Done to Death (7 page)

Ada looked around the room. All eyes on her. Lil twined their fingers together under the table. ‘You people are deluded,' Ada said.

‘So true,' Barry said. ‘Melanie, set up a test … like now. Just have her talk about liquidating Evie's estate. Then get back up here. It's going to be an all-nighter.'

Melanie gave Barry an excited smile, and then paused.

‘I know,' he said, and turned toward the rest of his team. ‘But what else can we do? If it turns out that this is all for nothing and LPP ends with Lenore, then at least we went down fighting. Right?'

Heads nodded in agreement.

‘Good,' Barry said. ‘Honestly … worst case scenario, we keep this under our hats, but if LPP doesn't green-light this, we'll shop it around. Because this is fucking gold.'

An hour later, Lil stood back as Ada was fussed over by a hairdresser, James, and make-up woman, Gretchen. ‘Not too much,' Melanie cautioned. ‘I like the crow's feet.'

‘That makes one of us,' Ada quipped.

‘You're gorgeous the way you are,' Melanie gushed. ‘People are going to want you in their home.'

Ada caught Lil's eye and gave a questioning nod.

Lil shrugged. ‘I'd have to agree.'

‘Fuller on the lip,' Melanie instructed.

‘Melanie,' Ada said, as Gretchen, the make-up artist, ran a sable brush over her cheeks. ‘This all seems strange.'

‘Does it? How so?'

Ada looked at the pretty young woman with her sparkling eyes, glossy short hair and flower-and-vine tattoos on her toned arms and, she suspected, in other places as well. ‘Your boss, the head of this corporation, was murdered a few hours ago, and we're down here doing …'

‘A screen test,' Melanie said. ‘I know what you're saying. But this is show business. Lenore would be the first to say − the show goes on. Let's face it, you stop and you're history. You're only one good idea from the unemployment line. The pressure is unreal. And then, people steal your ideas, or you find out someone beat you to it. Just saying
Final Reckoning
in that meeting and coming up with this idea …' She lowered her voice, as though scared they'd be overheard. ‘It's gruesome and it's gold, and Barry is smart enough to know it. While we're down here he's checking with legal to see if we're the first to stake this claim. I'm sure he's also …'

‘Also what?' Ada prompted.

Melanie looked at Ada and then to Lil, who was standing back in the shadows. ‘I shouldn't say … I mean I don't know.'

Ada chuckled. ‘It's OK dear, I've been around the block. Not this particular block, but I have the sense − and I couldn't say why − that Mr Stromstein wants to make sure I don't turn around and steal the idea … that I came up with.'

‘It's not that,' Melanie stammered.

Ada fixed her with a look in the mirror.

‘Not just that. He's getting legal to draw up a contract for you.'

‘Based on a phone call and a meeting, and a contract for what?'

Melanie smiled. ‘I don't think he knows for certain. He'll cover his bases.' She glanced at Gretchen and then at James, who was deftly teasing and spraying Ada's bright silver locks into artful curls and spikes.

‘It all sounds a bit desperate,' Ada said.

Melanie stood back and looked at her, the blue Chanel protected from the make-up and hair products by a black polyvinyl cape. ‘It is,' she admitted. ‘But … it's not all that. I mean sure, that's the downside, but—'

Lil spoke, completing the woman's sentence, ‘But what if you hit the jackpot? What if you're responsible for the next big thing?'

Melanie beamed. ‘Yes. This could be huge.'

Ada stared into the mirror as the hairdresser stepped back and the make-up artist pulled off the plastic cape. Ada, who knew her way around the make-up aisle, was speechless. Lil was at her side and the two of them stared into the glass. ‘Who is that woman?' Ada asked, looking at her reflection. Her short silver hair artfully spiked and curled, her skin flawless, her eyes lightly framed with smoky gray shadow that made them even more luminous.

Lil looked from the mirror to Ada. ‘No offense – and you know I love you – could you always do this?'

‘What did you do?' Ada asked.

Gretchen smiled. ‘TV magic. The key is the foundation. And don't worry, it won't mess up your skin. It's my own mix and it's loaded with jojoba oil − won't clog the pores.'

