Hollywood Stuff (5 page)

“Yup, I’ll check it out for you when I get home.”

“When’s that? Tell Don you had a tomato slice on that. I’m charging you extra.”

Jane could hear her dad laughing in the background. They didn’t have a regular lunch crowd now that Roper Stove and all the factories were gone, but old regulars still stopped in around lunchtime and Nellie, if she was in the mood, would make sandwiches and yell at everybody for old times’ sake.

“Better get home. Earthquake’ll get you there in California,” said Nellie before hanging up.

To some daughters, that would be an abrupt and unkind good-bye, but Jane felt warm and loved. Nellie had connected an actual place with an actual disaster and predicted it would happen to Jane. That was as concerned and protective as Nellie got. She must have been in a good mood.

Jeb finished his call at the same time and caught Jane smiling at her phone.

“The husband?”

“The mother. Charley’s in South America. I only hear from him and Nick every four or five days, when they get into a town.”

“He’s digging for something, right?” asked Jeb. “Fossils? Dinosaurs? Something old and academic?”

Jane nodded. Jeb answered the question she started to ask. “I’ve kept track of you, you know. Married to Charley, a geology professor. A son. You are an antiques picker who has solved several murders—a regular Nancy Drew—and before that you were a hotshot ad executive with—”

“How?”

“I’m still in touch with a few people from college. You’d be surprised how many people want to keep in touch with someone who might be able to get them tickets to
The Tonight Show
when they bring the family out to Disneyland.”

“But
I’m
not in touch with anyone,” said Jane.

“True. You’ve retained your loner status, but Chicago’s a small enough town for someone who knew someone to know a Jane Wheel who went to college with whatshisname and she used to work with whozit who married Phil who worked with…you know…on and on. Somebody always has some connection. Besides, I work with actors and you used to work with actors. A few of those beer-drinking types you cast in your producing days made their way here for pilot season….

“Then I saw you on the morning news,” said Jeb. “Cute as can be, talking away about your family and your antique-picking and your crime-solving—”

“Oh God,” said Jane. “You saw that? Wren said she saw it and mentioned it to you, but I hadn’t thought about you actually watching it.”

“Saw it. TiVo’d it,” Jeb said, rearranging salad plates to accommodate the entrées being served. “I’ve watched it more than once,” he whispered.

The first half of the meal, they played more catch-up.

Jeb suggested that all people over forty should have cards printed up—not to inform others of their business address and fax numbers, but to answer the basics.

“Married? Twice. First time, my fault; second time, hers. No children, but not opposed to having them. Income? More than I deserve. Health? Good. Faith? In a pinch. Major disappointments? Three…” Jeb pushed the bread plate toward Jane and picked up her hand. “Maybe four.”

The sun was shining. It was, after all, L.A. Jeb was right about the wine…crisp and summery, not at all too sweet. Jane felt a flush of well-being. She was terrible at flirting, but it didn’t count as flirting if it was an ex-boyfriend. It was more like remembering. Jane loved remembering.

Jane was about to ask some follow-up questions to Jeb’s canned answers when his phone rang again. A tasteful soft bleat. Clear to Jane that he didn’t have a smart-aleck son like Nick or a wise-ass friend like Tim who used her cell phone to make a fool of her every chance they got. He looked down at the number and some of the good humor left his face.

“Business partner,” he said. “Sorry.” He shifted in his chair and faced away from Jane toward the street. After only a few words, he turned back to her, his eyes wide, looking for an an-swer. “If this is a joke…Okay. Yes. I’m bringing a friend.”

Jeb signaled for the check, while dialing another number on his cell.

“Marilyn, it’s Jeb. Yeah, just now. I’m on my way over to their office. Sure, we should call everybody.”

Jane tried not to look obvious as she tried to get in as many bites of the mushroom ragout as she could. Looked like they wouldn’t be having dessert and the food here was incredible.

“Sorry, babe. I owe you another meal. Bad news.” Jeb signed the check and stood, taking her elbow and standing her up with him. “Terrible bad news.”

“What’s happened?”

“Wren Bixby,” said Jeb, as if he were questioning someone just out of sight,” is dead?”

Thou shalt not expect anything to happen in a meeting. People in L.A. take meetings like those in other parts of the world take breaths. If something is going to happen to your Hollywood project, it will happen after the meeting, and the results will be relayed to you by a third party. Or in a memo.

—
FROM
Hollywood Diary
BY
B
ELINDA
S
T
. G
ERMAINE

“How?” Jane fastened her seat belt and stowed her bag under her feet on the inches allotted her in Jeb’s Mini Cooper. Why did everyone out here drive these toys? Didn’t they ever see abandoned furniture on the street? How would an oak schoolroom chair fit in this vehicle’s backseat? “What happened?” Jane asked, picturing Bix as she appeared just a few hours ago, un-derdressed in current Hollywood style, her long hair a confluence of braids. This movie producer was just a kid.

“Something blew up in the prop shop. I couldn’t really hear. I think that’s what happened anyway.” Jeb aimed the car toward the studio and fired. “Shit.”

