by Nero Blanc
Dean stepped from the production office and closed the door behind him. He strolled down the hall, and at the end he was nearly tackled by Lew Groslir.
“Well? Well? What’d she say? What’d she say?”
“Relax, Lew. What did I tell you earlier? Good cop-bad cop gets them every time. She’s thinking it over, but she has no choice; she’ll play right into our hands. Of course, she probably hates your guts.”
“I know. I’m almost sorry we had to carry it out this way.”
“Forget it, Lew, you’re the producer … Everyone hates your guts.”
The two men shared a pleased, complacent chuckle. Once again, Dean placed his arm over Lew’s shoulder, and they headed back toward the office and Belle. But before opening the door, Dean said, “We have another slight problem, Lew … Now that Chick’s out of the picture, so to speak, we’re going to need Belle to stick around for the entire four-week shoot as an advisor. We can send her hubby and the old lady packing on Saturday, but Belle’s got to stay behind. I suggest you have a little tête-à-tête with Lee Rennegor before we approach her with this. Lee may be greedy enough to lock her into something if it’s fat enough—without running it by his client first.”
“You know, Dean, for a director, you’re pretty slimy. Have you ever thought of becoming a producer?”
CHAPTER 19
Shay Henlee was so weary and distracted that she left the studio without bothering to remove her “Belle” costume or blonde wig. It had been a long, weird day, and she felt the leaden claws of depression bearing relentlessly down upon her shoulders. Chick Darlessen was dead; his girlfriend, Debra, was behind bars; and a soundstage full of dispirited actors were murmuring innuendoes—Chick had been emotionally abusive; Debra was a dipso who still had the hots for Lance, her ex, whom Chick had all but blackballed from a part on Anatomy … it was enough to send any brain reeling. And the troubling part was that it was all true: every sordid, little, regurgitated detail.
Shay sighed, turned her car, by rote, toward her home in the hills near the Hollywood reservoir. It wasn’t a chichi address like some of her fellow performers boasted, nor was it a big or lavish house that reflected her earning power, her ever-escalating “quote” as a rising film star. Unlike others in her category, Shay didn’t have a live-in boyfriend, or girlfriend, or personal trainer, or private chef, or any of the entourage her current celebrity might have called for. She didn’t entertain at home, either, or permit media shoots featuring her in her hillside cactus garden or sunbathing on her deck. The house on El Contento Drive, Shay felt, should be just that, a welcoming haven that remained separated from the hurly-burly of life in the entertainment business. And when she decided to go for a hike in nearby Griffith Park or take a picnic and encamp under the stars at the Hollywood Bowl, she needed to be anonymous, just another face in the crowd.
Her almost obsessive need for seclusion had nothing to do with the fact that Shay lived with her mother. All right, maybe it did a little. Okay, maybe more than a little. But if anyone ever queried her on why a thirty-something actress would even consider sharing a home with her mom, Shay would have countered with a swift, “Because she’s my best friend, that’s why—besides being the most terrific cook in the entire universe! And while you’re fighting with your current squeeze about who forgot to buy milk or whose audition went better, or worse, I’ll be happily ensconced with someone who has always loved me.”
Leaving Cahuenga Boulevard (the actress’ other peculiarity was a steady dislike of freeways) to begin following the twisting roads to home, San Marco to Deep Dell to Rinconia and El Contento, Shay considered what her mom’s reaction to Chick’s death would be, and what questions she’d ask about Debra Marcollo, and how, hopefully—under her wise and intuitive prodding—this horrible tragedy would begin to achieve some kind of perspective and maybe even a sense of peace.
Shay shivered, although the response wasn’t due to the cooling air. Poor Debra, she thought. What had driven her to shoot her boyfriend? Had she “snapped,” as some people suggested? Was she drunk and therefore not fully in control of her actions? Or had Chick badgered, criticized, or belittled her until she was no longer capable of thinking rationally? Or was she justifiably steamed because Chick hadn’t held his part of their bargain and cast her in Anatomy? What causes an apparently “normal” person to take another human being’s life?
