Authors: Linda Grimes
The Big Fix (26 page)
He handed me a small stack of papers I’d last seen in the French bistro in D.C. I shuffled through them, saw they were what I’d suspected—stock certificates. A great many shares of Conrad Fine Foods, in fact, issued on the date of Angelica’s birth. And, apparently, all legally signed over to Joseph and Elizabeth Conrad a few weeks before Angelica’s death. Yeah, right.
“You want to give these to me?” I asked.
“Yes. We’ll sign them over right now. Nigel can be witness,” Joe said.
I cocked Lily’s head, putting a considering look on her face. “And what, exactly, would keep me from taking the stock, and then, after my acquittal, picking up where
I
left off? Double jeopardy being what it is and all. Just curious,” I said.
Conrad’s eyes narrowed to slits. “I’m sure Nigel here could draw up some papers that would prevent that from happening.”
Nigel remained neutral, neither confirming nor denying that he could.
“And if I were to tell both of you to fuck off?” Again, I could see the language coming from their youngest daughter’s mouth didn’t surprise them.
Conrad snatched the certificates from me and took his wife by the elbow. “Come along, Elizabeth. We have an appointment with the district attorney. I expect it’s time we admitted we knew all along about the antipathy between our daughters. I’m sure he’ll be sympathetic to our reluctance to do so before, not wanting to lose both of them. And then there’s the press to consider. We can’t keep avoiding their questions forever.”
Assholes. They’d do it, too.
I looked at Nigel, searching for some clue as to what Lily might say under the circumstances. My gut told me she wouldn’t give in to their blackmail-bribery mashup, but if she really thought her life—or at least her freedom—were on the line, who knew?
Nigel shrugged, almost imperceptibly. He didn’t know either.
“Wait,” I said. I had to stall somehow. “I’ll … consider it.”
“Darling, that’s wonderful. It will be fine, you’ll see,” Elizabeth said. She tried to come to me, but Conrad held tightly to her arm.
“Overholt, you have until the end of business hours tomorrow to bring me the appropriate papers, signed by my daughter. After that, we’ll
reconsider
transferring the stock. Good day.”
I raced to the soundstage as fast as my economy rental car and traffic would allow. Which was to say, I was in no danger of getting a speeding ticket. Billy and Laura were hard at work writing. Luckily, we didn’t need a whole script.
I filled them in on what had taken place with Lily-Ann’s dear old mom and dad, explaining our new deadline, and ending with, “Can you believe it? I will never complain about my family again.”
“Best not swear to that,” Billy said.
Laura smiled. “There’s nothing to complain about with your family.”
“Your family, too, now,” I said. “Give it time—you’ll see.”
Billy grinned. “Gee, cuz, that lasted, what? Two seconds?”
“Okay, okay. I know how good I have it. So, what’s going on here?”
“I showed Laura the Harilla costume. She thinks it’ll fit Nils fine.”
Harilla was the name we’d coined for the anthropoid half-hare, half-gorilla who was the antagonist opposite the swashbuckling anthropologist-slash-alien-hunter hero character in our phony production. Broad of chest and long of ear, all the costume needed was the right man to fill it. Nils was large, muscular, and trained in taking down baddies—exactly what we needed if a big guy like Jackson Gunn reacted poorly to our plan.
The costume? Billy found it on eBay, and since time was of the essence … yeah. At first we thought it might be too ridiculous, but then we figured it was exactly what we needed. Even a badass bunny costume is still a bunny, and bound to make Nils seem less intimidating to a skittish Jackson. Also, it was a darn handy place to hide a few weapons.
“Are you sure Nils knows what he’s in for?” Billy asked. “Maybe I should do it.”
“You’re the director—we can’t spare you. If you’re not comfortable with Nils, then I’ll do it,” I said.
“You’re not trained in hand-to-hand combat. Besides, what if we have another ‘being Lily’ emergency call from Nigel while we’re shooting?” he said.
Good point. “It’s settled, then. And don’t worry—I explained it all to Nils clearly. Laura said he’s a professional. I’m sure he can handle it.”
“Nils won’t let us down,” Laura confirmed.
“I sure hope not,” I said, “because if we don’t get a decent vid by the end of the day tomorrow, Lily-Ann is screwed.”
* * *
We were still at the soundstage at midnight. Our intrepid gang of volunteers was with us, all of them either absorbing their assigned auras from Billy and trying on their costumes, or, in the case of the nonadaptors, getting the particulars of their jobs from Laura.
