Anatomy of a Crossword (28 page)

It was Louis Gable who led the charge. Perhaps his decision to be the first to speak was due to the fact that he played the innkeeper in the film, and therefore felt it incumbent to serve as the group's “host” and spokesperson, or perhaps the choice grew out of his many years in the business and a sturdy mistrust of all those who wore producer's caps. Whatever the actor's motives, his formerly congenial self was gone; in its place was a white-haired man whose ruddy cheeks were not due to the cold of a wintry, Vermont country inn, but to outrage, choler, and a fondness for single malt scotch. “And how long were you going to keep this nasty little secret quiet?” Gable's once-companionable gaze raked the producer and director. “Someone could have been killed!”

“Any one of us!” Ginger Bradmin added. Her voice was shrill. Her body all but quivered with fury. “Not just Dan, although, he was clearly—”

“Now, Ginger, what you're assuming isn't entirely—” Quinton began, but she spun tigerlike on him.

“You shut up! Just shut up! You have no idea what I was going to say—”

“That Dan was in the line of fire—”

“All of us were!” Ginger spat out.

“Your scene wasn't even—”

“We were all there for Millray's death scene, remember? Dean wanted us to be—”

“You can't blame our director for the fact that you—”

But she countered Quint's efforts with a swift and dismissive: “I don't know why you were hired for the part of Rosco anyway. Lance would have been far better.”

“Now, boys and girls,” Dean Ivald called above the din. “Let's not allow former marital relationships to get in the way of—”

“Butt out, Dean,” Ginger hissed, “I'll talk to my ex in any fashion I choose. It's no concern of yours.”

“Miss Diplomatic,” Quint tossed in. “I hope you're not considering working in future Dean Ivald productions. Besides, the reason I was cast—and not lover-boy Lance—is that the role calls for an emotional quality and approach that's steady and perceptive, not hot-headed and hair-triggered.”

“What you know about perceptive, Quint, could be written on the head of a pin.”

It was Andy Hofren who succeeded in curtailing this spat between the former spouses. “And I could well have become a murderer in real life. That's very upsetting, Lew. If it wasn't for Don Schruko …”

Carol Von Deney turned to gaze at Andy—staring steadily down at him as she stood a good four or five inches taller. The witch of the show was either still in character, or her present caustic and arrogant demeanor belonged to the true Carol. “The point isn't that an actual homicide nearly occurred during the film's murder scene, Andy. Or that you might have become a real-life killer and Dan Millray a none-too-willing corpse. The point is that a weapon with live ammunition was left sitting casually—and carelessly—on the set. As Ginger has been trying to explain, anyone here could have picked it up, pointed it at any other person present, a script girl … one of the still photographers … my make-up man … anyone, and jokingly announced, ‘Bang, you're dead!', and pulled the trigger—”

“That's absurd, Carol,” Madeline Richter interjected. “No one here would be that foolhardy.”

“No?” Carol parried as her sharp glance returned to Andy Hofren. “You don't think the trigger-happy clown who plays my charming husband isn't capable of an idiotic stunt like that?”

“I won't be spoken to in that fashion, Dean,” Andy all but shouted at the director. “If you can't keep your cast—”

“Phone your agent if you've got a complaint, Andy,” Carol countered. “I'll say anything I want.”

“Gentlemen … ladies,” Louis Gable ordered, “let's remember why we're here—”

Lew Groslir cut off the actor's words before he could expand on his insurrection motif. “That's right. Let's remember why we're here, everyone. Now, I admit this live ammo thing was an unfortunate mistake … but that's all it was: an accident—”

“Just like the other accidents?” a voice called out. Belle turned to see who was now openly challenging the producer, but whoever had spoken remained anonymous. The question, however, grew in strength and urgency, and was echoed by many members of both crew and cast.

Lew Groslir raised his hands as the words “accident” and “jinxed set” ricocheted around the vast and barnlike structure. The gesture, intended to be palliative, had a curiously worried appearance, as if the producer were the victim of an armed robbery. “If you're talking about the equipment that fell on Nan DeDero—”

“She complained on a number of occasions that she felt the set wasn't safe,” Louis Gable argued.

