Scene Stealer (7 page)

“Mrs. Leigh, how do you feel about commercials?”

“Those bread-and-butter jobs are behind us now,” she said. “We're being inundated with offers. Theatre, motion pictures. We're shooting a pilot for a television series next month. With a talent like ours, commercials are beneath consideration. We don't have to sink that low.”

“I was given to understand that Willow auditioned for the Cowboy Bob's Big, Bad Burger commercial and lost out to Kevin Corcoran.”

“Lose out to an amateur like Kevin?” Mrs. Leigh stopped massaging her foot and glared at me. “That weasel Robert Barton didn't want to pay our price. And our ex-agent,

Abner ‘Minor League' Bean doesn't know the first thing about playing in the majors.”

“You know, of course, about Kevin being kidnapped?”

“Hah!” she said. “A publicity gimmick. That slime Robert Barton, would do anything to sell his greasy burgers.”

“Do you know him well?” I asked.

Lorna Leigh barely paused. “Just a pro's instinct.”

Laughter drifted in our direction and hovered in the air. Mrs. Leigh recognized the sound. Her daughter was the primary source; Willow was part of a group that paid rapt attention to a handsome, familiar-looking man. I recognized his face, a most engaging fellow who had starred in a television series I had followed faithfully some years back.

Mrs. Leigh didn't think so. A deep frown divided her forehead. “Has-been,” she said, not bothering to mask her opinion. “Don't know why he has star billing.”

The production assistant, unfortunately, chose this moment to arrive with the coffee. He held out her cup just as Mrs. Leigh rose to return to her position as Willow's guardian.

“Clumsy!”

Mrs. Leigh's shoes were drenched with coffee. The poor assistant stood still, his face an impassive mask, while the “lady” verbally abused him with unprintable Anglo-Saxon invective. Finally, her vocabulary depleted, she turned and addressed me. “I think you have enough material on Willow and me.”

Shoes squishing as she walked, Mrs. Leigh returned to the happy group. The laughter faded.

“A rather fierce lady,” I murmured.

“Friend of yours?” the assistant asked.

I knew an affirmative answer would surprise the lad.

“We've just met. Business.”

“Be careful,” he warned me. “Mrs. Leigh has the sensitivity of a pit bull. She'll…”

He chose the next word with care. “Flirt with the producer and try to get me fired. Luckily, the producer of this film is my uncle and Willow Leigh isn't big enough yet to have him disown me.”

“Background!” the assistant director called.

“Background,” the production assistants echoed. They circled around the area rounding up extras who had ranged, like cattle, too far from the set. The producer's nephew escorted me to the area where the other extras waited.

“There you are, Gussie,” Harding said, joining the group. He sounded a bit breathless. “Getting to know your way around I see. There's a rumor that the kid you were with is the producer's nephew. Is he?”

“The young man didn't confide in me, Harding,” I said.

“I have a feeling we'll be used in the next scene. It took me forever to find Lorna's sweater. Had to run to get here. Wouldn't you know the sweater wasn't in the trailer? She left it at the breakfast table, and then she had the nerve to scream at me for taking so long. A bitch on wheels. No wonder he dumped her.”

“Who dumped her, Harding?”

“That Cowboy Bob sponsor, Barton. Pictures of them in the theatrical section, teasers in the gossip columns for about two fast weeks. Everyone in the business knows about it. Between you and me, dear, I think he was after Willow. He likes his women young and tender. Couldn't get near the child and settled for boffing her mother. Lorna Leigh doesn't let anyone near Willow. The kid's her own personal gold mine. Although there were rumors.”

“Rumors?”

“Well, I'm not one to gossip,” Harding said. “You can ask anyone how I feel about telling tales out of school, but show business is such a small business and I was told by someone who should know that this Robert Barton arranged a private audition with Willow and managed to keep Lorna away. And then, my dear, Barton had the nerve to hire that boy with no experience whatsoever for those commercials. Nationwide commercials with big, fat residuals. Every time they show one of the commercials, that child gets a payment. He's going to be a very rich little boy.”

“If the poor tyke is found.”

“I don't want to disillusion you, Gussie. But it's probably a publicity stunt. I'm sure he's safely tucked away.”

“How did Mrs. Leigh react when Willow didn't get the commercial?”

“My dear,” Harding giggled, “I understand she had kittens.”

“Background.” The production assistants herded us to a dance floor, an orchestra played and I found myself waltzing with the elderly gentleman in the tuxedo. Six takes, six long takes, and we finished the scene. I couldn't wait to leave and continue my investigation. All I had to do was sign my voucher.

