(31/40) Murder, She Wrote: Madison Avenue Shoot Read online

“I’m tempted,” I said, leaning over to examine the selections. The Waldorf ’s room service had delivered coffee and toast shortly after I was awakened by the alarm clock and the hotel operator. It was not a large meal and my stomach was starting to grumble. “Those omelets look wonderful.” I shook my head. “I already had a bite at the hotel. Perhaps later.”

  I followed Jason inside, down a long empty corridor, and into an open space with cubicles on both sides. Waist-high counters separated the work areas, which were buzzing with activity. There must have been thirty people milling around. Two were emptying trunks filled with clothes in a small room; another wheeled two clothing racks across the aisle. A pair of tall director’s chairs, one occupied, faced large mirrors. A young woman perused a suitcase of makeup, and chose an assortment of brushes, placing them on a nearby table, on which were several head forms bearing wigs in blond, brunet, and red. The woman in the chair, I realized, was Anne Tripper. She wore a cape to protect her clothing, and a headband to hold her hair off her face. She spoke to a man standing next to her, her head swinging, her hands gesturing, and her many rings twinkling in the lights surrounding the mirrors.

  “She is just the pits,” I heard her say. “I don’t know why you put up with her. She wouldn’t know the truth if it hit her in the head. And let me tell you, I was very tempted to do just that. I was fit to kill. If I didn’t want the name of my book to get out there, I would have told her to shove it. She was lucky I wasn’t wearing my gun.”

  I couldn’t hear the man’s reply, but when he moved to face her, I recognized Kevin Prendergast, the agency head. Oh dear, I thought, something isn’t going well.

  “Mrs. Fletcher?”

  I swirled to find a woman aiming a Polaroid camera at me. A flash went off, leaving me with a yellow circle in my line of vision. “Thanks so much,” she said.

  The photographer handed Jason the white square that emerged from the camera and had yet to develop, and we continued across the room. We passed a group of men squatting over a floor plan, one pointing with a thick finger to something on the drawing. People darted around us and hurried off to somewhere else in the building. The overall impression was one of controlled chaos. I had no idea what was going on, but everyone else seemed secure in their duties and in a rush to accomplish them.

  Lance Sevenson, trailed by his assistant, hailed me as he passed in the opposite direction. “Where are you going?” I asked.

  “To get some food,” he said. “I had to get out of there. The atmosphere was toxic.”

  “What was wrong?”

  “That woman! I’m doing her a favor and she acts as if I owe her. If I had a rose quartz with me, I’d give it to her. She needs something to cool her temper. But I’m not going to stay if she keeps this up. I didn’t sign on to be abused.”

  “Who?” I asked, but he didn’t wait to answer my question. He strode toward the exit, his assistant trotting behind in high heels, taking three steps to his every one.

  Jason opened a door and ushered me into an area of relative calm where two women sat behind desks, laptop computers open before them, Bluetooth cell phone head-sets plugged into their ears. “Here you go,” he said to a man in a green T-shirt and jeans. “Bye, Mrs. Fletcher. See you later.”

  “Dave Fitzpatrick, Mrs. Fletcher,” the man said, extending his hand. He was very tall and broad and sported a bushy mustache. He wore a padded down vest over his shirt and a baseball cap on his head, to which was affixed a campaign button saying i didn’T VOTE FOR HIM. “I’m the second assistant director on the shoot,” he said, smiling. “I’ll be taking care of you today.”

  It struck me as a strange thing to say. It sounded as if he were about to give me a massage, or perhaps take my blood pressure, or serve me a cup of soup. He flipped open his cell phone and spoke into it, simultaneously passing what was now my photo to a disheveled young woman behind the first desk. She fingered through a box of cards, extracted two, stapled my picture to one, made a note of the time on the other, and asked me to sign it. Tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear, she hung the first card up on a piece of board that already contained the cards and photos of a scowling Lance, an unsmiling Anne, and a laughing Cookie. I looked startled in my photo, not surprising given that no one had told me I was about to have my picture taken. While Dave talked on the phone, I took a moment to study my “costars.” The cards presented not only our faces but also our clothing and shoe sizes, with spaces left empty for height and weight.

