Hollywood Stuff

by Sharon Fiffer

  Jane nodded. She agreed that the quotation that someone had filled in on the postcard sounded like a threat. Sort of. But Jane didn’t feel threatened.

  “It’s too cute,” said Jane. “Too literary, too.”

  “What does that mean?” asked Tim.

  “Feels like a pose, doesn’t it? How many people who really want to kill someone leave him or her a note? I mean, other than in mystery books? Origami-trimmed art-project-type notes, at that?” asked Jane. “I mean, if I wanted to kill someone, wouldn’t I just do it? No muss, no fuss, no additional artifacts to trace back to me?”

  “I agree with you, Mrs. Wheel,” said Oh, nodding. “Creating and planting this mobile is a childlike exercise.”

  “Yeah, well, childlike can be childlike…all innocent fun and games, or childlike…as in The Bad Seed or Whatever Happened to Baby Jane,” said Tim. “I think the thing is scary as hell.”

  “I also agree with you, Mr. Lowry. Childlike can be quite dangerous. The police have to be alerted. After all, Patrick Dryer was murdered, and it was his picture on the mobile, so there seems to be some connection, even if the threat to you, Mrs. Wheel, is not something that you feel so strongly.”

  Jane placed the bound galley of The D Room on the butcher block next to the refrigerator and covered it with a dish towel. She didn’t want any of the others to see it if they happened to wander in. Looking out the window, she saw Lou Piccolo still sitting by the pool, puffing on what she assumed must be an exceptional cigar. When he first settled in, he had opened a magazine and seemed to be engrossed. Jane had noticed, as they sat there eating cake and discussing Patrick Dryer, that Lou had never turned a page while he was in her sight. The window was open, but they had talked quietly and his chair was twenty feet from the guesthouse. Unless Lou Piccolo possessed superhuman hearing, he was not privy to their conversation. The magazine rested in his lap and he sat perfectly still and smoked. Automatic pilot. He’s smoking in a trance.

  Jane looked beyond the pool to the main house. It epitomized grand old Hollywood. The coffee-with-cream-colored stucco walls looked as if they’d feel warm to the touch. The house sprawled comfortably, curving itself around the pool, which glimmered and beckoned. The property wasn’t all that showy, Jane realized, not as immense as it had seemed when they drove up earlier. It was the relationship of Jeb’s house to those immediately surrounding it that gave it its imposing stature. The others that Jane could see across the lawn, their windows now warm squares of light, were attractive houses, quite desirable pieces of real estate, Jane was sure, but they were smaller, more sensibly scaled residences. Jeb’s place, though a manageable size, was still the biggest house on the block.

  Turning back to the main house, Jane could see that the B Room had either called its meeting to a close or its members were on a break. Jeb stood in the window, looking out toward the pool, and said something over his shoulder to Louise, who was trying to see around him. Maybe they were speculating about the normally loquacious Lou’s pensiveness. Or maybe they were wondering if Jane Wheel had figured out who rigged a box to explode and who was sending malicious notes. And worrying about whether that who was the same who who killed Patrick Dryer.

  “Who kills a writer?” asked Jane out loud.

  Detective Oh looked at her expectantly. A man who loved questions almost as much as he loved answers, he seemed delighted that his protégée was asking an interesting one.

  Tim, a man who preferred answers, his own, offered, “Critics?”

  “They don’t need a hammered silver letter opener. They use a pen,” said Jane,” or if they really want to make their victim suffer, they probably use the silent treatment.”

  “How about a nightcap?” The voice was Jeb’s, a bit muffled, but loud enough to make them all start, although Jane had already jumped at a clicking noise that had preceded the invitation.

  Jane, Oh, and Tim looked first at each other, then each of them looked around the room, their eyes falling on the intercom speaker next to the light switch at about the same time.

  “Why not?” said Tim, directing his voice to the hole in the wall.

  “Fine. Come over.” There was a click, then silence.

  Jane approached the small speaker and pointed. “I didn’t see this before. Do you suppose…?”

  Oh examined the speaker and the off-and-on switch underneath it. It was turned on. He switched it off, back on, then off.

