Anatomy of a Crossword (9 page)

Belle gasped in wonderment. So this was what Miso Lane and his crew were “documenting.” She gazed from one corner of this fantasy to another. For a moment, she was unsure whether she'd even left home.

“Welcome, welcome, welcome! I can see by your expression that our set designers and carpenters have outdone themselves. Miso is a genius with that little Polaroid of his. His snaps were a boon, an absolute prize. We've duplicated your home, your friend Sara's handsome demesne, that quaint, little downtown coffee shop—as well as the country inn where the vile and dreadful deed was done …” The man striding toward Belle was tall, lean, almost cavalier in his understated elegance. With his British accent and an imperial cast to his light-blue eyes, he looked like a retired member of Her Majesty's Home Guard. “You are the one and only Annabella Graham, I take it? Of course you are. I am filled with gratitude that we at last meet face-to-face. The telephone is such a poor substitute for a genuine rendezvous; ergo, I avoid them at all costs. Rather un-L.A. of me, I believe, but I much prefer to leave room for surprises in my life. It pleases me to imagine that secretaries throughout Hollywood spend their days telling their bosses that Mr. Ivald is unavailable.”

“And you're Mr. Ivald.” Belle put out her hand, which was swooped into his while his long frame bent in a courtly bow.

“Dean, my dear. Simply, Dean. We're all chums here—” But the director's commanding words were interrupted by a shattering crash, and then a female voice shouting angrily, a male swearing mightily, and the jitter of hurrying feet.

“What is it
this
time?” Ivald spat out the words. The cords of his neck tightened, and his easy and aristocratic demeanor changed abruptly to one of barely restrained rage. “One more delay on this bloody project and I swear I'll be packing it off to the great ‘director's home in the sky.' I don't have time to muck around with this wretched—”

“A sound boom fell, Mr. Ivald,” came a cowed reply. “Sorry, about that … I guess it wasn't secure. I don't know who put it—”

The female voice interrupted. Her tone was shrill, demanding, operatic in its intensity. “Dean, I simply
cannot
work when pieces of equipment
insist
upon tumbling down around me. I might very well have sustained serious—”

“Nan, darling, sweetheart … I'm on my way.” Ivald spun on his heels, leaving Belle forgotten and deserted.

“Nan DeDero,” Chick murmured. “She plays your ‘Sara.'”

“Yes,” was Belle's immediate response. “Everyone back home was thrilled to hear that I would meet her.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Belle quietly cringed inside, thinking,
Yeeesh, do I sound like a hick or what?

Darlessen laughed in his brash and brittle way. “The one and only child star turned superstar, turned fiery, aging diva.” He added a facetious, “Oops, did I say ‘aging'? Where on earth did that come from?”

“I kind of wondered …” Belle began. She couldn't reconcile the woman with the flock of ex-lovers, the titanic ego, and the temper to the true Sara, a lady whose ancestors had founded Newcastle, and who remained the city's arbiter of correct—if old-fashioned—behavior.

As if he'd been reading her mind, Chick's reply was an amused, “Don't worry. Nan's wearing a white wig. The cane was another matter, altogether. The world would come to an end long before any camera caught the great DeDero using a ‘walking stick.' Reality is one thing …”

They moved toward the racket created by Nan berating both the director and sound technician, leaving behind Belle's “office” and entering the fabricated “sitting room” of White Caps. Through a crush of cameramen, stagehands, props people, and makeup artists, Belle saw another exact reproduction: Oriental carpets, mahogany end tables, chairs upholstered in chintz, and an antique marble mantle gracing a fireplace ablaze with flickering light. While standing in the midst of this familiar haven, Belle noticed a white-haired and steel-spined autocrat who she knew and loved as Sara.

“Oh—” Belle said, instinctively moving forward to greet her friend “Sara.” Clearly Nan, or the makeup people, had studied Miso's Polaroids at length. Sara's exact double had been created. But Nan fixed Belle with a gaze that was at once withering and dismissive before returning her irate attention once again to director and crew.

Belle stepped back in chagrin, then looked across the soundstage from “White Caps” to her own “home” and was filled with a swift and terrible sensation. It felt if she'd died, as if she were now watching what had once been her earthly existence from some unremembered netherworld.

