Video Kill (6 page)

“Bad news, Lon?” Susan looked concerned as she handed him his clipboard.

“What? Oh, no, Susan. Everything's fine. Will you ask the Jubees to take their places? I'll run a final check before we call for Marvin.”

Lon was still deep in thought as the Jubees took their positions on the set. He'd seen through Alan's machinations and he was sure that the search for the right cinematographer would be halfhearted. For some totally unfathomable reason, Alan seemed determined to use him for
Video Kill.
It didn't make sense, but Alan Goldberg was God at Cinescope and what God wanted, God got. Lon knew he'd have to come up with one hell of a good recommendation for a substitute cinematographer, or he'd wind up doing the blasted thing by default.

5

 

It was so quiet that Brother could hear the Rain Bird sprinklers click on in the front yard of the six-bedroom Tudor across the street. The sputtering noise disturbed his concentration, so he got up to shut the window, switching on the air-conditioning instead. One week had passed since he'd filmed the initial scene of his project, a week spent in meticulous preparation for tonight's work.

As Brother turned to look out the window, he noticed that the wind had picked up slightly. The yard was well illuminated with the carriage lights his mother had loved. They were on a photoelectric switch that turned them on at dusk and off at dawn. As he watched, an advertising circular skittered across the neatly mowed lawn and came to rest against the base of the huge coral tree that marked the edge of his mother's property. Brother watched it flutter in the wind, snared by the thorny bark of the tree. It was a nice image, worthy of Lon Michaels. Perhaps he'd use it someday. Brightly colored paper struggling ineffectually against an immovable object and then a slow dissolve to a similar human struggle. Woman against man, perhaps?

There was a sudden gust of wind from the opposite direction and the paper tore free, leaving a ragged, triangular-shaped shred on the thorn. Brother smiled. This, too, could be used. A second gust was violent enough to rattle a window in his mother's section of the house. The sound reminded Brother of his obligations. He hadn't checked the downstairs lately, and it was possible the cleaning woman had neglected to close a window.

Brother pulled open his center desk drawer and got out the front door key. He used it so seldom, it was unnecessary to carry it on his key ring. Then he locked up his own wing of the house and used the outside stairway to the side yard, where a winding flagstone path led him through his mother's English rose garden.

The formal garden held only unpleasant memories for Brother. His mother had ordered the bushes from England and had hired an English gardener to design and landscape the area. She had often boasted that the design was identical to the garden at Windsor, on a slightly smaller scale, of course, and she'd taken tea there at precisely four every afternoon. Brother still remembered how he'd rushed home from school to bathe and dress for the occasion. From four to four forty-five, Brother had been required to sit on his mother's white garden furniture and make exceedingly polite conversation while they sipped Earl Grey tea, his mother's favorite, and munched on dainty sandwiches that were as dry and tasteless as wedges of cardboard. Even now, years later, he cringed when he thought of those ordeals. Thank goodness he'd devised a way to escape them!

When Brother had gone to England to attend Oxford, a family tradition, he had discovered that there was more to a formal tea than watercress sandwiches and a correctly steeped pot of Earl Grey. There were also hot buttered scones with a variety of tasty marmalades and English trifle, a huge glass bowl filled with choice berries, cake, excellent brandy, and rich whipped cream. Perhaps, if his mother had varied her menu, he might not have resented playing Little Lord Fauntleroy. But, as a result of those mandatory teas, he still had a deep-seated hatred for things that were English.

Brother hurried through the formal garden without noticing whether the gardener was still following his mother's standing instructions. The roses could grow wild for all he cared. When he arrived at the front door, he was slightly winded. As he unlocked the door and pulled it open, warm light from the interior spilled out to meet him. For a moment Brother was disconcerted, but then he remembered the new timer system he'd ordered last week. The electrician must have hooked it up while the housekeeper was there.

Since the lights were on in the living room, Brother started his inspection there. The windows were locked up tight and everything appeared to be in order. He stopped for a moment to look at his mother's portrait hanging over the mantel. It had been done in England, when she was a child. The artist had painted her in the gardens at Danslair, her family estate, and she was wearing a tailored forest-green riding habit. She was staring slightly to the left and she was solemn faced, as if anticipating the duties that would await her as an adult. A small brass plate set into the bottom of the frame was inscribed with the words ELIZABETH SMYTHE-CARRINGTON, AGE TEN.

