by Donald Bain
“The kid can stay.” The speaker was Akmanian, the director. He was sitting on his canvas chair, a Starbucks cup in his hand. “It’s my set. I say who gets to stay and who has to go, not her.”
“That’s very nice of you,” Grady said, “but I think we’ve seen enough for one day.”
“Please, Dad, please. I want to stay.”
“We can’t take a chance, sport. I don’t want to have to watch you every second.”
“But I didn’t knock down those lights.”
“He’s telling the truth,” Akmanian said.
“What are you saying?” I asked.
“I saw one of the PAs clip the big stand,” he said, cutting the air with his hand. “They went down like dominoes.”
“See, Dad? See? We can stay now.”
“Why didn’t you say anything when Betsy was yelling at Frank?” I said, feeling my anger rise again.
“She was full into her tirade,” Akmanian said, tipping his cup back to get the last drops of coffee. “I figured she wouldn’t listen anyway. She certainly is entertaining when she’s in a rant, isn’t she?”
“Not when you’re the nine-year-old victim of it,” I said.
“You’re okay, boy, aren’t you?”
Frank knuckled away the tears from his eyes and nodded at the director.
Grady sighed. “Thank goodness I’m not working for her.”
“Oh, yeah. We all say that,” said Akmanian. “She’s quite the drama queen. That’s why I make sure the money’s in the bank before I work with her.” He glanced at his watch. “We should be ready for you by two this afternoon,” he said, looking at me. “Got your role memorized? If you do, you’re the only one.”
“I know all my lines,” I said with a sigh. “However, I have a problem with two of them. I’d like them changed, but I don’t want to set off another outburst.”
“Give me the Fletcher script,” he said to the production assistant sitting next to him.
She had anticipated the request and had pulled it from the pile of papers in her lap. She put the script in his hand.
Akmanian cocked his head at her and smiled. “I’ve got two words for you, kid.” He paused. “Light and sweet.” He handed her his coffee cup.
The PA, who’d sat up straight in her seat expecting praise, collapsed like a punctured balloon. Her face paled, then flooded with color.
“Don’t take me so seriously,” the director said to her. “We’ll keep you for the next shoot.” He tapped her on the head with my script.
Akmanian read over the lines with me and I showed him the problem areas. We agreed on alternative language, and he said he’d take responsibility for making the changes.
“I’ll tell her it was awkwardly worded,” he said. “That should send her into a tailspin.” He laughed.
“Please. I don’t think my heart can take any more excitement today.”
“Tell her I wrote it,” Frank piped up, joining in on the joke.
“Don’t be fresh, sport,” Grady said, but he was hard put not to smile.
Dave Fitzpatrick escorted us to where lunch was being served. Three buffets had been set up in a series of rooms on the first floor. Luckily we managed to avoid seeing Betsy. We filled our plates and found seats next to Cookie and Jimbo, who were sitting with Antonio Tedeschi.
Cookie ruffled Frank’s hair. “Heard about your little tiff this morning. We both heard the lioness roar today. You okay?”
Frank nodded vigorously as he stuffed a forkful of spaghetti into his mouth.
“Betsy’s got more snap than a mousetrap,” she said to me in a low voice, looking over to see if her manager was listening. “Ah thought Jimbo was ’bout to bust a gut when she turned that harsh tongue on me. He was that mad. I think he still is, but he’s holdin’ it in. They’re gonna try to fit us in later, but if not, we gotta come back tomorrow to finish the shoot. Ah think I should know my lines by then.” She winked at me.
Antonio got up to leave and came around the table to apologize for Betsy’s behavior. “I am sorry for the . . . the—” He strove to find the right word, finally settling on, “She was not so nice to you.” He pressed Cookie’s hand. “And to you.” He looked at Frank. “She has the brilliant ideas but is not such a diplomat. No?”
“Ah wouldn’t recommend the UN use her in the Middle East,” Cookie said.
“Still. Very smart, very creative, very passionate about her work,” Antonio said.
