Granny Goes Hollywood

by Harper Lin

  I leaped like I had just been electrocuted. It was only when the cameraman spoke that I noticed a camera pointing directly at me.

  “Move half a step to the left, we don’t have all day!” Vance Randolph barked.

  Meekly I took a little step to the left. I felt woozy and looked heavenwards. Not that I thought God would help me out of this mess, He certainly had better things to do, but because it was the only direction where I couldn’t see cameras or directors or actors or all this alien nonsense surrounding me.

  Except for the boom mic. It hovered in the air above the actors. Suddenly it raised up, quickly extending. I looked at it curiously. Wouldn’t it be too high to catch the sound of their voices? Plus the director hadn’t ordered it to be raised.

  Vance Randolph noticed it too.

  “Hey, sound. What are you doing?” he demanded.

  Suddenly it became sickeningly clear what he was doing.

  “Look out!” I shouted.

  The boom mic dropped, its heavy steel pole flashing down on the heads of the actors below.

  Chapter Seven

  Cliff Armstrong let out a yelp and threw himself on the ground. The man standing next to him wasn’t so lucky. The boom smacked him right on the top of the head with a sickening crunch and he collapsed like a house of cards. The boom hit the chair where Cliff Armstrong had been sitting a moment before and shivered, making a strange whining metallic sound as its entire length wobbled. The other actors, most of whom had been missed by inches, leaped back a moment later, or simply stood in shock, staring at the dead man next to the campfire.

  And he was quite obviously dead. Blood poured from his head, which was caved in right along the top.

  Everyone ran onto the set, a babble of voices drowning out any sense to the situation.

  Everyone but me, that is. I ran to where the boom mic operator had been standing.

  I found him lying on the ground unconscious. The boom mic, which was on a sort of weighted stand to keep it steady, had a clamp to lock the boom in place. That had been flicked open.

  I saw all this in an instant. The next moment I heard a woman holding a clipboard shout, “He went that way!”

  She pointed off the set towards the tangle of trailers. I didn’t see anyone.

  “Who?” I demanded.

  “The guy who hit Clyde. I was standing here waiting to prompt you on your lines when someone walked up behind Clyde, knocked him over the head with a wrench, extended the boom, and flipped the catch!”

  I barely heard that last part, because I was already running in the direction the script girl had pointed.

  Well, “running.”

  My knees aren’t what they used to be. Neither are my ankles. Every now and then my sciatica acts up, and I get tired far more easily than I used to. I can’t even see the sights on my 9mm automatic pistol without my reading glasses. That didn’t matter, because I didn’t have my gun with me anyway.

  It’s a bit of a cheat that I had been in prime physical health all my life only to decay so quickly by age 70. I know many people who had worked office jobs and only went to the gym on weekends who were in better shape than me now. The truth is, I overdid it. All those 50-mile marches with 100 lb. packs took their toll. All those nights sleeping out in the rain, all those days slogging through the desert, all those times I was on the receiving end of bullets or fists or a bronze bust of Ronald Reagan used as a club (don’t ask) had finally caught up to me. My body had been getting weaker even when it seemed at its strongest, and now I had to pay the price. The only thing left in 100% working order was my mind. At least the Great CIA Director in the Sky hadn’t taken that from me.

  As I hurried through the maze of trailers, that mind was working overtime.

  I had learned something very important about the killer, in fact a few things.

  First, he was a man. At least if that script girl had seen correctly. I’d have to speak with her more later.

  Second, he was desperate. He was so intent on killing Cliff Armstrong that he didn’t mind getting caught. Both times he had tried to kill the movie star had been when lots of other people had been around. That meant he didn’t care about getting caught, although he certainly wanted to make sure that he killed Cliff Armstrong first, hence this chase.

  Third, he didn’t care if other people got killed. The first time with Bert was an honest mistake. It should have been Cliff Armstrong running through that field. Many potential murderers aren’t true killers, and it takes a lot to push them over the edge. If they kill an innocent bystander by accident, they will be so remorseful they either turn themselves in to the police or stop trying to kill the original target. This killer had tried again, the very next day and in a crowd of people who were bound to get hurt even if he did succeed.

  All that flickered through my mind as I hurried between two large trailers, their roofs adorned with giant satellite dishes.

  I stopped for a moment, unsure of myself. After rushing out of the light and crowd of the set, this area looked dark and abandoned by comparison.

  No, not quite abandoned. I heard a door slam shut on the other side of the trailer to my left.

  Running around the front of the trailer, I came across another row of trailers. This place was a veritable town of trailers. One was marked “Costume C”. The one just behind was marked “Costume B”. I came around the corner just in time to see a figure duck between them.

  I pursued. I really shouldn’t have, considering that I am no longer deadly in hand to hand combat, but old habits die hard.

  Old instincts die hard too, and just as I got close to the back of the Costume C trailer they told me to take care.

  I stopped. Listened. Was that the faint sound of breathing I heard? It was hard to tell, because the hubbub over at the set hadn’t died down. In fact, it had grown louder as more people gathered around. The curious flock to murder scenes and car crashes—any tragedy, really—like flies flock to bleep.

