Box Office Poison (Linnet Ellery)

by Bornikova, Phillipa

  He gave a short laugh and shook his head. He came around the car, got in, and started the engine. “Well, it wasn’t total altruism. I wanted a chance to talk to you alone.”

  A cold knot settled in my already aching stomach. “Are you mad because I came to the set with Jeff?”

  “No … yes … well, maybe a little. It’s the situation.” He put the car in gear and we headed toward a side gate. “I’m going to do a little—in the words of Mr. Campos—whammy here. You won’t tell on me, will you?”

  “Depends on how much of a whammy it is, and on who,” was my cautious reply. Stoker wasn’t completely off base on some of the powers he gave vampires, but vamps were careful not to use them too often on humans. To do otherwise sort of undercut that whole assimilation effort.

  “Not on you. On the guards at the gate and the press vultures.”

  As we approached the gate David’s eyes narrowed with concentration, and his hands tightened on the steering wheel. A gray fog rose up around the vehicle. As we came level with the guard shack David muttered beneath his breath. The guard’s expression turned vague and dreamy and he raised the gate pole.

  David shot me a quick glance. “These aren’t the droids you’re looking for.” I gaped at him. We drove through and past a couple of people standing on the sidewalk just outside the gate. In addition to the pedestrians, there were three parked cars. The doors flew open, people stepped out then stopped and looked confused. Some of the watchers looked at us, or whatever we appeared to be. One raised his camera. I wasn’t sure if he snapped a photo or not, and then we were past and turning onto Riverside Drive. From there it was a close hop up the hill to my apartment.

  “Why did you tell Jeff to wait until tomorrow to go to the police?” I asked.

  “So I could keep you away from the police,” came the answer that gave me a bit of a chill.

  “Why? I can’t possibly be blamed for this.”

  “No, but all that unpleasantness back in New York and Virginia is going to come up, and that will be … awkward. I wanted a chance to talk with you first and find out exactly what happened before I allowed a bunch of unimaginative cops to grill you.”

  I remembered a conversation with John about the police. He’d been an officer in Philly, and while he liked and respected the people in his former profession, he was also blunt about the drawbacks. “Cops like simple stories,” he’d said. “The simpler the better. You start messing with the story, and they’re not going to like you. When cops don’t like you, your life gets complicated.”

  I repeated this aloud to David as we headed up the hill toward the Oakwood. “Right now they have a story. Crazy elf actress goes nuts and shoots up set,” I said.

  “And you’re the one discordant note in this song.”

  “Gee, thanks,” I said.

  “Think about it, Linnet. You’re the woman who was present when nine people got killed last year too.”

  “Not all at the same time or in the same place,” I protested. “Three at one place and six at the other…” My voice trailed away.

  “And you don’t think that makes it look even worse?”

  I had no answer to that. I just slumped into sullen silence. David started to pull in the main gate at the Oakwood but suddenly swerved back into the traffic streaming up the hill, occasioning more than a few blaring horns, and Anglo-Saxon gestures of disapprobation aimed in our general direction. What had spooked him was a TV truck and a gaggle of reporters besieging the gates.

  “Well, damn. Back to the hotel?” David suggested.

  “I have no clothes, not even a toothbrush. They may get bored, and I can always slip in the pedestrian gate on the side.”

  “So, what do we do in the meantime?” David asked.

  It was embarrassing to admit. Societal norms said I should be more like a nineteenth-century heroine, shattered by what I’d seen, but awful as it was it wasn’t as horrible as watching a werewolf literally tear a fellow associate to pieces right in front of me. Bottom line, I was hungry. A lot of hours had passed since that lunch in the Warner’s restaurant. Shamefaced, I confessed as much to David.

  “Start looking for something that looks good and is open at this hour.”

  We were on Ventura Boulevard and despite the late hour there were still a lot of cars. The small strip malls held a lot of sushi restaurants, but they were all closed. Which was good: I didn’t want sushi.

  “I want comfort food,” I said, and then I saw a large building on our left that looked like a 1950s diner. A large sign read DUPAR’S—OPEN TWENTY-FOUR HOURS. “There,” I said and pointed.

