Anatomy of a Crossword (8 page)

“Okay, folks, weee'rrre getting ready for shooowtiiime!”

Without any help from Harriet Tammalong, Belle surmised that this was Rolly. He was a squat, bow-legged man with a poorly fitting toupee that looked like caramel-colored rabbit fur. Belle wasn't sure if Rolly intended the hairpiece to be an amusing addition to his act, or if he thought he looked pretty snappy in it. The comic ran through three or four rather tired jokes that brought far more laughter from the audience than Belle expected, while the two contestants arrived on stage and took their places. Each player was accompanied by a sound technician and a make-up artist who dabbed at their faces with soft fluffy brushes and powder.

Harriet leaned into Belle and whispered, “The taller guy is yesterday's winner and the tubby fellow's the challenger. He looks a little nervous, don't you think? You can always tell by their eyes … that kind of crazy-horse stare.”

“I heard the contestants win a lot of money playing this,” Belle said.

“A million bucks … Well, a million if you're a Grand-Slam-Winner.” Harriet proceeded to explain the intricacies of the competition. “The way it works is this: At the end of each taping, there's a winner, and that person is
Down & Across.
There's a garden-type bridge the grips roll out; the winner steps over it and ‘across' to the next day's show. The loser is ‘Down and
Out,'
as Gerry Orso likes to say. He loves to laugh at the losers, you know, really rub it in … Sometimes it surprises me that they don't just up and belt him … Anyway, if a contestant wins five shows in a row, he—or she—becomes undefeated champion. Once there are sixteen champions, there's a round-robin tournament. Eventually, one person comes out the Grand-Slam Winner. The payoff is a cool million.”

“Wow.”

“The last time that happened was back in August. A man named Bartann Welner. Everyone called him Bart, though. A really classy old gent. I could have taken him for hubby number six in a heartbeat, though he must have been ninety, if he was a day. He dropped dead … just like that!” Harriet snapped her fingers for emphasis. “Less than two weeks after he won the big pot.”

“Oh, that's so sad.”

“That's not the half of it, hon.” Harriet leaned in closer and covered her mouth as if she expected the people in the control booth to be able to read lips. “They've never aired the show. And it's my guess they never will.”

Belle made no attempt to hide her confusion. This time her reaction was genuine. “So?”

“The contestants don't get a cent if the show doesn't air. It's in their contracts. It's the same with all the game shows. The producers don't have to make a payout if they keep a show in the can and don't release it … Of course, I'm not supposed to be talking about this … Every member of the studio audience signs a waiver promising to keep mum till after air date. You'll get one, too.”

“But if the man, Welner, died, then the producers wouldn't have to pay—”

“Indeed, they would! His heirs would be entitled to his winnings because the money was earned before his death. So if I
had
married Bart Welner—not that I came close, you understand—I'd still be waiting for my dough … Just between you and me, Gale, I wouldn't be surprised to learn that skin-flint Stan McKenet killed the poor old geezer himself just to save the million bucks. You know, make it look like natural causes like they do on those detective shows?” Then Harriet sat back in her seat and patted Belle's leg. “Don't mind me, Galie, I was just kidding about Stan. Things like that don't happen in Hollywood. Aside from what goes on in screenwriters' brains, we're much too ordinary.” Then she added a sunny, “Too bad your hubby's missing all the fun. I don't like fishing, myself. And through that ice and everything? Forget it. I'm a Southern California girl all the way.”

CHAPTER 8

The next morning, Belle half-awakened to the sound of a very strange clock-radio buzzing insistently in a room that didn't smell remotely like her own bedroom. She gave her ears and nose a moment to arrive at some conclusions, but when they failed her, she called upon her sense of touch. Her left hand reached for Rosco while her toes dodged through the cold sheets toward the foot of the bed where Kit should have been snoozing peacefully. But the antiseptic-smelling bed was devoid of those loving bodies.

Belle drowsily slapped at the radio. The buzzing stopped only to be replaced by an irate talk-show “caller” who couldn't get over the fact that the Lakers had “blown a fourteen-point lead” the previous night and lost to the Trail Blazers—”of all people!”—in double-overtime. She slapped the radio once more, and the room returned to silence.