  Oh dear, Harvey was getting to me.

  I crouched down, wincing as one of my knees popped. I hoped the killer hadn’t heard. To me it sounded like a pistol shot.

  I looked beneath the truck and as I suspected, a pair of feet stood just around the corner of the truck. No doubt further up there was a pair of hands gripping that wrench, ready to smack the annoying little old lady who had dared to pursue him.

  White tennis shoes, big enough that they were almost certainly a man’s. Blue jeans. That’s all I could see.

  What I couldn’t tell was why he wasn’t a mile away by now. I am not exactly a fast runner these days, and he had a good head start on me.

  The slamming door. He had gone into Costume Trailer C for some reason. He hadn’t stayed long, but he had risked getting caught so he could go in there.

  Why?

  First thing first, I needed to grab this guy, or at least get a good look at him. I tiptoed back the way I came so I could come at him from the front of the trailer. The light was good enough that I would get a decent look at him.

  No such luck.

  “She said he went this way!” someone shouted from not far off. This was followed by the sound of stomping feet.

  By the time I got around the costume trailer, the killer had disappeared.

  Cliff Armstrong’s two bodyguards blundered into view. They looked around with blank expressions on their faces for a moment, then ran off in a random direction.

  I sighed in frustration. Only dumb luck would send them on the killer’s route, and I do mean dumb.

  Since no one else was around for the moment, I took a look inside Costume Trailer C.

  I could have groaned with despair when I opened the door.

  It was stuffed with uniforms. Not costumes, but uniforms. Reflective jackets for road crews, white clothing for the caterers, green jumpsuits I’d seen the cleanup crews wearing, hardhats, knee pads, gloves, everything a small mobile town like this film crew would need.

  The perfect place for a killer to co
me to do a quick change and blend with the film crew. Even if he had only had a minute to spare in this place, he could have chosen between a dozen different uniforms. He could look like anyone by now.

  Had he walked off as a cook? An electrician? It was impossible to say. It did teach me one thing, though, and that was the killer was familiar with the layout of film set. He had known exactly where to go to get his getaway disguise.

  He was working on this film.

  That narrowed it down to a couple of hundred people.

  It was a start, I suppose.

  Chapter Eight

  The next day I called Grimal. The police chief did not sound happy to hear from me but he knew that he couldn’t avoid this conversation. The poor fellow had probably been dreading it all morning.

  “What do you want?” he groaned.

  “Manners,” I chided him. “And you know very well what I want.”

  “I spoke with the script girl,” he said. “Mary Ellworth. She was the only one who got a clear look at the killer. White male, medium build, not too young or two old, wearing a black hooded sweatshirt with a red logo on the front.”

  “What was the logo?”

  “She didn’t see. She only saw him for a moment. You know how witnesses can be.”

  I nodded. Most people make terrible witnesses. They aren’t paying attention until the actual crime takes place, and then they’re so shocked that the whole thing is a blur. Little Mary Ellworth had actually done comparatively well.

  “Oh, she did say the logo seemed familiar,” Grimal added.

  “Familiar how?”

  “She can’t say. She’s been wracking her brains about it but can’t figure it out. She said she’d call if anything jogged her memory.”

  I didn’t put much hope in that. Most people, even intelligent people who haven’t just witnessed a murder, have faulty memories. Scientists say that our memories aren’t imprinted in our brain like some sort of picture, but are rather reconstructed from bits and pieces. That means a lot of embellishment and filling in the blanks occurs. And each time a memory is recalled, it gets a little further from the original. You can see this for yourself by conducting a simple experiment. Recall a favorite scene from a movie that you haven’t watched in a while, a scene that you’ve replayed in your head many times. You think you know who does what and exactly what all the actors said? Now watch that scene again and you’ll see that you’ve made quite a few little mistakes in your recollection. This isn’t so important with a movie, but it can literally be a matter of life or death in a case like this.

  “Why didn’t she shout when the murderer knocked Clyde the boom man over the head?” I asked.

  “She choked up with fear. Not an unusual reaction.”

  “A convenient one too.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t grill her yourself.” Grimal sounded churlish.

  “I didn’t want to blow my cover.”

  “Your cover?” Grimal posed this as a question. One of those questions you don’t want the answer to but feel compelled to ask anyway, like “does this dress make me look fat?”

  “I got a job as an extra. Old Widow Margaret Goode, to be exact.”

  “You’re going to be in the movie.” His voice came out flat.

  “Yes.”

  “With Cliff Armstrong.”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you in scenes with him?”

  “One. I was present when the boom mic came down.” I proceeded to tell him all I saw that night, which didn’t amount to much.

  “But that puts you in danger,” Grimal said after I had finished. I couldn’t tell if he was worried I’d get killed on his watch and he’d get in trouble with the CIA or he was hoping I’d get killed on his watch and be free of me.

  “It’s the perfect way to find the killer,” I said, feeling rather defensive. This whole thing really wasn’t any of my business. Retirement doesn’t sit well with me, though.

