Anatomy of a Crossword

by Nero Blanc

  “What a sad sight,” Belle murmured as Rosco’s professional gaze began assessing entrances, exits, approaches, the proximity of neighbors, and Mawbry’s account of why only Debra Marcollo’s prints had been found on the murder weapon.

  “A ‘reasonable doubt,’” he muttered under his breath, and Belle echoed the phrase. It was obvious that neither of them was comfortable with the present situation.

  In the dim light, they instinctively reached their hands toward one another and they began moving toward the building where Chick Darlessen had been murdered. “I’ve got to tell you that I’m not at all happy about what you told me about this Jillian Mawbry character,” Belle finally admitted. “He sounds like he’s simply out to make a name for himself.”

  “You won’t get any argument from me on that count.”

  “Meaning you could be ‘consulting’ on the part of the guilty person, Rosco. You’d be defending a murderer—”

  “If she did kill Chick,” Rosco repsonded. “That’s the question … because if she didn’t …”

  Belle released a trouble sigh. “You’ve always been on the right side, Rosco. You’ve never willingly protected or abetted an unjust—”

  “Right, but what if Debra’s telling the truth, as Mawbry sort of seems to believe?”

  “‘Sort of seems to believe?’ I think you’re proving my point … And, ‘I don’t know why I did it,’ sure sounds like a confession of homicide to me.”

  “Which is what the police believe and the prosecution will likely hammer home. And it’s the lifeguard’s interpretation.”

  Belle shook her head. “You heard the rumors that flew around the set yesterday, Rosco. Every one of them pointed to the fact that Debra had plenty of reasons to despise Chick.”

  “Rumors and hearsay are not the same as conclusive evidence when it comes to homicide.”

  “I realize that, but abused women often—”

  “That story’s circumstantial, Belle. Mawbry wasn’t talking about an abusive situation.”

  She swiftly countered. “It sounds to me as if he spent most of his time discussing himself and his own motives for wanting this case, and how badly he needs it to succeed.”

  Rosco didn’t respond for a moment. “Succeed was not one of Mawbry’s words; elongate would be more like it. Look, I’m not suggesting Mawbry’s an angel. In fact, I’d say he was more like a carrion bird, but I keep returning to this ‘reasonable doubt’ thing—”

  “Which he said is only a tactic to sway the jury.”

  “That’s right. That’s what he told me … But he also alluded to the fact that he believed it to be a legitimate defense … Which brings me back full circle to the notion that Debra might be telling the truth.”

  “I don’t know, Rosco. ‘The gun … just went off’ doesn’t seem like a statement issued by an innocent person—”

  “No, it doesn’t … But our legal system is based on the premise of innocent until proven guilty, a point made by Mawbry.”

  Again, neither spoke for several long minutes. Around them, the sand continued to cool while the waves, lit here and there by high-wattage deck illumination, glowed an eerie and veiny green as they rose into the night sky and then crashed down upon the shore.

  “It sounds as if you’ve decided to accept Jillian Mawbry’s offer,” Belle said at length, and Rosco’s reply was equally slow in coming.

  He shrugged. “Hey, you know me, I’m intrigued. I don’t see how I can refuse.”

  “By saying, ‘Thanks, but no thanks, Mr. Mawbry’?” Belle quipped before reverting to her serious mode. “Well, if Debra didn’t kill her boyfriend, then who did?”

  “I guess that’s what I’m going to attempt to discover.” Rosco paused and looked up at Darlessen’s dark and deserted house. “Unfortunately, if Debra does turn out to be the guilty party, then I’m stuck between a rock and a hard place.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If I discover conclusive proof that Debra did kill Chick, I’ll be under a confidentiality agreement, and therefore, unable to take what I’ve learned to the police.”

  “Do you think that’s what Mawbry has up his sleeve? He’s only putting you on knowing you’d probably ask questions anyway? Do you think he’s really trying to handcuff you? Trying to silence you?”

  “I guess time will tell.”

