Granny Goes Hollywood

by Harper Lin

  “Cut!” Vance Randolph called, but his voice was barely heard as a chorus of shouts went up from the crew. Cliff Armstrong ducked and scampered behind the Minutemen. I squinted, trying to see through the harsh glare of the lights. There was the sound of a scuffle, and more shouting.

  I stepped forward, out past the lights where I could see. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust. When they did, I saw the electrician who had tripped up Harvey struggling with a couple of teamsters right next to one of the main power cables, the same one Harvey had tripped over. The cops rushed for him.

  “I didn’t do anything!” the electrician cried as the cops yanked him away from the teamsters. “I was only checking the connection for the artificial fire light.”

  The script coach, Mary Ellworth, pointed an accusing finger. “He was trying to splice in that portable generator. That would have overcharged the artificial fire and made it blow up in Cliff Armstrong’s face.”

  There was, indeed, a portable generator nearby. A cord ran from it to just behind where the electrician stood. He looked to where Mary was pointing and his eyes went wide.

  “I didn’t put that there. I swear!”

  “He looks the same size as the guy who hit Clyde over the head,” Mary said. “I didn’t get to see his face because of the hood, but he’s got the same body dimensions.”

  “Looks like we got our man,” the police said. “If he’s an electrician, he could have set up those explosions easy.”

  Cliff Armstrong stepped away from the set and peered at the struggling man.

  “William? I should have known. You’re still sore that I stole that girl from you a couple of pictures back. But seriously man, you’d kill me over a bit of skirt? She wasn’t even that good in bed.”

  I frowned at the movie star. William put on an innocent face.

  “I swear it wasn’t me. Wait, it couldn’t have been me. I was setting up for the river scene when the explosions went off on the town square. I was miles away!”

  “Can you prove it?” one of the cops asked.

  “I can disprove it,” Mary said. “I saw you at the town square. Mr. Randolph, get the master schedule and you’ll see I’m right.”

  “What’s that?” I asked Cliff Armstrong.

  “It shows where everyone was working at a certain time,” he replied. “One of his assistants has to sign off on everything. It lists everything so that everyone gets the right pay. Union regulations.”

  The director climbed down from his high chair and summoned over an assistant toting a thick ledger. They looked at it together for a minute. A tense silence fell on the set as everyone waited.

  Then the director looked up. “It wasn’t him. He was supposed to be on the town square, but the set up for the river scene was having some trouble and he got sent over there at the last minute.”

  “But I saw him at the town square!” Mary protested.

  Vance Randolph nodded. “Yes you did, but he left half an hour before Bert got killed. No way he could have been the one.”

  I slumped. It looked like this case hadn’t been solved after all. One of the cops spoke up.

  “We’ll need to take him in for questioning anyway. Let’s see that ledger, and find some of the river scene crew who can vouch for him.”

  “You’ll find plenty,” William said, looking more confident now.

  Mary hung her head. “I’m sorry. I could have sworn you were going to hook that power cable up.”

  “Yeah, what about that?” I asked.

  William shrugged. “I have no idea.”

  And that clinched it. Anyone who is guilty will think of an alibi in a nanosecond. They’ll blurt out an answer to any question you may have. William really was innocent.

  “Could the power cable have been for any other use?” I asked.

  William shook his head. “No. It looks like it was going to be hooked up to the artificial fire just like Mary said.”

  “Who else was near this cable?”

  “Well, me,” Mary admitted.

  “Yeah, but you didn’t touch it,” another man wearing a worker’s uniform said. “I could see your every move.”

  Mary gave him an uncertain smile.

  “Did you see what I did, Gary?” William asked.

  “No, sorry. I was too focused on the shoot. I didn’t notice you until Mary pointed you out.”

  William shrugged. “It’s okay. The guys at the river shoot will bear me out.”

  A few calls were made, and half a dozen people from the crew were called in. No work got done while we waited. Everyone was too focused on unraveling the truth about William’s story.

  It turned out he was telling the truth. All of the crew from the river shoot swore he had been with them. Then a second unit cameraman appeared with some rough footage of the river he had taken to decide on framing and lighting of the shots. We put it through a computer by Vance Randolph’s seat and we saw, in the distance but clearly enough, William at one edge of the frame, working on some wiring. The time stamp was just a few minutes after the attack on Cliff Armstrong.

  “No way he could have made it to the river on time,” one of the cops said. He sounded as disappointed as I felt.

  Mary put words to what we were all thinking. “So he’s innocent? That means this nightmare will continue!”

  Chapter Twelve

  I got home exhausted, both from the stress of nearly being killed and the tension of being in a movie. I’d been on the set for twelve hours. All I wanted to do was take a long, hot bath to ease my aching joints, the bruises I got from my dive into the concrete, and a throbbing headache that had come out of nowhere. Stress headaches weren’t my thing—if they had been I could have never worked for the CIA—but I was way out of my comfort zone on this case. After that hot bath maybe I should put something stronger in my tea to help me rest. Harvey might be onto something.

  But first I had to see what Police Chief Grimal had learned, if anything. It was late, but I figured with this fire-breathing dragon of a case on his back, he would still be at work.

