Granny Goes Hollywood

by Harper Lin

  “He’s not drunk. He doesn’t drink,” Tweedledee said with the smug satisfaction of someone who thought he had private access to the great.

  “Has he been drugged?” the script coach asked. She stood at the doorway, peering in. She hadn’t dared enter. That was fine, because standing where she was she served the purpose of blocking the doorway from the rest of the gaping crowd.

  “Looks like Rohypnol,” the bodyguard said, loosening the last of the bonds. “I used to work in a night club in the city. I saw this a lot.”

  Rohypnol was a tranquilizer, better known as the “date rape drug”. You put a little of the powder in someone’s drink and it incapacitates them. They don’t go totally unconscious, but they can’t resist and have no recollection of what happened when they recover.

  “Must have been in that orange juice,” Tweedledee said, pointing to a half-empty glass on the makeup table. “Good thing he didn’t have the whole thing or he’d be completely out of it.” He crouched so he could look the movie star in the eye and raised his voice. “Mr. Armstrong, when did you drink the orange juice?”

  Cliff Armstrong mumbled something. The bodyguard repeated the question.

  “About half an hour ago,” Cliff Armstrong managed to get out, his eyes trying to focus. “Someone came in my window.”

  I glanced at the tinted window a little to the left of the makeup table. It was shut, but it only had a simple latch that could be jimmied as easily as the door, and it would have been easy enough to close it from the outside once the killer went back out.

  “The killer must have drugged the orange juice first, then slipped out and waited for him to drink it before coming back in again,” I said.

  “Couldn’t have been you,” Tweedledum said, finally getting out of my personal space. “No way you could have made it through that window.”

  I glowered at him. Back in my time I could have taken him down with a single roundhouse kick. I could probably still do it, although I’d probably put my back out of joint in the process. The thing that really hurt was that he spoke the truth. I couldn’t make it through that window anymore. It was about eight feet off the ground. Our killer was reasonably fit.

  “Did you see who did this to you, Mr. Armstrong?” Tweedledee asked.

  “No,” he replied, shaking his head in an exaggerated way from side to side. He didn’t have much control of his motor faculties. “A guy. Mask. Tied me up then put that bomb on the door. When someone came and knocked, I kicked that script at the door to warn them. Couldn’t speak loud enough.”

  I noticed for the first time a script on the floor near the door, partially shredded from the explosion.

  “Did the killer say anything?” the bodyguard asked.

  “No. Wait, yes. Um, he said something like … ‘Two birds with one stone.’”

  I gulped. So he really was gunning for me.

  The police finally showed up and everyone was cleared out. The set’s physician whisked Cliff Armstrong away and the police kept everyone who had come to the trailer for questioning. As they took us away, we passed by the back of the trailer. One of Cheerville’s finest was already investigating the window. I didn’t see anything except a scuff mark on the wall of the trailer, probably from a shoe. The window faced the back of a long semi-trailer truck that blocked it from view of the rest of the street and created a nice private little alley for the killer to sneak in the back way. Security was terrible on this picture.

  Deliberately terrible?

  After some dreary questioning in the security trailer, where I had to repeat my story several times, Police Chief Arnold Grimal showed up. He gave me a sour look, hurried off to consult with his officers, and then came back to see me several minutes later. He shut the door behind him so we could talk privately.

  “Why do you always get yourself in the thick of it?” he grumbled.

  “Yes, I’m fine. Thank you for asking.”

  Actually my leg and elbow still hurt from hitting the ground, but I wasn’t about to tell him that.

  “Did your policeman notice that scuff mark by the window?” I asked.

  “Of course! My officers are the best in the county.”

  I almost laughed at that, even though I didn’t really feel in the laughing mood.

  “What did you find?” I asked, suppressing a smile.

  “Forensics are checking on it now. Same with the bomb. They’re dusting for prints as well.”

