by Nero Blanc
“Oh, please. Welcome home, Joe McCarthy.” Belle heard a male voice mutter, but her search for this latest mystery cynic was curtailed as Lew Groslir took up where Dean Ivald had left off. The producer’s words and tone took an entirely different tack, however. Where Ivald had been benign and encouraging, Groslir was now combative and demanding.
“And come Monday morning, I don’t want to hear another gripe out of any of you. That goes for you, Gable, and for Carol, and Ginger, and Quint, too. Talk to Dean, fine. Bellyache, sure, go ahead. If you want to whine about an ex-hubby or a lover who jilted you, that’s between you and Dean. But just remember who does the hiring and the firing in this town. Actors who earn reputations as being difficult to work with or overly political won’t find it easy to get future jobs.”
“Let’s not be too hard on our happy, little band, Lew. Everyone needs to vent on occasion.”
“‘Vent’ all you want. Me, I save words like that for the guys who install air conditioners … I’m telling it like it is, Dean. These people want to work, they don’t make waves … They don’t even make a tiny splash. And that goes for the crew, as well.” With that, Groslir turned and marched away. Ivald followed close behind.
No one moved; no one seemed to even draw a breath. In the eerie stillness that gripped the soundstage, Belle became aware that Shay Henlee was standing nearby, and looking at her intently. “Can I talk to you?” she murmured in a nearly inaudible voice. “In private?”
CHAPTER 33
Belle knocked on the door of Shay’s private trailer, the actress’ home away from home for the duration of the filming of Anatomy. The star opened it herself before Belle’s knuckles had time to leave the metal. Shay was still outfitted in one of her “Belle” costumes, blonde wig included; and the effect of these two similarly clad women greeting one another was striking. The actress ran a quick hand through her hair, tossing it away from her face in a gesture that was a mirror image of Belle when hurried or distracted.
“Sorry, force of habit,” Shay said with an apologetic smile. “When I’m working on a part, I try to inhabit the character completely—around the clock. That way I know I won’t revert to ‘Shay’ when the cameras start rolling.” She smiled more fully, but Belle could sense a definite unease, almost a sense of mistrust. “Call it brainwashing from my Actor’s Studio days.”
“You wanted to see me?” Belle asked.
Shay’s response was to walk the length of the trailer’s main room and pick up a stuffed teddy bear. There were a good many toy animals piled on the built-in, wrap-around sofas. She then put it down and reached for another plush-covered creature. “My ‘good luck gang’ … Whenever I’m doing a shoot, someone inevitably discovers my collection and adds to it. The tradition began with my first role … Now I have to drag these guys with me wherever I go.” She touched a moose with floppy, felt antlers and a crooked, oversized grin. “He’s from Ice House, the story about the U.S. Women’s Curling Team that made its first big win over Canada …”
Belle decided to keep quiet and let the actress choose when to bring the conversation to the situation that was troubling her.
“… It was my mom, really, who started the whole idea of the menagerie … At least they’re not glass.” Shay pursed her lips as if she’d said more than she wanted, then abruptly turned toward Belle. “A man followed me home. I didn’t see him, but my mother did. I live with my mom … or she lives with me. Our place is perched on the side of a hill, and she was on the deck upstairs looking out for me because I was late … She does that.”
Again, Belle sensed it was best to remain silent.
“I know it seems weird to live with your mother … No one is aware that I do … Well, my agent, but she … I mean, it’s not that it’s a secret, but … I suppose what I’m trying to say is that other performers in my position have significant others in their lives, and I have, well, Mom.”
Belle smiled. “My mother died a long time ago. I think you’re very lucky. Both of you.”
Shay’s eyes creased in empathy and regret. Belle realized the actress was struggling with a feeling of guilt for bringing up a potentially painful subject, so she returned the conversation to the stranger who had followed Shay home.
“Did your mother get a description of the man?”
Shay shook her head “no,” then added a soft “I’m sorry about your loss.”
“So am I,” was Belle’s quiet reply. “As I said, it was a long time ago, but I guess that’s why I always like hearing happy stories that feature mothers and daughters.”
“What about your dad?”
“He’s gone, too.” Belle’s smile was pensive.
“Oh, dear. I guess I’m really putting my foot in my mouth this afternoon.”
“It’s okay … Well, that’s not quite true. It’s not easy losing both parents … But it does mean that I’m a grown-up living on my own terms.”
Shay didn’t respond for a long moment. “That’s not a bad position to be in,” she finally said.
“No, it’s not,” Belle agreed after another pause. “So … tell me about this mystery man.”
The actress sighed and seemed to mentally shake herself out of Belle’s world and back into her own. “All I know is that he was driving a pickup truck, which really narrows it down—there’s only two million of them around. Like I said, Mom was out on the deck, and she saw my car climbing up the hill toward our home. It’s a winding road and fairly free of traffic, so she was able to spot me when I was still at a distance. Right on my tail was another vehicle. She told me later she was surprised I hadn’t noticed it.” Shay hesitated. “I suppose I was distracted. This was Monday. The day we all learned that Chick had been murdered.”