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No. And don’t be a snob.”

  He forced extra air through his lungs so he could produce a gusting sigh and turned into the parking lot. Behind the restaurant were other stores, a Trader Joe’s, a beauty supply house, and a McDonald’s.

  “I guess I should be grateful you didn’t want to eat there,” he said with a jerk of his head toward the golden arches.

  We walked into the smell of french fries and coffee. There were booths, and linoleum underfoot. It really was a blast from the past. David requested a booth near the back of the restaurant from the hostess, an older woman whose face looked like five miles of bad road and whose voice was a husky smoker’s rasp. She didn’t move from her position behind the cash register. Instead she waved over a young woman in a starched white uniform complete with the little cap perched in her hair like a nesting bird. The young woman took two menus from the older woman.

  David held up a hand. “I don’t need a menu.” But the girl ignored it and led us to the booth, where she tried to give David a menu.

  “No, thank you,” he said.

  “So, you know what you want already?” she asked.

  “I’m not having anything.”

  “If you look at the menu you might change your mind. We make our own pies. They’re real good.”

  “I’m sure they are, but I’m not having anything.” He was fast losing patience. I could hear it in his voice.

  While the argument continued I perused the big menu, and decided on a hot roast beef sandwich and a Coke. “Well, I’ll leave the menu just in case you change your mind,” she chirped.

  “I’m. Not. Having. Anything.”

  I snapped shut my menu. “Well, I am.” I placed my order, and she went away. David was almost growling.

  “Does she not get that I’m a vampire?”

  “I don’t think she even noticed,” I said.

  “That kind of inattention can get you killed,” David said.

  “What? You’re planning on going rogue?”

  “I don’t mean with vampires. In general. You’ve got to be aware of your surroundings. Especially women.”

  That hit a little too close to home. “Look, she came in the door and started shooting. There wasn’t a lot of opportunity for me to assess the situation.”

  “I’m not blaming you.”

  “Oh. Okay. It just sounded like you were.”

  The girl returned with my Coke and a cup of coffee. She smiled brightly at David and set it down in front of him. “Here. It’s on the house. It just looks so lonely with you sitting there with nothing in front of you.” Another smile and she went away.

  David looked like he’d been pole-axed. I stifled a giggle. “She’s flirting with you,” I said.

  “Does she know nothing?”

  “Apparently not.”

  He gave an irritated shrug of a shoulder. “Enough of this. Tell me what happened.”

  So I did. I summarized the end. “The camera knocked her down. Jeff jumped on her. Then security, ambulances, and police arrived.” My dinner arrived just as I was finishing.

  Slices of roast beef on two pieces of white bread smothered with brown gravy. Mashed potatoes, also swimming in gravy, were on one side, and green beans on the other. They were the nod toward healthy eating. I picked up my knife and fork and tucked in.

  �
��Even with your history there is no way the police can make you into anything other than a witness and a victim.”

  I nodded because my mouth was full. I swallowed, took a sip of Coke, and gathered the strands of thoughts that had been niggling at me and had finally begun to crystallize.

  “David, I think something is going on.” At his expression I hastened to add, “Beyond the obvious.”

  “I’m listening.” The response was shorthand for “I’m really dubious, but I’ll humor you.”

  I set aside my utensils and held up my index finger. “First, this high-profile lawsuit gets filed—human actors versus Álfar actors. It gets moved out of the courts, but it’s still a hot news item because it involves our version of royalty. Everybody reads People and Us. And think about all the entertainment news shows that are on television—Entertainment Tonight, Extra, Access Hollywood. Everybody wants to know about the lives of the beautiful, glamorous, rich and famous people—”

  “Okay, okay, I get all that. What’s your point?”