Devon was in heaven. He loved being included at family gatherings, and being on a movie set—even a fake one—was gravy. James was, at best, resigned. The two of them had been drafted as the camera crew, since they couldn’t become the “name” actors we were using to entice Jackson into accepting his role. James would also be standing by with emergency medical equipment, in case Jackson went batshit crazy on us. James wasn’t a doctor, but he had lots of first aid experience. Labs weren’t the safest places in the world to work.
Brian was going to be Charlie Day, one of the actors from
It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia,
looking to rack up more big-screen credits. It was one of Bri’s favorite shows, so he could easily play the role.
Auntie Mo would be Rene Russo (she had a fondness for redheads) and Mom would be Sigourney Weaver (she loved to wear tall auras, which probably explained her modeling agency). Dad and Uncle Liam decided on James Marsters (Dad already having his aura at hand from the Spike character) and Liam Neeson (Uncle Liam apparently not wanting to learn a new first name).
Sinead and Siobhan were bickering over who was going to be Scarlett Johansson and who was going to be Zoe Saldana, each actress supposedly reading for one of the leads. I ignored them as best I could.
Molly was staying with friends in Manhattan, and, according to Auntie Mo, she wasn’t at all happy about it. But Uncle Liam and Auntie Mo had put their collective foot down at the prospect of Molly being in close proximity to a suspected killer, especially when they’d be too busy to look after her properly.
When Hugh Jackman tapped me on the shoulder, I nearly dropped my clipboard.
“You don’t happen to have any cheese, do you?” I asked, in case Billy was testing me.
He looked genuinely puzzled. “What are you talking about, Ciel? Billy said you had my script. Laura wants to run lines with me. I still don’t know why you need so many of us. Seems like you and Billy, and maybe Sinead and Siobhan—they actually
want
to be here—could have handled it. How many human props do you really need?”
Ah. Thomas. I scanned the room, finally locating Billy. He was looking at me with a wicked glint in his eye. I casually flipped him the bird while pretending to scratch my forehead.
“Thomas, I told you how paranoid Jackson has been acting—we have to go all out to make this shoot look
authentic.
Now, stop whining. And remember, the script isn’t set in stone—it’s just a guideline to give you an idea of the situation. Feel free to improvise, as long as you stay in character.”
“I’ll be lucky if Laura ever lets me break this character again,” he said gloomily.
“Aw. Poor baby. Honeymoon over?” I teased. “Don’t worry, Laura told me how much she likes jumping your bones. About made me throw up my mimosa, she was so gushy about loving you.”
Thomas grabbed the bound pages I held out, ignoring me, but I thought I saw a tiny smile on the Hugh mouth as he walked away.
Rene and Sigourney approached me next. “Honey, which one of us is going to read with the killer?” Mom asked. “Mo thinks it should be Rene, but I’m thinking Sigourney is more kick-ass.”
“Actually,” I said, “neither of you will be working with him directly—hey, Nils, come here a second, will you?—because if he tries something crazy, I want Nils close at hand.”
Nils strode over, in full costume, looking every bit the badass Harilla until the last few yards, when he switched to hopping. He was wiggling his highly realistic prosthetic nose when he reached us. I cracked up.
“I know it’s difficult, considering the material, but I hope you’re going to play it straight tomorrow. Jackson has to believe this is real or we’ll spook him.”
Mom and Auntie Mo were eyeing Nils up and down.
“Oh, I have no doubt Mr. Gunn will take him seriously,” Auntie Mo said, giving him a perfect Rene Russo closed-lip smile.
“Heaven knows
I
will,” Mom said. It appeared she’d shaved a few years off Ms. Weaver as Harilla was hopping over.
Nils gave them a courtly bow, the awe apparent in his eyes. I’d explained to him about adaptors, but he was still getting used to the idea. Mark was probably going to be pissed off at me for telling him, but I considered this “need to know.”
I finished checking his costume, declared it perfect, and told him he could change into his street clothes.
Billy called everyone over to the director’s area. He replaced his aura with an older, balding—but still boyishly handsome—fa
ç
ade. The remaining hair was red, as was the short beard.
“Okay, this is who I’ll be tomorrow. I’m afraid, for this to work, you’ll all have to treat me like I’m the boss. Mommo, Dad—I know that will be hard for you, but try.” The grin hadn’t changed much since the owner of the aura was a child actor.