Belle nodded. “What happened when you reached the house?”
“I beeped myself into the garage as I usually do, then closed the door electronically and walked upstairs.”
“And the truck?”
“Mom said it sat for a few seconds then sped off as the garage door settled back into place. We have exterior lights that are triggered when a car nears the house, so her assumption was that the driver didn’t want to be identified … Look, I wouldn’t mention this situation now if it weren’t for today’s problems—the live bullets and everything, and Dean asking for the offender to come forward … I’ve attracted my share of weirdos during my career, and I’d just assumed this was another oddball fan, maybe a guy who followed me from the studio parking lot … I had to get a restraining order on one of these creeps once.”
“I gather your mother felt it was more serious.”
The actress shrugged. “She’s a worrywart, what can I say? She’s terrified that some nutcase will start stalking me again.”
Belle thought. “Are you suggesting … no, that’s too strong a word … Are you beginning to suspect that there may be a connection between the live ammunition and your unwelcome visitor? Or even the situation with Chick?”
“I don’t know what I’m thinking, Belle … but something feels very peculiar. I’m an intuitive person. I guess that’s what made me decide on an acting career. And I’m starting to feel that these seemingly random and unrelated incidents may, in fact, be linked. I was standing next to Nan when part of the Anatomy set collapsed. A strange man followed me home. And now we have a dead writer and a prop pistol filled with real bullets. As Ginger and Carol both said, anyone could have picked up the gun and used it to commit a murder, which would have looked like a tragic mistake.”
Belle’s brow furrowed in concentration. “Do you think you could have been a target—a potential target?”
Shay shook her head, but there was uncertainty in her action. “All I know is that something isn’t right.”
Belle sat and looked around the cozy confines of the trailer. The actress had made an otherwise sterile environment into a homey and ultrafeminine suite. There were floral-patterned throw pillows, scented candles, a dressing table lined with pastel-hued glass bottles, and
the nondescript wall-to-wall carpeting was dotted with vintage throw rugs. “It’s never an easy question to address, Shay, but do you think you might have an enemy?”
“Me?” The actress was obviously nonplussed. She also sat, but she did so with unaccustomed heaviness as if her feet had been kicked out from under her.
“If these events are related in some fashion, then maybe you’re …” Belle paused. She didn’t like frightening people, but Shay had approached her, and was clearly seeking her counsel. “What if that falling piece of scenery wasn’t an accident? And what if Nan DeDero was not the intended target? What if it was meant to land on you?”
“Meaning that someone may also have intended to pick up the prop gun and take a potshot at me?” Shay interjected. “But then, where does this shadowy pickup truck factor in?”
“I don’t know.” Belle sighed while the actress crinkled her brow in concentration.
“I honestly don’t believe I have an enemy in the world, Belle.”
“Some of your fellow cast members wouldn’t be able to make the same claim,” Belle said with an effort at levity.
Shay’s reaction was a small and world-weary chuckle. “You didn’t see their best sides today, not by a long shot.”
“No, I didn’t,” Belle agreed. “But what I did witness were people who appear quite disturbed about past relationships—and unable to let things drop.”
“You mean Ginger and Quint? That’s ancient history.”
“Their anger toward each other seems very much alive.”
“I think the issue is really Lance diRusa who was Quint’s main contender for the ‘Rosco’ part and who, rumor has it, caused the break-up of Quint’s marriage.”
“So, Ginger and Lance are an item?”
Shay shook her head again. “Not any longer. He dumped her for Carol. And, somewhere along the line, Lance was also attached to Debra Marcollo.”
Belle found her jaw hanging open. “One big, happy family.”
Shay smiled fleetingly. “It was worse when Nan was still on the set. She and Louis Gable continue to behave like oil and water on occasion—”
“I heard mutterings to that effect just a few minutes ago.” Belle frowned again. “What about Dan Millray?”
“Oh, Dan’s a sweetheart! He wouldn’t harm a flea.”
“But someone almost did more than harm him,” Belle replied. “Andy Hofren, in fact … whom Carol Von Deney seems to particularly dislike … Now, don’t tell me those two were once a loving pair.”
Shay was quick with her denial. “Not Andy,” she stated. “He’s not, well … He’s not into girls.”
“Sexual orientation has nothing to do with murder, but a spurned lover—of any sex—could try to turn Andy into an accidental killer … even attempt to shoot him with his own prop weapon.”
“Andy’s too much of a professional to let his private life interfere with his work.”
“And Ginger, Quint, Carol, and Lance are not?”
“I see your point,” Shay said. “In any good drama, passion can, and does, drive many a tragic character around the bend.”
The two women sat in silence for a minute or two before Shay resumed speaking in a slow and deliberate tone. “I realize these relationships might seem a little, well, incestuous to an outsider, but they’re not so very unusual for those of us in the business. Hollywood’s a small place, and actors who have achieved a certain stature cross paths all the time. The ongoing joke is that ‘a couple is madly in love until the show closes.’ Well, the shows around here only run from four to eight weeks.”
