Anatomy of a Crossword (12 page)

“Look, I don't want this house left unlocked or the garage door—”

“It was an
accident
, Chick. Accidents happen.”

“Well, I don't want any more
accidents
to happen. Ever!” Darlessen's palpable fear created a comparable sensation in his girlfriend.

“Is he dangerous?”

“So, it was a man?”

“Maybe … I don't know … Maybe it was a guy … a guy trying to sound like a girl, or maybe it was the other way around … I couldn't tell!” Debra all but shrieked. “But whoever it is, is dangerous, right?”

“No.” Chick's tone was commanding, but Debra paid no heed.

“And you're going to let me sit out here at the beach while some crazy witch—”

“So, it was a woman?”

“A babe would make more sense than a man, wouldn't it? Given your history.”

Chick grabbed at his hair. The entire situation was driving him crazy. All he wanted was an end to it. “She's not ticked off,” he said.

“So, yes! It is a babe! Some dish trying to sound like a guy … I should have known … How come she said you owed her money? What's that all about?”

“That's what she said?”

“That's what the call was about! Money!”

Chick watched Debra's face wrinkle in concentration as she struggled to recall the conversation.
Wanda
, he thought,
it must have been Wanda
.

“I didn't want to move all the way out to Malibu,” Debra screamed at him. “I was happy staying in the Valley … There's lots of people around … shops and places I knew … I had friends … You're setting me up for some loony walking in here with a grudge, aren't you? Get rid of me and take up with a ‘major talent' like Shay Henlee! Or this other one. What is she, some Hollywood madam? Is that why you owe her money?”

“Stop it Debra.” Chick's voice was loud and forceful: Debra obeyed at once.

“I'm not ‘taking up' with anyone else, and I don't expect you to, either. As far as this person is concerned, she's just a sad little friend of my late uncle's. She thinks they had a ‘romantic attachment.' They didn't. If you saw the woman, you'd know why.” Chick put the finishing touches on what seemed like an excellent set of lies. “She's confused on a number of issues. She also believes Uncle Bart should have left her something in his will—”

“So, she's just nuts, huh?” Debra's worried face was slowly opening, although a strong residue of mistrust remained.

“Basically, yes.”

“How nuts?” Debra studied Chick. She knew she wasn't a stupid person, but she also realized she didn't always pay close attention to the facts; and there was something in Chick's current attitude regarding this woman that didn't gibe with his previous behavior. “She's not dangerous, huh?”

Chick thought. His facile brain began to note a number of options he hadn't seen before. “Tell you what, Deb,” he said, dropping his hands from her shoulders to encircle her still-icy back. “If it would make you feel better about security—being all the way out in Malibu and everything—I'll show you how to use the pistol I keep in my office … That way, if you hear a strange noise, and I'm not around, you'll be armed.”

“But—” Debra protested.

“I'm not saying anyone's out to hurt either of us. I'm just saying I want you fully protected. In fact, I'm angry with myself for not considering the problem before. You're a pretty girl, and this can be a lonely place. I should be thinking of your safety. You're right to be upset with me, Deb.”

Her resistance beginning to flag, Debra offered a breathy, “I can always call nine-one-one.”

Darlessen chuckled; it was an indulgent sound. “Not if you can't find your cell phone, sweetheart.”

The endearment melted the last of Debra's suspicions. “Okay,” she offered.

“There's my girl.” Darlessen draped an arm around her shoulder, then proceeded to lead her to his desk and the drawer where he kept his revolver.

“I didn't know you had a gun.”

“Everyone has a gun. This is L.A.”

“Chick?” she asked as he retrieved the pistol, “why can't I play a part on
Anatomy of a Crossword?”

“I'll tell you what I'll do, Deb. First thing tomorrow, I'll talk to Nils Spemick. Better yet, I'll talk to Nan DeDero. She plays this rich, old aristocrat named Sara, and she's got a maid named ‘Emma'—”

“I don't want to play a maid—”

“Emma's more than a servant, sweetheart … She's really Sara's trusted advisor and friend. It could be a good role for you … show you to advantage against an older woman. I'll write you some extra lines.” Chick was spinning the story out of whole cloth, but he didn't care. He put the pistol in Debra's hand.
If Wanda Jorcrof dared to show her face in Malibu over the weekend, she'd be in for a nasty surprise
. The thought brought a smile to his lips. “Let's take the gun outside, so you can practice loading it. Then, we'll blow a few rounds into the ocean.”