  “They won’t find any. This fellow is too methodical for that, although at the same time he makes odd slips. He could have killed Cliff Armstrong when he had the chance, but instead went after me with a poorly designed bomb. By the way, I asked you to do a background check on Lars Mollan and find out the terms of the settlement he made with Cliff Armstrong. What did you discover?”

  “That was barely an hour ago!” his voice came out in an adolescent whine more suitable for my grandson Martin. That reminded me, I still needed to get them off the set somehow.

  “And?”

  “No criminal record in this state or California, which is the state where he resides. We haven’t had time to find out the terms of the settlement.”

  “Fair enough. How’s Cliff Armstrong?”

  “Still doped. We took a blood sample and we’re having the orange juice checked, but we’re pretty sure it’s Rohypnol. It’s easy enough to get on the Internet.”

  “Will he be all right?”

  “Yeah. He didn’t take much. He’ll be fine in a few hours.”

  And he was fine in a few hours. By then Grimal had lain down the law. If Vance Randolph wanted to keep shooting his picture in Grimal’s jurisdiction, he had to put in a lot of extra security measures. Any scene that Cliff Armstrong was in had to be sealed off with policemen and security. Only the cast and crew who were absolutely essential could get past the cordon. Also, two police officers would accompany the movie star everywhere.

  I had to say I was impressed. Grimal had developed a bit of a backbone and stood up to these Hollywood types.

  About time.

  I had to go through makeup again (my brush with that bomb had ruined it) and when I passed through the police cordon, Vance Randolph himself was there to clear me and everyone else on the list.

  Even so, I was thoroughly searched. The police didn’t know my special status and I didn’t tell them. Better if they treated me no differently than anyone else.

  The men were searched even more thoroughly than the women, and a police officer fired each musket in the air to make sure it was unloaded. The bayonets and swords were taken away. Vance Randolph complained that “reduced the historical veracity of the scene”, but Grimal overruled him.

  As I made it past the cordon, Harvey weaved his way through the crowd—and I do mean weaved—and took me by the elbow, more for his own support than any gentlemanly upbringing on his part.

  “Mr. Great Movie Star wants to see you.”

  My mouth went dry. “Cliff Armstrong wants to see me?” Despite all that had happened, I was still somewhat star struck.

  He led me to a trailer. It wasn’t the star’s own trailer since that was still a crime scene, but a slightly smaller one that he had no doubt commandeered from one of his costars. Two police officers flanked the entrance.

  Harvey introduced me, they looked at my ID, and knocked on the door.

  I was shown in, and into the presence of a screen legend.

  Chapter Eleven

  Cliff Armstrong sat slumped in an easy chair, looking like anything but a proud and confident action hero. The interior of the trailer was a scaled-down version of his own, minus the hot tub. So a four-star trailer rather than a five-star one. I wondered if that was what had made him so obviously depressed.

  He looked up when I came in and managed a faint smile.

  “Ah, Old Widow Margaret Goode. Thanks for coming. Please sit down.”

  The thank you took me aback. From what I’d heard and seen, he wasn’t the thanking kind.

 
I sat in another easy chair near his. All my trepidation had gone. For some reason, sitting next to him in this dimly lit trailer made him seem more human, like I was visiting a rich and successful neighbor rather than a living legend.

  “What’s your name?” He asked. “I mean your real name.”

  “Barbara Gold. What’s yours?”

  He shrugged. “Actually, Cliff Armstrong is my real name. Well, Clifford, but only my mother called me that, when she was still alive.”

  There was a pause. I shifted uneasily in my seat. Why was I here?

  “I wanted to thank you for saving me,” he said. The words seemed to take some effort.

  “My pleasure. I think you would be a lot safer if we stopped production until we caught this murderer. You should go off to Tahiti or something.”

  He shook his head. “The show must go on. We were behind schedule when we got here, and we’re even more behind schedule now.”

  “But why would someone want to kill you?”

  That got the first spark of life I’d seen in him since I’d entered the trailer.

  “They all want to kill me. They’re all jealous of my success!”