“What about you?” Belle asked. “Do you have skeletons in your closet, too?”
Shay stiffened, and Belle immediately regretted the query. Obviously, an actress who was loath to admit she lived with her mother would be reluctant to tell tales about her love life.
“I’m sorry, Shay, that was rude.”
The actress either ignored or overlooked Belle’s apology, instead stating a clear “You asked about professionalism. And I think that’s a good point. Everyone here needs his or her job, either for the money or as a career move. In the long run, I don’t believe any cast member would risk that security by committing murder, no matter how upset and disillusioned and hurt … This isn’t the same as Debra shooting Chick.”
Belle didn’t respond. What was the point of creating new rumors and uncertainties? Instead, she said, “What do you want me to do with this information?”
“I really don’t know … Maybe I just needed to talk to someone. Because if I tell my mother about the incident with the live ammunition, she’ll call my agent and insist on a bodyguard, or worse—”
“Maybe a bodyguard’s not a bad idea, Shay. At least for the time being.”
“I hate calling attention to myself.” The actress looked into Belle’s face. “I know what you’re thinking. Performers are supposed to have inflated egos, need a lot of stroking and public approval, but many of us simply want to disappear into our parts. We don’t like standing out in a crowd. I guess it’s because we’re basically shy people …” Shay let her words trail off, then sighed. “I’ll give your suggestion some thought.” She stood. “I’m sorry to have called you in here in such a panicky mode. That meeting with Dean and Lew upset me more than it should have.” She forced a smile. “‘A grown-up living on my own terms’ … I’m going to remember that.”
Belle also stood. She walked toward the trailer door, but before reaching for the knob, she had a sudden inspiration. “Does the name Wanda mean anything to you?”
Shay cocked her head to one side, another perfect replica of Belle’s behavior. “Just the movie, I guess.”
“A Fish Called Wanda?”
“That’s right. Why do you ask?”
“No reason. The name was in a crossword someone made me.”
“A submission for your annual compendia? Or just a secret admirer?”
Belle chuckled. “You know a lot about my work habits, don’t you?”
“That’s my job, isn’t it?”
CHAPTER 34
Santa Monica’s Third Street Promenade had been closed to traffic years ago. In place of lines of moving or parked cars was a pedestrian walkway made festive with potted palm trees, fountains, and hanging baskets of flowers that bloomed, in true Southern California fashion, all year long. High-end shops lined the busy thoroughfare, and storefronts not offering up trendy merchandise had been refitted into restaurants featuring outdoor dining under large canvas umbrellas, the type found in open-air markets in Italian hill towns. The Promenade was a scenic and attractive gathering place; and even though the temperature had once again dipped into the sixties with the setting of the sun, it was no wonder that Sara Briephs insisted on eating her next to last California dinner alfresco.
“You see … it most definitely is not cold,” Sara announced without much conviction as she rounded the corner of Wilshire Boulevard with Belle and Rosco on either arm. Belle’s subconscious response was to slip free of Sara and work her arms into the sweater she’d draped over her shoulders. Sara followed suit. “Compared to Massachusetts, that is,” she continued, “this is certifiably balmy.”
“On February first?” Rosco said with a laugh. “I should hope so! We’ve got a foot of snow back home … and this certainly beats ice fishing in Minnesota.”
“Don’t be flippant with me, young man; this may be my last chance to have dinner under the stars until the flowers arrive in my garden in late May, and I have no intention of letting the moment pass me by.”
“Carpe diem,” Belle said with a shiver.
Rosco followed with, “Choose your poison, Sara, what’ll it be? Sushi?” He pointed at a Japanese restaurant. “Italian? French? Maybe some seafood fresh from the Pacific?”
“I was thinking that a Mexican restaurant might be nice. I noticed one on the next block the other day. El Azteca, I believe it was, and I was intrigued by what in the world a chimichanga might be.”
“The
re’s only one way to find out.”
Although it was a chilly Thursday night, the Promenade was bustling with people, and the restaurants were doing a lively business. Young street-musicians strummed their instruments and sang warmed-over Bob Dylan and Creedence Clearwater Revival songs from the sixties, positioning their open guitar cases at their feet in hopes of contributions from generous passersby. They couldn’t have dreamed of a better mark than Sara Crane Briephs, who dutifully dropped a dollar bill into every open receptacle they passed on their way to the Mexican restaurant.
When they reached El Azteca, they were in luck. A group of four was just vacating a table in the front of the restaurant, and after the busboy had cleared it, they sat with a perfect view of the entire Promenade. Tall outdoor heaters had been strategically placed between the tables, raising the temperature to a comfortable seventy-plus degrees. Belle removed her sweater and draped it over the back of her chair.
“This is just perfect,” she said. “Let’s hope the food is as good as the ambience.”
The waiter arrived and passed out menus, and Rosco said, “Margaritas all around?”
Sara sat straight up in her chair. “Well, I don’t believe I’ve ever had a margarita … I guess there’s a first time for everything.”
But after the waiter trotted off, the fiesta atmosphere seemed to diminish, and the three sat quietly watching the pedestrians stroll by.