  “Everybody’s watching this arbitration. Millions of ordinary Americans. Three weeks ago a heartthrob Álfar actor allegedly hacks his beautiful human actress wife to pieces with a kitchen knife. Then today an Álfar actress, who has starred in numerous blockbuster movies and who’s been on the cover of People about a zillion times, goes nuts on the set. She kills a world-famous human director whose name is known to all those ordinary Americans, and she nearly kills a popular human actor who has millions of fans on Facebook and Twitter and an international fan club. You starting to see a pattern here?”

  David had been leaning farther and farther forward as I talked. Now he leaned back in the booth, stretched out his arms and studied me. A frown furrowed his brow. “So, you’re suggesting one of the human actors may be putting a thumb on the scale … but how would they do that? How would they make someone murderous?”

  “I’m not suggesting anything, and I don’t know the answer to your question. I don’t even know if this is real or just too much adrenalin in my veins, but it sure looks like someone is trying to make the Álfar look bad, and they’re succeeding. I can just picture the headlines in tomorrow’s…” I glanced at my watch. “Er, make that today’s papers. I think this arbitration is the tip of an iceberg. This isn’t about who gets a part. There’s something much darker at work here.”

  “Let’s assume you’re right. What do we do? We’re the arbitrators.”

  “You’re senior, and the person everyone is looking to. Why don’t you let me make some inquiries?”

  “Like what?”

  “Talk to Kerrinan for starters. And probably to Jondin too.”

  “That’s never going to happen. You’re a witness. You’ll probably be called to testify. If I were her defense attorney I wouldn’t let you anywhere near her, and I’d get a judge to back me up.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right.” I drew channels in the mashed potatoes and let the gravy flow through them like superfund rivers of sludge. “But Kerrinan’s a different matter. Do we know who’s representing him?”

  David shook his head. “For all I know, it’s us. If I were a Power being accused of murdering a human, I’d want a Power defending me.”

  “Bad choice. I’d pick a human and a woman.”

  He stared at me for a long moment. “Which is why I don’t do much litigation unless it involves contracts. Do you have any interest in the courtroom, Linnet? I think you might be good at it.”

  A faint glow of pleasure ran through me. “Thank you, that’s a really nice thing to say.”

  He reverted back to being a vampire. “It wasn’t meant as a compliment. It’s purely calculation. What you can do for the firm.”

  The waitress returned with a fresh glass of Coke. I took a sip, feeling the carbonation fizz against the roof of my mouth. For an instant I wished the bubbles were champagne. John had said we would pop a cork once we got back to New York with the will. That hadn’t happened, and maybe never would now.

  It began a new avenue of thought. “I wish John were here. To talk to us about the Álfar.”

  “Not sure how helpful he would be since he never lived among them until, uh—” He broke off abruptly realizing this was maybe just a tad painful. “Well, until recently,” he concluded quietly.

  I blinked hard, and resolved to prove how tough and focused I was. “Well, there’s Qwendar,” I said, and was pleased to hear that my voice sounded normal. No huskiness at all.

  David shook his head. “Let’s hold off on that. He’s at least peripherally involved in the arbitration and I don’t want to do anything to get us in trouble.”

  “We’ve got a dodge,” I argued. “He said he might help me regarding John. I can talk to him, and truthfully say that’s what we were discussing.”

  “A sin of omission then?” David said dryly.

  “Yeah. I think he’s worried about how volatile the situation has become. He did mention a group he wanted me to check out. I can do that once I’m at my computer.”

  David nodded. “Okay, call him and set up a meeting. Just keep it well away from the office, and keep it on the QT, okay?” He glanced down at my messy plate. “Done? Or do you want a piece of Dupar’s fine pie? Maybe a little à la mode?”

  “And put a little ice cream on that?” I added.

  David gave a short laugh. “I had an acquaintance who used to say that. We’d go out to eat, and he would always order apple pie à la mode, and then add, and put a little ice cream on that … I wanted to kill him.”

  I wondered when that had been, and who that had been, but knew not to ask. I wouldn’t get an answer. Instead I said, “No, thanks. I’ve done enough damage to my arteries already.”

  He paid for my dinner. I tried to remonstrate and got a curt, “Don’t be silly, Linnet.”

