Killer Cocktail

by Tracy Kiely

  “What a pretty eulogy that would have made,” I said.

  Mandy laughed. “Oh God, the stories I could tell. She was one of the first celebrities I was assigned to cover. On the outside, she was a beautiful girl with great talent. On the inside, she was poison. Pure poison.”

  Behind us a collective scream went up as the latest It Girl stepped onto the red carpet. An actress better known for her revealing outfits than her talent, she had outdone herself tonight. Her skirt was nothing more than a scrap of transparent gauze; however, this was rendered modest by the two bedazzled band-aides that served as a bodice. Mandy let out a small sigh. “Dear God, tits and no talent certainly are all the rage these days,” she said with a small shake of her head.

  “Now that’s a dollop of a trollop,” I said.

  “That’s not a dollop,” Nigel protested. “That’s a trough. And it makes me want to gouge out my eyes. Is that the reaction she wants?”

  “Somehow, I doubt she’s going for the Oedipus Rex effect,” I said.

  “Somehow, I doubt she can pronounce Oedipus Rex,” said Nigel.

  “Well, it’s my lucky job to feign interest in the half-dressed minx,” Mandy said as she started to walk away. “I’ll see you later at the Vanity Fair party, yes?”

  “Absolutely,” Nigel said with wave. “We’ll be sitting at a table with Elvis.”

  Mandy’s response was nonverbal, but nevertheless unambiguous. Nigel burst out laughing. “Roscoe would be so proud of you!” he yelled after her.

  “Speaking of which,” I asked him, “did you really rhyme ‘golden lord” with ‘impotent gourd’?

  “Trust me,” he said as he offered me his arm, “It was a vast improvement over what Roscoe suggested.”

  three

  Skippy did not go unnoticed by the rest of the press. As we continued along the red carpet, Nigel offered them various explanations as to his identity:

  “It’s a glandular issue. We try not to call attention to it.”

  “I happen to think my wife is a very attractive woman.”

  “He’s playing Chewbacca in the upcoming Star Wars film.

  Picture him furrier. And with a dashing belt.”

  “What dog?”

  At the entrance of the Dolby Theater, DeDee Evans, Nigel’s latest hire to the company waited for us. While the organizers of the Oscars had allowed Skippy to accompany us on the red carpet, they drew the line at actually letting him inside the theater. Nigel’s claim that Skippy was a service dog had not been entertained as even remotely serious.

  “Hello, DeDee,” Nigel said as he handed her Skippy’s leash—or reins—depending on your viewpoint.

  “Hello, Nigel. Nic,” DeDee smiled broadly. “It’s so exciting to be here!” DeDee was a small and wiry woman with a pronounced nose and square jaw. Up until a few years ago, she had been a housewife living in Tallahassee, Florida, with her husband, Reggie. She had been content to put aside her dream of becoming a movie critic so she could help Reggie run his plumbing business. That contentment changed to contempt when she discovered that Reggie offered additional services to his female clients—services that went far beyond unclogging stubborn drains. DeDee quickly filed for divorce, left Tallahassee, and moved to New York. Within three years, she’d obtained her masters in film studies. Six months later, she came to work for Nigel.

  Petting Skippy’s head, DeDee now said, “It’s a shame that they wouldn’t let you take Skippy inside. He looks so handsome.”

  “I know,” said Nigel. “I don’t understand why the Academy refused to accept that he’s a service dog.”

  “Maybe because he isn’t?” I offered.

  Nigel shook his head. “But, they don’t know that. Besides, I gave them a perfectly good reason for needing him tonight.”

  I laughed. “Nigel, please. You told them that you suffered from acute zelotypophobia.”

  “So?” he countered. “It’s not as if it isn’t a real thing.”

  DeDee pulled her eyebrows together. “Zeloty…what?” she repeated.

  “A fear of jealousy,” I explained.

  DeDee let out a sharp bark of laughter. “Well, this would definitely be the place to trigger an attack.”

  “Thank you,” Nigel said before turning to me as if validated. “That was my point exactly. As it is, I’m already starting to feel anxious.”

  “That’s only because there’s no bar out here,” I said. “Try breathing out of your third eye or something until we get inside.” Focusing back to DeDee, I said, “Thanks again for agreeing to watch Skippy tonight. I left his food out on the counter, but don’t let him con you into having seconds. I also left you a dinner in the fridge. A word of advice, don’t leave it unattended. Skippy’s not above stealing other people’s food. If he gets to be too much, put him in our room and turn on QVC. He loves it.”