CHAPTER 9

Belle's discomfort and loss of equilibrium was compounded when she came face-to-face with “herself” in the form of Shay Henlee. This “Belle” was decked out in green corduroy slacks that had gone soft and baggy with age, a loose beige turtleneck, and a lumpy, threadbare gray cardigan. But except for the clothes, the true Belle and the actress portraying her were nearly identical. As Chick had indicated, the blonde wig and gray contact lenses had completely transformed the show's star.

“Yikes …” Belle murmured with some dismay. It was clear that the costume designers had decided the lead character was a frowzy New England frump.

“For crying out loud …” Shay muttered simultaneously. She looked at her outfit and then at Belle's. She frowned and shouted, “Wardrobe!” without turning her head to see if anyone was there to heed her call. Then, just as precipitously, she grinned, extended her hand, and uttered a pleased, “You must be the
real
Annabella Graham. I'm Shay. I'm
you
. Well, for the next four weeks, anyway.”

“Yes,” Belle said. She felt unexpectedly tongue-tied in the presence of so famous a person. Rosco would never have recognized her—Belle Graham lost for words?

“I'm you except for those crosswords, of course. I couldn't finish one, let alone create one, if I was paid—Wait, I
am
being paid! I should work on that, I guess.” Shay gave Belle a sly wink and a breezy laugh. It was the serene sound of someone at the top of their game. “I can't even fill in one measly square, I swear. I tried the puzzle you sent out, but jumped to the answers immediately. By the way, the message is really a sneaky one.”

“Crosswords take practice, that's all—” But the effort at a mutual friendship was interrupted by the arrival of “wardrobe” bearing new costume selections for “Miss Hen-lee,” leaving Belle, once again, forgotten and ignored.

She strolled toward the “office” that the production people had set up for her. It consisted of a battered steel desk pushed up against the painted cinder block wall of the studio. There was a folding metal chair; when it was pulled out, there was only a two-foot walkway between it and the back panel of the Lawson's Diner set. Attached to the wall above the desk was a blackboard, where someone had scrawled
MS.GRAHAM, TECHNICAL CONSULTANT
, and under that, another person had ornately lettered
WELCOME BELLE
in red chalk with fancy orange shadowing. On the desk was a telephone and an in-out box distressingly—or perhaps fortuitously—devoid of papers. Having no idea what to do, Belle sat in the folding chair and began to open the desk drawers where she found nothing but a handful of empty Burger King and Dunkin' Donuts wrappers.

“Okay, people, we'll do Lance diRusa's screen test first,” she heard Dean Ivald call out. “Then Quinton Hanny's this afternoon—whoa … Damn! Quinton's in this morning, too? Who scheduled these two madmen so close together …? Someone's trying to give their favorite director a heart attack, is that it?”

A script girl hurried past with a panicked look on her face, and Belle decided to follow along. Within a matter of seconds, a battery of stage lights switched on, illuminating the crossword-motifed room with an intensity equal to a home game at Fenway Park on the darkest of summer nights.

“… I'm not going to be responsible if the fur flies between those two boys,” Dean continued. “Get me Nils.”

“Not to worry, Dean,” a distant Shay sang out. “I'll have your ‘Roscos' eating out of my hand in no time …”

“Not good enough, my dear … Nils! Nils Spemick, front and center. Nils, I want to
see
you. Pronto!”

Belle gulped, found an empty chair, and disappeared in the shadows while a phalanx of cameras, sound booms, and dialogue boxes began closing in on Shay, who was now perched upon “Belle's” untidy home-office desk.

A disembodied voice rang out in a stentorian tone reminiscent of the Wizard of Oz—if that autocratic being had owned a Scandinavian accent. “I'm up here, Dean.” The words obviously emanated from the PA system.

“Get your butt down here, Nils. Now! On the double!”

“I'm with
Lew Groslir
, Dean.”

A tall man with broad shoulders, a thick mustache, and sandy brown hair that flowed evenly over the tops of his ears pulled up a chair and sat next to Belle. He wore a dark-green polo shirt, jeans, and scuffed cowboy boots. “And so the pecking order is established,” he said in a low voice. “Lew Groslir is the producer.”

“I know,” Belle responded. “But who's Nils?”

“The casting director … or
Star Wrangler
would be more like it. He's got his hands full if he plans to act as referee between Lance diRusa and Quinton Hanny. There's no love lost there.”