  “Can you think of anyone specific? Anyone you might have had a fight with?”

  The movie star waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, they all fight with me. That’s how Gwendolyn got Bert killed.”

  “What?” Was he actually fingering one of the biggest actresses in Hollywood?

  “She was getting all fussy about me having a little fun on the side. I don’t see how it’s any of her business. I’ve never gone out with her. I have enough paparazzi following me everywhere. If we got a thing going, I’d get all of her paparazzi too. But she doesn’t see that. She’s obsessed with me, and she kept nagging at me in the church while we were waiting to do the scene.” His voice took on a nasal whine. “‘Why don’t we go away somewhere? Nobody needs to know. You’re too good for all those extras and script coaches.’ Ugh, she’s driving me nuts! I wanted to go out for the next take like I usually do but the cameras started rolling before I could pull myself away. So Bert went instead.”

  “And got blown up in your place.”

  Cliff Armstrong shuddered. “That would have been me. Everyone knows I do all the takes with the special effects and stunts until the final one when the stuntman steps in. I’d perform that one myself too, I did a stint as a stuntman before I got discovered, but those damn insurance people don’t let me. It’s such a rip-off to the fans to have someone step in at the last moment and pretend to be me.”

  “Seems like Bert got the bad end of the deal, not the fans.”

  Cliff Armstrong nodded sadly. “Poor guy. Sure, he was little people, but he didn’t deserve to die.”

  “He isn’t the only little person to die,” I said, unable to keep a slight edge from my voice.

  “Oh yeah, that Minuteman. Bob something.”

  “Randy Bowen.”

  “Who?”

  “Randy Bowen was the Minuteman actor who got killed by the boom mic.”

  “Oh.”

  He didn’t seem too concerned. After a minute he looked at me. He had not made much eye contact since I had entered the trailer. He seemed completely unlike the man who had first glad-handed me and Octavian in the crowd. Smaller. Far less confident.

  “You know the fans are the only people who care about me?” he said.

  “Oh, I’m sure that’s not true.” Actually I had a feeling it was.

  He shook his head sadly and let out a heaving sigh.

  “Everyone thinks Hollywood is this glamorous, wonderful place to be, but it’s a shark tank. Remember that shark tank I had to swim through to save the babies in Sharkpocalypse II: Dying Really Bites? Hollywood is worse than that. Everyone wanting something, everyone trying to rip you off, all those fake smiles …”

  “Then why don’t you quit?”

  The movie star looked horrified. “Quit? Then I’d lose the fans. I’d lose everything!”

  I seemed to recall reading that Cliff Armstrong had been an only child. He was not married and had no children of his own. I suspected both his parents were dead. Yes, this man really was alone.

  He studied me for a moment. “You seem so nice. Why would you want to be a part of all this craziness?”

  “I guess I was a bit star struck,” I admitted.

  “Get out. It will corrupt you. This is the loneliest job in the world.”

  I almost blurted out something reassuring. I almost pointed out to him that he had millions of adoring fans, that he had throngs of beautiful women throwing himself at him, that his face was known the world over.

  But I bit my tongue. Because I realized that he was right. After a minute he spoke.

  “Sometimes I think Harvey has the right answer. Just drink yourself into oblivion. But I can’t do that. Too pathetic. Can’t take drugs either. Yeah, I know nobody believes me in all those public service announcements, but I really am one hundred percent sober. Always have been. That’s left me far too sane for this crazy business.”

  “So what will you do?”

  He slapped his knees and stood up. Suddenly he was Cliff Armstrong again—strong, confident, ready.

  The transformation took only a second, and it was complete.

  “What will I do? You mean what will we do! We have a movie to make! You and I are going to march out there and become General John T. Slaughter and Old Widow Margaret Goode, and we’re going to do that so well we’ll knock ‘em out of their seats!”

  I actually stood up and saluted. “Sir, yes, sir!”

  Automatic reaction. I can’t help it.