  “Just don’t let him order anything,” warned Nigel. “He has terrible taste.”

  “We probably won’t be back until very late,” I continued. “The guest room is all set up for you. If you need anything, call.” I gave Skippy a dubious stare. “No funny stuff, mister,” I instructed.

  Skippy wagged his tail and barked. My concerns were not mollified.

  DeDee gave me a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry about us, Nic. We’ll be fine. I plan on working some more on the videos. They’re really starting to come together.”

  “Well, don’t work too hard. You’re already doing us a huge favor,” I replied. “The last time we left Skippy alone, he removed all of the wallpaper in the kitchen.”

  “And in under thirty minutes, too,” Nigel added proudly.

  “Nigel, it wasn’t a good thing.”

  “You never liked that wallpaper to begin with,” he argued. “Besides, it would have taken most contractors triple that time to do the job. Think of the money he saved us. If anything, he did us a favor.”

  I stared at him. “We are never having children,” I said after a beat.

  Nigel clasped his hands over Skippy’s ears. “How can you say that in front of him, you heartless wench?” he whispered in mock horror. “Come here, Skippy,” he said, reaching into his pocket, “Daddy’s got some bacon for you. Mommy didn’t mean it.”

  I rolled my eyes as Skippy wolfed down the bacon. “That better be all of it,” I warned Nigel. “I don’t care if you do look like a product of Oscar de la Renta; if you smell like a product of Oscar Mayer, I am not sitting with you.”

  DeDee laughed and said, “I’ll keep an eye on Skippy. You two go have fun.”

  We patted Skippy good-bye one more time and took our place in a crowded line for the entrance. Within minutes, a slight man with a pockmarked face approached us. His dry, graying hair seemed to be combed in every direction. His posture was hunched. Grey eyes watched us from behind thick glasses. The laminated placard around his neck indicated he was a member of the press. His threadbare suit indicated that he wasn’t a very successful one. “I heard you are Nigel Martini,” he said. His voice was harsh and carried a faint accent I couldn’t immediately place.

  Nigel smiled affably. “You heard right,” he said extending his hand. “And you are?”

  “David Luiz, Hollywood Foreign Press,” the man said, shaking Nigel’s hand. He ran a pale tongue over his dry, cracked lips and turned his attention to me. “And this beautiful woman here must be Mrs. Martini,” he said.

  “Well, it would be damned awkward if she wasn’t,” Nigel said. “Now, how can I help you?”

  “Those movie tapes,” Mr. Luiz continued after an uncertain glance at me, “the ones with Melanie Summers? I represent someone who wants those tapes,” he said, his voice low. He reached into his coat pocket, took out a business card, and handed it to Nigel. “I’ve been authorized to make you a very generous offer.”

  Nigel glanced at the card before shaking his head apo
logetically. “I’m sorry, Mr. Luiz,” he said. “But, the tapes aren’t for sale.”

  “I wouldn’t be so hasty, Mr. Martini,” he said, widening his smile and taking a step closer to Nigel. “You haven’t even heard my offer yet.”

  “I don’t need to,” Nigel answered. “I’m not interested.”

  “My client will be very disappointed to hear that.”

  “I’ll send flowers,” said Nigel.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Martini,” Mr. Luiz continued his voice growing anxious, “but I think you’re being very foolish.”

  “You’re not the first,” Nigel admitted.

  The line began to move. Nigel put his hand on the small of my back and began to guide me forward. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Luiz,” he said, “I need to get some air.”

  Mr. Luiz regarded Nigel with a puzzled stare. “But, there’s air out here,” he protested.

  “True,” agreed Nigel, “but I need gin in my air. Good night, Mr. Luiz.”

  Footage from the set of

  A Winter’s Night

  5/4/96

  Train Station Set in Post WWII Germany

  Actors in period costume stand along the track. The camera pans over rather shakily and then stops on Johnny Cummings, a handsome young man about 24 years old, dressed in a WWII American soldier’s uniform for his role as Donny. He is tall with dark hair and green eyes. He is standing in front of a lovely young woman of about the same age. She is Melanie Summers, who plays the role of Hanna. She has dark hair and large blue eyes. Her braided hair forms a wreath around her head. She wears a frayed dress of faded gingham. She looks up at him with sad eyes.