“Can’t argue with that,” Cookie said.
Antonio pressed his lips together and shook his head. “But perhaps I shouldn’t go with her,” he said softly. “Maybe not such a good idea.”
“Go where?” I asked.
“You can go anywhere you like with her,” Cookie said. “Just keep her away from me.”
“Yes, of course.” Antonio forced a smile, bent forward in a brief bow, and walked away, a worried expression on his face.
Before we finished lunch, several crew members stopped at our table to ask after Frank, who was delighted by all the attention. He recounted the tale of the light stands falling around him, embellishing a bit each time he told the story, but was careful not to say anything about the tongue-lashing he received from the angry agency creative director.
As we cleared our plates and cups and dropped our napkins in the garbage can, Frank lingered by a big fishbowl that was filled with candy bars. It was a youngster’s Halloween dream. Crew members on their way back to work plunged their hands into the bowl, grabbing a few bars to go.
“Did you see what they have, Dad?” Frank asked, his eyes wide. “I didn’t have hardly any dessert, and they have Snickers. Can I have one?”
“You may have one, no more,” Grady said. “And grab one for me.”
Father and son munched on their treats as we made our way back to the library set.
At first it was quiet. I sat at my make-believe desk while the assistant cameraman held a meter up to my cheek, checking the light levels, and someone ran a wire inside my jacket for a microphone. The gaffer, who turned out to be the head electrician, directed the crew adjusting the lights. The fluorescent bulbs in the ceiling fixtures were removed and replaced with a large flood lamp, draped with black material.
The wardrobe lady came in to check my jacket, pinning the back to make it appear more formfitting in the front, and inserting a piece of rolled-up painter’s tape under my lapel to hold it in place.
Maya, the makeup woman, refreshed my lipstick, powdered my face, and sprayed my hair to within an inch of its life. “The light picks up every stray hair,” she said, snipping one off with a scissors she drew from her pocket. “If they see it in the final print, it can drive them crazy. They can fix it in postproduction, of course, but that costs money. And if word gets around that I let it happen, they’ll stop asking for me by name.”
The camera was delivered on a dolly pushed by the grips, who, I learned, are the general technicians on a set, moving, rigging, and building things.
Akmanian arrived with the director of photography, and all of a sudden there were dozens of people around me. The director sat behind a monitor and pulled on his headphones.
A script supervisor sat next to the director.“Let’s talk camera direction,” she said. “Where are you going to put her?”
“I like her just where she is,” the cameraman replied. He adjusted the lens and ordered changes in the lights. “Waste it to the left, please,” he called out. “That’s no good. Let’s try the other eyebrow on the camera. Did anyone bring in the inky snoot?”
Grady and Frank had taken chairs on the side of the room. Antonio slipped into the room and sat next to Grady. I caught Frank’s eye and winked at him. He bounced up and down in excitement until Grady threatened to escort him from the room if he didn’t sit still. I could tell it was tough for him, but he gave it a good try.
“Let’s go, guys. Today, she’s a-burning.”
“Where’s the gaffer?”
“I’m right he
re.”
“We’ve got a chance to wrap it by six, and save a bundle.”
“Quiet on the set. Let’s go from the top.”
“Quiet, please. Randy, raise that boom.”
“We’re rolling. Rolling, rolling.”
“Permezzo, five-oh-three, take one. Mark!”
“Action!”
“Hello . . . I’m Jessica Fletcher. It’s no mystery why I always carry my Permezzo card when I travel to do research for my novels.”
The shoot went smoothly, but even though I knew my lines, the taping took a surprisingly long time. Altogether, we did twenty or thirty takes—I lost track—including a “reverse” with the camera looking over my shoulder, and a stand-up in front of the green screen. Each change of camera direction or placement necessitated time to relocate and adjust the lights, focus the lens, raise some part of the set decoration using what they called “apple boxes,” double-check the sound, smooth my jacket, powder my nose, and respray my hair, which was feeling more and more like a helmet by the moment.