“Probably because Gable was on site …” Belle heard a voice behind her mutter. The reply was very sotto voce:

“Oh, come on … Nan's been around the bend so many times, she probably forgot he was one of her castoffs.”

“Not from what I witnessed,” the first voice chortled. “Besides, don't you remember the stories that started circulating just after those two got hitched? Battery and everything …?”

“You're kidding. From that harmless, old coot?”

“Scout's honor … What was that headline I liked so much …?
HAWAIIAN HONEYMOON WITH ADDED PUNCH
. Besides, Louis Gable wasn't always old. Or paunchy … or Mr. Altruism as he is today.”

Belle turned around to see who the gossips were, but the area was so packed with other concerned members of the
Anatomy
set that it was impossible to detect who the purveyors of those particular pieces of dirt might be.

There was a general stir of discontent while Lew Groslir fluttered his manicured hands, and Dean Ivald issued a stern “People … people … We need to wrap things up here. Unfortunate circumstances shouldn't make us forget that we're professionals here.”

“Not all of us, Dean,” another malcontent sang out. “You hired one actor who wasn't union when you cast her—”

“Who said that?” the director fumed. “Which one of you is daring to cast aspersions on Mrs. Briephs or her performance?”

No answer was forthcoming. Ivald pursued the question for another moment, before adding a cold and cautionary “That's an ungracious and mean-spirited comment, especially when I consider how pleasant and welcoming you've all been to Mrs. Briephs.”

Belle glanced at Sara, who was standing beside Rosco. She seemed to be taking this newest controversy in stride. Her head was held high with pride. “Might I have a word, Dean?” she asked in her typically calm and blue-blood manner. Then she faced the group as if addressing a political rally of voters who were critical of her brother's senatorial leadership. “You all have been so very kind, and so very forgiving. If I had known that prior membership in the actors' unions was of such paramount importance, I certainly would not have accepted Dean's and Lew's invitation to join the cast.”

No one responded to her statement. In fact, an awkward unease seemed to settle on the crowd. In the silence, Ivald forced a laugh, then continued in a louder and brighter tone. “We're all tired … I know that … And it's a strain working on such an emotional project. You can't have a film project about a jealous spouse and a dead rival without it taking its psychic toll … I tell you what … why don't we take a breather. It's Thursday afternoon …” He looked toward Lew Groslir who returned the glance with an almost imperceptible nod that Belle recognized as being part of their good cop-bad cop routine. “… What do you say, Lew? We take Friday off and resume filming our final scenes Monday? I think our boys and girls deserve a bit of respite, don't you?”

The producer gazed at the director as though he were carefully pondering a suggestion he hadn't previously considered. “You're the artist, Dean. If you feel we can afford the time—”

“I believe we can, Lew,” Dean called cheerily back, “and I believe we should. No point in running these marvelous thespians ragged, or our devoted crew.” He graced the group with a doting and parental smile. “Now, my hunch is that we've got a serious prankster among us—and maybe a joke that got more than a bit out of hand. After all, Dan himself, pulled quite a terrifying stunt during his death scene, and before we go any further, I think we should all give Mr. Schruko a nice round of applause for being on his toes and saving the day.”

The cast and crew turned to face the key grip and gave him an enthusiastic ovation. He humbly waved his hand in an all-in-a-day's-work gesture.

“Now,” Dean continued, “I'd like to give our prankster an opportunity to come forward. There'll be no repercussions; a joke's a joke. You all have my contact numbers: home, cell, car … If there's information you wish to share, or a suspicion, or even a confidential confession, call me … Or ring me up if you'd simply like to chat about other concerns. Perhaps you're having issues with a fellow performer or crew member, or you saw something you're troubled by … Perhaps you've heard rumors you don't like or understand. I'm here for you. I want the remaining days on
Anatomy
to go smoothly. Give me a jingle. We're in this thing together.”

