Sheri Cobb South (6 page)

“Glamorous?” suggested Mitch.

“I never thought I would say this, but at times it’s been almost boring.” Frankie sighed. “Let’s face it, I didn’t come all the way from Georgia to run around in my bare feet and yell at the top of my lungs.”

“Shoot, you could’ve done that at home,” Mitch quipped.

“Ha!” Frankie gave a derisive laugh. “Not if my mother had anything to say about it. A lady should never raise her voice, and as for going barefooted, a lady might just as well be naked.”

“Some folks might say you’ve got a pretty good start on that,” Mitch observed, eyeing the hint of cleavage revealed by her peasant blouse.

“How dare you!” Frankie clutched her paper napkin to her chest in a manner that both conveyed her outraged dignity and protected her offended modesty
.

“Hey, I’m sorry. I never should have said that.” Mitch threw up both hands in mock surrender. “I guess I’ve spent too many years hanging around with the guys in the A & M locker room; after a while, you forget how to talk to a girl.” Besides, the sort of girls he and his teammates sought out usually weren’t that big on conversation.

Frankie gave a disdainful sniff and surveyed the crowded commissary, weighing the prospect of granting undeserved forgiveness against the even less appealing alternative of eating alone. Fortunately, she was spared the decision by a female voice calling her name in the refined tones of the British.

“Frances! Frankie, darling, never tell me you found work!”

“Kathleen!” As her roommate approached the table, Frankie stood up to exchange air kisses, the preferred Hollywood greeting. “I’m working as an extra on
The Virgin Queen
. Meet England’s newest tavern wench!” She spun in a circle, causing her long, full skirts to flare out.

“Newest
and
most beautiful. You look lovely. Doesn’t she, Mitch? It is Mitch, isn’t it?”

“Mitch thinks my costume is indecent,” Frankie put in.

“I never said—”

“Shame on you, Mitch!” Kathleen scolded, wagging a finger at him. “As if the Hays Office would let her get away with that sort of thing, even if she wanted to! Ignore him, Frankie. He’s afraid all the other men will notice you, and he wants a clear field.”

This accusation, although teasing, was close enough to the truth that Mitch was thankful when Kathleen didn’t press the point.

“Tell me, have you seen William Stanford? I heard he was playing Lord Leicester. Is he as dishy in person as he looks on the silver screen?”

“I only saw him once, and that was from far away,” Frankie confessed. “He looked awfully handsome on horseback, though. They say he does all his own stunts, can you imagine?”

Mitch muttered something incomprehensible about pretty boy actors, and began to rise from his chair.

“Oh, don’t leave on my account,” Kathleen protested, grasping his sleeve. “I only stopped by in the hope of seeing Mr. Cohen—Arthur Cohen, that is, not his brother.”

“He was watching the filming early this morning, but I haven’t seen him in, oh, at least a couple of hours. Have you asked his secretary? Maybe he’s in his office.”

“I’d hoped to bump into him on the set, sort of accidentally on purpose.” Kathleen flicked back the edge of her glove and glanced at her slim gold wristwatch. “I’d better fly now. Perhaps I’ll beard the lion in his den after all. Goodbye, Mitch, it was nice seeing you again. Frankie, I’ll see you this evening, and I’ll expect to hear
all
about it!”

Frankie promised to give her a full accounting and wished her roommate luck on her meeting with Mr. Cohen. Having finished their meal, she and Mitch disposed of the remains and walked together to the large white cinderblock building that housed Soundstage B. Inside, a dozen actors in period costume milled about the edges of what appeared to be an Elizabethan tavern complete with rows of heavy wooden tables and a massive brick fireplace in one wall. Upon closer inspection, though, the tavern proved to be just as incongruous as the castle outside had been. A door set into the opposite wall appeared to lead to a narrow London street, but as Frankie walked past, she could see that the door opened onto nothing but bare concrete floor. The flickering light from the wall sconces was supplemented by huge round spotlights on all sides. The tavern had no ceiling at all; instead, the set was open all the way to the roof, where still more lights and several microphones on long cords dangled from the catwalks crisscrossing the building overhead.

“Guess I’d better get to work,” Mitch said, indicating the catwalks with a jerk of his thumb. “Break a leg—or do they only say that to stage actors?”