‘I have no pores,' Ada remarked. She tilted her face, checking the artist's subtle efforts. Her firm jaw and pointed chin given extra contour, her cheekbones accentuated. Her only jewelry a pair of creamy pearl earrings.

Melanie beamed. ‘You look awesome! From here we'd head to wardrobe, but that suit … it's perfect. This could be your thing, high-end vintage. The only thing it needs—'

‘I know,' Ada said. ‘Pearls. I was going to wear them, but figured we didn't know where we were going and I'd been a New Yorker for enough years not to want to risk it.'

Melanie looked at Gretchen. ‘Any chance Peggy's still here?'

Gretchen looked down.

‘Shit,' Melanie said. ‘I keep forgetting.'

‘Who's Peggy?' Lil asked.

‘Head of wardrobe … and Lenore's dresser for more years than any of us have been here.' Melanie looked at Gretchen. ‘How bad is she taking it?'

‘I think she's in shock.' Gretchen looked at Ada. ‘She's the one who found her. Lenore was apparently still alive, but just. Peggy's the one who called nine one one.' She turned to Melanie. ‘And we all know how Peggy felt about Lenore.'

‘The poor thing,' Melanie said. She shook her head. ‘Well, so much for pearls. Ada, it's time to get you in front of the camera.' She pulled out her cell. ‘Jason, is Studio C set? Yeah, at least two, preferably three cameras. Great. Like we're doing it for real.'

B
arry looked around the LPP penthouse conference room. They'd all gotten the memo signed by the executive team and Richard Parks. The line under Lenore's son's name – ‘acting director and CEO, LPP' − answered one question, and raised more.

They were seated three to a table and there was not an empty place; extra tables and chairs had been added. He nodded at fellow producers, putting names to faces and taking note of which ones currently had shows, and of those, which were hits and which were headed toward the chopping block. Of course the biggest question was:
come tomorrow, do any of us still have jobs?
Lenore's death was a game changer. The central premise of this corporation was Lenore, her style, her personality, which on video was warm, engaging and gave her audience the absolute assurance that they too could master whatever it was they set out to do.

It was nine p.m., barely nine hours since Lenore was shot. They were all there, even the west coast producers and show runners for the scripted dramas LPP had developed over the past few years. The memo had been brief and carefully crafted.

To all LPP management:

Topic: Interim Planning

In this time of grief and transition, we will be holding the first of a series of meetings to review changes to the LPP structure. While attendance is not mandatory, your presence, and input as we move forward, are greatly appreciated.

It had been signed by the three people seated on the raised platform at the front. In the center − Lenore's seat − was Richard Parks, every dark hair in place, his navy suit making him look a decade older than his actual twenty-two. To his right was Patricia (Patty) Corcoran, LPP's Chief Financial Officer, her hair bright blond and cropped above the collar of her white button-down blouse, her black suit as stiff as armor. On Richard's left sat Garston Green, the Chief Operating Officer, also in black with a tie the color of fresh blood and recent hair plugs made obvious in the harsh glare of the overheads. They were Lenore's inner circle.

Richard tapped his microphone. ‘Thank you for coming. And thank you for the outpouring of condolences. My mother' – he gripped the edge of the table – ‘was a great lady, and if it seems callous to do this so soon after her death … anyone who truly knew her would know this is what she would want. We … LPP … all of us, we are her legacy. The future and health of this corporation now rests in our hands.

‘As most in this room are aware, the ongoing and unprecedented transformation of the entertainment industry has created tremendous opportunities, as well as a contraction in traditional media that shows little sign of stopping. At this time—' his throat constricted. Patty Corcoran poured a glass of water and passed it to him. ‘At this sad time, we are faced with harsh realities. As LPP's executive team, we must move forward with an aggressive corporate restructuring. While plans for this have been under way for some time, my mother's … death, necessitates advancing the time frame.'