“I need an interesting face,” I heard the director say. The chatter stopped.

His assistant whispered something in the director's ear and pointed to a teenager with a pixie grin.

The director frowned. “Interesting, I said. Not funny.”

The girl blushed.

“You!” The director pointed a finger in my direction.

Harding pushed me forward. “Maybe you'll be upgraded, Gussie,” he said.

“Do you skate?” the director asked.

“She skates,” Harding said.

“Harding,” I hissed, “I appreciate your taking me in hand but I haven't skated in years.”

“Easy,” Harding said. “Don't worry about a thing.”

“Well?” the director said.

“She can do it,” Harding said and poked me in the ribs.

“I've always been a daredevil,” I said.

The director turned to his assistant. “Have wardrobe put her in a nun's habit and a pair of ice-skates.”

“Congratulations, Gussie.” Harding deposited a peck of a kiss on my cheek. “You should be good for at least ten extra dollars.”

Several practice turns around the ice-rink and, much to my amazement, I was executing a figure eight with considerable grace. It wasn't until the shoot was completed—the assistant director called it a
wrap
—and I handed in my voucher that my ankles and calves complained.

I hadn't skated in forty years; a passing ache or pain was to be expected. I promised myself a good soak in a hot tub filled with bath salts. The tub would serve to relax my tired muscles and allow my brain to sort out the bits and pieces of information I had gathered in my quest for Kevin.

The bath had to wait; the insistent ring of the telephone greeted me the moment I placed my key in the lock.

Lieutenant Brown said he would appreciate my stopping by his office. I suggested we confer in the morning. The lieutenant said it was imperative I meet with him immediately if not sooner. An odd turn of phrase. I, of course, delayed my plans. The lieutenant, a nice young man, was obviously in need of my help.

“Miss Weidenmaier, please sit down.” Lieutenant Brown placed a hard, straight-backed chair directly in front of his desk; an unfortunate, but understandable holdover from his usual practice of interrogating suspects. I waited for the lieutenant to begin; I could see he was trying to choose the right words. Men often have difficulty asking for help. Perhaps he wanted to use me as a decoy but feared placing me in danger's path. I was the logical choice.

Spit it out, young man, I thought, then decided to break the silence. “Have you made any progress in the case, Lieutenant?”

“Perhaps I should ask you that question, Miss Weidenmaier?” I detected a trace of sarcasm in his tone of voice but decided to ignore it. After all we shared the same goal.

“I believe my interviews have uncovered information that will be of interest to you, Lieutenant Brown.”

“Miss Weidenmaier, this city has a police force. That force is here to protect you, every other resident and every visitor. We are trained to protect you. I am very proud of this police force. Now, we know you want to help, but you are impeding our investigation. You must stop telling people you are assisting us. Miss Weidenmaier,” the lieutenant seemed to be speaking through clenched teeth, “I'll make a deal with you. Don't try to be a cop and I won't try to be an elementary-school teacher.”

“Bertram Barton complained, didn't he?”

“Miss Weidenmaier, you cannot go around questioning possible suspects.”

“Ahh. Then you suspect Bertram too.”

“I didn't say that.” Lieutenant Brown appeared flustered.

“I beg to differ with you, Lieutenant. Little Bertie Barton hasn't changed one bit. Always was a little squealer. Perfectly typecast as Benedict Arnold in the school play.”

It was quite apparent my work on Kevin's behalf had touched a sore spot in Lieutenant Brown's ego.

“Miss Weidenmaier…”

I had to interrupt the man. Rude? Yes. But still. “Lieutenant Brown, have you found Kevin?”

“Tim!” A uniformed officer burst into the room without bothering to knock. “Tim, we just heard from a television producer.” The officer checked his clipboard. “He's with WSAP. That's the station. They got a telephone call from a guy sounds like a nutcase, maybe he just has a screw loose but maybe it's something we should check into. Says he knows all about the Corcoran kidnapping. Says he's gonna call a talk show tomorrow tonight. He's got a message. Wants to broadcast it coast to coast.”

“What show is he calling, Charlie?”

Charlie looked at his notes. “Norman Bottoms has a late-night talk show called
Hitting Bottom.
The audience calls in with comments, questions. We're setting up a trace.”

“Any demands?” Lieutenant Brown asked.

“Nothing much, something about a Robert Barton.”

I pretended to be a fly on the wall. I didn't want to miss a word of this conversation.