  “This is an old system, not sophisticated at all. We were sitting in there around the table until a few minutes ago and we clearly heard the monitor on their end turn on and off. I don’t believe anyone was listening to our conversation, Mrs. Wheel.”

  Tim shot Jane an I-told-you-so look. He slipped his jacket on and shook his head. “If I could understand why…how you dated that guy…”

  Detective Oh straightened and tilted his head slightly in Jane’s direction.

  Jane took it as it was intended—a direct question.

  “I dated Jeb in college. When Bix saw me on the news program and mentioned the story to Jeb, he said he knew me and encouraged her to call me.”

  “No,” said Tim.

  Oh and Jane turned their attention to Tim.

  “Bix called me after she talked to you and you said no, remember? She told me that a friend had shown her the tape of you on the show. Bix told me it was an old friend of yours. I remember now. She said Jeb saw you and brought the movie idea to her attention. I didn’t remember that you two had dated until you told me you were nervous about seeing him. Yeah, I’m sure she said Jeb was the one who had brought the idea to her.”

  Jane was off balance. Literally. She rocked back and forth on the balls of her feet, trying to find level ground. Why did Jeb suggest to Bix that Jane’s life as a newly minted detective would make a good movie? And why did Bix explain the project differently to Jane? She said she had seen Jane on television and mentioned it to Jeb and the coincidence of his knowing her had been just that…a coincidence. Jane remembered that Louise told her they had all seen the tape at Jeb’s. At the time, Jane had just figured that Bix had called it to everyone’s attention. Was it really Jeb who was responsible? Did any of this matter? Or were the explanations to Tim and Jane just innocent juxtapositions of events? Coincidence.

  Charley told Jane once that as a scientist he believed in coincidence and it should never be counted out as a possibility when figuring out a problem. However, when you found yourself saying coincidence more than once, it was time to accept the fact that it probably wasn’t one.

  Jane found herself blushing. Something about remembering Charley’s words about coincidence and standing under the scrutiny of Detective Oh, who was regarding her most intensely, was making her uncomfortable. Jane looked at Detective Oh, who seemed taller than he ever had before, and realized that she was embarrassed. She didn’t want him to think that she…what? That she came out to L.A. because of any feelings for Jeb Gleason? Or that she hoped Jeb Gleason had any feelings for her? If Charley were staring at her right now, she would tell him he was ridiculous and laugh at the absurdity of any connection to Jeb.

  Detective Oh, though, was not her husband. Husbands can be laughed off and dismissed and argued with and cried over and ignored and made up with. Mentors are another matter. It was important that Oh respect Jane, that he believe her to be honest. This was ridiculous. Jane realized that she didn’t care what Charley thought from moment to moment because she had a lifetime of moments to straighten things out between them. With Charley, it was an ongoing conversation—even when he was halfway around the world, Jane continued to talk and listen to Charley’s voice in her head. With Oh, however, a man for whom words were rare and carefully chosen, it mattered a great deal what he thought of her—even moment to moment.

  Jane wanted, in Oh’s eyes, to be pure of heart.

  “Jeb was an old boyfriend who I was curious to see when I discovered he had a connection to Wren Bixby and Bix Pix Flix, but I never dreamed he had any part in actual
ly bringing me out here. What could he possibly want from me?”

  “To be the star of his creeped-out horror movie?” asked Tim.

  “ We could ask Mr. Gleason,” said Oh. “It looks like he’s coming over here.”

  “No, let’s head him off,” said Jane. “I want to ask Bix about leaving the hospital the way she did and see if Greg and Rick made peace. You know, get a feel for the group dynamic after one of their meetings.”

  Jane’s moment—moments—of reflection passed. There was no reason for her to worry that Oh thought less of her or was disappointed in her. Because she’d had a boyfriend in college? Tish-tosh. Claire’d probably had a million of them and she’d probably made them wait on her hand and foot. Why in the world did Oh’s eyes locking on hers have such a paralyzing effect? Jane shook her head and managed to lead the two men over to the main house, waving to Jeb and announcing that they were on their way.

  “Careful,” Jeb called out. “Don’t trip. That landscape lighting is pretty worthless.”

