by Joanne Fluke
Sam smiled a little as he relived that day. Everything had gone along like clockwork as the trays were passed from hand to hand. Knife carved the turkey, flopping two slices on each tray. He also added the peas. Scoop put a mound of stuffing on top of the turkey, a ball of mashed potatoes next to it, and a scoop of vanilla ice cream in the dessert compartment. Ladle poured gravy on the potatoes and fudge sauce on the ice cream. Plunk placed a cherry on top of the ice cream, a paper cup of cranberry sauce next to the turkey, and finished off by plunking a roll on the tray.
Sam was serving as Scoop, and he was preoccupied, thinking about an upcoming test. As a result he inadvertently mixed up the routine. He got the dressing on top of the turkey and the ball of potatoes beside it, but instead of reaching for the vanilla ice cream, he dipped the scoop into the potatoes again and put a big mound in the dessert compartment.
Ladle, who stood next to him, noticed the mix-up and laughed. For the first time Sam looked, really looked, at Ladle. Short. Red hair. Freckles. Cute! She gave him a devilish grin, and as he watched with horrified fascination, she deliberately ladled chocolate sauce on the potatoes in the dessert compartment.
Visions of losing his job and not being able to buy his books for next semester flashed through Sam’s head. But, just as he was about to open his mouth to call back the tray, Ladle leaned close to whisper, “Don’t say anything. I’ll bet you a beer that no one’ll notice.”
Sam’s mind worked double time. They probably wouldn’t fire him over one little mistake. He’d never made one before, and the risk was definitely worth it because suddenly the thing he wanted most in the world was to sit in a booth at the campus pub with the incredibly blue-eyed Ladle. So he nodded. And Ladle grinned as she passed the tray to Plunk, who topped the mashed potato sundae with a bright red maraschino cherry and a sprinkle of nuts and sent it down the conveyor belt to the cashier.
A lush California blonde, the sorority type, who was wearing a swirling skirt topped off by a skintight pink sweater, showed her student I.D. and took possession of the tray. Then she tottered off in incredibly high heels to join her boyfriend, a handsome, clean-cut fraternity type.
“I’ve seen her before,” Ladle whispered, “and she’s always wearing a brand-new sweater. He’s just her type except, with him, it’s a cashmere sweater. I figure there’s an entire flock of goats running around naked because of them.”
“Not flock . . . herd.”
Sam corrected her without thinking, and then he wished he could take back the words. But she didn’t seem upset as she stared up at him.
“Herd? Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.” Sam nodded. “I’m taking zoology this semester.”
“Okay, I believe you. What’s quail?”
She was looking up at him with those twinkling eyes, and Sam’s mind went blank for a second.
“Uh . . . covey. A covey of quail.”
“How about fish?”
“School. A school of fish.”
“Lions?”
“Pride.”
“And what’s a draft?”
“A draft?”
“Yes, a draft.”
Sam was completely stumped. “I don’t know. I’ve never heard of a draft.”
“It’s the kind of beer you’re going to buy me tonight. Watch!”
Sam tore himself away from Ladle’s blue eyes to find that the sorority girl was just starting her dessert. Couldn’t she see that the “ice cream” wasn’t melting? Sam held his breath as the spoon she held dipped down and then raised slowly to her bright pink lips. Her mouth opened. The spoon went inside and came out again, clean. Sam was positive that she’d jump up from her chair any second, but she merely batted her eyelashes once at her boyfriend and then swallowed.
“And now . . . for the second taste.”
Ladle’s breath puffed out against his ear and Sam shuddered slightly. Ladle seemed very sure of herself, but Sam still couldn’t believe his eyes. Surely on the second spoonful the sorority girl would realize that her sundae tasted like potatoes.
The girl laughed at something her boyfriend said, a little tinkle of a laugh, and then her pink lips opened again. No reaction. And again. Still no reaction. After a few minutes of spooning and laughter and chattering, the dessert compartment was empty and the girl and her boyfriend went out through the swinging glass doors.
“Well?”