  CHAPTER 23

  By Wednesday morning, a sense of a new beginning had been established for the cast and crew of Anatomy of a Crossword. Having managed to make it through all of Tuesday without a single accident, death, or similar calamity befalling them, the players showed up bright and early with relatively uplifted and buoyant attitudes. No one spoke any longer about a “jinxed set,” while Sara’s performances of the previous two days had everyone wondering if the Nan DeDero “mishap” hadn’t been a blessing in disguise: no more flubbed lines, no more temperamental outbursts, no more rude comments to “lowly” second assistant directors, no more sniping at the makeup women because of their own “tacky” hair styles and acrylic fingernails, and no more lengthy monologues consisting of every four letter word in the book. Even Lew Groslir had settled down and had opted to invite Belle and Rosco into his private studio office to present his version of an apology.

  “I hope you’re not upset with my little outburst on Monday,” he began, but as neither Belle nor Rosco responded with anything more than minuscule shrugs, he continued with a hurried and clearly rehearsed, “Of course, I was devastated by Chick’s death, like everyone else—absolutely devastated. I guess that’s why you might have considered my behavior somewhat … irrational. But that’s the TV business.” He chuckled slightly. “The pressure can be astronomical. Only the strong survive, that’s what I like to say.” Lew directed his next round of statements at Belle. “I’m sure you’re feeling a lot of pressure as well, and I want to say that as far as I’m concerned, you’re handling it wonderfully. You’re very good at controlling your emotions, and I have yet to hear one negative thing about you. Not one. Believe it or not, people seem to like you.”

  “That’s reassuring,” Belle answered in a droll tone.

  “I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’d like to see us all on a little friendlier turf from here on out. I think it’ll make for a much smoother shoot.”

  “I have to tell you, Lew,” Rosco said as his eyes narrowed, “that I’m one of those husbands who gets—in your words—‘somewhat irrational’ when people fail to treat his wife with a certain amount of respect.”

  “And am I ever with you on that point, Rosco! Absolutely. I have no patience with rude behavior. None whatsoever. That’s why I’m happy to see our cast and crew getting along with Belle here. Hollywood can be a cruel place if the powers that be take it into their minds to go after you … Well then …” Lew slapped the palms of his hands on his thighs, glanced at his watch, and stood. “Now that we’ve gotten that little problem straightened out, I’m afraid I have a meeting in Burbank in half an hour. So I’ll leave you two love birds to enjoy the rest of the day’s shoot. Be sure to close the door when you leave.” Lew turned and walked out of the room.

  Belle looked at Rosco, and said, “Gosh, I feel so much better after all that. What a darling man.”

  Rosco laughed. “Shall we go back to the set and enjoy the day’s shoot?”

  “Why not? That’s an interesting choice of words: shoot, especially since they’re shooting the death scene today …” She stood, shaking her head as she glanced at the desk and chair Lew Groslir had just vacated. “Did I tell you they changed the script? I guess it was in Chick’s final rewrites … Anyway, now Dan Millray’s character, ‘Edison,’ is shot rather than suffocated with a pillow as things actually occurred back in Vermont.”

  Rosco raised an eyebrow. “Why would they change the real story?” he asked as the couple left Groslir’s office and strolled toward the stairway.

  “Dean explained it as ‘shock value.’ Blood sells better than a plain old blue face. �
��Nothing like a quick bullet to the chest to wake folks up,’ according to our director.”

  “But in the true incidence, we had the big ’cause of death’ question … There was the issue of a potential poisoning with the recipe in the crossword, as well the brief possibility that the dead man had simply succumbed from natural causes.”

  “I guess subtle isn’t what Dean is shooting for—”

  “So to speak.”

  As Belle and Rosco disappeared into the stairwell, the key grip, Don Schruko, was huddled with the special effects coordinator, Bubba Screter, at a worktable outside the makeup room. Beside the table stood a clothing rack holding five identical pairs of pajamas. Each was blue silk paisley, and each had a small hole, the size of a dime, cut into the left breast pocket.

  On the table in front of the two men sat five thin plastic packets filled with crimson “stage” blood.

  “This shouldn’t take me more than another ten minutes,” the special effects coordinator said as he began rigging the blood packs with explosive charges that had been outfitted with tiny radio receivers. “All I need to do is focus the blood splatter so that it’ll fly straight out of the breast pocket hole, then Velcro the packets into the pajamas and spot-paste these paisley dots back over the openings.” He chortled. “Dean better be able to get this shot in five takes, because after that, we’re out of clean pj’s.”