  I put a call in to Grimal’s office. It took some time to get him on the line.

  Yes, I still call it “a line”. There used to be a line when I was growing up. And yes, I do use a cell phone thank you very much.

  “So what have you found?” I demanded. Not asked, demanded. Anytime I ask something of Grimal I end up having to demand it anyway. Best just to cut to the chase.

  “A few things,” Grimal grumbled, obviously not wanting to speak with me. His mouth sounded like it was half full of something. I suspected I had interrupted his Chinese takeaway.

  “Such as?”

  “The switchboard, the one used to control the explosions on the town square. At first we couldn’t figure out how the murderer used it. It’s encased in a steel box that was shut and locked. Standard procedure when the technician walks away to avoid accidents. Plus the technician disconnected it from the generator. As you know, the head technician and several other witnesses checked it as soon as the stuntman was killed. The box was still locked and unplugged. We traced all the power lines. That took some time. It’s like ground control at Cape Canaveral at that place. Anyway, we found a splice in the line going to the explosive charges. The extra line led to a storage trailer that had a window with a good view of the square. The trailer was unlocked. Unfortunately, there was nothing at the end of that electrical line. But it’s easy to figure out what was there—a second control panel. The murderer was then able to take over the detonation of the charges.”

  “Oh dear. So their safety measures are proof against accidents but not against murder.”

  “Yup.” Actually that came out more as “Glup.” I pictured Grimal slurping down some sweet and sour chicken.

  “So our murderer has some technical savvy, and access to what I suppose is an expensive and not terribly common bit of hardware.”

  “We’re working on the theory that he’s associated with the film.”

&nb
sp; I gave my best teenaged eye roll. My grandson is a good teacher, and Grimal is good inspiration.

  “Yes, I think that’s probably correct,” I said, keeping my voice level. “What did you find out about the insurance?”

  “Both the film and Cliff Armstrong are insured to the hilt. But here’s the catch. The insurance company they’re using is notorious for dumping production companies that prove a liability. There have been a couple of cases where pictures have run into trouble and had to claim insurance from these guys. The company lives up to its contract and pays the claim, but that’s it. They’ll never cover that production company again, and spread the word that no other company should either. That’s the kiss of death for the producers.”

  “Ouch. So that’s why the Hollywood bigwigs are so desperate to keep this picture going. And Cliff Armstrong?”

  “Ah, he’s worth millions if he dies.”

  “Who’s the beneficiary?”

  “That’s privileged information. I’d need a court order to find that out.”

  “Who took out the policy?”

  “The studio.”

  “Then we know the beneficiary.”

  “We do? Oh yeah, we do.”

  More eye rolling.

  “Did you find out anything about the terms of the settlement Lars Mollan made with Cliff Armstrong after that fight?”

  “Once again, privileged information. I have a buddy in the LAPD. We went to the police academy together. He bent a few ears and found out there was a cash settlement and a promise of employment. I don’t know the details. Basically in exchange for not causing trouble for Cliff Armstrong’s career, Lars Mollan got job security.”

  “And a prime opportunity to get in close to the man who humiliated him and plot his murder.”

  “Nope.”

  “Pardon me?” I wasn’t sure if he had said that or had simply been glurping down more Chinese takeaway.

  “We’ve been keeping an eye on the guy ever since we found out about him. He was in the CGI lab for more than an hour before Cliff Armstrong got drugged, and stayed there the whole time the star was tied up and the bomb was set.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah.” Grimal’s voice shared my disappointment. It had been a good lead, the obvious lead, but it didn’t look like it was going anywhere.

  I hadn’t crossed him off the list of suspects entirely yet. There was still the possibility of a conspiracy of which Mollan was a part.

  “Keep an eye on him,” I ordered. There was a knock at my door. “Anything else?”

  “Hmm?” he said around a mouthful of food. He swallowed. It sounded loud and more than a little disgusting in my ear. “Um, no. We have every man on it. The murderer would have a hell of a time reaching him now.”

  “Don’t underestimate the guy, or girl, or group. Yes, it might be a group. Keep at it. Oh, and the footprint on Cliff Armstrong’s trailer?”

  “Sneaker. Unknown brand. Size ten and a half.”

  That meant a man.

  I hung up. The knocking at my front door repeated.

  “One minute!” I called in a singsong voice. I hurried to my bedroom and pulled my 9mm automatic from my bedside table. After the suspect had tried to bushwhack me and then tried to blow me up, I wasn’t taking any more chances.

  I went to the door, stood to one side, and put my finger over the spyhole.

  This is a common precaution. Any observant person will notice the light in the spyhole get blocked out from the inside, showing that someone is at home and looking through the door. It’s a simple thing to put a bullet through the area and hit the person on the other side. No, the average American front door isn’t bulletproof. It isn’t even kickproof. So I put my finger over the spyhole in case there’s a shooter on the other side. The worst that will happen is that I lose my finger instead of my head.

  No shots came, so I took a look through the hole.

  And got quite a shock.

  It was Liz. I’d met Liz at a nudist colony …

  Wait. Allow me to clarify. I was investigating a murder at a nudist colony when I got some much-needed help from one of its members.