Ladle looked over at him triumphantly and Sam shrugged.
“You win, but I never thought we’d get away with it.”
“I knew we would,” Ladle said smugly. “My mother makes something she calls Mock Apple Pie. The filling is nothing but soda crackers and spices. Not an apple in it. But if you’re expecting apple pie, you taste apple pie.”
That night at the pub Sam had found out that Ladle’s name was Katy Brannigan, the oldest of five children in a noisy, good-natured Irish family. He’d also discovered that he liked Katy Brannigan a lot. By the time they entered their senior year, they were inseparable. It all seemed part of a natural progression when they’d married right after graduation and moved into a small apartment. Sam had landed a good job with the L.A. police force, and Katy had gone to work as a stringer for the Times, occasionally getting an actual byline. Their troubles hadn’t started until Sam had clawed his way up in the ranks to become chief of detectives.
Even though she knew it was unfair, Katy had resented Sam’s meteoric rise. After over ten years of slaving away at the Times, Katy was still writing obits and recipes. Looking back on it all, Sam guessed he should have seen the warning signs, but he’d been too busy to notice. It had come as a total shock when Katy had asked him for a divorce.
Katy had told him that their marriage was stagnating. She’d talked it over with a couple of women in her awareness group and they’d helped her to understand. She’d moved directly out of her parents’ arms to those of her husband’s. She’d never had the opportunity to test her own strengths as a single woman. What about college? Sam had asked. That didn’t count, Katy’d insisted. College was an artificial environment and she’d lived at home the whole time. And yes, she still loved him, but it was criminal to deny herself the freedom to grow and mature as a person, to be recognized as a respected woman in her own right. As Mrs. Ladera, the wife of the popular Los Angeles chief of detectives, she was a total extension of him.
Sam had argued and pleaded in vain, but nothing he’d said could sway her. Their divorce had gone through last month, and the luxury apartment that had been so warm and cheerful had taken on the feeling of a tomb without her. Sam had tried to cover up his despair by throwing himself into his work, but it felt as if all the joy in his life had been packed up with Katy’s clothes. Now, eight months after she’d walked out the door for the last time, he still found himself reaching out in the middle of the long, lonely night to touch her.
His eyes hurt, and Sam reached up to rub them. Perhaps he’d feel better if he could get a good night’s sleep, but that prospect was pretty dim right now. And it would be nonexistent when he called in the press for this second murder. He’d just have to learn to function on quick catnaps until the Video Killer was caught. And he’d have to put Katy completely out of his mind.
It was two minutes past seven in the morning when Alan’s assistant had answered the phone in his bedroom. To Alan’s relief, she’d sounded brisk and businesslike even though she’d been wearing nothing but a pair of high-heeled satin bedroom slippers. Now it was eight-fifteen, and Alan was still sitting on the edge of the bed, talking to Uncle Meyer from Hawaii. By switching the phone from ear to ear, he’d managed to pull on a pair of pajama bottoms.
“Look, Uncle Meyer, I think we ought to go ahead and exercise our option. After all, lightning did strike twice. Video Kill is turning out to be one hell of a hot property. Rocca and Nielsen have agreed to write the screenplay to parallel the actual murders, and that makes it more historical than sensational. I just can’t see any advantage to waiting any longer.”
>
Alan lit another cigarette, not noticing the one that was smoldering in the ashtray. He couldn’t understand why the old man was dragging his feet. Maybe looking at all those grass skirts had addled his brain.
“No, Uncle Meyer, I can promise you that this won’t be a cheap exploitation film. I already told you that Lon Michaels is consulting with us, and you know his reputation for quality.”
His uncle’s next question made Alan wince. “No, Uncle Meyer. Lon hasn’t actually agreed to sign on, but he’s interested. If you give me the go-ahead now, I’m sure I can get him for you.”
“What was that?” Alan held the receiver close to his ear. The connection with Hawaii was worse than usual. “Did you say sample scenes?”
There was a pause while his uncle repeated his statement. Alan groaned.