But those questions were immediately overshadowed by her thoughts of Poor Chick! A screenwriter on the cusp of fame, simply bursting with his sudden good fortune! New wheels, new home, new threads. Alive and at the top of your game one day, and the next—gone. Forever and ever and ever.
Shay shivered again, then rolled down her window to feel the evening breeze and smell the fresh and pungent scent of the eucalyptus trees. As the night air blew into the car, her “blonde” locks lifted slightly, billowing upward in delicate strands, precisely the way the true Belle’s hair moved. The wig was a good one; it looked and behaved exactly like living human hair, and Shay’s reaction was to brush the hair away with the quick, impatient gesture of a pretty woman who has better things to do than spend time on her appearance. The action was a faithful copy of one Belle had used a thousand times.
The man in the vehicle following Shay’s noted this replicated gesture. He’d been tailing the blonde woman since she’d left the studio parking lot, and this was the first time he was absolutely certain he’d been pursuing the right person. Her final destination was the only thing he found surprising.
As Shay distractedly opened and closed the electronic door of her garage, and her mother called out her habitually cheery words of greeting, the original Belle just as dispiritedly turned toward Sara with her own poor effort at an affable smile. The two women were ensconced in Sara’s suite at their hotel in Santa Monica waiting for Rosco to return from his evening run before they ventured out to find some dinner. And Sara, never one to remain silent, was enthusing about her first day on the set and the “pivotal scene” she’d already shot.
“… Oh, I believe I truly have found my métier, dear!” she gushed. “Dean says I’m a natural-born actress. Now, it’s possible that he’s simply being kind, but still …”
Belle’s smile stretched wider and thinner. Not for anything in the world would she rain on Sara’s parade, no matter what Lew Groslir had dictated concerning her dealings with the older lady.
“Imagine, at my age! A new career … Why, who knows what the future has in store? You know Dean—and that rather charming Lew Groslir fellow—were both mentioning the word Emmy … Well, more than mentioning, if the truth be told. The two men seem to feel our little vehicle may just be worthy of industry recognition, which would be a fitting reward for poor Mr. Darlessen.” Sara cocked her head to one side as she studied Belle, noticing for the first time her unaccustomed reticence and unease. “Are you all right, dear?”
“Fine, Sara,” Belle lied. “A little tired, that’s all.”
The older woman, chiding her gently, recommended vitamins, exercise, and a decent meal while Belle responded with a number of dutiful nods.
“And, no doubt you’re upset over Mr. Darlessen’s death. Everyone is,” Sara continued. “Well, of course, it’s a terrible, terrible shock. And that poor girl who killed him … What an awful tragedy.”
Belle nodded again, then rallied. “Which scene was it Dean had you do today?”
Sara brightened immediately. “The one where I’m toying with the crossword while you and Rosco are upstairs examining the murder scene.”
“You’re sitting near the fireplace in the inn’s main sitting area, the dead man’s widow is fighting with his business partner’s wife, and you’re feigning disinterest—”
Sara’s blue eyes sparkled with pleasure and pride. “All I did was look at the puzzle and pretend not to hear them squabbling … Dean said it was a ‘brilliant and understated performance—quite remarkable in a novice’! Those were his exact words … I think both Carol Von Deney and Gin
ger Bradmin were miffed that I received so much praise. Although, I must admit, Belle, I owe some of my successful faux concentration to you … all those Shakespearean references you wove into the crossword. I really did enjoy hunting for the clues.”
Belle stared at her friend. “What Shakespearean references?”
“The ones from As You Like It.” Sara reached into her script bag and pulled out the puzzle. “Props said I could keep this copy, as they’ll be using fresh ones for subsequent scenes.”
Belle took the crossword. The grid was identical to the one she’d created for the show, but like the word game that had welcomed her to Los Angeles, the clues were entirely different.