Belle extended her hand. “I'm Belle Graham. I'm the … Technical Advisor.”

He chuckled slightly. “You're more than than that; you're reason we're all here … I'm the key grip on the set, Don Schruko.”

“Oh … No … Really? I know you.” They shook hands, and Belle could tell from his crinkled brow that she'd definitely confused him. “I mean, I don't really know
you
, but I know what you do. I was at a taping of
Down & Across
last night and I met a woman who told me that the key grip ‘runs the whole shootin' match.'”

“Don't I wish.” Don laughed aloud and shook his head. “I'd say I'm a little more like a lion tamer—I keep the big cats from scratching each other up too much.”

“That still sounds like it could be a pretty tough job to me.”

Don chortled again. “You don't know the half of it. But I enjoy myself, and as they, say, Mr. Groslir made me an offer I couldn't refuse … So, here I am.”

“And aren't you supposed to be moving things around? You know, doing ‘grip' stuff?”

“Nah, this is just an audition … Lights up lights down. That's it. As long as I'm within earshot, they can find me. But if we're doing an actual take, don't get in my way. People have been known to get trampled to death when I get my Jekyll and Hyde thing going … Auditions? Half the time they're done in an office somewhere on Wilshire Boulevard, but Dean's running late with this production since losing Rosco Number One. Wants to get this recasting finished today and start rolling. Time's weighing real heavy on his shoulders.”

“Nils!” Dean bellowed. “Get your skinny little butt down here!”

The deep voice returned to the loudspeaker. “Dean, I'm going to remain up here and keep Quinton company. I think that's best … Lance is on his way down to you. Divide and conquer, Dean, divide and conquer.”

A woman's voice then came on the PA system saying, “Lance diRusa to the set, Lance diRusa, to the set, please,” but the actor was already boldly walking forward, pausing only to share a few convivial words with a man attired in a business suit, who'd arrived with him. A make-up artist near Belle murmured to a colleague, “Must be important if Lew Groslir comes downstairs,” and then they both giggled.

Dean Ivald greeted Lance, draping an arm around his shoulders and leading him toward Shay, who puckered her lips in an airy smile. Belle felt her stomach churn in a peculiar combination of regret, envy, and helplessness. Lance wasn't quite the spitting image of her husband, but he carried himself with the same self-confidence. Seeing him standing so close to Shay gave Belle the odd feeling she was watching Rosco make a pass at her twin sister—except that she didn't have a sibling.

“Ready when you are, lover-boy,” Shay cooed at the actor while the director began moving back behind the cameras.

“Lance, sweetie,” Dean started, “this is the scene where you're trying to persuade your wife to leave the criminal investigation to you and you alone. You're worried about her safety. You're also more than irritated at her pigheadedness … But remember, you love your dizzy dame … Got it? Fear. Anger. Adoration …”

The scene began and the cameras rolled. Belle watched, but the actors' speech and mumbled delivery were nearly inaudible from where she sat. Then, all at once, Chick Darlessen bolted to his feet while Lance diRusa's face turned an outraged and self-righteous red. This time, Belle heard every syllable in the exchange.

“Just say the words as they're written, will you? How hard is that?” Chick growled.

“I'm not a trained monkey, Darlessen. I don't do word-for-word. I go with what works, and this,” Lance slapped the script, “doesn't work. It's not written in a way that—”

“This is a show that
revolves
around a word game and exact usage, diRusa. Every one of these lines has a precise reference to—”

Dean stepped between the two of them. “It's only an audition, Darlessen. Lighten up. I'm sure Lance understands the value of your … literary effort …”

“Literary?” Lance queried, contempt underpinning the tone. “That's a new one.”

“If you had half a brain, diRusa,” Chick spat back, “you'd recognize the importance of the lexical clues—”

“Lexical? Aren't we getting fancy?”

Belle then heard the director's voice murmuring phrases of conciliation, but neither actor nor screenwriter seemed prepared to relinquish the argument. Shay stalked away with a irritable toss of her head while Chick and Lance moved closer. Rage seemed to ripple around the men. Belle had the sudden intuition that the battle wasn't about dropped or improvised lines. She leaned toward Don Schruko and whispered, “It doesn't seem like Lance has a shot at getting this part if he's going to criticize the writer.”