  Liz was a bit of a cipher. Forties, fit, perceptive, she figured out that a hit-and-run death of one of the nudist colony members had been murder and was well on her way to solving it even without me. She claimed to have been a forward observer in the United States Army during a couple of foreign wars. A forward observer goes to the very front of the line, or even a little beyond, in order to call back enemy positions so the artillery can home in one them.

  I say “claims” because while being a forward observer required intelligence and courage, Liz seemed to have a skill set way beyond that. I suspected she had done some other duty, one that had taken her behind enemy lines.

  Not that she was going to tell me.

  I opened up.

  “Good evening,” I said. “I’m not going to ask how you found out my address.”

  “Hello,” Liz said with a smile. “And I’m not going to insult your intelligence by telling you. I’m sure you can figure that out yourself.”

  “Tea? I was just about to make myself some.”

  “Thank you.”

  She sat down on the sofa and Dandelion immediately leaped onto her and curled herself up in her lap. Dandelion is normally a skittish little ball of fur, so I took that for a good sign. She didn’t do that with the hired assassin that broke into my house a while back, that’s for sure.

  “So how’s everything at the nudist colony?” I asked as I fussed about the kitchen.

  “Good. Everyone is gradually healing after what happened. The finances are a mess. We’re going to pool together to buy it and run it as a cooperative.”

  “Oh, that’s good news.”

  I wasn’t just being polite. They seemed like a good group of people. For the most part. A bit odd in their lifestyle choices, but I didn’t judge.

  For a time neither of us spoke. I kept my ears perked. For some reason I thought she might snoop around the place while I was in the kitchen. I trusted her, but I didn’t know what she was all about. She could say the same about me.

  As the kettle started to whistle, I sued the sound to mask my movements, went to the doorway that opened onto the living room, and peeked out.

  Liz was still sitting on the sofa, petting my cat. She hadn’t done anything. I felt oddly disappointed.

  I poured the water into the teapot, put it on a tray with two cups and some cookies, and returned to the living room.

  “How did you hurt yourself?” Liz asked, indicating the lacerations on my arm.

  “Dove away from a booby trapped door.”

  I might as well be honest, shouldn’t I?

  Liz chuckled. “You’ll never retire, will you?”

  She didn’t know exactly what I had retired from, but she could narrow it down pretty well.

  “I don’t suppose you will either. Milk and sugar?”

  “Please. One lump.”

  “No sugar for me,” I said. “I got enough lumps today as it is.”

  “I saw you all dressed up for the movie,” Liz said.

  “And so you knew I had infiltrated the set in order to find the person who’s trying to kill Cliff Armstrong.”

  As interesting as this conversation was, I was very weary and wanted to get through it as quickly as possible.

  Liz nodded and took a sip.

  “How can I help?” she asked.

  I was hoping she was going to ask that.

  “Are you an officer of the law?” I asked.

  “Isn’t citizen’s arrest good enough for you?”

  That wasn’t exactly an answer to my question. I let it slide.

  “Can you get onto the set?” I asked.

  Liz shrugged. “With the new security measures it will be tough. I was thinking I could go as your assistant.”

  “I only have a very small role.”

  “You have a speaking role with Cliff Armstrong. That do
esn’t sound small to me.”

  I set my teacup down. “How on Earth did you hear that?”

  “I had my hair done today. Do you like it? Everyone at the hairdresser’s is abuzz with who got what role. Your name came up. Some people would kill for a chance to act beside him.”

  “Oh, they want to kill all right, but not for that reason.”

  I should have known talk would get around. Nothing stays private in a little town like Cheerville for long. I could only thank the Great CIA Director in the Sky that no one had learned I had a membership to a nudist colony.

  Well, my grandson Martin had. I had to tell him a half-truth about being a secret sheriff’s deputy. I’d been basking in admiration ever since.

  “I may have a speaking role, but it’s really quite small. I’ve seen quite a hierarchy on this set. I suppose it’s normal in Hollywood. The stars are waited on hand and foot and everyone else just muddles through by themselves. It’s caviar and hot tubes or tuna fish sandwiches and plastic chair. There’s no way I could demand to have an assistant. They’d laugh in my face.”

  Liz thought for a moment, then snapped her fingers.

  “I know, I can be your nurse!”

  “My nurse?”

  “You have a chronic condition and need medical supervision.”

  “Wouldn’t they fire me?”

  “We could threaten to sue. It’s called ableism.”

  “Ableism?”

  “Discrimination against the disabled.”

  “Young lady, I am not disabled!”

  Liz closed her eyes and smiled. “That’s why I like hanging out with you. You call me young.”

  I almost laughed, but then remembered when I was in my forties, way back in the big hair was in and the Sony Walkman was the height of consumer technology, how I thought I was getting old too.

  “But how can you fake being a nurse? Wait, are you a nurse?”

  “I got Advanced First Aid in the Army. I can talk the talk.”

  “But what about the uniform and ID?”

  “I can take care of that.”

  Of course you can.

  “Just who are you anyway?” I demanded.

  She looked at me. “A friend who wants to help you stop a murderer. Isn’t that good enough?”