Divas Do Tell (16 page)

We watched while Sandra hit her marks and said her lines, and Mira Waller went in and out the front room entrance a few times until Mr. Donato had it just the way he wanted to see it. It took over an hour to get a five minute scene on film. And that was what they called rushes.

I have to admit, the scene between Doris and Sharona was powerful and intense: Doris was horrified at the discovery fourteen-year-old Sharona is pregnant, and Sharona was tearful and distraught in refusing to name the father. Sandra was pitch-perfect when she declared she would find out the father’s identity and make sure he did the right thing by her. I could almost see how it might have been so long ago between Darcy and Susana.

As the director, assistant directors, picture and sound editors immediately went to watch the scene on monitors set up in the parlor, aka video village, Sandra came toward us again, a big smile on her face. She plopped her chair next to ours. “How was it?”

“I’m awed,” I said truthfully. “You make it so real.”

“Thank you, dear. I do my best. I have to get into the role, actually
be
Darcy Denton, so I can feel what she feels and be as outraged as she had to be at poor Susana’s plight.”

We settled back into our canvas chairs, keeping the front room in our view while lighting technicians and grips set up the next shot. Simon Donato left, going out the front door to be met on the portico by a short man with a big briefcase. He shook his head and continued to stride down the sidewalk toward a waiting car. That was all I saw before the door closed behind him.

Sandra was dressed in her sixties clothes, a lovely wool dress, string of pearls, and stylish—for the late sixties—flats. Her shining brown hair was swept up into a French twist and secured with a pearl-studded comb. She wore cat’s-eye glasses and bright red lipstick. The transformation from Sandra to Doris and back was amazing.

Just as Sandra began to expand upon her understanding of Doris’s ultimate role in bringing about not only the exposure of Joe Don’s impending fatherhood but the necessity of it being out in the open to force him into making the right decision, the front door banged open, and several men with expensive cameras burst into Montrose’s front hall.

“Miss Brady! Miss Brady!” they chattered, holding up their Nikons and clicking as busily as a crowd of locusts. “What can you tell us about your part in the suicide of Billy Joe Cramer? Did you know he was suicidal? Do you think this movie drove him to it? Is it true that you’re being sued along with the movie studio and Dixie Lee Forsythe for wrongful death?”

The questions shot at her almost as quickly as camera shutters clicked. Sandra’s change from Doris Dancey and into Sandra Brady, haughty movie star, was instant. She drew herself up, regarded the photographers and journalists with something close to disdain and replied, “I did not know Mr. Cramer, so I have no idea why he committed suicide. The book is a work of fiction only very loosely based on events from the past. I suggest you get your facts straight.”

I’m sure there would have been more questions if not for the security detail that showed up and hustled the photo-journalists back out the door, across the portico, down the sidewalk, and completely off the property. It was a bit hectic for a few moments, then all the chaos died away, and the movie crew got back to their business.

I was too stunned to move.

Bitty gave a sigh of pure delight.

This was the kind of thing she loved and I dreaded, but then, I’ve never been one for public scenes. I looked over at Sandra Brady. She was smiling.

“The
National Enquirer
,” she said, “and I think I recognized one of them from
The Sun
. This will be all over the country by tomorrow morning.”

“That’s awful,” I said. “Why on earth would they show up in Holly Springs? I mean, I know a movie is shooting, but I thought those kind of news magazines only focused on stars who were having affairs and—oh.”

I belatedly recalled what we’d been discussing right before Simon Donato arrived. His wife may have alerted them, but I doubted it. Surely she wouldn’t want everyone to know about her husband’s affairs.

Sandra just smiled at me and nodded. “Yes, dear. All lurid details are fodder for the tabloids and their awful photo-journalists.
Journalists
being an implausible term for those sharks.”

“I bet Miranda Watson called them,” said Bitty. “I wouldn’t put it past her. Although it could have been her column about Billy Joe’s suicide that caught their attention. Everyone in town is talking about it. The tabloids thrive on that kind of thing. It’s all about publicity.”