“But we can’t do that, Uncle Meyer! It’s against the Writers’ Guild rules. The only way to get scenes from the actual script is to put Rocca and Nielsen under contract.”
There was another long burst of words from the receiver. Alan groaned again.
“I know. I know. That’s not the way it used to be, but that’s the way it is now. I’m in violation if I even ask for a sample scene, and Rocca and Nielsen face a possible expulsion from the guild if they agree. If anyone finds out, Cinescope could be in big trouble. That’s not chutzpah, Uncle Meyer, it’s insanity!”
There was another rapid burst of conversation from the receiver, and Alan motioned for his assistant. In the past fifteen minutes she’d dressed in one of her tailored suits and she looked strangely incongruous in his bedroom.
Alan raised his arm in a drinking gesture and his secretary hurried to the liquor cabinet. She mixed a Bloody Mary and handed it to him. Alan drank it down at a gulp and motioned for another.
“Yes, Uncle Meyer, I realize I’m only the acting head of Cinescope. Now, let me see if I’ve got this straight. You want to see the first three scenes from Rocca and Nielsen on spec. No money. No signed contract. And the hell with guild rules. If you like their work, you want Lon Michaels to call you personally and commit to the project. Then, and only then, will you authorize the contracts. Is that right?”
As his uncle confirmed, Alan took a long swallow of his second drink. Then he made an obscene gesture with the phone that made his assistant collapse on the bed in silent laughter.
“Thank you, Uncle Meyer. You have a nice day, too.”
Tony parked in the lot and raced into the back door of the Schwartzvold building. He didn’t have time for the “Walk of the Stars” this morning. The Video Killer had struck again. That meant that Alan would be sure to call and he was running late.
“George! Hold the elevator!”
Tony ran across the lobby and got in next to George Sturges, the young attorney who had an office on the fifth floor. As the elevator groaned its way upward, Tony noticed that George was looking at his shirt. He was wearing his new, long-sleeved purple one that said THE PARANOIDS ARE AFTER ME in huge red letters.
“Nice shirt, Tony.” George nodded as he got off on the fifth floor. “I’ve got a couple of clients that could use one of those.”
The elevator seemed to take forever to get up to the tower. Tony breezed into the office at eight forty-five to find Erik staring morosely at a paper plate containing two maple bars and two cinnamon twists. An unopened container of Winchell’s coffee was leaking merrily away on the desk, but Erik didn’t seem to notice.
“Who died? Besides Sharee Lyons and Tammara Welles, I mean.” Tony grabbed one of the maple bars and bit off the end.
“I think we did.”
Tony stopped chewing and swallowed the piece whole. It stuck a little, but he got it down without choking.
“Alan called at eight-thirty.” Erik’s voice was funereal.
“He didn’t exercise his option?” Tony was flabbergasted. “I just don’t believe it! Does he know about the new murder last night? Video Kill’s even hotter than it was last week. Alan’s crazy if he—”
“Calm down, Tony,” Erik interrupted. “He says it’s still pending. He just called to lay down some conditions.”
“What conditions?”
“The first one is that our screenplay follow the actual murders.”
“Yeah. I’m working on that. I’ve got an appointment with the chief of detectives.”
“You actually got an appointment with Sam Ladera?” Erik raised his eyebrows. “That’s amazing, Tony. The newspapers say he’s not talking to anyone.”
“It was easy. Sam and I went to school together. I figure I can get him to tell me the inside story.”
“That’s one down.” Erik still looked glum. “The second condition’s not so easy. Alan wants to use Lon Michaels for director of photography.”
“What’s wrong with that? Lon Michaels does great work! I can’t believe Alan actually signed him.”
“He didn’t. That’s the second condition. Alan’s uncle won’t go with anybody except Michaels, and Michaels isn’t sure he wants to do it. He claims he’s not familiar enough with the genre. Alan wants us to talk him around.”
“Okay,” Tony agreed. “That shouldn’t be hard. Lon and I went to school together.”
“Is there anybody you didn’t go to school with?”