  Inside the main house, it appeared that the B Room had kissed and made up. Greg and Rick were once again huddled over a script. Greg had traded his cocktail glass for a coffee mug. Jane purposefully walked behind them to see if the pages in front of them had H. Rule typewritten in the corner. Rick’s arm was slung over the margins and Jane saw only dialogue centered on a page. She could see margin notes printed in a tiny hand in red pen.

  “Do you critique each other’s work in your meetings? Like an ongoing workshop?” asked Jane.

  “Something like that,” said Rick. “It’s kind of like Al-Anon except we’re not recovering, we’re not related, and we drink a lot.”

  Bix settled herself on one of Jeb’s slipcovered down sofas. The couches were so soft that one nestled rather than perched, and since Jane did not want to get pillowed in, she pulled up an ottoman and sat next to Bix, who rested her bandaged arm on a cushion provided by Skye.

  “Any pain?” asked Jane.

  “It’s surprising, but I really feel fine,” said Bix. She leaned closer to Jane. “I’m beginning to think this was all a weird mistake. An accident in the prop warehouse and some prankster writing the note.”

  “The note sounded pretty threatening,” said Jane. “You’ll all go to—”

  “People out here always say crazy stuff,” said Bix.

  “Heck,” said Jane. “The note said you’d all go to Heck. And you know what happened to Heck.”

  “You know about Heck? Who told you about that? About him?” asked Bix.

  “I ran into the group at the flea market this morning and Louise told me about Henry Rule. She seems to think somebody is seriously threatening all of you, too.”

  “No, I think it’s over,” said Bix. “I’m sure it’s over.”

  “Because Patrick Dryer’s dead?”

  Bix didn’t answer. She looked up and away instead, searching the room. Jeb was heading toward them with more of that incredible cake.

  Bix smiled at Jeb and continued to look at him while answering Jane. “Yes, because Patrick Dryer’s dead. It’s over.”

  Bix might be right. The threatening note could certainly have come from Patrick. The box, rigged to explode, could have been planted by Dryer, too. Jane knew he was on the studio lot yesterday—she had heard him come in and threaten to kill Lou Piccolo. Patrick had been in the office and knew Lou well enough to know he was a collector and would be drawn to the aisles of Depression glass in the props warehouse.

  Jeb delivered Bix’s cup of tea and patted her arm gently. He asked her if she wanted anything else, if she was tired, if she wanted to spend the night there. Bix smiled and shook her head. As an afterthought, Jeb turned to Jane.

  “Everything okay in the house? You and Tim need anything?”

  “No, but you might want to make sure Bobbette is happy in her work. I’ve never seen Tim as smitten as he is with this chocolate cake. If I know the boy, and I do, he’s working her pretty hard right now.”

  “I have no problem with keeping people’s loyalty,” said Jeb. He followed Jane’s eyes to where she had focused them on Tim, oozing charm, and Bobbette, blushing and giggling. “Just the same, I’ll go over and give Mr. Personality a run for his money.”

  “Oh boy, a charm-off,” said Louise, who had approached the couch in time to hear Jane’s warning. “I’m going to get a front-row seat.”

  “I can’t believe she told you about Heck,” said Bix, watching her follow Jeb across the room.

  “Was it something you all had decided to keep secret?” asked Jane.

  “No,” said Bix. “It was so painful for Louise, though. She was the one who had to be there for him when Heck…”

  Jane stopped herself from filling in either died, jumped, or was pushed. Instead, she channeled Oh, who had become lost in Jeb’s library, a wall of books on the other side of this expansive room. Jane wanted to finish Bix’s sentence for her, to help her out of a painful thought, but Oh would counsel Jane never to jump in. He was right…if one waited for someone to come up with the word, it was often an illuminating choice.

  “…pulled that dirty trick,” said Bix.

  Jane waited for Bix to say more. She knew that there were those who were angered by suicides, who felt that ending one’s life was a supremely selfish act. Heck, however, by Louise’s account, was mentally ill. Jane wouldn’t have guessed that Bix would be such a hard-liner on the subject. Maybe there was more to Heck’s “alternative” writing, his X-rated spoofs. Was that what Bix might call a dirty trick?