  The press was still huddled at the main gate of the Oakwood, so David dropped me off on Forest Lawn Drive. A footpath wound up the hill to a keyed gate. The famous cemetery that gave the road its name was just around the curve from the apartment complex. As I trudged up the hill I considered how close I’d come to being a resident. It wasn’t pleasant to contemplate.

  * * *

  Xenophobia has been part of American culture almost since the founding of the country, beginning with the Order of the Star Spangled Banner, founded way back in 1849 to resist waves of Irish and German immigrants, to the late nineteenth and early twentieth century that brought us the Immigration Resistance League, formed by a bunch of Harvard graduates, and the Tea Party movement, with their resentment of Latinos. And now the Human First movement was another entry in that sorry history, reacting to a new kind of Outsider and Other.

  The Firsters were pushing a ballot initiative in California that would ban marriage between an Álfar and a human. Would criminalize sexual contact between an Álfar and a human. John and I would have been in the slammer. Would bar adoption of human children by any Álfar. Since the Álfar had a history of stealing human children and leaving one of their own in its place (evidence John and his brother) this seemed sort of pointless, but throwing in the kitchen sink seemed to be par for the course with these groups. The Firsters had been founded by a minister in some small, fundamentalist Christian sect. Interviews with Reverend Bob Trager produced such lovely comments as: “We have no idea what god or gods they worship, or if they have any god at all. One thing’s for certain, they don’t worship the one true God, and they are damned to Hell.” Another charmer read, “They’re not human. You let this stand, and you could have a man marrying his dog.”

  Which raised an interesting question. Were the Álfar a strain of humans that had branched off way back in the evolutionary tree, or were we a less magical strain of Álfar? Or, final choice, were they a different species altogether? The Firsters movement was now led by a savvy lobbyist by the name of Belinda Cartwright, and Reverend Trager had been pushed to the background, which was probably why the initiative was starting to gain traction. I found a few man on the st
reet interviews that had been uploaded onto YouTube. A few people defended the Álfar, but most talked about mesmerizing powers that drew in unsuspecting girls. I found the whole thing incredibly depressing.

  I dug a bit deeper into Ms. Cartwright and found she and her advocacy group, Liberty Front, had been behind several anti-immigrant statutes passed in various states and now making their way up to the Supreme Court. They also made commercials that were in favor of carbon dioxide and said the melting of the permafrost was a good thing. If you warm up Siberia it could be a new breadbasket.

  “Which we’re going to fucking need, since Iowa, Kansas, and Nebraska are going to be deserts!” I muttered aloud.

  Grit seemed to have invaded my eyes. I rubbed them, and realized that it was not just my eyes, but the tops of my thighs were burning from the heat of the laptop. I sat it on the couch next to me and went into the kitchen area for a glass of water. It was three thirty a.m., and I had been at this for hours. I should have gone to bed, especially since I had to talk to the police in the morning—this morning—but I was damn sure I wasn’t going to be able to sleep, and not sure what I’d dream about if I did manage to.

  Tomorrow, or rather later today, I would try to find out who was representing Kerrinan. I took my phone from my purse to charge it and realized I had turned it off when we went onto the movie set hours and another lifetime ago. I turned it on and found a number of messages that was depressingly reminiscent of when Chip had been killed and lots and lots of media outlets had called—LA Times, Entertainment Weekly, Variety, the Hollywood Reporter. Among them was a message from my father.

  “I’m at the airport. I’ll be there as soon as I can. I love you, honey.”

  I snuffled and wiped away a sudden surge of tears. Last time I had been in trouble he had been inexplicably absent. I knew it was crazy for him to fly across the country, but I was so glad he was.

  The earliest message was from Joylon. It was the call I had missed when Debbie had told me to turn off my phone. The woman’s face swam into focus. I remembered her intensity and obvious love of her job. I sank down on the couch. As the police had hustled us away from the soundstage I had seen her body at the bottom of the stairs leading into Jondin’s Star Waggon. She had been the first victim of the actress’s murderous rage. I blinked back tears and keyed back the message. This one I would listen to; maybe it would make me feel better.