  Noticing my interest, the young woman said, “These are the casting cards. They go to wardrobe so they know who you are and what you need when you come in. I’m Susan, by the way, production supervisor. That’s Jennifer talking on the phone. She’s the production manager. And our PA, Lily, is around here somewhere.”

  “I’m back here counting the petty cash,” Lily’s voice said from behind a cubicle wall. She appeared a moment later, carrying a strongbox, which she put on the desk at Jennifer’s elbow.

  “You can leave your shoulder bag with us if you want, Mrs. Fletcher. We’ll be here all day,” Susan said. She pointed to the cubicle from which Lily had just emerged. “There’s already a couple of them there. Put yours wherever there’s room.”

  Four bags had been left on a shelf. I put mine at the end next to the quilted red bag I recognized from the agency meeting as Anne Tripper’s, and returned to where Susan sat pulling on a band that had loosely secured her hair in a ponytail. Holding the band between her teeth, she shook her head, tipped it back, finger-combed her hair, and remade her ponytail. “I never had a chance to dry my hair this morning,” she said, making a face. “We had a six-thirty call and I live an hour and a half away. The alarm went off at three thirty.” She linked her fingers and stretched her arms over her head. “This is my third cup of coffee—or is it the fourth?” She frowned at a Starbucks container, the large size.

  “What do you do here?” I asked.

  She opened her arms. “This is the production office.”

  “What does the production office do?”

  “Everything! We’re the center of it all. If the production is a body, we’re the nervous system,” she replied. “We keep everything running.”

  “I would have said the brains,” Lily added.

  “And the director is the heart,” Jennifer said, joining in the metaphor. It was hard to tell whether she was still on the phone or talking to us, but her eyes locked on mine, so I assumed she was addressing me.

  “And the agency creative director is . . . ?” I said.

  “A pain,” Susan said.

  Jennifer raised her brows.

  Susan grimaced. “Sorry,” she said.

  “We track expenses,” Jennifer said, waving a piece of paper. She picked up another. “We put the call sheet together. We make sure everything at the location is set up properly.”

  A cell phone on Susan’s desk barked and she lifted it to her ear without the headset. “The director wants another latte,” she said to Jennifer.

  “He’s going to float away.”

  “Can I go this time?” Lily asked. “I’m dying to get some fresh air.”

  “I guess,” Jennifer said, opening the petty cash box. “Take someone with you who knows where Starbucks is.”

  “Mrs. Fletcher, would you like a latte, too?” Lily asked.

  Dave, who was still on the phone, gestured with his left hand, pointing at his chest.

  “None for me, thanks,” I said. “I’m keyed up enough as it is.”

  “Get five or six,” Jennifer said. “Someone else is going to want it as soon as you walk through the door.”

  With Lily out on the coffee run, and Dave finally off the phone, I thanked Susan and Jennifer for watching my shoulder bag and walked with Dave to makeup, where he introduced me to Maya. “We’ve got two in rehearsals upstairs,” he said, squinting at his watch. “I’m supposed to bring you up in an hour, but if you want to see your set, I can take you there as soon as Maya finishes your makeup
.”

  “I would like to see the set,” I said, climbing up into the makeup artist’s canvas chair. And I’d like to find Grady and Frank, I thought, assuming they had arrived.

  “I’m going ten one hundred,” he said to Maya. “Be back in ten.” To me, he said, “We also need to check in with wardrobe.”

  “Where’s he going?” I asked.

  Maya smiled. “That’s code for the bathroom,” she said, whipping a vinyl cape over my clothes.

  “I don’t know why he needs to escort me to wardrobe,” I said. “It’s right over there.” I indicated a cubicle across the room. “I can just walk over when I’m finished here, can’t I?”

  “The second AD always handles the talent. He has to make sure you get to ‘talent holding’ in time,” Maya explained. “When they want you on the set, he’s the one they call. He doesn’t want to lose track of you.”

  “Ah, I see. I promise I won’t wander around and make him look for me.”

  “He’ll appreciate that,” she said. “By the way, welcome to the Vanity Department, Mrs. Fletcher. Are you wearing any makeup this morning?”