IT’S JUST A STAGE
Across
1. Petites; abbr.
4. Greek letter
7. Later; abbr.
10. Tiny
13. Dose; med. abbr.
14. Mr. Torn
15. “… lend me your___”
16. “For Love of___”
17. Orlando’s vehicle
20. “___no evil …”
21. Mr. Butler
22. Siouan
23. Polanski film
24. “… sans___ …”, re: 61–Across
26. Bat material
27. Mayday
28. Likely
29. Vegas lead-in
31. Shakespearean oath
34. Mr. Cassini
36. What’s “Blowin’ in the Wind”
37. ——Jima
40. “… the men and women merely___”, re: 61–Across
42.___–Cat
43. Sends a wire
45. Restaurant offering
46. Slacker
47. Deal memo; abbr.
48. Summer drink
51. Power group
52. Clear tables
54. The third age, re: 61–Across
56. Beineix film
58. Light filter
59. ___Man
60. Mr. Amin
61. The stage, in 17–Across
65. Classic car
66. 2001 computer
67. ___–Eyed Jacks
68. ___the line
69. Sunbathe
70. Ms. Irving
71. Asner and Ames
72. Mr. Barrett, of Pink Floyd
Down
1. Laconian capital
2. Accident
3. Trickiest
4. Mr. Capote
5. Ache
6. News org.
7. “… sans___ …”, re: 61–Across
8. Scott of Happy Days
9. Mr. Carney
10. “Full of___and modern instances:”, re: 61–Across
11. Arden and others
12.“… sans___ …”, re: 61–Across
18. Six-time home run champ
19. Delivers a ten count
23. Costumes
25. Romeo & Juliet
26. Lost
27. Arousing
30. ___Well That Ends Well
32. TV room
33. Sold out of seats; abbr.
35. Gold’s arena?
36. Florence’s river
37. Here in France
38. Tobacco ball
39. “… and mere …”, re: 61–Across
41. Slippery ones
44. Ms. Home
48. Turns away
49. Send out
50. Ate away
52. “In fair round___ …”, re: 61–Across
53. Maximum; abbr.
55. Spanish gold
56. What gossips dish
57. “What’s the big___?”
58. Type of fan mag
61. Surprised reaction
62. Garden tool
63. Howards___
64. Mr. Craven
To download a PDF of this puzzle, please visit openroadmedia.com/nero-blanc-crosswords
CHAPTER 20
“No, Rosco, I didn’t explain to Sara that I hadn’t created the It’s Just A Stage crossword. How could I? Truthfully, I didn’t know what to tell her—especially in light of Lew Groslir’s diatribe and his insistence that I keep her in the dark.” Belle’s shoulders were hunched, and her spine curved with what looked to Rosco like a sign of defeat. She sighed, then seemed to sink deeper into unhappy meditation while beneath her the bed’s quilted blue coverlet appeared equally depressed. Both person and object looked as if all the stuffing had been pummeled out of them.
Rosco walked across the hotel room. He sat beside his wife, took her hand, and said, “I think you need to put all of this junk out of her head. Relax and go with the flow. It’s the L.A. way.”
“I’m trying to, but everything seems to just keep fwapping back at me.”
“Fwapping? Fwapping? That’s a word?”
Belle smiled—barely. “You know what I mean … Just when I’m trying to deal with Chick’s death, when we all are, Groslir’s gross vitriol comes along … And then I make nice, only to find that someone’s tampering with the crossword Darlessen had me construct for the show.”
“But fwapping’s not a real term?” Rosco persisted.
“No … well, I don’t believe so.”
Rosco let out a small laugh as he slipped his other arm around Belle’s waist. “Since when don’t you know if a word is or is not the genuine article? This is sounding like serious meltdown to me.”
Belle tried to smile again, but the effort was curtailed as tears came to her eyes. “Maybe I just don’t care anymore, or maybe words just don’t seem that important right now …” She shook her head. “First Chick … and then this Lew business … and all those threats about contracts. This isn’t fun, Rosco. I’ve never had someone fight with me like that.”
