“I knew Patrick Dryer,” said Greg, who had come in quietly from the kitchen. He was holding a tumbler full of ice and lemon slices and what Jane sensed might be vodka. He was sipping it too slowly for water and with too much relish for it to be simply tonic. “Doesn’t anybody besides me remember old Patrick?”
“Drinking your dinner tonight, Greg?” asked Jeb, watching him make his way to a seat at the table.
“Patrick visited the set a couple times when we were on S and L,” said Greg, setting his glass down hard, splashing his drink onto the linen tablecloth. “In fact, I thought he and Bix—”
“He was visiting a family member who worked on the show,” said Louise. “I remember now. But he was a snob, didn’t want to talk to TV writers. He introduced himself as a novelist.”
“Anyone know what his latest book was about?” asked Jane.
The question got everyone’s attention, although no one had any answers.
Louise and Rick both said they had no idea that there was a new book. Rick shook his head. Jeb shrugged and said it was probably some thriller with a limp. “You know, the kind that purports to be all action and plot, but when you break it down, there’s no ‘there’ there. All a bunch of rambling thoughts in some know-it-all narrator’s head,” said Jeb.
“Interesting title, though,” said Jane.
“What was it?” asked Jeb. “And how do you know it?” Jeb had exchanged his maroon robe for a kind of tunic, open at the throat, but he stretched his neck when he asked the question as if a collar were choking him.
“Even hack novelists don’t deserve to be stabbed in the back with a—” Greg began, but was interrupted when Jeb’s housekeeper came in and announced that there was a gentleman at the door to see Mrs. Wheel.
“I forgot to mention that Professor Oh was stopping by,” said Jane. “He offered to drop off a manuscript of his new book for me to bring home to Charley. When he mentioned he was staying with family in the Los Feliz neighborhood, I gave him your address and he knew right where the house was, so…”
“No problem at all. Let’s invite him to join us, shall we?”
Oh entered the room in his professorial persona, all shyness and apologies.
“Please, I can see I am interrupting your dinner,” said Oh, backing out of the room.
Jeb, all host and director, pulled over a chair from under one of the massive windows and placed it next to his own.
“You must stay, Professor. We have too much food and too little to say to each other. We all know each other too well to entertain Jane and Tim here,” said Jeb.
“ We need fresh blood,” said Louise.
“That remark is in questionable taste under the circumstances,” said Greg, wagging a finger at Louise, who blushed and shook her head.
“Thoughtless. Sorry.”
“ We were discussing the murder victim from the Pasadena Flea Market today, Professor. Patrick Dryer. Have you heard about it?”
“My wife’s family has talked of nothing else. Her brother is an antique dealer who had a booth at the market. He was complaining that his business was dramatically reduced because of the murder. Even though we reminded him that a poor man lost his life, he was adamant that the police should not have closed the market and held everyone up in such a fashion as they did,” said Oh. “His complaint was that so many people were coming and going during the time of the murder, before it was discovered, that the police barricades after the fact were of no use.”
Jane arched an eyebrow and studied her old friend Jeb Gleason. He had successfully avoided any direct mention to Jane of what went on at the flea market and to her surprise, he now looked openly angry.
“Your brother-in-law is absolutely right. Anyone could have gotten in and out during the window of time that the murder was committed. I didn’t like the guy that much, I mean, as much as I knew about him, but no one deserves that and, according to the police, they didn’t find any suspects among the bargain hunters they managed to trap inside the market after the fact. Poo r ba stard.”
It was the worst piece of acting Jane had witnessed since she had arrived in Los Angeles.
“You knew the man who was killed?” asked Oh.
Jeb looked past Oh, fixing his eyes on some map that no one else could see. After a moment, he chose his path.
“Slightly.”