“You’re not going up
there
?” Frankie craned her neck
.

“What’s this?” Mitch gave her a knowing grin. “You’re not afraid I’ll fall, are you?”

Frankie tossed her head. “I’m just afraid you might land on William Stanford, that’s all.”

“Yeah, what a tragedy
that
would be—I might mess up his hair,” retorted Mitch, heading for the ladder.

Once filming began, Frankie had very little time to worry about Mitch—or anyone else, for that matter. Her role in this scene was a little more demanding, but
only
a little: she was to swish her way between the rows of tables with a wooden tray perched on her hip, pausing from time to time to serve the queen’s courtiers tankards of a foaming liquid that looked like beer but probably wasn’t; alcoholic beverages were not used during filming as a result of one particular scene, legendary in Hollywood lore, which required such extensive re
-
shooting that the entire cast was thoroughly soused by the time it was complete.

No such catastrophe occurred today, although one of the male extras, obviously a student of the dramatic school known as method acting, went so far in his portrayal of boisterous revelry as to pinch Frankie on her derriere. Frankie let out a little squeak of indignation, but as the cameras were still rolling, there was nothing she could do but be thankful that everyone else’s attention was on Alice Howard, the young actress who played the queen’s lady-in-waiting Gwyneth, who was at that moment stealing furtively into the tavern disguised as a boy. Not for the first time, Frankie wished she had a copy of the script so that she might follow the plot.

The director, however, was not satisfied. “Cut!” he bellowed. “Everyone back to your places. Rose, do—
something
—with Alice’s costume!” He made a vague gesture in the direction of his chest
.

The wardrobe mistress, correctly interpreting this command, hurried forward with a pin cushion. For the next five minutes, she tugged at Alice’s doublet from all directions, anchoring the fabric in place so that it clung more closely to the young actress’s curves. Frankie could only assume Queen Elizabeth’s knights suffered from poor eyesight; surely there was no other explanation for how an entire roomful of men could fail to recognize a female dressed in a doublet that, while technically meeting the rigid standards of the Hays Code, certainly did nothing to hide her charms.

“Places, everyone . . . and . . . action!”

Choking back a giggle, Frankie made her way between the tables once more, this time avoiding the method actor. Once again, Gwyneth had scarcely made her entrance when a voice bellowed, “Cut!”

Everyone turned to the director, but he still sat in his folding canvas chair, his megaphone on the floor beside him.

“Whash—wha’s going on here?”

Arthur Cohen staggered forward, his tie crooked, his face flushed. The soundstage was warm from the spotlights, but surely not so hot as to warrant the beads of perspiration that dotted the producer’s forehead.

“Martinis for lunch, eh, Artie? Wish I’d been invited,” the director, Mr. Harrison, quipped in a jovial voice that didn’t quite ring true. “We’re shooting the tavern scene this afternoon—you know, the one where Gwyneth delivers the queen’s message to Leicester.” He waved an arm in the direction of William Stanford and Alice Harper, who bobbed their heads in acknowledgement.

“You are, eh?” Arthur Cohen lurched forward onto the set, belligerence in every wobbly step. “Well, I’ll have you remember that
I’m
in charge here. I still run this studio, no matter what some may say to the contrary! Me, not Maury and his pie-in-the-sky Technicolor, and not these damned Brits who think they’re the greatest thing in acting since William Shakespeare.”

“Of course you’re in charge, Artie, everyone knows this is your picture
.
” The director rose from his chair and took a few steps in Mr. Cohen’s direction. “Tell you what, why don’t you go back to your office for a bit of a nap, and this evening we’ll take a look at the rushes. I think you’re going to be pleased.”

But it was clear that Arthur Cohen was
not
pleased. His rant grew louder and more incoherent, ending with something about “two-bit whores who’ll lie on their back for anyone who promises to make ‘em a star!”

Alice burst into sobs, and William Stanford put a protective arm around her shoulders. “Here now, there’s no call for that sort of talk—”

“You remember who signs your check!” Cohen wagged a pudgy finger in the actor’s face. “
I’m
the one in charge here, not you, and not Maury, and not my wife!
I’m
the one who—I’m the one—I’m—”

His face turned an ugly shade of purple, and then Arthur Cohen fell forward, landing with a thud at Frankie’s feet.