“Prop shop? Prop warehouse?” Jane felt her cool questioning mode melt. “An explosion?” Jane felt panic rising. Tim. Tim was touring the prop warehouse with Bix. “Was anyone else hurt?”

Jeb shook his head and shrugged. “I don’t know. Gary only told me about Bix. It happened right after you left, though. A few hours ago. I don’t know what the hell took them so long to call me.”

“A few hours?” said Jane. Tim could be hurt. For a few hours, he might have been calling her name from a hospital bed.

The faster and more precisely Jeb drove, the more he mumbled and swore at other drivers. Twenty-five years ago Jeb had been too cool for the room, the guy who stood above it all. Jane had the feeling during lunch that he still maintained that persona, although it was getting harder. Being a hipster might work fairly easily in one’s twenties, but at fortysomething, it just took more to pull off. A few extra pounds, the softening of the chin, the thinning hair…something made it harder to stay forever young. Wasn’t it just an hour ago Jane was thinking that men escaped aging? Maybe they just didn’t show concern, anxiety as often as their female counterparts. Now, upset and driving like a maniac, Jeb could have been any middle-aged dad hurrying to get to his child’s soccer game.

She dialed Tim’s cell, praying for him to answer. Message. She stared at the phone, willing it to deliver her friend instead of his canned voice explaining the many ways in which he might get back in touch with you if you left all your numbers for him.

Jeb drove past the main entrance to the studio.

“We’ll take a shortcut. Better to avoid the police and all the chaos at the front gate…if there is any. Right?”

Jeb parked the Mini in a small private key-card lot around the corner and motioned for Jane to follow him to an almost grown-over passageway, covered in flowering bushes.

“Legend has it that the studio head kept this hidden entrance to get certain starlets on and off the lot in a hurry. In fact,” said Jed, pulling out a small key and unlocking an ornate mechanism on the old gate,” it might still be used for—”

“How do you have a key to a hidden entrance in this day and age of security and surveillance?” asked Jane. “Impossible….”

“When Bix and Lou got this office, they thought they were lucky, but they didn’t know how lucky,” said Jeb.

When Jane saw where they were, she understood. Once through the iron gate, they ducked through heavy hanging vines and foliage. She and Jeb were in what appeared to be a small backyard garden. It was the backyard of the Bix Pix Flix bungalow. Turning back, she noticed that the gate was invisible. If Jane hadn’t known it was there…actually she did know it was there, and she still could not see it.

“Bix found it when they were assigned this office. There’s a built-in desk in the entryway with a few bookshelves over it—”

“Yes, I saw this morning.”

“She found four keys under the divider in the pencil drawer. There was an unsigned note that must have been thirty years old that referred to a backyard gate, so she looked until she found it. It was all grown over and we put this stone bench back here to mask it even more. We’d see other cars parked in the side lot, maintenance staff mostly. Sometimes I’d wait and watch until a driver got out. Always walked out the driveway and down the block to Entrance Four around the corner. Nobody except us….”

Jeb stopped. Jane had never seen him break down, but she thought he might be close to it right now.

“Wren said you were old friends, but I didn’t know…”

“ We weren’t lovers,” Jeb said, leading Jane up the back steps to the door to the Bix Pix Flix bungalow. “We were closer than that. We were writing partners.”

The back door wasn’t locked. Jane saw the office she had sat in earlier. The door was open and the light was on. She could hear a woman’s voice in the front office. Sounded like a phone conversation. The door to what Jane assumed was Lou Piccolo’s office was closed, as it had been earlier. Jane moved ahead of Jeb, who had stopped to take out his cell phone and was punching in a number, and stepped into Bix’s office.

No police, no crowds, no chaos.

Behind Bix’s desk, perfectly at home, sat Tim. He was listening intently to someone on the phone, Bix’s phone, and waved Jane in to a chair, signaling at the same time for her to be quiet.

“How dare you sit there?” said Jane, her relief at seeing him alive fueling the anger she now felt for Tim’s callous appropriation of Wren Bixby’s office.

“Thanks so much,” said Tim. “I’ll pass it along.”

“What…?”

“You missed all the excitement,” said Tim. “And the prop warehouse is to die for. Aisle after aisle of candlesticks and silver tea services and furniture and statues…all tagged for future projects or sitting there, all spruced up and waiting to be chosen…just your kind of place, Janie—”

“Have you lost your mind? Wren Bixby’s dead and you’re sitting there talking about goddamn movie props?”

Tim shook his head. “Where do you get your news? The
Enquirer
?”

Jeb stepped in. He was grinning as he stuck his hand out and introduced himself to Tim. “Heard a lot about you,” he said.

“Well, there’s a lot to tell,” said Tim, looking Jeb Gleason up and down. “Has Jane been regaling you with stories of her wonderful husband, Charley, and perfect son, Nick, as well as tales of Terrible Tim?”

“Why aren’t we screaming here?” asked Jane.

Jeb smiled at her and pointed to his phone.