  “So you didn’t suspect foul play with Heck? Louise mentioned that there might have been…” Jane stopped when she saw the horrified look on Bix’s face.

  “I forgot,” she said. “Oh my God, I forgot that Heck was dead. I was thinking of another time entirely.” Bix blinked hard. “How could I forget, even for a moment…?”

  “Bix, you’ve been through a traumatic experience yourself,” Jane said, forgetting all about not jumping in. “It must have been terrifying when the box blew up, painful when your arm was injured. One gets disoriented in the waiting room of a hospital, let alone when one is a hospital patient.”

  There is that moment that occurs with a roomful of people, talking in small groups, mingling, when everyone falls silent. A break in the action, a collective intake of breath, and when the moment passes, one person usually sets the new course of action. Partners change, groups intermingle, or the person who has taken the lead makes an announcement that changes the direction entirely.

  Before Bix could question her own memory further, before Jane could continue to reassure, that moment occurred. After the pause, Skye Miller yawned. A loud, dramatic, stretching yawn that reminded each and every one of them that it had been one hell of a long day.

  Bruce Oh, who had planned to exit much earlier, before he became lost studying Jeb’s bookshelves, approached his host and thanked him for his hospitality.

  “You have the most interesting library, Mr. Gleason.”

  “Thanks, Professor. I’ve done a lot of research for television shows I’ve worked on and I hate relying on the Internet or the public library. I like to own the books I need to use.”

  “Your books on ancient weaponry and poisons are particularly interesting,” said Oh. “And rare, I believe.”

  Jeb nodded, pulling out a volume by Sir William Osler. “This guy is the father of the history of science and medicine. I didn’t really need it for the medical intuitive show I was pitching, but you know, there’s something about the research that just deepens the concept, you know?”

  “And you like owning first editions,” said Rick, barely looking up from the script open on the table in front of him.

  “Where’s Lou?” asked Skye.

  “I knew things had seemed too cordial tonight,” said Jeb. “Maybe he got bored and left. Is that too much to hope for?”

  “He was smoking out by the pool earlier,” said Tim. “I stole his cake,” he said to Bobbette, who looked up at
him adoringly.

  The wall opposite the library shelves was all glass and faced the pool. Jeb had not exaggerated when he called the landscape lighting worthless. Now that it was truly dark outside, the small metal-encased lights along the ground did nothing to illuminate the pool area. Jeb crossed the room and pushed two switches that turned on floodlights mounted on the changing rooms and one on the guesthouse. Although the light did not shine directly on the table and chair where Lou was now visible, it was now bright enough to see his silhouette.

  Skye opened the sliding door to the patio that adjoined the pool.

  “Lou, time to head out? Are you driving home with Bix and me?”

  Lou continued to stare straight ahead, leaning forward as if he were straining to see something beyond the driveway.

  “For heaven’s sake, Lou, are you asleep?” asked Skye, walking out the door and crossing over to the table.

  Jane and Oh both headed for the door, almost running to overtake her.

  Stepping out at the same time, Jane looked at Oh. “He hasn’t moved at all since we came into the house.”

  Oh already had his cell phone out and was dialing.

  “Don’t touch him, Skye,” said Jane at the same time Skye Miller demonstrated years of vocal training with a scream piercing enough to cut through two nights’ worth of darkness. The windows across the street that Jane so recently had imagined as warm squares of light got brighter and grew in number so that all of the houses on the block blazed.

  “She could donate her services to the emergency fucking broadcast system,” said Jeb, running outside. Rick and Greg jumped up, followed by Louise, led by the siren voice of Skye over to where Lou Piccolo sat, his cigar burned down to its last inch in the heavy glass ashtray.

  “Should we, you know, apply the Jaws of Life?” asked Skye when she caught her breath.

  “You mean CPR, honey,” said Bix, who had come out last, but now bent over Lou, her bandaged arm resting on the arm of his chair. “Jaws of Life pries somebody out of a car,” she continued in a soft voice, as if she were explaining a difficult concept to a young child.