Jeb stood up from the table and looked deliberately at each member of the B Room still seated. Jane knew he was trying to convey a message, something he hadn’t had a chance to work out with them in advance. It was the silent communication a parent attempted with a child when someone entered the room about whom the parent had just been speaking. If Jane, for example, had just been mentioning in front of Nick that her neighbor had a big mouth and said neighbor walked in, Jane would give that look to Nick—that please-don’t-repeat-what-I-just-said-even-though-what-I-said-was-right-and-I-have-nothing-to-be-ashamed-of look—half pleading, half threatening, half guilty. That’s right, three halves. Jane, like every other parent, felt that two halves of any feeling, two sides to any question, were never enough to explain how one felt when faced with a child’s quizzical look.
Jeb’s look at his dinner guests had less pleading, more threat, but overall was a mute request for backup on whatever he was about to say.
“Patrick Dryer was a novelist who came out to Los Angeles hoping to be treated like something special. He thought he was ready for prime time immediately, couldn’t understand why no one hired him to write a movie or invited him to come on staff at a television show. He didn’t bother to ask anyone why things didn’t work out, either—he just began whining and blaming everyone in his path.”
“And suing them, as well?” asked Jane.
Jeb ignored Jane’s comment.
“Patrick never wrote a script on speculation, he never bothered to talk to an agent about what he needed to do to be taken seriously, he never bothered—”
“ To pay homage to Jeb Gleason and the B Room? Never handed over his pound of flesh, did he? And we don’t like it when someone tries to draw from our well without asking politely for a drink. Reminds me, may I have another drink? Please?” asked Greg, cutting between the table and where Jeb was standing, making a direct beeline for the bar.
“Greg,” said Louise, standing,” maybe you ought to call it a night.”
Jeb shook his head and gave Jane, Tim, and Oh one of those looks that once again made him the parent, this time giving them the what-can-you-do-with-crazy-kids shrug.
“We’re having a meeting in the study. The B Room, I mean, is having a meeting now. Please stay and have coffee and dessert,” Jeb said, including Oh in the invitation. “Bobbette makes a wonderful chocolate mousse cake. Make yourself at home. Or if you’d rather, you can have it served in the guesthouse,” he offered.
Louise, already up, was speaking quietly to Greg. Rick stood up, carrying his coffee cup. Tim, with more enthusiasm than he’d shown since they’d arrived at Jeb Gleason’s house, jumped up and said he thought having dessert in the guesthouse was a wonderful idea. Jane and Oh stood up together, Oh watching Jeb as if he were waiting for him to finish his earlier story. Jane, facing a case on the opposite wall, noticed for the first time that Jeb had a large collection of books, all sheathed in the acid-free clear plastic jackets with which collectors protected their precious volumes. She would have to explore the titles later.
The sharp slam of the door to the dining room made them all, to one degree or another, start. Even Greg, whose reaction times were slowed by alcohol, gave a slow-motion head snap. Odd, Jane noted, that none of them were facing the door. Had they been looking in that direction, they might have been even more startled if the odd trio had simply walked in on them without the warning shot.
Like a bizarre tableau from a souped-up version of The Wizard of Oz, Bix stood in front of them. Her braids pointed in all directions, taking the place of Dorothy’s tamer pigtails. She had her left arm linked through Scarecrow’s arm, tonight b
eing played by Lou Piccolo, in jeans and a plaid flannel shirt. Her other arm, heavily bandaged, rested on Skye Miller’s arm. Skye was decked out in a wildly fringed, long, and loosely hand-knit gold vest. A not-so-cowardly lion, she shook her giant mane of honey-blond hair and smiled sweetly at Jeb.
“Did we scare you?” asked Skye. “At the hospital, I heard you mention there was going to be a meeting tonight.”
After the first moment of silence, the group crowded around Bix, asking her about her arm, her hospital stay, her hospital exit, her pain, her pain medication.
“Any extra Vicodin for Uncle Ricky?” Rick said, pulling on one of Bix’s braids.
“I’m absolutely fine. The surgery was to reduce the scarring from some jagged glass that went into my arm when the box blew. I have recovered from the shock and my arm is recovering from the cut and all is well. Skye and Lou are practically fighting over who gets to take care of me, so what’s not to feel better about? If I don’t recover, I won’t be able to get rid of either one,” she said, laughing.