It was a little scary to consider, but Bitty made sense. Apparently Sandra thought so, too.

“Well, it may be inconvenient for residents, but it’s very advantageous for the movie,” Sandra said with a pragmatic smile.

I shook my head. “Allison Cramer has half the town riled up about Billy Joe’s suicide. Miranda’s column makes it sound like he wasn’t innocent and made his own choices. The entire Cramer family is talking about lawsuits, while the Forsythe family and friends say everyone knew Billy Joe was an alcoholic and self-destructive anyway. People are so mad it can get ugly. This could end up being very bad publicity.”

Sandra laughed. “Any publicity is good publicity.”

I have to admit, I wasn’t at all surprised by Sandra’s attitude. I’d heard the axiom before that any publicity is good publicity, but I still thought it was a bad idea in this case.

“Well,” I said, “people are taking sides, but at least there haven’t been any actual fights over it.”

“Oh yes there have,” said Bitty. “Bryan Brothers got so mad at Jerry Crawford for saying Billy Joe should have known better than to fool around with an underage girl in the first place that he hit him upside the head with a frozen catfish. Then Jerry hit him back with a frozen flounder. It was a food fight in the frozen food aisle at Piggly Wiggly like I’ve never seen before. Fish were flying fast and furious.”

“All alliteration aside,” I said with a roll of my eyes, “that must have been a little scary.”

“Are you kidding? I laughed until I nearly fell off my new shoes.”

“What were you doing in the frozen food aisle at Piggly Wiggly?” I asked. “You don’t shop.”

“Yes, I do. See?” Bitty held out her feet for us to admire her Versace peep-toe pumps with stiletto heels. “I found these shoes on sale.”

“I meant shop for groceries, not at Neiman Marcus,” I said, then seized on the distraction. It was better than risking another replay of a fist fight. “Your shoe budget would fund a small country for a year, Bitty.”

Sandra laughed. “You’d hate to see my shoe closet, I’m sure. I’m afraid I’m a lot like Bitty. We girls do love our shoes though, don’t we?”

Bitty gazed at her rapturously. If she wasn’t so in love with Jackson Lee, I’m sure she might have considered changing her affections to Sandra, all gender confusion aside. “Yes, we do,” she said fervently. “I love my shoes.”

“Bitty’s shoe closet has its own zip code,” I commented. “Her silk scarves are in a different zip. I need a passport just to get to her sweaters.”

“Trinket loves to kid me,” said Bitty, “but I can admit that I love my closet. I had it completely redone by opening up a bedroom next to my room. It has a revolving shoe rack.”

“Lisa Adams organized my closet,” Sandra said. “She’s CEO of her own firm now. She did closets for Jewel, Carmen Electra, and Billy Crystal, too.”

Bitty’s eyes bugged out, and I thought for a moment I heard her squeak with envy. She covered it well, though. While they compared closets and designers I let my attention wander back to the set. Crews had set up the boom cameras, and I saw Abby across the room. Her blonde hair stuck straight up, and she looked harried as she scribbled in her notebook. As the Key PA she assisted the 1st AD, or assistant director, with set operations. She’s the one who had to keep up with where everyone was, make sure traffic cones were set out on location shoots, assist in the background action and supervision of crowd control, the set lock-downs, and help with the functioning of the shooting set and the crew. It was a lot to do for anyone, but especially for a young woman. It seemed that she was always just back from or on her way to somewhere.

When I got up to stretch my legs, I happened to see her on the curving staircase. She perched on the third step from the bottom and looked up when I came into the grand entrance hall. “Hullo,” she said, and glanced behind me toward the living room where Doris Dancey’s scene with Sharona was about to be shot. “Sounds like the queen bee is holding court in there.”

“She does seem a little self-important, doesn’t she?” I glanced toward Mira Waller, who sulked in a shaft of sunlight through the living room window.

“She’s a bitch,” said Abby.