  Schruko also laughed. “If this director can’t kill Dan Millray in five takes, we’ll have to get out the real bullets.” He picked up one of the packets and examined the explosive charge. “What about blow-back, Bubba? If this thing fires inward, instead of out, our actor’s going to have a nice little hole in his chest.”

  Bubba Screter took the packet from Schruko. “Sorry, buddy, nobody handles these but me. I don’t want any screw-ups on my watch. To answer to your question, each blood pack will be backed with a sheet of aluminum, and I’ll also be taping a Kevlar shield across Dan’s chest under his pajamas. It’d never stop a real bullet, but your actor’s got nothing to worry about.”

  “Sounds good to me. I’ll be on the set. Let me know when you’re ready for our ‘dead man.’”

  “Ten minutes, max.”

  Schruko returned to the set where he found Dean Ivald and Dan Millray discussing the murder scene. The stage had been dressed to resemble a third floor guest room in a Vermont country inn. The wall and “ceiling” adjacent to the dormer windows sloped inward, as if beneath the building’s eaves, while the “view” of the “snowy fields” was lit with a bluish light intended to resemble deepest night in a secluded place. Lace curtains hung beside the glass panes. The lace motif was repeated in the canopy of the “antique” pine bed, a bureau scarf, and square doilies resting on the two night stands. Seating for this cozy “guest room” consisted of recessed window benches and a Queen Anne—style wing chair, while the backdrop walls were adorned with a subdued rose print paper. The only jarring element to this tranquil scene was a .38 caliber revolver. It sat on a prop table to the left of the set.

  Schruko approached the director as the lighting designer walked across the elevated catwalk, making her final adjustments to the fixtures clamped onto the grid.

  “Mr. Schruko, are we ready to shoot this sucker yet?” Ivald asked.

  “Just waiting for the go-ahead from Bubba. Less than ten minutes.” Schruko looked at Millray. “He’s going to need to tape you, Dan, and suit you up. Bubba’s over by makeup. If you’re ready, maybe you should be in with him.”

  The actor ambled toward makeup, and Dean Ivald turned his attention to the principal camera where the cinematographer was in the midst of attaching a white tape measure to the lens in order to gauge the distance between the bed and film plane. Behind the camera, most of the cast and crew had arrived to watch the scene: Quinton Hanny, Ginger Bradmin, Shay Henlee, Carol Von Deney, Louis Gable, Miso Lane, Andy Hofren, Madeline Richter, and Jes Nadema were all there. Sara, Belle, and Rosco had joined them. Even Nils Spemick, the casting director, recently returned from San Francisco, had put in an appearance.

  “Ahh,” Dean said with a broad smile, “nothing like a bloody good murder to bring out the flock … Well, everyone get nice and comfy, and keep the chat down to a minimum, even though I’ll be shooting this M.O.S.”

  Belle leaned toward Rosco and whispered, “M.O.S.?”

  He shrugged. “Beats me?”

  Shay Henlee, who was standing directly behind them, supplied the answer. “M.O.S. stands for without sound. Since no one has speaking lines, Dean will simply shoot the scene, and lay in the gunshot and ambient noises later.”

  “Not to appear overly dense, but shouldn’t it be W.O.S. then?” Rosco asked.

  “Legend has it that the term originated with a German director who continually pronounced the order mit out sound … so M.O.S. stuck in the business.”

  “If Dean’s filming without sound,” Belle wondered aloud, “why is he bothering to put blanks in the gun?”

  “I imagine it’s so that flame and smoke is seen coming out of the barrel, but I’m not sure.”

  “Okay people,” Ivald shouted, “just because this is going to be M.O.S. doesn’t mean we won’t be firing the murder weapon, so plug your ears if you must. And no screaming, my nerves can’t take it … Can I get Andy Hofren up here please?”

  “Andy Hofren plays the killer,” Belle whispered to Rosco.

  “I can see why he needs to shoot Dan Millray instead of smothering him,” Rosco observed with a chuckle. “He’s half the guy’s size. If Andy had to wrestle Millray with a pillow—as it really happened—it wouldn’t be an easy task.”