Then her gray eyes opened a crack. “Rosco?” she murmured. “Kitty?” She stretched across the sheets, lifted her head slightly to stare at the heavily curtained window. Sunlight burned through the cracks where fabric failed to meet corresponding fabric.

California, Belle remembered all at once. A hotel in the beachside community of Santa Monica, a town surrounded by the sprawl of Los Angeles … And last night she'd been at a studio in Burbank watching the taping of … Suddenly, memory crashed into full and alert comprehension. Today was her big day! Her introduction to the cast and crew of
Anatomy of a Crossword.
The screenwriter, Chick Darlessen, would be picking her up at 7:30. It was now a terrifying 6:45.
I should have set the alarm for 6
A.M.
; when will I learn?!
Belle barreled out of bed; her feet were in the shower two minutes later.

It was not until she was dressing that she became fully cognizant of how lonesome she was: no Kit prancing back and forth, short tail twitching, fetching her leash from the downstairs hall, then racing back upstairs to shake it in gleeful anticipation of her morning romp; no yips, no puppy “talk,” no paws to trip over. And without Rosco, there was no one to talk to. Talk
at
, Belle corrected herself with a wry smile. Her husband wasn't chatty in the mornings; he needed a fair amount of coffee to jump-start his vocal cords, but he was a pro when it came to
pretending
to listen. Belle sighed; she couldn't quite believe how much she missed him already.

She picked up her comb and gazed at the mirror. “It's only been twenty-four hours … Get a grip!” she said to her reflection. She tried to change her mopey face into a cheery one, then realized her clothing choice was all wrong for the big event. She looked frumpy, mismatched, and starchily academic—too New England, by far. She'd stand out like a sore thumb in style-conscious Los Angeles. She shucked off her skirt and top, grabbed another selection, decided that was no better, remembered Rosco cautioning her to “just be herself,” then groaned aloud in disgruntled frustration. How could she meet an entire cast of famous people when she was just
herself
? She was supposed to be the show's technical consultant, not some dopey-looking, star-struck hick.

She dove for the closet again, grabbed her best silk shirt and paired it with her jeans. The outfit was definitely not one she would have tried at home, but it gave her a sense of daring and bravado. She topped this off with her “good” earrings—cameos that had belonged to her long-gone great-great aunt.

When Chick Darlessen pulled his brand new vermilion Porsche convertible up to the hotel's curb at the allotted time, Belle was ready. Hungry, yes, but satisfactorily attired. Choosing her wardrobe, and then trying to “style” her pale, blonde hair had chewed up every minute. She hadn't even had time to bolt down a swallow of coffee. Rosco would have nagged her into eating something. Yet a another reason to miss him.

“This morning, Dean's conducting auditions to replace Greg Trafeo, our original ‘Rosco,'” Chick said as he ushered her into a Porsche so highly polished that even its chrome wheels showed no sign of roadway grime. “And before I say another word—thank you, thank you,
thank you
for that crossword puzzle you faxed to us last Friday. Talk about a lifesaver. Dean Ivald loves it, I love it, Lew Groslir—the producer—loves it, everyone loves it … I mean, what's not to love, right?” There was a manic quality to Darlessen's behavior, almost a sense of desperation as he rattled off the words. For a moment, Belle wondered whether the man was concealing something, or whether his behavior was indicative of all screenwriters with a script in production. “… To say nothing of you dropping everything to get your tush out here … Like I said, a lifesaver … and I don't mean the lime or lemon kind …”

Belle watched as he darted around the hood of the car and nearly leaped in behind the steering wheel. “Buckle up …!” Twisting the key in the ignition, Darlessen smiled, deepening the long creases in his bronzed cheeks while his low brow melded into curly black hair whose few tell-tale white streaks were the only indication that the screenwriter was no longer a young man. The smile grew; strangely, it aged him, making him look gaunt and anxious rather than the reverse. Belle found herself questioning just how old her companion was. In a place where youth was a commodity, being sixty—or even fifty or forty—might be considered a serious detriment. “… One thing I'm strict about—seatbelts. Too many fatalities in L.A. No one's strapped in. That's why we're in the mess we're in. Too many joy riders misjudging ‘Dead Man's Curve.'”