  “Not very much,” I replied.

  “Well, we’re about to fix that.”

  Chapter Nine

  An hour later, made-up in heavy pancake and more eye shadow than I would ever use, and wearing a different jacket and blouse from those I’d arrived in—“This one looks more authorish,” the wardrobe lady told me (Authorish?)—I followed Dave up the stairs to where the shoot was taking place. Grady was there and I introduced him to Dave.

  “We’ve already met,” Grady said. “Frank and I got here early.”

  “Where is Frank?” I asked.

  “Aunt Jessica!”

  The young man in question flew down the hall, deftly skirting a pile of electric cable. The laces of his sneakers were untied, and the pockets of his pants were bulging; a white wire dangled from the right one. “You’ve got to see this,” he said, breathless. “There’s a guy sitting in a corner and he’s got all this equipment around him, and he can hear what they’re saying even though he can’t see anything. And the other guys have televisions on sticks and we can see everything that’s happening in the room. And the cameraman let me look in his camera, and Ricky, the grip—he’s really a carpenter—he let me try out his nail gun even though Dad didn’t think I could do it. And look, they gave me my own earphones to wear. I brought my walkie-talkie, but these are even better. See, it’s got a number one on them, and they’re red. That’s the best color. They have four channels. . . .”

  “Whoa, sport,” Grady said, putting his hand on Frank’s shoulder. “Take a breath and give your aunt Jessica a second to look around.”

  “I will,” Frank said, “but you have to see this, Aunt Jessica.” He took my hand and dragged me down a corridor of cubicles filled with lights and stands and rolling carts containing all manner of construction material. Over the tops of the cubicle walls, I could see bright lights illuminating another part of the office.

  A voice called out, “Quiet, everyone. Settle down, please. Okay, roll tape, roll camera.”

  Frank came to an immediate stop in the hallway. He put his index finger over his lips, his eyes wide as he looked at me. I nodded and put my finger over my lips, too.

  Another voice: “Rolling, rolling, rolling. Quiet, please. We’re locked up. Ready? And action.”

  A third voice: “Permezzo, five-oh-one, take eight. Mark!”

  Frank let go of my hand and tiptoed slowly down the hall, carefully stepping over the coil of cable and dodging a light stand and toolbox in his way. He leaned forward to see around the corner, turned back to Grady and me, and waved his arms to indicate we could come forward.

  I smiled at Grady, who rolled his eyes and smiled back. Dave motioned us forward and we walked gingerly, making sure not to trip over the equipment and wires that Frank had so skillfully avoided.

  “That’s a cut,” we heard. “Reset, please.”

  Frank let out the breath he’d been holding, and whispered to me, “They’re shooting the barbecue lady in the kitchen, but she can’t remember her lines and the other lady with the red hair is mad.”

  I looked around the corner to see a kitchen with white cabinets and stainless-steel countertops. Cookie, looking like one of her cookbook covers in blue overalls, a checkered shirt, and a straw hat, was standing next to a butcher-block-topped island on which were various-sized mixing bowls and an assortment of bottles that could probably be found in most kitchens: ketchup, mustard, oil and vinegar, and some others, the labels of which I couldn’t see. Arrayed around the island, but out of sight of the camera lens, were at least twenty people, most wearing earphones. One man held a boom microphone over Cookie’s head.

  “You see, the problem is, I wouldn’t use a word like ‘cuisine.’ ” She pronounced it “coozine.”

  “The problem is, you never looked at your script until you got on the set,” Betsy Archibald said to her. In contrast with her elegant attire at the agency, she wore jeans and tennis shoes, and a baseball cap with her red ponytail pulled through the gap at the back. She looked like a little girl, an angry little girl. She turned away from Cookie, a look of exasperation on her face. “I can’t believe this. How simple can it be? Any idiot could have learned those lines by now.”

  Cookie continued talking to her back. “And another thing. I’m a cook. I cook barbecue, basic stuff.” She held up a bottle and made a face. “There ain’t no bottles of champagne and cilantro dressing in my kitchen. This just isn’t authentic at all.”

  “Authentic! This is a spot for a credit card,” Betsy exploded. “It’s not your ridiculous cooking show. It doesn’t have to be authentic. It’s just for atmosphere.”