  “You know these idiots are going to continue with the picture? After two murders on the set?” He sounded exasperated. I could tell he just wanted this whole problem to go away and leave him alone. He felt the same about me.

  “That doesn’t surprise me. Film people are … odd. They have their own little community, a rather pathetic and divided community, and yet somehow it all comes together and these pictures get made. I’m finding the whole experience quite educational.”

  “So am I. I’m learning just how stupid Hollywood people are, and I’m learning that voting for our governor in the last election was the dumbest thing I ever did.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that.”

  Grimal missed the point. “I got another call from him this morning, right after a bunch of panicky calls from California lawyers telling me not to try and shut down the set. The governor told me the same thing. Ordered me, really. He said, ‘the show must go on’. Can you believe it? You know, these guys don’t give a damn about Cliff Armstrong. They just want to get their picture made. When I pointed out to one of those lawyers that they wouldn’t have a movie if their star got killed, he told me that they had enough footage of him that they could splice him into scenes using CGI. They’ve done it before when actors have died.”

  “And no doubt Cliff Armstrong’s final movie would be the biggest blockbuster yet,” I said.

  The significance of my own words took a moment to sink in. Yes, it would make the film quite profitable, wouldn’t it? It seemed everyone from Harvey all the way up to Vance Randolph were thoroughly sick of dealing with Cliff Armstrong, but were professionally invested in this film. If the star died, that would relieve them of a burden, and at the same time they’d have the notoriety of having been involved in perhaps the biggest grossing movie of all time. Everyone’s careers would prosper.

  That widened the circle of suspects considerably. I could not dismiss the possibility that the killer may not have a personal motive, but may have been hired by someone to do their dirty work. That person could be one of those California producers.

  But perhaps that didn’t fit so well. The killer was too determined, too unconcerned about his own ultimate safety, to be a hired man. Even if someone had put him up to it, the killer was still working from their own motivations. Could there be a conspiracy?

  I still had too many questions, but some of the pieces of the puzzle were beginning to appear. I hadn’t been able to put them together yet, but at least I was seeing the hint of an overall pattern. That always made me feel tingly inside. Not as tingly as meeting Cliff Armstrong, but a decent second.

  “Grimal, look into the insurance status of this movie, and of Cliff Armstrong.”

  “Why?”

  I rolled my eyes. This guy was clearly in over his head. “Because someone might reap a big profit if their star dies.”

  “Oh.”

  “You hadn’t thought of that, had you?”

  Yes, that was nasty, but I do deserve a little but of fun, don’t I?

  “It was on my list of things to do,” he mumbled.

  It sure is now, I thought.

  “The governor at least gave us something,” the police chief said.

  “What’s that?”

  “He’s given me twenty plainclothes police officers from other districts to help out. I’ve gotten them jobs as extras and caterers.”

  “And who in the crew knows they’re cops?”

  Long silence. I shook my head.

  I heard Grimal shift in his seat.

  “Well, we told the Assistant Casting Manager, a Ms. Russo. And we had to tell the head of the catering company, but he’s local. No way he’s a suspect.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “We told them to keep mum.”

  “Like that ever happens.”

  People thought being involved in a police case was exciting. They couldn’t help blabbing to friends and family, and those people blabbed to other people, and soon everyone knew.

  Hopefully the news wouldn’t spread too quickly. The ki
ller seemed in a hurry, and so perhaps he’d strike before he heard that the police had infiltrated the set, although if he had any brains he must have realized that would happen sooner rather than later.

  “So who was the victim last night?” I asked. I hadn’t lingered after the murder. Filming was cut off for the night and most of us were told to go home.

  “Randy Bowen. Minor character actor. Had a couple of lines in this film. So far we’ve found no reason for him to be targeted. It looks like he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “He was. You know, come to think of it, he was standing right next to Cliff Armstrong and in line with the boom mic. Either the killer miscalculated or he didn’t care that Randy would be hit by the metal pole too.”

  Grimal groaned. A groaning Grimal had become part of the soundtrack to my life. “Great. That’s just dandy. So we have a psycho killer on our hands.”

  “Oh, I’m not sure he’s a psychopath. He just doesn’t care if innocent people get killed.”

  “Sounds like a psychopath to me. They can be devious and meticulous, you know. This guy doesn’t seem to care if he gets away with it, as long as he gets it done. Oh, and we’re keeping the killing under wraps. It hasn’t leaked out to the press yet, and if it does, we’re calling it an accident. The press is already having a field day with that stuntman getting blown up. We don’t need any journalists sniffing around.”

  “Indeed. Any more news for me?” I asked.

  “No.” He sounded like a chastened schoolchild who had just brought home a bad report card. He knew I had just given him a D- for Police Work.

  I hung up without saying goodbye. It’s what they did in movies, after all. Ever notice that? Very unrealistic.

  Checking my watch, I saw I had just enough time to feed Dandelion, who had been feeling rather neglected the past two days, and head to the set. I was supposed to film that scene today after the rather rude interruption we had experienced the previous evening.

  Poor Octavian. He had called that morning asking if I wanted to go to lunch. I had made excuses. I didn’t want to tell him I had a date with Cliff Armstrong instead.