  JOHN/DONNY (gently)

  Hanna, please don’t look at me like that. You know that I have to leave. But I promise you, I will send for you as soon as I can.

  MELANIE/HANNA

  I know, Donny. I do believe you. It’s just hard to see you go. I … I love you, Donny.

  JOHN/DONNY (pulling her into his arms)

  I love you, too. It’s only for a little while. Don’t you know that I’d move heaven and earth to keep us together? You’re my forever.

  John leans down and kisses Melanie, but suddenly grimaces and pulls back.

  JOHN (no longer in character)

  Jesus!

  A voice off camera suddenly yells, “CUT!” The camera swings toward the voice. It is the director, Barry Meagher, a tall man with messy black hair. He runs his hand through it making it even worse. He pushes his glasses up on his head and closes his eyes in frustration.

  BARRY

  What the hell is wrong now?

  JOHN (outraged)

  She bit me!

  MELANIE (indignant)

  Well, next time don’t jam your tongue down my throat!

  JOHN

  Jam my …? Are you crazy? You’re intentionally trying to sabotage my scenes.

  MELANIE

  Why in the name of God, would I do that?

  JOHN (quietly)

  Because you’re a mess. Because you’re a mess, and you’ve lost your touch, and everyone knows it.

  Melanie reacts as if she were slapped. John looks momentarily sorry for his words.

  BARRY (interrupting)

  Enough! Would you two please just cut the crap so we can shoot the damn movie? You’re wasting everyone’s time, but more importantly, you’re wasting my time. I swear to God, if you two don’t get your shit together fast, I’ll have you both tossed off this movie! Got it?

  MELANIE

  Got it. Sorry, Barry.

  JOHN

  Ready. Sorry.

  Various crew members recheck the lighting and the actors take their positions. Barry returns his glasses to his eyes and steps behind a large camera.

  BARRY

  All right. Let’s try again. ACTION!

  JOHN/DONNY (gently)

  Hanna, please don’t look at me like that. You know that I have to leave. But I promise you, I will send for you as soon as I can.

  MELANIE/HANNA

  I know, Donny. I do believe you. It’s just hard to see you go. I … I love you, Donny.

  JOHN/DONNY (pulling her into his arms)

  I love you, too. It’s only for a little while. Don’t you know that I’d move heaven and earth to keep us together? You’re my forever.

  John gently cups Melanie’s face, and they stare at one another for a long moment. John slowly moves to kiss her. His arm snakes around Melanie’s waist, pulling her closer. After a beat, Melanie arches into John, wrapping her arms around his neck.

  BARRY

  Cut! That was perfect! Great job everyone. Okay, let’s break for lunch.

  The set empties as everyone heads for the craft table. John pulls his head back. Melanie quickly removes her arms from John’s neck and steps away, keeping her head down. John begins to walk away as well, but then Melanie calls to him.

  MELANIE

  John? Do you have a second? I need to talk to you about something.

  John stops, and turns. His expression is wary.

  JOHN

  I’m not up for any more drama right now, Melanie.

  MELANIE

  Just shut up for a second, will you? This is important.

  JOHN

  Fine. Talk. But make it fast. I’m meeting someone for lunch.

  MELANIE

  Who? Christina?

  JOHN

  Actually, that’s none of your business. Not anymore. Now what do you need to talk to me about?

  MELANIE

  It’s about what happened when we were in Cabo last month.

  JOHN (frowning)

  Okay.

  MELANIE

  Well, there’s something you should know … (Her voice drops and her words are inaudible.)

  John stares at Melanie. His expression grows angry but he says nothing.

  A WOMAN’S VOICE (far off)

  Danielle? Danielle, honey? Where are you? It’s time for lunch.

  DANIELLE

  Coming, Mom!

  The camera swings suddenly sideways, revealing a young woman of about twenty years old standing half in the shadows. She is petite with long auburn hair. It is Christina Franklin. She is staring intently at John and Melanie. The camera swings one more time to the floor and then goes dark.

  four

  Almost an hour later, the theater lights dimmed, and the orchestra began to play. Attendees settled into their seats. Ushers signaled for quiet. Cameramen readied themselves. From above, a disembodied voice called out, “Live from the Dolby Theater, it’s the Oscars! Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome your host, Ellen DeGeneres!”

