her fax number, Belle replaced the receiver and leaned back in her chair. Staring across the room, she began to wonder whether to believe anything she’d heard during the past several minutes. While Chick, three thousand miles away, also sat brooding, although his body, unlike his would-be “technical consultant’s,” remained rigid and fearful.
And here was the crux of the problem: Chick was stuck in another stupendous lie. What he hadn’t bothered to tell Belle, what he hadn’t told anyone, producer, director, cast, or more important, the studio legal department—was that he’d barreled full steam ahead on the project, insisting he had everything under control, all the pieces in place, everything sewn up. In fact, he’d been using Belle’s name as well as large chunks of her personal history—somewhat modified, of course—without ever speaking to her or obtaining permission. He hadn’t considered the effort important. A dame from some burg in Massachusetts—what’s to worry? he’d told himself. Hollywood calls? Who says no? But his innate laziness or his conscious scheming had finally caught up with him. And to make matters worse, the pivotal crossword that he’d “hired” a neighbor/friend to create for the show was a total bust. The “friend” had stiffed him, opting to spend the last few weeks in a marijuana-induced stupor that showed no signs of abating.
Now here it was a little over a week before principal shooting was scheduled to start, and Chick Darlessen’s career was on the line—maybe even over before it had begun. To say that he was sweating bullets would have been a major understatement.
CHAPTER 3
“Nan DeDero’s playing who?” Martha Leonetti, head waitress, all-around queen bee, and presiding martinet of Lawson’s Coffee Shop in downtown Newcastle, couldn’t conceal her disbelief. Her shellacked, bottle-blonde hairdo quivered, which was a highly unusual occurrence; even during a serious nor’easter, it was almost impossible to make those processed locks stir.
“Sara,” Belle mumbled as she looked across the pink formica tabletop at Sara Crane Briephs, doughty dowager empress of the city’s social set. “Nan DeDero’s playing Sara.”
Martha almost spilled her carafe of coffee. “That is the most inane piece of casting I have ever heard! Nan DeDero’s got a mouth like a sailor—and probably as many guys in as many ports. The Globe had three pages on her just last month. She wouldn’t know a lady from a leprechaun. Even if you told her one of them was real short.” In a lifetime full of surprises, Martha never ceased to amaze her regular customers when it came to her various fields of expertise. In this case, she displayed an almost encyclopedic knowledge of the complex and often steamy existences of film and television personalities.
“Are you going to stand there pontificating, Martha, or are you going to give me some java?” This was Al Lever speaking; Lieutenant Al Lever, chief homicide detective of the Newcastle Police Department. Along with Sara and Belle and her husband Ros
co, Al was part of Lawson’s informal Saturday Morning Breakfast Bunch. The numbers swelled on occasion, but this was the core group, including Martha, of course, who was always on hand for service, gossip, and endearing comments, although not necessarily in that order.
Naturally, the relationships of these five people stretched beyond the confines of the antiquated eatery with the scarred but well-loved pink countertop, the time-worn linoleum tiles, and the plate glass windows into which LAWSON’S had long ago been etched in a bold and florid script. Sara, regal and with a private heart of platinum, served as Belle’s adoptive grandmother, mentor, and dearest friend. Rosco had been Al’s partner before he’d quit the NPD to become a private eye. “Albert,” so styled by Sara, had served as best man at Rosco’s wedding to one Belle Graham; who’d met her husband because he’d once been hired, sight unseen, by a certain domineering grande dame named—Sara Briephs. And the wisecracking and proudly blue-collar Martha? Well, in true small-town-in-the-middle-of-a-big-city fashion, she and Sara were fond and loyal members of their church’s sewing circle.
“Keep your shirt on, Big Al.” Martha sloshed coffee into a thick restaurant cup that sat atop a cherry-colored paper placemat, while Al, accustomed to running his own show, merely opened and closed his beefy fingers in a gesture of hopeless submission. “And don’t even think about lighting up here, Al. New rules … No smokes.”
“But I wasn’t—”
“I saw you. Sara saw you. My man, Rosco, saw you.”
Al affixed his former partner with a grim stare.
“Oh, surely you can make a small concession for Albert, Martha, dear. If we don’t mind his cigarettes …”