The portrait was slightly askew, and as Brother reached up to straighten it, the lights switched off. He stood in the inky darkness for a moment and then groped his way to the doorway. A lamp went on in his mother's bedroom, and Brother felt his heartbeat accelerate. The new timer was completely unnerving. It was almost as if his mother were still alive, leaving the living room to go to bed.

Brother walked down the hall to his mother's bedroom and picked up the flashlight she had always kept beside the bed. Luckily, the batteries were still functional. She must have replaced them right before she died. If he knew where the electrician had installed the mechanism, he could switch the timer to manual, but it would be quite a task to locate it in the dark. He'd just have to check the rest of the windows with what his mother had stubbornly called her “torch.”

After Brother checked the bedroom windows, the light in his mother's bathroom went on, so he checked that, too. While he was there, he noticed that the cleaning woman had done a poor job of polishing the mirror. There were streaks on the surface of the glass. Brother took a tissue and wiped off the streaks. He supposed it really didn't make any difference now, but old patterns were difficult to break. His mother had always been very strict with her employees and insisted on immaculate surroundings.

As Brother made his rounds of the other rooms, he noticed that the cleaning woman was becoming lax without his mother's supervision. He considered writing a detailed memo with a list of corrections, but as he progressed from room to room, he decided that he had no choice but to fire the woman and hire a replacement. He was muttering angrily to himself by the time he climbed the stairs to his own quarters. Now he'd be forced to conduct interviews with housekeepers and check their references when he should be concentrating on his important work.

Brother poured himself a small cognac and sipped it, attempting to clear his mind of anything except the scene he was soon to film. Tonight's star could easily play the role. She was a seasoned veteran of a half-dozen low-budget movies, and she'd dropped out of the business to marry into money. Now, after a ten-year absence from the screen, she was in the process of making a comeback. Brother had seen her latest film. She'd played a cameo role in an immensely popular science-fiction feature, and in his opinion, her five minutes on the screen was the only bright spot in the movie.

A current newspaper was spread open on his desk, turned to the society page. His star was hosting a charity gala this evening, and even though the security would be tight, Brother had devised a way to get inside the gates of her Bel Air mansion. When the party was over and everyone had gone home, Tammara Welles would give the finest performance of her life.

 

 

Tammara Welles was excited. The gala she'd arranged was turning out to be the charity event of the season. The party people had turned the rolling green lawns of the mansion into an amusement park. One section contained the games of chance, and it was doing a booming business. People were standing in line to try their luck at the shooting gallery with its pop-up targets that were shaped like animals. No one seemed to mind the five-hundred-dollar donation, as long as the proceeds went to charity.

“Tammara, darling!” Mrs. Irving Jacobs rushed up and actually kissed Tammara's cheek. Tammara stiffened reflexively, but she quickly covered by smiling warmly. Barbara Jacobs was new money, so new that she hadn't yet learned to kiss the air in the typical show biz greeting. There were rumors that Barbara had been Bouncy Babbs, a stripper in Vegas, before she'd married Irving Jacobs.

A photographer was headed their way, and Barbara quickly rubbed her handkerchief over Tammara's cheek.

“Sorry, Tammy, I got a little lipstick on you, but it's gone now. I'm such a ditz about those things. My, but isn't this exciting? I've had my picture taken three times already!”

As soon as the photographer took his picture, Barbara backed away.

“I've got to run, Tammy. Irving's going to meet me at the Tunnel of Love. Since he's been taking those vitamin shots, I've got a seventy-year-old tiger by the tail!”

Tammara laughed. At least Barbara didn't have a phony bone in her body. And that was more than she could say about most of the women who were here tonight.

The girl at the booth on the left was making cotton candy, and Tammara stopped to watch for a moment. It reminded her of the Boone County Fair in Iowa. In July, more years ago than she cared to remember, she had ridden to the top of the Ferris wheel and pretended that she owned the land as far as she could see. Now her dream was possible. All she had to do was mention her childhood wish to her husband and he'd buy the whole damn county for her.

