Hollywood Stuff (10 page)

Jane noted that the autograph books she had taken from the shelf had been bagged, tagged, and placed next to a case holding evidence-collection paraphernalia. She gave a sympathetic nod to the dealer, who knew that Jane would have been good for the sale. Jane knew that she knew and they waved a sad I-would-have-bought-it-I-know-you-wanted-it good-bye.

The market was officially closed for the day. Sellers were being allowed to pack up their wares and shoppers were heading for their cars after allowing police to take their names and addresses and check their bags. Jane noticed that the dealer from Lucky Finds was surrounded by three uniformed officers

and Detective Dooley. Another person, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, had what looked like a drawing tablet and, Jane figured, was asking for remembered details for a composite sketch of the purchaser of the letter opener.

Jane found her way to the stall where Tim waited, a pained expression on his face. She bailed him out of Beanie Baby jail and together they headed for their rental car.

Looking back in the direction of the table where Jane found the dead man, whom Jeb Gleason had identified as Lou Piccolo, Jane figured that Jeb and the B Room were able to get to their car and pull out of the parking garage at least three minutes ahead of the time her screams brought attention, police, and any kind of checkpoints or blocks at the entrances and exits.

As soon as they were in the car, Jane phoned the hospital to check on Bix. Still in surgery. Jane imagined the entire B Room assembled in her room when she came back. How long would they wait before they told her that her partner, Lou Piccolo, was dead? Would it be Jeb who delivered the news? Jane was sure. He was the leader of this little cult. He had always been charismatic. In college, Jane had been thoroughly charmed by his cool confidence, his mysterious demeanor, and just as thoroughly disgusted when she discovered his dishonesty. But they were college kids and he was a handsome guy at whose feet girls—especially equally cool girls like Linda Fabien—threw themselves. He wasn’t a bad guy then. He wasn’t evil or sinister. Jane remembered hearing Jeb’s voice behind her when she found the body—
Lou Piccolo’s back from Ojai.
Was it the whisper of a murderer?

Jane knelt facing backward on the front seat, rearranging packages in the rear. She almost fell headfirst onto the backseat reaching for the
Thomas Guide
under a stack of colorful souvenir metal trays.

“These aren’t your thing, Timmy. Kitschy-kitschy-koo kind of stuff,” said Jane.

“I know. Definitely low-end. Much more you. But I loved the colors and the photographs reproduced on them. Seemed so Southern California and, you know, if I had a little bungalow here, I could see those on a kitchen wall above the door and—”

“Tim, what do I look up to guide you back to the studio? I’ve got to stop in at Bix’s office for a minute.”

Tim had the instincts of a bloodhound who carried a driver’s license. He maneuvered through traffic, sniffed out the fastest lanes, and calmly sensed the exits and turns just before their signs appeared. He was slowing their Volvo down in front of the studio gates in what must have been record time. Jane told him to drive past and turn the corner, directing him to the auxiliary parking lot Jeb had parked in the day before.

“There’s a visitor’s lot across the street that’s closer,” said Tim.

Jane smiled and held up her little key.

“This is a direct route.”

Jane led the way through the maze of shrubbery both outside the gate and inside the gate into what was the postage-stamp backyard of the Bix Pix Flix bungalow.

Although they saw a few people walking on the lot, the pace was definitely that of the weekend. Most offices looked empty, few cars were in the reserved spaces scattered between the buildings. Jane and Tim had walked around to the front of the office to see if anyone was at the front desk. The front door was locked. They walked back to the rear entrance and tried that door. Open. Why not? The gate into the backyard had been locked from the inside, so no one could get to the back door unless they came through the hidden gate or were allowed in by someone already in the backyard.

“I figure we might have as much as a twenty-minute head start on the police,” said Jane. “They’ll send someone to Piccolo’s house, but they’ll come here, too, if the address is on any business cards in his wallet.”

Jane handed Tim a vintage handkerchief, one of a few she always kept in her bag.

“Use this if you touch anything, hon, but don’t wipe anything clean. We were here yesterday, so our fingerprints should logically be here,” said Jane.

“What’s with the criminal mind? Yo u sound like we’re the bad guys instead of the crime solvers,” said Tim.

“Nonsense. I just want to look around Lou Piccolo’s office before the police get here.”

“I didn’t say there was anything wrong with the criminal mind. He has a signed first edition of
A is for Alibi
out there in the bookcase that might just go to waste if I don’t take it,” said Tim.

“You will not steal, Tim Lowry,” said Jane. “Especially from a dead man.”

“Dead men don’t press charges,” said Tim.