Betsy Archibald never came to the set, so my concerns about her reaction to changes in the script were for naught. I didn’t see Howerstein either. By the time Kevin Prendergast poked his head in the library, we were finished.
Cookie walked up to me on the set as one of the crew was unhooking my microphone. “Ooh, Jessica. You’re gonna put me to shame,” she said. “You are such a pro.”
“Thank you,” I replied. “Have you been here all this time? I didn’t see you.”
“Oh, Jimbo and Ah was hiding in the back.”
“You were?” I laughed. “Where is Jimbo?”
“He was just here.” She craned her neck to look for him. “Must’ve gone to the little boys’ room. I better go find him. That producer said they probably gonna want us to try again.”
“Tonight?”
“Well, now is as good a time as any, I always say. You were such a wonderful inspiration, I’ll be sure to do better. Now that they put the right bottles in my kitchen. Your set is looking very authentic. I want mine to be, too. Ah better get over there, just in case. See you later.”
“She certainly can talk a blue streak, can’t she?” Grady said, taking my arm as I walked off the set.
“I think she’s a little nervous about doing her spot.”
“Not everyone is as smooth as you,” Grady said. “You were great, Aunt Jess. Wasn’t she, Frank?”
“I liked the green-screen part best,” Frank said. “I want to see what they put behind you.”
“Me, too,” I said, tweaking his chin.
“Akmanian told me you were a real pro,” Grady said. “I knew all along you’d be the best one.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” I said. “But he was very gracious.”
“He was thrilled,” Grady said, grinning. “Did you have a good time?”
“I must admit it was fun, and I didn’t think it would be.”
“See?” He laughed, then lowered his voice. “Probably because a certain someone wasn’t here to carry on.”
“That certainly helped.”
Frank, who’d been trailing the crew as they moved to the next set, returned to us. “They’re doing the man next, Dad. Can I go watch?”
“You just sat through a whole commercial being made. Wasn’t that enough?”
“Please?”
“I think your mother wants us home for dinner,” Grady said.
Frank jumped up and down. “Five minutes, that’s all. I just want to stay five more minutes.”
“Okay, sport, five more minutes. But I don’t want you to complain when I come to find you.”
“Make it ten, then,” Frank said.
“Get out of here,” Grady said, giving Frank a soft swat on the behind. “And make sure you stop in the bathroom. You haven’t gone all day.”
“I will.”
“And tie those laces.”
“Grady, are you sure?” I said, thinking I didn’t want to hear what Betsy had to say if she saw Frank on the next set.
“He wasn’t responsible, remember? We’ll give him a couple of minutes up here, and then go. What do you need to do now?”
“I have to get my own clothes and return these to wardrobe, and collect my shoulder bag from the production office. I can’t wait until I’m back at the hotel to remove the makeup and wash my hair.”
“That should be enough time for Frank,” he said as we walked to the stairwell. “Did I tell you, you look very glamorous in all that makeup?”
“No, you did not, and it’s just as well. That’s the last time you’ll see this much paint on me.”
Downstairs, some of the crew were stowing equipment that wouldn’t be needed for the spot shooting upstairs; they were rolling it out to the trucks in fiberglass carts. The makeup stands had been folded, the lights and mirrors dismantled for the day. Maya waved to us as she hunted for a missing wig. The wardrobe mistress was packing the trunks, her assistant breaking down the clothing racks. I returned my “authorish” costume and retrieved my own clothes, as well as my shoulder bag from the production office, where the ladies complained about being on the phone all afternoon, arranging for the next production. We made our rounds and were back upstairs in the promised ten minutes, but when we looked in on Lance Sevenson’s shoot, we didn’t catch sight of Frank.
“Let’s ask if anyone’s seen him,” I said.
“I don’t want to disturb the crew while they’re working,” Grady said. “He probably went looking for us back on your set. Let me check and I’ll be right back. If he shows up, have him wait here with you.”