  He shot me his winning grin and clapped his hands three times. “That’s the spirit. Let’s do it!”

  And we did. It was the campfire scene. Everything was as it had been before, minus one Minuteman, plus a boom mic operator with a bandage around his head, and two cops standing just outside the circle of light. Even if they hadn’t been in uniform you could have told they were cops. They were the only people not looking at the scene.

  “Got your—hic—lines memorized?” Harvey asked as we got there.

  Cliff Armstrong swayed back and forth. “Yes—hic—Harvey. She—hic—does. She’s a—hic—pro, unlike you.”

  “Bleep off you bleeping bleeper,” Harvey said, storming off. Well, he tried to storm off. As it turned out, he stormed a good ten feet or so before he tripped over a power cable and nearly took a nosedive.

  “BLEEP!” he shouted at the electrician who was setting up the cables. “Watch what you’re bleeping doing!”

  I rounded on the movie star. “You don’t have to make fun of him like that. It’s cruel.”

  I expected him to be defiant, or to laugh me off, but instead he looked at me like a chastened schoolchild.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled. “Let’s get to our marks.”

  So we went through the familiar scene once again. Cliff Armstrong sat in a camp chair in front of the fake campfire, surrounded by his men. The cameras were set close to the actors, cutting out the city and street that were just a few feet away from the patch of grass where the men stood and sat. I hovered to one side, ready to make my entrance.

  “Remember—hic—act all flustered and out of breath,” Harvey said from behind me, enveloping me in a cloud of vodka fumes. Despite his outburst, he had promptly gotten back to his post. “You just ran through the woods at night. You’re scared and tired, but ready to do your duty, no matter what the personal risk.”

  Been there, done that.

  “Roll ‘em!” Vance Randolph called.

  Harvey made a pushing motion with his hands. I rushed into the shot, acting panicked and out of breath. That was easy. I just had to bring up the memories of the first time I came under hostile fire.

  “General Slaughter! General Slaughter!” I called out, rushing toward Cliff Armstrong.

  One of the Minutemen interceded. “Stop right there! Who are you?”

  I acted meek, hunching ov
er a little. “The Widow Margaret Goode, sir. I have important news for General Slaughter.”

  “She could be a spy,” the Minuteman said over his shoulder to the others.

  “Nonsense,” Cliff Armstrong said. “Look in her eyes. No deception lies hidden there. She’s a tried and true American, I would bet my britches.”

  “Care to make a wager?” Pretty Boy asked.

  “Ha! You’d lose, my good man, and would have to defeat the British in your longjohns.” Cliff Armstrong said as he stood up. He walked over to me and took my hands. “Sit down, old woman. Here, take my seat. Someone get her some hot broth. The night is cold.”

  “Oh, thank you good sir,” I said, taking a steaming cup from one of the Minutemen. I almost lost it when I looked inside. Instead of an actual cup of steaming broth, the cup was empty except for a little chunk of dry ice that sent up a little cloud that looked like steam. Wouldn’t the real thing be more realistic? I tilted it a little away from the camera so the audience wouldn’t notice and pretended to take a sip.

  Cliff Armstrong stood next to me, his fists on his hips.

  “So, good widow, what is this important news you have for me?”

  “The evil British general is billeting in my poor humble cabin, sir.” Did people really talk like this back then? “And I overheard him conspiring with his officers to hatch an evil plan. They intend to attack you on the Sabbath, sir, when your men are at church.”

  “Bah, I should have known! The British are a godless lot, unlike we great Americans.”

  I leaned in a little closer to my favorite movie star. There was a time, not more than 24 hours ago, when that would have made me feel giddy, but he had become human now. All too human. “They say they will strike half an hour after the church bells ring for service, to make sure that most of the Minutemen are inside the church. Then one group of Redcoats will attack the camp while it is lightly guarded, and the rest will surround the church and burn it to the ground!”

  “The beasts!” Cliff Armstrong thundered.

  “Watch out!” a woman’s voice cried from off camera.