“I’ll amuse myself studying your bookshelf while you have your meeting,” said Lou to Jeb. “Don’t worry about me listening at the keyhole.”
“All the books are cataloged, Lou, so don’t think I don’t know what I have and where it’s shelved,” said Jeb. He was trying for a light touch, but fell short. The remark tumbled to the ground with a thud and made him sound like a petulant child.
Instead of trying to recover by saying anything more, he put a proprietary arm around Bix and escorted her away from Lou.
Pausing at the doorway, Jeb turned back to the room, where everyone was either waiting to follow him into the meeting or, in the case of Jane, Tim, Oh, and Lou, be served Bob-bette’s famous chocolate mousse cake.
“So what is the title of the late Patrick Dryer’s new novel?” asked Jeb.
Although Tim was upset about the quote on the author/ novel postcard, Jane felt that its importance paled in contrast to the other information gleaned from the focal point of the mobile. The book cover had been obscured by the author photo, so the title of the book was not noticeable when they had first found the crude objet d’art in Bix’s hospital closet. Jane, after scrutinizing the postcard in the guesthouse, could hardly contain herself when she saw the cover clearly. She’d wanted to reveal the title earlier when the group was sitting around the dinner table. Although then she thought it the perfect time, she realized now, as Bruce Oh often told her, the perfect moment presents itself to one more often than one is able to invent the perfect moment. Now, in addition to an audience made up of Jeb, Louise, Rick, and Greg, she had the complete cast of characters in view. Bix, Skye, and Lou now looked at her as expectantly as the others. Even better, she had Oh there to help Tim and her assess the reactions of the group.
“The D Room,” said Jane.
14
As soon as you hear about a meeting to which you are not invited, fight fire with fire. Call your own meeting. And don’t invite anyone from the first one. But, and this is key, make sure one of the noninvitees sees your memo.
—FROM Hollywood Diary BY BELINDA ST. GERMAINE
Jane knew she didn’t trust Jeb Gleason, but she wasn’t sure, after tasting Bobbette’s chocolate mousse cake, whether she could brand him an out-and-out liar.
“This is unreal,” said Tim. “It’s like the cocoa bean’s last request.”
“Not last request,” said Jane,” too grim. More like favorite place to set up housekeeping.”
“Perhaps,” said Oh, lifting another bite and studying it for a moment,” it is chocolate’s highest calling.”
The three of them sat around the table in the guesthouse with generous slices of the cake in front of them. After their first bites, they uniformly slowed down, wanting to make this incredible treat last.
Lou Piccolo had declined cake, claiming he just didn’t get what the chocolate thing was about. Instead of joining them for dessert, he said he was going to go smoke a cigar by the pool.
“I pick and choose among the common vices and these babies have never let me down,” said Lou, holding a monogrammed leather cigar case in front of him, Holy Grail–style.
Detective Oh put down his fork and stood up from the table. He walked to the window and made sure Lou was thoroughly involved in reading Variety and savoring his cigar.
“While we are alone, perhaps it would be the best time to show me this mobile you described and I can give you the package I brought,” he said.
Jane had the mobile in her bag, which rested on the floor next to her, and she fished it out, carefully unwrapping the origami from the postcard. Oh studied the hand-printed quotation.
Jane unwrapped the package Oh had laid on the table. He had placed his find in a brown paper bag and taped it so it appeared to be a thick manuscript. Jane was delighted to see it was one step beyond loose manuscript pages.
“How did you manage this?” asked Jane, holding the paper-bound galley of The D Room by Patrick Dryer. The cover was plain heather-gray card stock with the title and author’s name in black. In a large circle under the title was printed, Advance Uncorrected Proofs. In the lower left corner was the publisher’s name and logo. “These aren’t available to the public.”