“No, it isn’t fun …” He held her close, and the two remained silent for some minutes.
Outside their window, Ocean Avenue was also devoid of human sound. Dinner between the threesome of Belle, Rosco, and Sara was long since past. The older woman, still glowing with excitement and newfound stardom, had been safely tucked into her neighboring suite while the light drizzle that had kicked up earlier as they’d strolled along the Third Street Promenade had turned into a full-fledged winter rain. The spattering of drops against the glass was a noise Belle ordinarily found comforting. Tonight it had the reverse effect. The rainy season in L.A. Who knew there was such a thing? she thought.
“No, it’s not fun,” Rosco reiterated at length. “And I’m sorry I wasn’t there when Groslir started attacking you. I probably would have punched him in the nose.”
“Which would have landed us in the middle of a lawsuit.” Belle sighed afresh. “‘I’ll sue your butt’ seems to be the phrase of choice around Hollywood.”
“Okay,” Rosco said after another momentary lull. “Let’s take a look at what’s really going on here.”
“One homicide, one overly aggressive movie producer, two weird crosswords, and two peculiar accidents.”
“Leaving Chick, Groslir, and Nan aside for the moment,” Rosco said as he kicked off his shoes and flipped them across the room, “why don’t we start with the crosswords, which truthfully don’t seem remotely sinister to me … Or, to be honest, even connected to the other situations. You had the Greetings! puzzle first, and then this Shakespeare deal that Sara was handed today, neither of which seem any more suspicious than regular fan mail … Given the fact that you’re out here as a celebrity in your own right—”
“I know, they’re legit expressions of respect, and I shouldn’t worry.” Although Belle’s reply seemed in agreement with Rosco’s suggestion, her tone indicated the opposite was true.
“I’m not saying don’t worry about the other issues. I’m simply suggesting we separate the crosswords from anything else connected to Anatomy.”
“Okay …”
“That didn’t sound overly enthusiastic.” Rosco’s arms now held his wife tight.
She looked into his face, so close, so familiar, so loving and kind. “Okay.”
“Okay.” She allowed herself a gentle, self-deprecating laugh. “Two pieces of anonymous crossword fan mail.”
“That’s the spirit,” Rosco said. “Now … let’s start with Groslir … Much as I think the guy’s a jerk for browbeating you, he does have three signed contracts and legal precedents on his side.”
Belle’s mood reverted instantaneously, and her body language followed suit. “If I’d known how potentially dangerous it was to be part of this movie, Rosco, I would never have allowed Sara to come out here. That’s what’s really bothering me.”
“Hold on there … One: Sara’s her own person; nothing—and I mean nothing—would have prevented her from grabbing this chance at some campy entertainment. Two: if you’re referring to Nan’s accident, that’s all it was. Unfortunate? Sure. Scary for everyone involved? Absolutely. But accidents can happen, Belle.”
“What about the original ‘Rosco’?”
“I’ll bet car crashes occur so often in Southern California that folks don’t even blink an eye any longer … Maybe that’s why most people out here own multiple vehicles—because one’s always in the body shop.”
Belle didn’t respond immediately; when she did, it was clear that Rosco’s argument had had little effect. “I just don’t have a good feeling about this situation. And I’m not talking about the Chick and Debra disaster.”
“Sara’s not in danger, Belle.” Rosco tried for a reassuring chuckle. “Heck, if I’d thought this set—or anything remotely involved with spending a week in Los Angeles—was potentially harmful, I wouldn’t have let you come out here, let alone Sara.”
Belle raised her eyebrows. “Didn’t I hear you mention something earlier about people making their own decisions?” Then she shook her head. “Something weird’s going on, Rosco … I don’t know what, but it’s not good.”
“Well, I vote we put all concerns on the back burner till tomorrow. There’s nothing to be gained by stewing over it tonight.”