“And I can do ‘Emma'?”

“I think you'd be just right. But you gotta promise me to cut out the booze.”

“Oh, I will. I will.”

CHAPTER 12

“I'm your murder victim. A dead man walking.” The voice near Belle's chair was melliflous and soft, a gentle buzz as peaceable as it was amused. Belle's head jerked up from the strange crossword puzzle she'd just been studying. She had a fleeting and peculiar impulse to hide it in her
official
desk, and her fingers wavered indecisively.

“Dan Millray, here.” A slow and relaxed chuckle accompanied his introduction. “And it looks like I caught our illustrious technical assistant trying to make off with the goods. The plot thickens.” He laughed again as he peered over Belle's shoulder at the word game still in her hands. “That
is
the crossword that proves whodunit, isn't it? The famous puzzle that the real flesh and blood Belle Graham—well, you, in fact—used to track down my despicable killer … correction: the killer of the ornery and unloving cuss I'm portraying. I'm glad to welcome you to the set, Ms.—”

“Belle.” She smiled. “It's just Belle.” There was something immediately likable and genuine in the actor who'd been cast as the doomed man. Of middling height with a rumpled and unprepossessing build, he looked as if he would have been completely at home dispensing advice about stove bolts, brass hinges, or deicers in Newcastle's family-owned hardware store.

“I don't know how you can make up those things,” Millray added. “I can't even fill 'em in, let alone … But then I've always been a terrible speller … And dyslexic, on top of everything, … So, tell me how the message thing works. I am right, aren't I? Chick said you—or Shay, in this case—nabs the villain because of words spelled out in the puzzle.” Dan took it from Belle's hands.
“Greetings!”
he read. “Well, that doesn't seem too sinister to me.”

“This isn't the actual crossword for the show,” Belle answered.

“It sure looks like the one the prop department has.”

She frowned, although she couldn't have explained why, as the message in this anonymous puzzle proclaimed an innocuous, even cheery:
WELCOME TO L.A. SIP A DRINK. GET A TAN. TAKE A SWIM. WHAT ME WORRY
? But its lack of identifiable authorship confused and disturbed her; since receiving the crossword the previous day, Belle hadn't been able to shake away those small and amorphous clouds of apprehension.

As if Dan had intuited her concern, his expression also turned serious. “So, I gather it's not—?”

“No. It's the same
grid
as the one I created for the show, but the clues, and therefore the answers, are entirely different.”

Dan frowned as well. “Someone's playing a trick, you mean? Well, that's no surprise, we've got a lot of practical jokers on the set. That's for sure. Even I get into the act every now and then.”

Belle read the puzzle's central message aloud.

“Sounds like a clever, new form of greeting card,” Dan offered.”

“I guess …” Belle said. Shared with another person, the mystery crossword seemed more innocent and amusing than perplexing. “… a greeting card. I like that … That makes sense.”

“Looks like you've got yourself a competitor, then. Oh, hey, that wasn't very polite. You're supposed to be the best in the biz. At least, that's what everyone on the set's been saying.”

Belle shrugged. She wasn't a person who was comfortable with compliments. “So you're ‘Annie's' husband?”

“‘Annie'?” Dan asked, then caught himself and shook his head in self-rebuke. “First thing you learn as an actor is to start getting into character by calling yourself—and all those around you—by their names in the script … Well, in the theater anyway … That method doesn't always fly in TV-Land. Yup, ‘Annie'—or Ginger Bradmin—is my wife … My long-suffering wife, I should say.”

Belle raised an eyebrow. “‘Annie's' husband really was a reprehensible person … That's not to say he deserved to die …” Belle scratched her head. “I just can't get used to the names Chick has selected for this script. ‘Annie' of course wasn't your wife's real name; then he's named your character ‘Edison,' and the woman ‘Edison's' having the affair with is now ‘Deb', after his girlfriend, Debra Marcollo, I guess. But I don't think I'd ever confuse you with ‘Edison,' you don't seem at all—”

“Dastardly?”