  “Now, see here.” Jimbo jumped up. “You’re not to talk to her that way.” He pointed a finger at Betsy. “You give Mrs. Bedford your respect.”

  “I’ll give her respect when she acts like a professional,” Betsy shouted back.

  Cookie put her fists on her hips. “Jimbo, I can handle this.”

  “Don’t interrupt me, Cookie. She has no right to abuse you.”

  “Abuse?” Betsy shrieked. “I’m the one being abused. All these people are being abused. You’re wasting our time.” Betsy smacked the rolled-up script on her leg, then aimed it at Jimbo. “You tell her to learn her lines, the way they’re written. This isn’t amateur hour. I’ll be waiting.” She stomped off the set and threw herself into a chair, crossing her arms and her legs.

  Cookie pushed a fuming Jimbo to the far side of her set, away from Betsy.

  The man behind the camera that was aimed in her direction waved at Cookie. “Mrs. Bedford, no one will be seeing the label that says champagne-cilantro dressing, I promise you. It’s just a nice-shape bottle. You can come over here and look through the lens if you want.”

  “But Ah don’t like to have something that would never be in mah kitchen on this here counter,” Cookie said, pounding her fist for emphasis.

  “Props!” called a man in a canvas chair sitting in front of a monitor. “Eighty-six the bottle.” He ran a hand over his shaved head.

  Another man took the bottle from Cookie’s hand and put a jar of molasses in its place on the counter.

  “Now, that there’s much better,” Cookie said, smiling.

  Betsy’s eyes rose to the ceiling and she flapped her arms in irritation. “That there’s much better,” she mimicked in a Southern accent.

  “Howerstein, you tell her to watch her tongue or this shootin’ party is over.” Jimbo’s face was very red. “We’re not taking any more cheap shots like that.”

  Cookie stamped her foot. “Jimbo! Cut it out.”

  Dan Howerstein stepped forward and spoke to the man with the shaved head. “Can we take five, please, Adam?”

  “That’s Akmanian,” Grady whispered to me, indicating the man in the chair.

  I nodded. “The director.”

  “And that one”—Grady pointed to a
man wearing earphones and standing next to the director—“is the first assistant director, or AD.”

  The first AD raised his voice. “All right, folks,” he said. “Take five, but no one go very far, please.”

  Howerstein guided a furious Betsy around the corner and out of sight, but not out of earshot. We could hear her complaining loudly as she walked away.

  “Would you please keep your voice down,” he said.

  “Don’t touch me!” she growled.

  “I’m not touching you,” was Howerstein’s irritated reply.

  Jimbo walked back onto the set and threw Cookie’s script on the counter. “I told you, you needed to learn them lines. Even so, I’m not lettin’ her talk that way to you.”

  “Now, you just calm down. I can learn them lines easy,” Cookie said. “I just don’t like that one word, Jimbo. I don’t wanna hafta say something I never would.”

  “You shoulda raised that flag earlier, Cookie. It’s too late now.”

  “Ah know it’s late. But if my viewers hear me talkin’ about ‘coozine,’ they’ll think I’ve gone all fancy-pants on them. You go talk to her, but you talk nice, now, ya hear. I know you can do that. No yelling.”

  Jimbo stalked away.

  “You tell her we’re a down-home show,” Cookie called after him, then muttered “and I’m not changin’ who I am for that little . . . little stuck-up witch.”

  “You don’t have to, Mrs. Bedford. We’ll change the line.” The speaker was Kevin Prendergast. I hadn’t noticed him in the crowd until he spoke up.

  Antonio Tedeschi was at his side. “Yes, yes, of course,” Antonio said. “Our Betsy, she is a very passionate woman. It is good. But you can say the line how you like, just so you say how wonderful is my Permezzo.”

  “Antonio!” Cookie said, her eyes lighting up. “I didn’t see you there. Just wait till you set your eyes on what I got with the card you gave me.” She patted her pockets. “Now, where’d I put my diamonds?”

  “Excuse me,” Kevin said. He pointed at the director. “I’ll talk to Betsy. We’ll take care of this right now.”