  Wearing a fitted velvet tuxedo, Ellen strode across the stage. With a merry smile she greeted the cheering crowd in the auditorium. “Thank you!” she said. “Thank you very much. Before we get started, I want to say that you should think of yourselves as winners.” She paused. “Not everyone, but all of you that have won before should.”

  The crowd laughed and settled in for the show. An hour later, the lull of the shorts, documentaries, and technical categories had taken its toll. Nigel was slumped low in his seat, his eyes at half-mast. My attempts to rouse him were ignored. When the Oscar for Best Actress was about to be announced, I gave him one last nudge. “Nigel! Wake up!” I hissed.

  Nigel peeled one eye open and asked, “Is it over yet?”

  “No, but they are about to announce Best Actress. Don’t you want to watch?”

  “You watch for me and tell me what happens,” he said, closing his eye again.

  I poked him again. “Why did you bother to come if you don’t even watch?”

  Nigel crossed his arms across his chest, his eyes still closed. “Because, someone told me there was an open bar this year.”

&n
bsp; “You really need to let that go. I said I was sorry.”

  “And I told you that I’m sleeping. Now, stop talking. You’re interrupting me.”

  I gave up and focused again on the show. Anne Hathaway and Steve Carell were bantering as they read the nominees.

  Among this year’s candidates was Christina Franklin, the actress who ultimately portrayed the lead in A Winter’s Night. Christina won her first Oscar for that role. In her acceptance speech, she called the win a bittersweet one and tearfully dedicated it to Melanie’s memory. In the years after, she won three more Oscars and always spoke fondly of Melanie. Tonight she was up for her role in the movie The Morning Came Early. Her portrayal of a French seamstress trying to help Jews escape a Germany-occupied France during World War II had been universally praised by the critics and was a crowd favorite to win.

  “And the winner is …” Anne Hathaway paused to open the envelope. After a quick glance, she happily called out, “Christina Franklin!”

  The crowd burst into enthusiastic applause. Even the other nominees appeared genuinely happy for her. I pointed this out to Nigel, but he only kept his eyes closed and said, “They weren’t nominated for Best Actress for nothing.”

  Christina gracefully made her way to the podium, stopping to hug a few friends on the way. The lights reflected off the silver beading of her gown, shimmering across every dip and curve. Making her way onto the stage, she humbly accepted the statue, and then turned to face the audience. In many ways there was little difference between the nineteen-year-old-girl who first rose to this podium twenty years earlier and the thirty-nine-year-old woman who stood here now. She was tall and lithe. Although it was pulled back tonight, her hair was as it had always been; a tawny mane of riotous curls. Her waiflike face was still youthful. Her enormous green eyes, famous for their ability to subtly convey a gamut of emotions, now sparkled joyfully.

  “Thank you so much for this,” she said in a soft voice, tilting her head to indicate the golden statue. Appearing for a moment at a loss for words, she reached up to smooth her hair before continuing. “There are so many people who made this possible,” she said. “First, I want to thank my agent, Barbara Pooler, who convinced me to take this role. She is simply a force of nature. I suspect I will be hearing ‘I told you so,’ for a very long time.” The audience laughed. “And, of course,” Christina continued, “many thanks to the entire cast and crew of The Morning Came Early. You made the entire experience a wonderful one. To our director, Barry Meagher. Barry, where are you?” She sought him out in the crowd, her face softening when she found him. Barry Meagher was a tall, thin man with thick silver hair. His intense black eyes peered out at the world from under absurdly bushy eyebrows. A smile now split his craggy face, and he blew her an extravagant kiss. Christina grinned, pretended to catch it and blow it back. “Barry, it was truly a joy to work with you again,” she said. “You must be my good luck charm. I won my first Oscar working with you on A Winter’s Night. You always bring out the best in us. Without you, this never would have happened,” she added gesturing to the Oscar. “And I hope you are called up here in a little bit to get yours for Best Director.” She glanced around the room and, with a sly wink, quickly added, “No offense meant to the other nominees, of course.” The crowed laughed good-naturedly. Christina paused and took a deep breath. “Finally, I’d like to thank my co-star and old friend, John Cummings.”