The girl at the next booth was selling corn dogs and Tammara's mouth watered. For a moment she almost gave in to the impulse, but she reminded herself that corn dogs were definitely not on her diet. An overweight actress couldn't expect to get any good parts.

As Tammara wandered past groups of smiling celebrities, she noticed that everyone seemed to have captured the spirit of the evening. Mrs. Geoffrey Bennington, an intimidating old dowager with a particularly acerbic tongue, had actually hiked up her skirt to her thighs and hopped aboard the carousel. Tammara watched in fascination as she rode around and around, sloshing champagne on her expensive hand-beaded skirt, sitting astride a snow-white charger that had been captured forever in the act of rolling his emerald-green eyes.

Even though her husband was rich, Tammara was still awed by the fact that many of her guests had more money than they could likely spend in one lifetime. Little Shirley Kranowski from Luther, a farm town in the central part of Iowa, had worked all summer at the local Rexall drugstore to earn the money for her high school prom dress. The dress was long gone now, but there was still a lot of Shirley Kranowski left in Tammara.

“Hi pretty lady. You look even prettier than you did fifteen years ago.”

Tammara whirled around and smiled her first real smile of the evening. It was Lon Michaels.

“Lon!” Tammara threw her arms around him and hugged him tightly. She divided the people in show biz into two categories, fake and real. Lon Michaels was real.

Just then a waiter passed by with a tray of champagne, and Lon reached out to take a glass. “May I buy you a drink? It's got to be better than that awful stuff we drank at our first premiere.”

“It is. Avery classy lady ordered this champagne. It's Taittinger.”

Lon whistled. “Over fifty bucks a bottle at the discount places. How many cases did you order?”

“I'll never tell, but I guarantee there'll be some left over. What are you working on now, Lon?”

“The last film in the
Jubee
trilogy, but it'll only go another week or two. Then, I'm not sure.”

“If there's a part in your next one for me, will you put in a good word?”

“That goes without saying.” Lon touched the rim of his glass to hers. “To our next feature together.”

Tammara laughed. “A guaranteed blockbuster, where Tammara Welles is brilliant and Lon Michaels makes her look even better.”

Tammara closed her eyes in anticipation as she took the first sip. She loved champagne. Without thinking, she finished the first glass much too quickly and immediately took another. It was best to be photographed with a full glass. An empty one implied heavy drinking, and she certainly didn't want to be publicized as a lush.

“Come on, Lon. I'm sick of making the right impression on the right people. Let's ride to the top of the Ferris wheel and hide from the world.”

 

 

Tammara awoke from a deep sleep. By the illuminated face of her bedroom clock she saw it was three in the morning. Something had startled her awake.

She sat up in bed and groped for her glasses. She'd worn contact lenses for years, but her eyes had been allergic to the permanent wear kind and she had to take out her lenses every night to let them soak in their little trays of cleaning solution. As she got out of bed, she staggered slightly on her way to the window. She must have had more champagne than she'd thought. She felt woozy and light-headed as she raised the window and looked out at the deserted grounds.

The amusement park was still there. The party planners had arranged to come and pick up their equipment in the morning. The stands and booths were illuminated by a string of bare light bulbs, and now, at three in the morning, their shadows were harsh and surrealistic. Tammara watched for signs of movement, but she knew it was impossible for anyone to come over the fence without setting off the alarm. Their security system was the best that money could buy.

Just when Tammara had made up her mind to go back to bed, the sound she'd been hearing registered in her mind. It was the sound of water running, and it was coming from the east lawn, where the party people had set up the Tunnel of Love. They must have forgotten to turn it off.

Tammara had her hand on the telephone to call the groundskeeper before she reconsidered. He was an elderly man, and she didn't have the heart to wake him. She'd watched the party people set everything up and there was no reason why she couldn't shut it off.

Dressing was more difficult than she'd thought it would be. Something had raised havoc with her coordination, and she found she had to sit down on the edge of the bed to pull on her slacks and sweater. Tammara slid her feet into the soft-soled moccasins she used as bedroom slippers and got up again with difficulty. It would be so easy to just crawl back under the covers and ignore the whole thing. She turned to give her bed a look filled with longing as she went out the door.