“She’s going to be all right,” said Jeb. “Isn’t she?” he turned and asked Tim.

“Were you there?” asked Jane. “What happened?”

Tim nodded. “I was in the next aisle. She opened some kind of a wooden box and there was a popping sound. I know everyone’s saying explosion, but it was a quiet one. Some glass flew around and she was hit in the head with some small pieces of metal. Her arm was cut up pretty badly.”

Tim told them the studio emergency medical staff was there fast to administer first aid and the ambulance arrived shortly after. Wren would have to stay in the hospital overnight for observation, but apparently the stories of her death were greatly exaggerated.

“Probably started by a rival producer,” said Jeb, trying to make his voice sound light, but the effort showed. Jane thought he looked more worried than ever.

“What was the box?” asked Jane. “Does anyone know why…?”

Cynda came in, still carrying a cordless phone. “I was just on with Gary. He says they think the box might have been an old chemistry set or maybe a magic set with flash powder or something and maybe something had spilled or someone messed with it last time someone looked at it. He said something about chemicals that have to stay in water or oil and if someone pours it off, they can ignite or something. They’ll try to track down what it was and why it was on that shelf.”

“Who’s Gary?” asked Jane.

“Gary Check…assistant head of props.”

Wren’s phone rang again and Tim, not missing a beat, picked it up. “Bix Pix Flix, Wren Bixby’s office.”

“Anyone see Lou today?” asked Jeb. “Has Lou Piccolo deigned to come into the office?”

“Did Gary say anything more about the chemistry set?” asked Jane. “Doesn’t really sound like something that would happen spontaneously. I mean, the chemicals are usually sealed and if it’s a vintage Chemcraft or something—”

“I don’t know, okay? I’ve answered a million phone calls today and Bix is in the hospital, and I just don’t…” Cynda put one perfectly manicured hand up to her eyes and brushed away a tear so perfectly formed that one might think it had been genetically engineered. “Sorry.” She shook her head. “It’s been a terrible day.”

Cynda walked out of Bix’s office and they heard a drawer open and close before they heard the door slam.

Jeb smiled. “Not a terrible exit. Trite and a bit overwrought, but she’s got a meeting with the casting agent for some new hospital show tonight. Saw it on her calendar.”

Jane opened her mouth to speak, then stopped and shook her head.

“Lesson one, honey,” Jeb said. “Everyone you meet out here is someone else. The receptionist is an actress, the waiter is a director, the valet is a writer…”

Jeb, holding his own cell phone to his ear, frowned when he heard a ringing phone go unanswered in Lou Piccolo’s office. “Doesn’t that idiot even bother coming in anymore? I guess I have to do everything myself.” Jeb walked into Lou’s office and closed the door. Jane heard him answer the phone with a surly hello.

As soon as he heard Jeb become immersed in a conversation, Tim motioned for Jane to come closer to the desk. “We’ve got to get over to the hospital. That was Bix who called here before. She wants to see you.”

“Jeb could drive us,” said Jane.

Tim shook his head. “I’ve got a rental. I had it delivered an hour ago. We need to leave now,” he whispered. “And don’t tell Harry Handsome where we’re going.”

Jane and Tim stood in front of Jeb, who was swearing softly on the phone. When he looked up at them, he changed expression—his eyes and mouth went from night to day and he smiled brightly at Jane.

“All’s well and all that, huh, babe? Shall we continue reminiscing over dinner?”

Jane explained that she and Tim had another meeting about another project entirely. “T & T, our estate sale business, is bidding on a big sale out here. We’re expanding, going national, and cracking L.A. would be fantastic,” Jane said in order to hold off Jeb’s protest. “Call me later at the hotel.”

“If I wasn’t on hold with this son of a—Hey, Paco, sure, no problem.” Jeb waved them off and turned back to the phone.

Jane, following Tim into the little front foyer of the bungalow, gave a good-bye look to the shakers displayed in the window. She noticed a few saltcellars, some tiny pink cut-glass dishes, that she hadn’t seen before. In one lay two small keys. They were old enough and tiny enough to fit the lock on the secret gate. Jane picked up the saltcellar and ran a finger around its rim. “Hey, Timmy, this is the real thing. Little fleabites from the silver spoon they used.”

“Look at you, Ms. Pro Picker,” Tim said. “You need a set of those salts to make them worth anything, honey.”

Jane knew all about the relatively small value of the saltcellars, but she didn’t answer. It was the little key she had wanted to examine. Jane was a sucker for old keys and locks and hidden gates and secret gardens. Why had Jeb wanted to use the hidden entrance? She clutched the key so tightly that her nails dug into her palm. She would just borrow this key for a few days, she thought, until…when? Until she found out why Jeb Gleason used a secret entrance…why he anticipated chaos, the police…She could hear Bruce Oh’s voice in her head, tutoring her on how to be a detective.
Refine your question, Mrs. Wheel. Learn to ask the question that hovers over the obvious.
Right. Jane would borrow the key until she found out why Jeb Gleason, when he thought his friend had been killed, wanted to
avoid
the police.