Belle laughed. “I was going to say conniving and manipulative.”

“Appearances can be deceiving … Take Ginger … Looks like America's sweetheart, but she's really hard as nails—”

“Exactly like the original widow—”

“I don't know about that. But I do know Ginger. She's a top-notch professional and all that, but she can sure give Nan a run for her money in the temperamental department—”

“Typecasting.” Belle smiled. “The original woman screamed bloody murder when she found her husband's body … Normal behavior given the situation, but in that instance, the wife was so
overly
distraught that her reaction started to seem unnatural to Rosco and to me, which was why—”

“Ahh … I'll have to remember that the next time I bump someone off. Wouldn't want to tip my hand to the cops by overreacting.”

“No,” Belle agreed, “you'd better be careful there. Subtle shock and remorse followed up with an ‘I'd rather be left alone' attitude throws the cops off the trail every time.”

“Got it.” Dan Millray chuckled as he changed the subject. “Well, just you wait till you see the fit Ginger's going to throw when Quinton Hanny makes his appearance. I don't know if Dean Ivald's told her yet.”

This was the first Belle had heard that the part of Rosco had been cast. Chick Darlessen had obviously won his battle—Quinton Hanny had been chosen over Lance diRusa.

“Quint is Ginger's ex, you know,” Dan continued to explain. “And there's not one drop of good blood between them. I'm going to need to remind myself to keep my head down, and hightail it when fuses start to melt.”

“Oooh,” Belle said, “that's not going to make the scenes where ‘Rosco' is interviewing and/or accusing ‘Annie' of murder very pleasant—”

“You can say that again. Lucky thing for me, I'll already be long since dead—”

At that moment a hellish noise engulfed the sound stage. A scene being prepared for Nan and Shay in the sitting room of “White Caps” erupted in the deafening sound of crashing metal and splintering wood, while a high-pitched female scream reverberated long and horribly, and feet began thudding toward the site as grips and actors were galvanized from every section of the enormous sound stage. “Is she dead?” Belle heard Shay shriek. “Is she dead …? Is she? She is! Tell me she's not dead!” Hysteria made the actress's voice rise in decibel and speed.

Hurrying to the spot, Belle and Dan saw chaos. A wall of “White Caps” had collapsed onto Nan. Made of flimsy stuff, one-by-two-inch slats and canvas, it would probably have inflicted no more than several unpleasant bruises. But among the debris sat what appeared to be a section of steel beam, and beneath that, face down, lay a bloodied and motionless Nan.

“Out! Get out! Everybody out!” Dean Ivald shouted. “All unnecessary personnel, move! Now! Schruko, get your people in here, A-S-A-P.”

His orders went unheeded. Instead, everyone, as a herd, bundled closer to the stricken figure. A few people gasped, some moaned softly, but mostly there was a stunned and terrified silence. Then all at once, each person present went into noisy action, lifting the lethal weight from Nan's back, pulling away the fallen wall, calling for an ambulance, covering Nan's body with a blanket ripped from a stage “bedroom in Vermont,” helping the still-kneeling and still-weeping Shay to her feet and leading her away. In what seemed, again, to be mere seconds, Don Schruko ushered the studio EMTs through with a wheeled stretcher and requested space in which they could work.

The group fell back, watching as the unconscious Nan was gently placed on the stretcher, strapped in and whisked away. Seeing the ashen face, the white hair, the blood-speckled clothes of a proud, old New England lady, Belle began to weep, although she knew it wasn't Nan she was frightened for, but Sara. Sara who, though indomitable, would not—could not—live forever.

“That's it,” Dean announced above the uproar that followed Nan's eerie and solemn exit, “no more shooting today. It's Friday; that's it … Get yourselves plenty of sleep over the weekend, boys and girls, we're packing it in. And be here on time Monday morning. We're going to finish this film if it kills every last one of us.

CHAPTER 13