“Oh, please. Welcome home, Joe McCarthy.” Belle heard a male voice mutter, but her search for this latest mystery cynic was curtailed as Lew Groslir took up where Dean Ivald had left off. The producer's words and tone took an entirely different tack, however. Where Ivald had been benign and encouraging, Groslir was now combative and demanding.

“And come Monday morning, I don't want to hear another gripe out of any of you. That goes for you, Gable, and for Carol, and Ginger, and Quint, too. Talk to Dean, fine. Bellyache, sure, go ahead. If you want to whine about an ex-hubby or a lover who jilted you, that's between you and Dean. But just remember who does the hiring and the firing in this town. Actors who earn reputations as being difficult to work with or overly political won't find it easy to get future jobs.”

“Let's not be too hard on our happy, little band, Lew. Everyone needs to vent on occasion.”

“‘Vent' all you want. Me, I save words like that for the guys who install air conditioners … I'm telling it like it is, Dean. These people want to work, they don't make waves … They don't even make a tiny splash. And that goes for the crew, as well.” With that, Groslir turned and marched away. Ivald followed close behind.

No one moved; no one seemed to even draw a breath. In the eerie stillness that gripped the soundstage, Belle became aware that Shay Henlee was standing nearby, and looking at her intently. “Can I talk to you?” she murmured in a nearly inaudible voice. “In private?”

CHAPTER 33

Belle knocked on the door of Shay's private trailer, the actress' home away from home for the duration of the filming of
Anatomy
. The star opened it herself before Belle's knuckles had time to leave the metal. Shay was still outfitted in one of her “Belle” costumes, blonde wig included; and the effect of these two similarly clad women greeting one another was striking. The actress ran a quick hand through her hair, tossing it away from her face in a gesture that was a mirror image of Belle when hurried or distracted.

“Sorry, force of habit,” Shay said with an apologetic smile. “When I'm working on a part, I try to inhabit the character completely—around the clock. That way I know I won't revert to ‘Shay' when the cameras start rolling.” She smiled more fully, but Belle could sense a definite unease, almost a sense of mistrust. “Call it brainwashing from my Actor's Studio days.”

“You wanted to see me?” Belle asked.

Shay's response was to walk the length of the trailer's main room and pick up a stuffed teddy bear. There were a good many toy animals piled on the built-in, wrap-around sofas. She then put it down and reached for another plush-covered creature. “My ‘good luck gang' … Whenever I'm doing a shoot, someone inevitably discovers my collection and adds to it. The tradition began with my first role … Now I have to drag these guys with me wherever I go.” She touched a moose with floppy, felt antlers and a crooked, oversized grin. “He's from
Ice House
, the story about the U.S. Women's Curling Team that made its first big win over Canada …”

Belle decided to keep quiet and let the actress choose when to bring the conversation to the situation that was troubling her.

“… It was my mom, really, who started the whole idea of the menagerie … At least they're not
glass
.” Shay pursed her lips as if she'd said more than she wanted, then abruptly turned toward Belle. “A man followed me home. I didn't see him, but my mother did. I live with my mom … or she lives with me. Our place is perched on the side of a hill, and she was on the deck upstairs looking out for me because I was late … She does that.”

Again, Belle sensed it was best to remain silent.

“I know it seems weird to live with your mother … No one is aware that I do … Well, my agent, but she … I mean, it's not that it's a secret, but … I suppose what I'm trying to say is that other performers in my position have significant others in their lives, and I have, well, Mom.”

Belle smiled. “My mother died a long time ago. I think you're very lucky. Both of you.”

Shay's eyes creased in empathy and regret. Belle realized the actress was struggling with a feeling of guilt for bringing up a potentially painful subject, so she returned the conversation to the stranger who had followed Shay home.

“Did your mother get a description of the man?”

Shay shook her head “no,” then added a soft “I'm sorry about your loss.”

“So am I,” was Belle's quiet reply. “As I said, it was a long time ago, but I guess that's why I always like hearing happy stories that feature mothers and daughters.”