“One other thing,” Charlie continued. “He said something about Cowboy Bob's Big, Bad Burger being pure poison.”

Lieutenant Brown glanced at the half-eaten burger sitting next to a hill of French fries and deposited it in the wastebasket.

“We've got someone talking to the secretary who took the call,” Charlie said. “Maybe she'll remember something else. Could be we're dealing with another off-the-wall nut with a screw loose but we've had fifty phony calls from people claiming to be the kidnapper. What's one more wacko?”

“Two more,” Lieutenant Brown said. “Only Norman Bottoms is paid to be crazy. We booked him last week for assaulting one of his guests.”

“Figures,” Charlie said. “I was on vacation last week. We book the celebrities when I'm on vacation. Not that I watch Norman Bottoms. My wife watches him. Big mouth.

Shoots from the lip. Anti-everything. He yells at the guests, pushes them around. Curses. Kicked a couple of people off the show. My wife thinks he's real obnoxious. Never misses his show. Someone finally made a complaint, huh? Bet the network drops him.”

“Not if he becomes a hero,” I said, unable to resist giving my opinion.

“Miss Weidenmaier.” Lieutenant Brown opened the door. “Miss Weidenmaier, your cooperation will be appreciated and I promise you, word of honor, I will keep you informed. Now, I'll have one of my men drive you home and I strongly suggest you stay there.”

“Thank you,” I said, taking pity on my legs. “Usually I prefer to walk but I've had sufficient exercise today. I firmly believe exercise at any age is vital to a person's well-being.”

Lieutenant Brown took a deep breath and tried to suck in the paunch that was sneaking over his belt.

Sitting in the audience at a television talk show was the last place I wanted to spend my Friday evening but duty calls us all.

Norman Bottoms's show was the most controversial show on television this season. Not many people approved of the program or admitted to viewing it more than once, but there was a three-month wait for tickets and Bottoms's ratings were high enough to question the veracity of the public. Fortunately, a former student of mine was employed as a camera operator with the show. While surprised at my request, he was happy to oblige and indulge an older lady's whim.

Hitting Bottom,
as the show was called, emanated from an old theatre on Broadway, refurbished as a television studio. How times had changed; in the past, W.C. Fields and Helen Morgan had performed there. Today, the appearance of a young chap wearing a fringed leather jacket in a bilious shade of green attracted the crowd's attention. The monologue he used to warm up the audience was greeted with scattered applause, overridden by whistles and cat-calls. Taking his reception in stride, he responded by pelting the people sitting in the front rows with miniature candy bars. As they scrambled for the sweets, he randomly insulted unfortunate individuals to the delight of the predominantly rough and crude throng that packed the theatre.

“All right,” the comic finally said. “Tonight's topic is kidnapping. That's right. You heard me. Now if you'll shut your faces, I'll fill you in on who Norman's guests are.”

He introduced two men and a woman; ex-convicts recently released from incarceration after completing jail sentences for kidnapping. Obscenities filled the air around me. When the noise level finally subsided he introduced the next guest. The leader of a newly formed band of teenagers—self-appointed vigilantes—dedicated, they declared, to the eradication of crime in the city. The audience divided, judging from its reaction to the adolescent, into two hostile camps.

“And that's not all we have in store for you tonight,” the comic continued. “Norman's expecting a phone call from a guy who claims to know all about little Kevin Corcoran's kidnapping, claims Kevin Corcoran will be released if Robert Barton accedes to his ultimatum. So
Hitting Bottom
has a special guest, Robert Barton.”

The audience was quiet.

“Think you don't know the guy? Well you do—especially you junk-food addicts. Barton's the guy behind Cowboy Bob's Big, Bad Burger. Fatburgers, some newspapers are saying. A little meat, a lot of fat and, to add extra spice, residue left over from the steroids and antibiotics mixed into the cow feed. That burger is Robert Barton's baby, guys and gals. Is it pure poison? Norman is gonna ask Barton about that charge and maybe he and the man who claims to know all about little Kevin Corcoran's kidnapping will have an intimate chat. Maybe Barton even knows who the crud is. Maybe we'll get to the ‘Bottom' of this hamburger caper.”

The audience was paying strict attention to the comic's words now. A self-satisfied grin spread over his moon-shaped face.

“Sit tight, folks, 'cause we're about to begin. Now I know you're not shy so feel free to react. Let's smack those paws together and create a lot of noise because Norman Bottoms is here!”