A bit startled by the vehemence in her tone, I said, “Well, she’s young yet. She’ll grow up.”

Abby gave a bark of laughter. “
Young?
Sandra Brady? She’s a crone. No offense. In Hollywood she’s what’s called a character actor these days.”

“Oh. I thought . . . I thought you were talking about someone else.” While I was a bit disturbed at the thought of someone over ten years younger than me being called a crone, I also wondered what had ruffled Abby’s feathers so badly.

She had a big scowl on her face, and she attacked the clipboard with her pen so fiercely that for a second I expected to see it snap in two. Then her radio crackled, and she picked it up, listened for a moment, then said, “Abby, copy that.” She clicked the button, stood up, and leaned close to say, “I’m just in a bad mood. Don’t pay any attention. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep since we’ve been here. So much to do. You know?”

Then she was gone without waiting for my response, out the front door and down the walk before the door had a chance to close behind her. Making movies was a long, grueling process from what I’d observed, so I was pretty sure people’s personalities clashed all the time. Sandra Brady was the only one who seemed secure in her success. But she’d spent twenty years in the business and knew what she was worth, so she didn’t have to pretend to be a big star. She was one. There was a lot of ego involved; I had seen enough to know that.

Once Simon returned he got down to business, and the movie set was cleared of everyone but the actors and crew. That meant Bitty and I got to leave. I was relieved. Bitty was reluctant.

“Sandra is such a nice person,” she said as we hauled our folding chairs back to her car in front of the house. We’d had to park down the street past the orange cones. “It’s hard to believe she’s a big movie star, isn’t it?”

I was still thinking about Abby Bloom’s remarks. She wasn’t a fan of Sandra. But then, she wasn’t a fan of Mira Waller, either. She’d already made a few derogatory comments about her. I decided Abby was just a young woman in a very stressful job.

Bitty hit the remote for her Mercedes, and the trunk popped open. We put in our folding canvas chairs, and she slammed it shut. Just on the other side of the car stood a wild-eyed woman with bleached blonde hair and a baseball bat. Her sudden appearance startled both of us, but it was the bat that caught my eye right off the . . . bat.

“Allison Cramer,” said Bitty, erasing any indecision on my part as to who our new arrival was, and then she added, “Have you gone insane? Put down that bat.”

“Where is she,” Allison grated. “Where’s the bitch?”

“I’m sure I don’t know who you mean.” Bitty drew herself up to look taller than her five-six height—five-two without the stilettos. She wagged a finger in Allison’s face. “Don’t be foolish enough to get yourself into trouble. Assault with a deadly weapon carries jail time. You don’t want that.”

“What do you know?” Allison sounded a little hysterical. “Billy Joe is dead, and my life is over! I can’t go on without him . . . and it’s all her fault. She needs to pay.”

From the corner of my eye I saw a couple of men with cameras hovering beside the fence surrounding Montrose. They turned around to see the source of the loud voices. I tried to signal Bitty, but she wasn’t paying attention. She still had her finger in Allison’s face.

“Then take her to court. Let her pay that way. It lasts a lot longer, and you’re better off in the long run than you are taking a baseball bat to someone. Money is a great comfort in times of stress. Believe me. I know.”

I couldn’t believe Bitty was so calm. Or that she was making sense. Allison seemed to be paying attention, too. She looked a little less wild, as if she was thinking it over. The bat lowered slightly. Wind picked up the lank tendrils of her hair and pushed them across her face. She pulled them away with her free hand and heaved a big sigh.

I relaxed a little. The worst was over.

It might have been, too, if Dixie Lee hadn’t chosen that unfortunate moment to arrive at the house, walking up the street in our full view. Any indecision on Allison’s part vanished in the wind. She let out a bellow worthy of a Viking berserker and charged toward Dixie Lee with the bat raised over her head. I reacted without thinking. I stuck out my foot as she passed me, and she tripped and went down to the spongy ground with a heavy thud and a grunt. Dixie Lee stood frozen to the spot, eyes wide as a deer in the headlights.