Grady returned in minutes, but without Frank. “I don’t know where he could have gotten to. He said he wanted to watch this shoot.”
“Maybe to see the soundman,” I said.
We found Cliff in his cave, but he said he hadn’t seen Frank since before the accident. “If you see him, please tell him we’re looking for him,” I said.
We walked back to the kitchen set that was being used for Cookie’s commercial. They must have rescheduled it for the next day. The bottles had been removed from the butcher-block island, and the lights were off. We hurried down a dim corridor to find the room that had served as a set for Anne Tripper. No Frank. We raced back to the Sevenson set in case he returned to where he’d said he’d be.
“Try video village,” said a grip I stopped in the hall. He directed us to a room with lounge chairs around a table and a lineup of monitors along one wall. The table was littered with empty coffee cups, soda cans, and doughnut boxes, but no one was there.
“He was wearing his earphones,” I said to Grady. “Let’s get someone to page him and tell him to get back to the set.”
“Aunt Jess, you’re a genius. Of course. Why didn’t I think of that?”
We retraced our steps to the Sevenson set, which was between takes. Lance was sitting on a stool in an empty room, the walls of which were covered in royal blue wallpaper with a random pattern of tiny foil stars. The movie lights gave the stars a twinkling effect. A different makeup lady was powdering Lance’s brow. He looked a little uptight. You’d think he’d never been in front of a camera before.
A grip with a line of clothespins attached to the placket of his shirt was winding a cable over his shoulder. Two others were removing ceiling tiles to accommodate an overhead light. Akmanian directed another to shift around light stands while he stood on top of a ladder, peering through the camera lens.
I found Dave Fitzpatrick and explained our problem.
“Sure, Mrs. Fletcher. What channel was he on?” he asked, donning his own earphones.
“I’m not sure. Can we try them all?”
“Don’t see why not. We’re not shooting at the moment.” Dave pulled a receiver from his belt, pressed a button, and spoke into the microphone. “Frank Fletcher, if you’re on channel one, your dad is looking for you. Please come to the Sevenson set immediately.” He repeated his message on the three other channels.
“I’m going to kill that boy when we find him,” Grady said, exasperated. “Just ten minutes. That’s what he promised. And look—” He glanced at his watch. “It’s been almost three quarters of an hour. He’s in big trouble now. He’s going to hear from me, but good.”
“And I’ll be next in line,” I said. “Grady, where else did you go with him before I met up with you this morning? He was all excited about the different things he’d seen. And he was talking about a carpenter.”
Grady slapped his forehead with the heel of his palm. “Right. We were with the guys building pieces of the set. One of them let him try the nail gun.”
“Where was that? Was it on this floor?”
“Yeah,” Grady said, looking around. “I think it was this way.” He grabbed a passing grip by the elbow. “Where did you guys set up the carpentry shop again?”
“Down that way,” the man said, pointing to a dark hallway. “But it might be locked. I think they’re packed up for the night.”
“We want to check anyway,” Grady said.
“Then hang a left at the end and it’s two or three doors down on your right. Flip on the hall lights as you go.”
“Thanks,” Grady said.
We took off at a jog.
“He’d better not have tried that nail gun again,” Grady said, his voice tight. “I told him it was a dangerous tool, but he was so fascinated by it. Oh God, Aunt Jess, you don’t think he’s hurt, do you? I’ll never forgive myself.”
“Let’s not borrow trouble. We have to find him first. Then you can berate yourself. But if he’s not here, Grady, I think we should get help.”
We followed the grip’s directions, switching on the overhead lights in the hall as we went. At the end of the corridor, we turned left. All the doors on the right were closed. Grady turned the knob of the first door. Thankfully, it was unlocked. He pushed it open. The room contained several light stands, but was otherwise empty. There was nothing at all in the second room. The third room was dark, but filled with equipment. I wondered why so much had been stuffed into the one room when there were two others that could have been used as well. Grady groped along the wall for the light switch. Only a single fluorescent came on. The bulb next to it flickered and went off.