“When you told me the title and the publisher, I phoned an old schoolmate of mine who owns a bookstore in San Francisco. I asked him if one could ever obtain a book before it was available to the public and he explained that these paperbacks, these bound galleys, are sent to booksellers in advance so they will better be able to discuss the author’s book with their customers. My friend knows all the independent booksellers in the area and offered to phone them and track down who in Los Angeles might have been sent a bound galley of The D Room. He gave me the name of a splendid fellow at the Mystery Bookstore who goes by the curious name of Dark Bobby. Bobby offered me the store’s copy. He said that neither he nor another bookseller there, Linda, predict a large success for the book. The entire staff read it, hoping it would be good, since it was set in Los Angeles. He did tell me, though, that Carol, the bookkeeper, mentioned something interesting after she finished it. She said that every time Patrick Dryer introduced a character, she felt she was supposed to know who it was, as if the book were a roman à clef, but none of the characters were famous enough to be truly recognizable.”
“Ouch,” said Tim.
Jane opened the book and scanned the acknowledgments. Patrick Dryer thanked his agent and his editor, which Jane assumed was predictable. He also thanked some office assistants and a few experts who advised him on copyright law.
“Listen to this,” said Jane, reading aloud.
At some point an author of fiction is supposed to note that any resemblance between real people and his characters is an accident. The author is supposed to claim that each man, woman, and child who makes an appearance in his book is purely a figment of his own imagination. Well, I won’t do it. Are these characters based on real people? Yes. Are they as silly, vain, greedy, and ignorant as I make them here? Yes. And would they ever sue me over their portrayal? No. Not one of the models for the members of The D Room would ever do that. They are, after all, television writers. They don’t read books.
“I repeat, ouch,” said Tim. “You going to finish that?” he asked, pointing to Jane’s cake with his fork.
Jane moved her plate out of Tim’s fork’s range and continued reading silently.
“The origami swan is not that difficult,” said Oh, holding up the mobile, turning it slightly, and allowing the swans to move freely. “Fish base, mountain fold…of course, the swivel for the neck might take some practice.”
“Didn’t Rick say he knew something about origami? Something about a bone folder?” asked Jane.
“Or Greg. Until Greg got drunk, I couldn’t see much difference between the two of them,” said Tim.
“And now?” asked Oh.
“Greg’s the drunk one,” said Tim.
“This is one bitter man,” said Jane, sti
ll reading Patrick’s ac-knowledgments. “He won’t even thank his parents without a sarcastic slam at Nurture vs. Nature. Listen to this. ‘As far as my parents are concerned, I thank them for not drowning me at birth. That’s all I can think of at the moment. Since they are dead now, I hurt no one by paraphrasing the poet Philip Larkin, agreeing with his poetic line, they fuck you up, your mum and dad.’ “
“Brutal,” said Tim.
“Remind me to call Nellie later,” said Jane.
“Mrs. Wheel,” said Oh, “at the hospital where my wife’s aunt and Ms. Bixby were patients, there was a family arts and crafts room. Yesterday and today, Claire and I walked the entire hospital, keeping ourselves busy. In the family room this afternoon, a volunteer was teaching paper craft. It is possible that anyone waiting to see a loved one could have dropped in and learned to fold a simple shape such as the swan.”
Jane nodded, putting down the book for a moment and taking the mobile from Oh.
“Yes, but the paper. Whoever made this just happened to have a television script in her purse,” said Jane. “Or his messenger bag.”
“Southpaw and Lefty is an old show. Only one of the writers or someone connected to it would have an old script,” said Tim. “And it’s hard to believe even one of the B Room would have pages just lying around like that. Haven’t they all moved on to other projects?”
“Aren’t they all still meeting together as if the show were never canceled?” asked Jane, looking toward the main house. “How weird is that? If you told me they slept on mattresses stuffed with old scripts, I think I ‘d believe it.”
“I’m not sure I can stretch my visit here too much longer, Mrs. Wheel. I am, after all, simply a professor dropping off a manuscript. When I get back to Claire’s relative’s home, I am going to call Officer Dooley and explain the situation. There is a threat to everyone in this house, including you, written on this mobile. We cannot ignore it.”
Hollywood Stuff Page 15