Barry's anxiety spiked. He wasn't alone. ‘Restructuring' was a euphemism for ‘heads will roll'. Lenore's death was no reprieve and, as he'd feared, loss of the company's major asset − the bitch herself − could cost him his job. Listening to her son Richard, it seemed things had gone from bad to worse. Barry knew that without a show − a hit show − his fifteen thousand a week salary and those of his team were a three million dollar annual drain on the corporate coffers. Lenore couldn't have been clearer: produce … or get out. The ax would fall swift and certain. Barry tried not to panic, but what was he supposed to do at thirty-eight? Pack up his family and head back to LA? Back to the shark tank of the younger and more desperate? Or try to stick it out in New York, going from pitch meeting to pitch meeting, where he'd get warm smiles and vague promises and nothing that would pay the rent. Or worse, see ideas he'd thrown on the table worked into someone else's show. His pulse raced, and glancing about he knew that every producer in that room − his competition − was thinking the same thing.

His only hope, as Richard Parks went on about his mother's plans to increase the use of ‘outside contractors', was the incredible footage of Ada Strauss in vintage Chanel making antiques and murder in the Connecticut countryside sound charming and funny. Even the title she'd thrown out −
Final Reckoning
.
It has legs
, he thought.

As Patty Corcoran laid out the grim financials, Barry was left with little illusion. If he didn't get something green-lit fast, he'd be out of a job. It wasn't just a question of
Final Reckoning
having legs, but of legs that could hit the ground running.

And then the meeting turned. Lost in his anxiety, Barry didn't notice the dark-suited man and woman until they were at the podium. At first he thought they were consultants brought in to chop heads. But a cursory look at their suits − off the rack, the man's a bit shiny around the collar, the woman's boxy and out of style – said no, definitely not consultants, or even anyone associated with entertainment.

He listened as Richard introduced them as a pair of NYPD detectives, in charge of investigating Lenore's murder. The cops had been around all day, Lenore's entire penthouse suite now a crime scene. He wondered who'd get tapped to do the made-for-TV movie. Worst case scenario, maybe it was something he could pitch. After all, he was here the day it happened.

The woman detective took the microphone. ‘Thank you Mr Parks.' She looked over the conference room. Her dark gaze moved slowly over those assembled. It reminded Barry of old-school mysteries …
someone in this room is the murderer
. But no, she was all business.

‘My name is Detective Jean Murphy. As I'm sure you're aware,' she started, ‘Lenore Parks was shot and killed today. I'd ask anyone in this room who believes they have information that can help the investigation to please come forward. If you saw something unusual, it doesn't matter how small or seemingly unimportant. If you're aware of anyone who might have had a grudge or some resentment against Ms Parks.' She paused. ‘A disgruntled employee, someone terminated, or in fear of termination. We want to know about it.'

Several people coughed, and Barry heard a woman choke on her water.

Good luck
, he mused. Because similar sentiments would be running through the heads of everyone in that room. Lenore ruled through fear. And from the sounds of things, her death wasn't about to change that. It gave him pause. How many people hated her? Feared her? Wished her dead? He thought of his corner office and the woman who'd occupied it before him. She'd had a semi-successful show. It ran four years, got cancelled and within three months of it getting pulled, she was out of a job. And as he knew through the grapevine, she was borderline unemployable.

He replayed his last meeting with Lenore. The way she'd toyed with his fears. It was cat-and-mouse stuff, her claws raking over his insecurity. Her message was clear − produce or get out. He meant nothing to her. It hadn't always been like that. Not when he'd had a hit with the Home and Style Network and been recruited by LPP and one of the major networks. It had been ‘the sky's the limit', a corner office in midtown. ‘We want you to bring your whole team – hell, they'll all get a twenty percent bump.' The offer was too good to resist, and for a while he let himself believe he was home free. He'd uprooted his pregnant wife from the San Bernardino Valley – no more LA traffic – to the excitement of Manhattan. It had started well, a spot producing episodes of
Lenore Says
, and then on to a weekly model competition that attempted to recapture his success with
Model Behavior
. It didn't, and tanked in its first season. He knew that everyone has shows go under, that wasn't the issue. It came down to what he currently had on the air, which was zip. One day he'd been the golden-haired boy, the next … He looked up at the detective, who was fielding questions.
Good luck, lady
, he thought.