Bottoms, neatly dressed in a conservative, dark blue suit, button-down shirt and red tie, strode to the center of the stage, nodded to the crowd, glanced at his guests and finally stared directly into the camera—marked number one—as the stage manager cued his opening line.

“Listen up, everybody,” Norman Bottoms said.

“We're listening, Norman,” the audience shouted back as camera number two panned around the theatre.

“America,” Norman continued. “America is really
Hitting Bottom
tonight.”

“Yeah! Bottom!” The audience chanted in near unison.

“Sitting here on stage. Here. Right here with you decent folks are three of the lowest scumbags ever to be my guests. On this stage are convicted kidnappers. After vacationing in their country-club prisons for a couple of years—free room and board—paid for by you and me, you and me, people, these scum are out. Breathing the same air we are. How about that?” Camera three focused on the kidnappers.

Bottoms walked toward the lip of the stage. Camera three followed his every move. He raised his arms high above his head, the palms of his hands, fingers splayed, faced the audience. The crowd fell silent. With a sweeping gesture he pointed out a teenager, wearing a purple bandana around his head, standing near the right wing of the stage.

“That kid, that kid says he's gonna protect you and me. He and his merry band of punks are going to protect us. Think he can do it? You want him to protect you? Want him to take over?”

The crowd's reaction was loud and mixed.

“Well somebody better take over,” Norman said, “'cause I'm getting calls from kidnappers. A grade A, number one jerko called. He's got Kevin Corcoran. The bucket of sleaze has our Kevin. Well? We gotta do something about that. Right?”

“Right!” The roar was united this time, responding with additional jeers and obscenities. The tone was loud and ugly.

The ex-convicts onstage shifted uncomfortably. The woman stared at a spot on the floor. Wadded pieces of paper and chunks of half-eaten candy bars flew past me and landed on the stage. One of the ex-convicts scratched at a persistent itch on his elbow.

The woman half rose.

The man seated next to me stood; trod on my right foot and rushed into the aisle without a word of apology. I stood and pressed against my seat to avoid being stepped on by other people seated in my row but I wasn't fast enough to avoid a pointed elbow that grazed my ear. The elbow belonged to a tall, impeccably dressed woman wearing a large hat that obscured most of her face. I could just about see one eye, noting something familiar about the shade of the iris—an unusual shade of blue. The thought barely had time to register when I found myself being pushed down the aisle by the disorderly mass. A sizable portion of the by now mob-like audience advanced toward the stage, and I was caught in the rush. Several jumped to the stage; one burly giant, thinking I was eager to join them, hoisted me up.

Several teens wearing the same type of purple bandana favored by the teenage vigilante surrounded the ex-cons and blocked their exit.

“Hold it! Hold it! We're expecting a call from Kevin's kidnapper.” Bottoms held up his arms again, trying to stem the tide of anger that was washing onto the stage. This time no one paid attention to the gesture. He had lost control of his audience.

A melee erupted. The female kidnapper ducked behind Norman Bottoms's desk. One of the kids wearing a purple bandana and a scowl tried to drag the woman out.

“Take your hands off her,” I ordered, outraged.

“Mind your own business, old lady, before you get hurt.”

Bottoms's pointer was lying on the desk. I rapped the young man smartly on his knuckles. I had never used corporeal punishment in all my years of teaching but sometimes even the most civilized amongst us can be pushed too far.

The vigilante let out a howl of surprise that revealed two jagged front teeth. My arm received a nasty twist. I dropped the pointer—his cohort had grabbed me from behind. But they hadn't gambled on my being ambidextrous and I was able to reach Bottoms's ice-filled water pitcher and pour the contents over the young thug's head. He backed off and I was able to retrieve the pointer. I advanced—a feminist d'Artagnan—and cornered the ruffian. A strong bass voice stopped me just as I was about to give the thug a piece of my mind.

“Miss Weidenmaier,” Lieutenant Brown said, “would your students approve of your behavior? I certainly don't.”

A high-pitched siren of a scream pierced the pandemonium; the fighting ceased and a young woman became the focus of attention. She looked just like the hairdresser on the motion picture set, wearing the now-familiar smock, comb, hair spray and brushes protruding from her pockets. She clutched a can of diet cola.

“He's dead,” she cried. “He's dead.”

 

I waited a short period as the crowd emptied out, then slowly followed the police to the guest dressing room. The reclining chair that held Robert Barton's body sat against a sink used for washing the hair of Norman Bottoms's more glamorous guests. My former student was dead; poor Bertie Barton's head was submerged in water. So was a blow-dryer. The expression on his face was half sneer, half surprise.