Belle turned sideways in her seat. “You make it sound like the place actually exists.”

“‘Dead Man's Curve? You bet it does. Up on Mulholland Drive. Would you like to see it?”

“Maybe some other time.”

Chick spun the convertible across the street in a quick U-turn, giving Belle a view of azure-blue ocean, wide white beach, and a cliffside line of palms trees she hadn't noticed during her arrival. “If you take a walk on the esplanade,” the writer continued in his jittery tone while he cocked his thumb over his shoulder and then hastily shifted gears, “pay attention to the signage. The ground up here is none too stable. Basically, it's just dirt. No bedrock like you have back in Massachusetts. We wouldn't want you plunging down into the P.C.H. accidentally, now would we?”

“P-C-H?”

“Pacific Coast Highway. Runs through Malibu to points north. Route One, technically. A pretty road, but subject to rock and mud slides.”

The Pacific, and its crumbling mountainsides and gorgeous vistas, were left in the dust as the convertible sped onto the number 10 Freeway heading east. The scenery was considerably altered from Belle's rainy cab ride the previous night. “Should be interesting for you to watch our director, our own in-house
Napoleon
, casting a new ‘Rosco,'” Darlessen continued. “A little odd, maybe, but interesting.”

“What happened to Greg Trafeo?”

“Ah … I'll get to that in a minute.”

“Okay …” Belle said somewhat suspiciously. Then added, “I guess it will feel pretty strange to see ‘myself,' as well.”

“Not to worry there. Shay Henlee's gonna do a bang-up job as the show's ‘Belle.' The make-up people made her a glowing blonde, just like you. You probably remember her as a brunette from that Scorsese film.” Chick gave another over-bright smile while the Porsche made a leap that Belle equated with a rocket leaving Earth. Her body jolted backward in the leather seat.

“What did happen to the first ‘Rosco'?” she asked after a moment. “Your fax indicated that Greg Trafeo was playing that part. I've always thought he was a pretty good actor.”

“I think Dean wanted to be the one to brief you on that … But,” Chick sighed. “I'll tell ya: working in Hollywood's not for sissies. Just when you think you've got everything sewed up: ducks in a row, actors, agents, everybody happy …
Bam!
Everything blows up in your face! Like your situation with Legal. A case in point … With Greg, it was a little problem over the weekend. We figured it best not to tell you until you got out here, but like I said, no seatbelt. It's a big mistake … Greg was rear-ended on Sunset Boulevard … He'll be okay in a month or two, but production couldn't wait—not with our
brilliant
director on his way to Paris to shoot a major film in four weeks with Gerard D … A prima donna of the highest order this director, but aren't they all? Anyway, Greg's face did a number on the steering wheel—or should I say vice versa …? He also lost a nice little MGA roadster in the bargain. 'Course those babies didn't come with shoulder belts to begin with, and a purist like Greg wouldn't
think
of adding them. Oh, no, not our boy Greg.” As he spoke, Chick zoomed around a truck, slalomed across two—then three—lanes of speeding cars. Each maneuver appeared to Belle to leave only inches to spare.

“We're not late, are we?” she managed to ask.

Chick laughed too loudly. “My girlfriend's always wondering the same thing. You need to air these Porsches out, blow the carbon off the valves every now and then. They thrive on this kind of action.”

“I'd just hate to end up like the ‘nice little MGA roadster,' or Greg Trafeo.”

“Not to worry,” was the blithe reply.

Belle nodded, but her hands on her knees were clenched and wet.

Nothing could have prepared Belle for the scene she encountered when she and Darlessen entered the sound-stage. In front of her was an exact replica of her home office: a wood floor painted in vivid black and white squares, curtains with hand-blocked puzzle grids, crossword-motif lamp shades, even a puzzle-themed ceramic plate holding her cherished nibble—deviled eggs.

There were her beloved books, too: her foreign-language dictionaries, her encyclopedias, her much-thumbed OED—and all housed, as they were in Newcastle, within what appeared to be the converted exterior porch of an eighteenth-century town house, which, at the moment, faced a garden enfolded in a deep and tranquil layer of snow. Part of the exterior scene was painted on a flat scrim; eerily, it seemed more “real” than real life.