Tammilynne heaved a sigh, and her underwire bra gave a sexy little ripple under her silk top. “All this standing around, you know.” She waved her hand dismissively at the crew members, who looked like they were setting up for the next shot.
“But it’s part of the job,” I blurted out.
“Yeah? Well, I didn’t get the memo,” she said scathingly. “I thought I’d just be able to do my scenes and, you know, go home and chill. I didn’t know there’d be like a zillion retakes of every scene. And the early morning calls! Why do they have to start at the crack of dawn? I’m not used to getting up until ten or eleven.”
“It’s always like this on a film set, honey,” Mom said soothingly. “Start early and finish early, if you’re lucky.”
Tammilynne turned the corners of her bee-sting lips down in an unattractive pout. “Well, we’re not finishing early today, are we?” she said sarcastically. “It’s dinner time, the sun is setting, and we’re still stuck here filming. I’ve had the same makeup on since six o’clock this morning,” she whined. “I feel like this industrial-strength Pan-Cake crap is eating into my pores. I bet I look a wreck.” She rummaged in her purse and held up a small hand mirror to inspect her perfect features.
Naturally, she looked flawless.
“You look gorgeous, Tammilynne,” Mom told her. “And you’ll really photograph beautifully in this light. You’ll be even more of a knockout than you already are.”
“The golden hour,” I murmured.
Mom nodded. “Maggie’s right. That’s what photographers call it, the golden hour. There’s something special about the lighting at this time of day. Everything has a sort of golden glow to it. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
She was right. The sun was a blood orange hanging low in the west and the ceramic blue sky was exploding into ribbons of rust, red and gold at the horizon. The water in Branscom Pond would soon turn to violet in the setting sun. I figured Hank had time to shoot one more scene and then they’d wrap for the day.
“I’m not into lighting,” Tammilynne said dismissively. “I just want to get back to my trailer, away from the bugs and the heat; you know?” She popped another big pink bubble and I winced as it splattered on her face. “This is the time of day I like to kick back and have a few margaritas.” She let out a dramatic sigh and Mom and I exchanged a look.
Hmm. So the strain of a movie career was already getting to her. Hank Watson had the reputation for being a perfectionist and maybe he was finding it a challenge to get a good performance out of his Malibu Barbie star. After all, she’d had no acting training, and I wondered if she could even memorize lines? Maybe the drama coach wasn’t doing enough to help her, or maybe she’d given up.
“Now, you just need to hang in there and you’ll be just fine,” Lola said, patting her hand. “Remember what Woody Allen said. ‘Ninety percent of life is just showing up.’ ”
A long beat. “I guess.” I wondered if she’d ever seen a Woody Allen film in her life. Probably not.
“You’ll just find the rhythm of working on the set and after a while, you won’t mind the early hours or the long days. It just goes with the territory, you know. We all have to put up with it.”
“Whatever,” Tammilynne said ungraciously. The gorgeous young actress had a way of sucking the energy out of the air around her. The set was bustling with activity but she was in the Dead Zone, wrapped up in her own self-absorbed little world.
A few minutes later, Marion Summers called her name from the production trailer and Tammilynne perked up. “Gotta go; they’re gonna make me go over my lines one more time before we start shooting. If I can’t remember them, they said they’d put them on cue cards. It’s either that or I’ll have to write them on my hand.” This was the most animation I’d seen out of her. “Catch you later, Lola,” she said as she darted off.
“Nice to meet you, too,” I said under my breath and Lola giggled.
“Now honey, don’t be mean. She’s just young, that’s all. The poor thing is barely out of high school.”
“I know. She looks like she should be playing a troubled teen in an After-School Special.”
Meow.
“How is she doing with her lines? I hope they have someone really good working with her.”
“Hank didn’t have time to hire a drama coach,” Mom confided. “So Marion stepped in and she’s trying to do her best, bless her heart, but it’s slow going. The word on the set is that her acting is so bad, they’re going to have to loop all her dialogue when they get back to L.A.”
Mom had told me before that looping is an expensive, time-consuming process. The actor has to go into the studio and redo every line of dialogue, making sure it matches with the lip movements on the screen.