  Dean Ivald and Andy Hofren moved to the prop table where the director picked up the .38 and handed it to the actor. “Ever fired a single action revolver before?”

  “Oddly enough, no,” Andy replied as he rolled the gun in his hands. “On my last film, we used Uzis and AK-47s. Before that, it was semiautomatics—Glocks mostly. On New York Nightmare, I carried a Beretta, but a few actors had .357s and 9mms. I shot a Tommy gun once. On Death By a Mile, it was a sniper’s rifle, of course—a 30-06, a real beaut. And on Range Wars, because it was a Western, we had 30-30s and cap and ball .36s. Naturally, we were given M16s on—”

  “Thanks, Andy,” Dean interrupted as he retrieved the gun. “Now, you’re not actually in this shot. Only your arm appears, and you’ll be in the same shirt you’re wearing when the cops nab you … All I want our audience to see is your hand coming into the frame with the pistol. It’ll be a nice, tight shot. Quick. Clean … You’ll have the .38 about seven feet from Dan’s chest; on my cue, you’ll fire. One shot only. Bubba Screter will be on the remote control and blow up the blood pack inside the pajamas at the same moment … You’ll be firing blanks, of course, but I want to catch the flame as it emerges from the barrel. That, mixed with the flying blood, should give us a super visual.”

  “Sounds easy enough.”

  “We have five pairs of pajamas rigged, so I’ll roll film, then let Schruko get things cleaned up after each shot, and then we’ll go again.”

  “We’ll be doing all five takes?”

  “Absolutely. I love this stuff … What’s your preference, left or right?”

  “I voted for Bush … both of them, actually.”

  Dean Ivald stared at him for what seemed like an eternity, then shook his head slowly. “No, no, are you left-handed or right-handed?”

  “Oh. Right-handed.”

  “Good. Because I want the gun to come in on the left side of my frame, then fire, creating the illusion of the bullet traveling from left to right. The action should follow the same direction as the eye does when reading a book.”

  “No problemo. I like the literary reference, by the way.”

  Dean returned the gun to the prop table. “Also, make certain you’re pointing directly at Millray’s heart. He’ll be wearing protection over his chest, but nowhere else. These blanks shoot a mean paper wad out the barrel, and I don’t want to see him g
et hit in the eye with the damn thing. We’ve had enough problems already. And I also want that gun-barrel-to-heart angle perfect.”

  “The kill shot, right?” Andy said with a laugh.

  Dean sighed. “Right, Andy.” Then the director stepped back onto the set, and gazed up at the catwalk. “Can we start that snow falling outside the windows? And give me a full moon, too. I want to get a peek at it through the camera lens.”

  A voice from nowhere said, “Check,” and Dean walked over to Belle and Rosco and said, with a fair amount of pride, “Well, folks, how’s it looking?”

  Belle replied, “Just like the real place.”

  “Miso and his Polaroid—the man’s a genius. Well, you two are in for a real treat. Have you ever seen someone getting shot before?”

  “A couple of times,” was Rosco’s quiet response. “When I was with the Newcastle Police Department. It’s never a pretty sight. You don’t realize how powerful a gun is until you see someone’s flesh being ripped apart by a bullet. That’s one reason I tend not to carry a gun. I prefer to see things done with minimal bloodshed.”

  Dean’s jaw dropped open, and he remained speechless for a long moment. Finally he said, “No. No. I’m talking about the movies here, Rosco. Have you ever seen how we shoot someone on film? Not … not in real life.”

  “Nope, I never have.”

  The director sighed and shook his head again, then returned his concentration to the set. “What do you think of that snow? Makes you cold just looking at it, doesn’t it?”

  “I was going to ask about that,” Belle said. “If you have a full moon, how can it be snowing?”

  Ivald studied the scene. “Well, we have to light the ‘exterior’ somehow, otherwise we get black windows, glare from the stage lights …” He continued to gaze at the windows, then said, “No, I like it. I like the snow with the blue light. I like a full moon. I like the way it highlights each one of the snow flakes. We keep it. It works for me. You know what I call it?”