“Nobody important.” Tony grinned. “You know what they say about birds of a feather. Now, what’s the third condition? I know you always save the worst for last.”
“Alan talked to his uncle in Hawaii this morning. The old man insists that we turn in three sample scenes of the screenplay before he’ll commit to the movie.”
“He can’t do that! It’s against guild rules.”
“I know that. So does Alan. He said he explained all that, but the old man’s stubborn. He’s gung ho on the concept, but he won’t buy unless he can read the first three scenes. No sample, no sale.”
“So what are we going to do?”
“I don’t know.” Erik sighed deeply. “I told Alan I’d talk it over with you and call him back. I need this sale, Tony . . . for personal reasons. But breaking guild rules could get us in a lot of trouble.”
“Yeah. If they catch us.”
Tony looked at his maple bar and put it back on the plate. He wasn’t hungry anymore. Erik might need this sale but not half as much as he did. Six months ago he’d been forced to borrow to pay the bills, and he was in hock up to his eyeballs. The banks wouldn’t touch him, and he was already into the Guild Credit Union for the maximum. The only loan he’d been able to get was off the street, and they’d offered him a way to make the payments if he didn’t mind doing work that was borderline legal. The “little job” he’d been holding down wasn’t something Tony wanted to talk about in polite company, but his back was to the wall. Guild rules? They seemed insignificant compared to what could happen to him if he didn’t make his loan payments on time.
“Look at it like this.” Tony stood up and paced in front of Erik’s desk. “Who’d know about it if we dashed off the first three scenes and delivered them to Alan?”
“We’d know.”
“True. And while our consciences might twinge all the way to the bank, we’re not about to turn ourselves in to the guild.”
“That’s true.” Erik nodded. “But Alan would know.”
“Alan?” Tony shrugged. “Alan’s not going to say anything to risk Cinescope’s signatory status. He’s got more to lose than we do.”
“So you think we should do it?”
Erik was clearly wavering. Tony took time to light a cigarette. Then he nodded.
“I vote yes. The risks outweigh the benefits. Even if the guild does find out about it, we’ll probably get away with a slap on the wrist and a stiff fine.”
Erik sighed deeply and Tony could tell he was still disturbed. Lutheran guilt again. Finally he nodded.
“All right. I’m with you. I just hope this whole thing doesn’t blow up in our faces.”
“Blow up? Blow Up? What a terrific title for a movie!
Now, clean up that disgusting brown puddle on your desk and I’ll go put on a good pot of coffee.”
Erik and Tony waited until the red light stopped blinking over the door of sound stage twenty-six before they pushed it open and went inside. Tony nudged Erik and gestured toward a man dressed in chinos and a designer polo shirt who was sitting in a leather director’s chair on the edge of the set.
“That’s him, Erik. Lon Michaels in the flesh.”
“Really? I never would have guessed it.” Erik grinned as he noticed the back of the cinematographer’s chair. It said LON in large gold letters.
Tony nudged Erik as they walked toward the set. “Let me start things off, Erik. You jump in to support whatever I say, even if it’s complete bullshit.”
“That seems to be my role in life.” Erik grinned. “Okay, Tony, you’re up first.”
Erik stayed a step behind as Tony tapped Lon on the shoulder. He’d wanted to call Lon for an appointment, but Tony had been insistent that they barge right in. It was supposed to give them a psychological advantage. Lon wouldn’t have time to marshal his arguments against Video Kill if they took him by surprise.
“Lon! Good to see you again.” Tony was all smiles. “I’m Tony Rocca, and this is my partner, Erik Nielsen. You may not remember me, but we did a graduate project together at UCLA.”
“We did?”
“Professor Truitt, Film Production five-oh-three. It was a short subject about a magic Hula-Hoop.”
Lon began to smile. “Of course. You wrote the script!”
“Careful, Lon. The walls have ears. That script was a real turkey, and I would have flunked without your tricky camera work.”
“It wasn’t that bad.” Lon laughed. “You know, I just never made the connection with your name before. I saw Free Fire and I thought the script was excellent.”