I couldn’t imagine Tammilynne being up to the task. Of course, another possibility would be to hire a different actress to redo all the dialogue. If Tammilynne’s acting was really hopelessly robotic, perhaps that’s what they’d have to do.
“Really? That’ll cost a fortune. And Hank’s trying to keep costs down.” I paused. “Is she really that bad?”
Lola leaned close. “Do you remember Sophia Coppola playing Mary Corleone in
The Godfather Part Three
?”
“Yes, it made me cringe. The ultimate in bad acting. And to make it worse she was playing opposite Andy Garcia, who could outact her even if he was in a coma. I heard all her lines had to be redone.”
Lola grinned. “Sophie Coppola is Meryl Streep compared to Tammilynne Cole.”
“Oh, no!” I giggled. “This is going to be one hell of a movie.”
Lola got the high sign from Maisie, who tapped her watch and pointed in the direction of the pond. Lola immediately charged into high gear, and I could feel the energy pouring off her. “Maggie, my scene’s coming up; do you want to watch?”
“Sure; which one is it?”
“Another party scene. I only have a couple of lines, but it should be fun.” She smoothed her top—a pale chiffon dropped tunic—and grabbed a plastic champagne glass off the prop table. It was filled with a pale amber liquid. “I have to pretend this is Cristal,” she said, making a face.
“And what is it really?”
“Take a sip, dear. Don’t worry, it’s not lethal.”
She handed me the glass and I barely touched my lips to the rim of the glass.
It’s not lethal? But that left a lot of wiggle room. Did it come from somebody’s swimming pool? Or from a chemistry set?
“This can’t be champagne. And it’s lukewarm.” I looked at it suspiciously, wondering if I’d been poisoned.
“It’s not champagne. They never use the real thing; the crew members would guzzle it down before shooting even started. It’s cheaper for the prop manager to use soda or iced tea and that way he doesn’t have to keep refilling the bottle. No one wants to drink this stuff, especially without ice.”
“So you’re telling me this is . . .”
“Diet Mountain Dew.”
Chapter 18
Mom was in her element in the party scene, flirting with Sidney Carter, giggling girlishly, managing to edge herself into the frame as much as possible. It’s always fascinating to watch her working; she’s one part consummate professional and one part pure country ham, as Vera Mae would say.
She’s a genius at making sure she’s in every shot. Even if she’s not talking, she’s smiling, laughing, emoting, reacting.
Like most skilled actors, she’s always “on,” always performing. In the first run-through, she threw back her head and laughed gaily, even though Sidney hadn’t said anything. The back of Sidney’s head was to the camera, so the audience wouldn’t know that, of course. I heard a gentle click as the camera swung softly toward her, and I wondered if they were doing a close-up shot.
Hank Watson has the reputation for shooting way more film than he really needs, which means he rarely brings a film in under budget. Or on time. He has the reputation of being a perfectionist in the industry and is more interested in getting a flawless shot than in cost control. He always does lots of establishing shots to set the scene, along with plenty of close-ups of the actors as they give their lines and, of course, “reaction shots.”
It’s not a quick process, but it seems to work for Hank. His movies all receive critical acclaim even though they may not be major box office hits. During the editing process, Hank sits down with the cinematographer and together they pick and choose the very best shots to use from the raw footage.
It was hard to imagine that
Death Watch
would be successful with Tammilynne in the lead. There might be a flurry of publicity because of Adriana’s death, but that would quickly die down and the critics were sure to be merciless toward Hank’s main squeeze.
If
Death Watch
tanked, how would Hank ever find funding for future projects? And surely his investors in this film would be outraged over losing all their money?
Nick always says to “follow the money” when you’re trying to solve a crime. I wondered how this rule would apply to Adriana’s death, but I was drawing a blank.
I thought of Frankie Domino and wondered again what his role could be in the production. Was he somehow involved in providing the cash flow for
Death Watch
? Why else would he be hanging around the set? Was he trying to protect his investment? Was he keeping an eye on Hank Watson? Why? I was baffled.
He certainly wasn’t part of the cast and crew and he didn’t seem to be a close friend of Hank’s. I noticed him standing off camera, talking earnestly on his cell phone, gesturing with his hands. He seemed angry and impatient but maybe that was just his perpetually jazzed New York style.