Chapter 5

Murder, My Sweet (1944)

Directed by Edward Dmytryk

Starring Dick Powell, Claire Trevor, and Anne Shirley

Alice screamed. William Stanford muttered something under his breath, the gist of which seemed to be that men who weren’t capable of holding their liquor didn’t have any business drinking at all. Frankie, white-faced with fear and shock, stepped gingerly aside, but not before catching a whiff of something earthy and green, something she had smelled once before, and that not long ago.

“Damn it, why can’t he get drunk on his own time?” grumbled Mr. Harrison. “Bob, get a couple of grips to help you and see if you can get him back to his office. Maybe his secretary can pour a few quarts of black coffee into him.”

The key grip called for three of his assistants, and together they grasped the producer by his arms and legs and lifted him from the floor. His head lolled back, unresisting.

“Wait a minute.” The man who played William Cecil rose from one of the wooden benches, a veteran character actor instantly recognizable for any one of a dozen supporting roles
,
although not one person in fifty would have recalled his name. “I think we’d better call an ambulance.”

“An ambulance?” echoed the director impatiently. “What the hell for? He’s passed out drunk.”

The actor didn’t argue, but knelt down beside Arthur Cohen, looking in his costume for all the world like a vassal paying homage to his fallen liege, and felt his chest for a pulse. “I was at Ypres,” he said with quiet dignity. “I know a dead man when I see one.”

Harrison stepped onto the set and looked down into Arthur Cohen’s dead face. The lifeless eyes still bulged, but the mottled purple that had suffused his cheeks only moments ago had begun to subside, leaving his face a pasty gray hue.

“What was it? A heart attack, or maybe a stroke brought on my too much alcohol?”

“The men in the white coats should be able to tell us—assuming that someone has sent for them,” the veteran added pointedly.

The director, taking the hint, barked an order to his assistant, then raised his voice to address the entire cast and crew. “Looks like we’d better call it a day, folks.”

Still, no one seemed inclined to leave. Actors, cameramen, and technicians all huddled together in small groups, speculating in lowered voices. Not until the ambulance had come to take the producer’s body away did the crowd at last disperse.

“Places, everyone,” called the director without much conviction. They all complied, from William Stanford down to the lowliest grip, but it was all for naught. After seven takes, in which Stanford accidentally kicked a hidden electrical wire unplugged, one of the knights knocked over a tankard of fake beer, and Alice forgot her lines twice, the director decided to call it a day.

“Better yet, take tomorrow off, too,” he added. “I’ll see you all on Thursday.”

The cast and crew dispersed with grateful murmurs of relief. Mitch descended from one of the overhead catwalks and paused near the set, where Frankie still stood as if frozen. “Give you a lift?”

She smiled weakly. “Yes, please.”

He waited outside Wardrobe while she changed back into her street clothes. Apparently the word of Arthur Cohen’s death had spread rapidly; cars and pedestrians, actors and technicians alike seemed to slow down as they passed Soundstage B as if hoping for a glimpse of the body.

Soon Frankie returned, so pale and quiet that Mitch was moved to drape a comforting arm about her shoulders as they walked to his car.

“There was nothing anyone could have done,” he said. “Poor devil probably never knew what hit him.”

Frankie made no reply, but stood by silently as he opened the passenger door for her. He climbed in on the driver’s side, and soon they were turning out of the studio gates and into the street. The sun was low in the west by this time, and the shadows of the palm and pepper trees along the road striped the pavement with purple and gold.

“Mitch,” Frankie said abruptly, “what’s a martini?”

“It’s a cocktail,” he answered, taken aback.

“I know that! I mean, how is it made? What’s in it?”

“Gin and vermouth, with an olive on a toothpick.” Mitch cocked one eyebrow. “Why? Are you thirsty?”

“No. And I don’t think Mr. Cohen was, either.”

Mitch stomped the brake, to the displeasure of the driver of the black DeSoto behind him. “What are you saying?”

“I don’t think Mr. Cohen had been drinking before he died.”

“You don’t think—oh, come on, you saw the man! He was completely plastered!”