“Sure thing, Opie,” Uncle Liam said while Dad started whistling the theme from the old Andy Griffith show.
Auntie Mo linked her arm through Uncle Liam’s. “Don’t you mean Richie?” she said, referring to the teenager from
Happy Days.
“Careful, dear, you’re showing your age.”
“Hate to tell you, Mom, but ‘Richie’ shows your age, too,” Siobhan said, and then ducked as her mother took a swing at her.
After the chuckles died down, Billy said, “Meet back here by six”—the collective groan almost drowned him out—“yes, that’s a.m. It’s going to be a long day, but think of the reward. By which I mean a warm spot in your heart at seeing justice served, because no one’s getting paid for this. Now, go grab a few hours of shut-eye.”
“Wait,” Sinead said. “Ciel, who are you going to be? I want keep everyone straight.”
“Well, mostly I’ll be this lowly set gopher”—I displayed a slightly overweight young man—“but when the time is right, you can expect…”
I pulled up another aura, to the collective gasp of everyone except Billy.
Jackson Gunn pulled his white Jag XJ convertible into the parking lot outside the warehouse. I’d been afraid he wouldn’t buy that our big-name director would be associated with a brand-new production company, but Billy had explained to him that Big Name wanted to keep his new idea under wraps until it was a done deal, and could be released with all the appropriate fanfare. Jackson didn’t seem to think there was anything odd about that.
“He’s here,” I said into my walkie-talkie.
“Okay, people,” Billy hollered. “It’s a go. Places!”
I melted into the background, wearing my nondescript gopher aura, biding my time. Nobody notices the chubby boy with the mousy brown hair and peach fuzz who’s passing around coffee.
Laura, in her guise as production assistant, met Gunn at the door, gushing about how thrilled she was to finally meet him. He accepted her effusive praise of every movie he’d ever been in (boy, she must’ve stayed up late studying his IMDb page) with a modesty I was sure he didn’t feel, all the while casting wary glances around the warehouse. He definitely had his guard up.
Billy, dressed in jeans and a plaid flannel shirt on top of Ron Howard’s aura, appeared to be in the middle of an important conversation with Liam Neeson. When he “noticed” Gunn, he glanced at his watch as if time had gotten away from him, and excused himself from Liam, who wandered over to an impromptu waiting area, made up of a sofa and several comfortable chairs, where Spike—I mean, James Marsters—Charlie Day, and Hugh Jackman were already sitting, reading over their pages. There was a fruit basket and an open box of doughnuts on a nearby table, with thermal carafes of coffee and tea, as well as an assortment of canned drinks on ice.
“Jackson,” Billy said, reaching for Gunn’s hand. “Glad you could make it. We’ll try not to take up too much of your time.”
“Happy to be here. Anxious to learn more about your secret project,” Gunn said with the smile that had women in movie theaters everywhere sliding off their seats. “So, Liam, huh? And Hugh Jackman?” He wasn’t concerned about Marsters or Day. Guess he only saw tall guys as his competition.
So far, so good. He seemed to be buying the setup.
Billy-Ron shrugged. “You know how it is. We can have favorites,” he said, strongly implying that Jackson was his, “but the bean counters want options. They think it keeps the talent costs down.”
The two of them wandered over to the set together, still chatting. I followed, two coffees in hand, and plastered an appropriately starstruck look on my face when Jackson turned to take one. He barely acknowledged my existence. Billy-Ron nodded and thanked me when he took his, as nice and unassuming as I’d always imagined the real Mr. Howard must be.
The set was dominated by an incredibly realistic replica of a moai—a thirteen-foot-tall monolithic statue of a head. Even close up, the carved and painted Styrofoam looked like ancient stone.
“This is what I see as the key scene. The script isn’t finished yet, and this set is, of course, improvised, but this will be the heart of the film, where our hero”—Billy-Ron nodded slightly toward Jackson, as if to say the role was his for the asking—“discovers the real truth about Easter Island—that the giant statues of heads were put there by aliens. Now the aliens have returned, and they are not friendly.”
Easter Island
was the title we’d given our imaginary movie. Yes, I know. The bunny allusion. At least it was more serious than Billy’s first suggestion—
Keister Island.
Though I had to admit that allusion was pretty funny, too, Jackson being the giant ass he was.