From time to time, he glanced over at Hank Watson, and I thought I saw his upper lip curl in disgust. Finally, he snapped the phone shut, a sneering expression crossing his doughy features. He caught me looking at him, but I quickly looked away, pretending to be absorbed in the filming. There was something threatening, almost sinister about him, in spite of the cartoonish clothes (black shirt, white tie) and his Wiseguy accent.
I glanced back at the set as another burst of feminine laughter floated through the balmy air. It was Lola, of course. Emoting her little heart out. Lola really comes alive when she’s performing and today she was in her element.
Hank was probably thanking the climate gods because he had perfect weather for the outdoor party scene. The last moments of sunset were streaking across the sky and the waters of Branscom Pond were lapping softly against the shore.
Mom seemed to sense whenever the cameras were on her, because she’d toss her hair over her shoulder, lift her chin to get a more flattering angle, and widen her eyes. She always said she learned this trick from Zsa Zsa Gabor, who certainly knew a thing or two about looking good on camera. Mom even tossed Sidney Carter a couple of saucy winks, and he gave a little bow and grinned back in acknowledgment.
Whenever I thought about how Adriana had ruined his career by spreading that false AIDS rumor, I shook my head in bewilderment. How could someone do something so heartless, so unfeeling? Was Adriana really that cruel, or did she have some other reason for wanting to destroy him, to publicly humiliate him?
No matter how hard I tried, I still hadn’t come up with a motive for Adriana’s murder that would satisfy me. A lot of people probably had wished she was no longer on the planet, but I couldn’t really see any one of them having a strong enough reason to kill her.
I was sitting with Maisie and Hank Watson, watching the film when Hank suddenly yelled, “Cut!”
Instantly, there was dead silence. “Tami,” he said, his voice ragged, “you were looking at the camera. Remember, we talked about that, sweetie. You have to look anyplace
but
the camera.”
Tammilynne tossed her blond mane of hair. “Well, honestly, it’s hard
not
to look at it,” she said irritably. “I’ve got to remember my lines and everything. It’s all too much; you know?” She glanced at her watch, an elegant Patek Philippe, the face studded with diamonds. “We should have stopped ages ago. You know I get dizzy if I don’t have something to eat every three hours. I think I’m hypoglycemic.”
She looked like she might have a meltdown and Maisie rushed to intervene while Hank ran his fingers through his hair.
“Tammilynne, it’s okay to look in the
direction
of the camera, but just don’t look at the lens. It looks really bad and it ruins the scene. Okay?” A beat and then when Tammilynne didn’t bother answering her, Maisie asked suspiciously, “Tammilynne, are you chewing gum?”
“Not anymore,” Tammilynne said sulkily. She removed the offending gum from her mouth as a crew member rushed over with a tissue to whisk it away. “I forgot. My bad. So shoot me.”
“Yeah, right,” Hank muttered under his breath. “Don’t tempt me.”
“Hank—” Maisie said warningly.
“I know. I know,” he replied. He took a deep breath and clamped his headset back on, his expression tight. “Okay, take it from the top, everyone.” He glared at Tammilynne. “And try to look happy, okay? Remember this is a party, not a wake.”
“You could have fooled me,” Tammilynne said.
Half an hour later, Hank called a quick break and I decided to hit the craft services table for an iced tea. I stood up and stretched for a moment, then headed across the set. I’d gone only a few feet when a loud crash followed by a sudden scream made me turn back. It sounded like a car wreck, something glass and metallic smashing on concrete.
“Ohmigod!” Maisie was staring at a heavy Klieg light that had fallen off the pole and had landed smack dab onto the chair next to her—the chair I’d been sitting in. The flimsy canvas-backed director’s chair had actually collapsed under the weight of the shattered lamp and was lying in pieces on the sand. The light was ruined, the metal frame twisted, the glass bulb smashed into a zillion fragments.
My heart sped up and a chill went through me
. If I hadn’t gotten up to get that glass of iced tea, I’d be toast right this minute
.
My brains would have been scrambled along with fifty pounds of glass and metal.
I shuddered at the thought and some tiny hairs at the back of my neck stood up at attention.