Jane was sure that Tim was teasing, but just the same, she made a mental note to check the bookshelves before they left. The last thing she needed was to lose her PI license. It would be particularly galling if it happened before she had gotten her PI license.

Jane had little need for the handkerchief. The door to Lou’s office was open. She remembered that Jeb had walked into it yesterday when they had rushed over from lunch. Was it just yesterday that Jane had been lulled by Jeb’s voice, feeling that she understood his appeal, his magnetism? No, couldn’t have been. Jane was not the naïve young girl she had been in college and Jeb had grown into what college playboys became…sad middle-aged loners looking ahead to seedy old age. It was a harsh judgment. Not as harsh as another conclusion that Jane was fighting against reaching.

On Lou Piccolo’s vintage oak desk—it looked like something right out of the newsroom of
The Front Page
—he had carefully lined up a collection of metal paperweights. The Eiffel Tower, the Empire State Building, a few California bank buildings, a baseball stadium. In a row just in front of the paperweights, another collection was lined up. Vintage letter openers. Brass, Bakelite, silver and gold. Lou might be meticulous in the way he placed objects on his desk, but he wasn’t a perfect housekeeper. A thin layer of dust covered the desk. If Jane had been browsing in an antique shop, she would have succumbed to her impulse to use her handkerchief to wipe off the surface—all the better to display these exquisite pieces. In this case though, she only clutched her handkerchief, now wadded up in a tight ball, harder in her closed fist. The dusty film showed a definite outline of what was not on the desk. An object had recently been removed from between two hand-hammered silver examples. And although Jane was no expert in gauging exact length and width, she would have bet her last collectible silver dime that what she was gazing at on the desk was the chalk outline of the letter opener she had seen sticking out of Lou Piccolo’s back.

Backstabbing and air-kissing? In Hollywood, those are two gestures that signify exactly the same thing.

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

As Jane was locking the gate behind them, she asked Tim for the third time if he was sure he hadn’t touched anything he shouldn’t have. She knew he hadn’t lifted any of Lou Piccolo’s first editions. Tim wasn’t a thief. Besides, he hadn’t carried in a bag and none of the books would fit in his pockets.

“You act pretty holier-than-thou for someone who hasn’t explained how she got a key to a hidden back entrance to a major studio. I just can’t imagine that those are handed out as party favors—even to people whose rights someone is dying to get.”

Jane tried to freeze him with a look.

“Oops. I didn’t mean that, sweetie. Even I am not that crass.”

Jane looked around the parking lot before they came out of the shrubbery and quickly walked to their car. The lot was far from full. It was a weekend and after all, this lot was a two-block walk to the entrance while two other parking lots were directly across the street from the main gate. As Jane was about to express her disapproval of the studio head who obviously had arranged a pretty sweet setup for himself all those years ago when the trees and bushes were first planted to cover up the perimeter of the lot, a tall young man dressed in black jeans and a black T-shirt came walking in through the street entrance.

He seemed to be heading right for them, but veered off toward another row of a few cars, where he set a large bag on the hood of a red Mustang convertible and pulled a key from his pocket.

He opened the trunk and Jane could see that it was almost full of bags and boxes. He adjusted a few things, and carefully wedged the bag in. Tim looked up at the slam of the trunk’s lid and called over to him.

“Gary, hey,” said Tim, waving.

The man had been so lost in thought, he started at hearing his name. When he looked up, his face was completely blank.

“Tim Lowry. Bix was taking me through the prop warehouse yesterday.”

“Oh man, sorry I didn’t recognize you.” The man in black walked over, his hand extended. He was smiling, but still looked a million miles away. “How’s Bix?”

Tim told him she would be in the hospital until after the arm surgery, but as far as he knew she would recover.

“Yeah, I called last night and talked to Skye. Sounded like she’s stepped up. Probably nice for her to be able to pay back and all.”

Jane was amazed that everyone who was involved with the studio assumed that everyone knew everything about everyone. She liked it.

“You think Skye feels she has to…you know…pay back?” Jane said, trying to sound casual and knowing at the same time.

“Bix has been taking care of Skye for fifteen years or so. Don’t you remember all those stories about Skye when she was on
S and L
? Sandy Pritikin tried to dump her from the show every season. When she was twelve and starting out, she was just a brat, but every year there was something else. She gained weight—you know puberty.” He lowered his voice. “Sandy pitched a fit about her eating her way out of show business and Bix convinced Sandy that they could handle it in a story line and be heroes for embracing real family problems and concerns in a comedy. Show won two Emmys that year. Writing and acting. Sandy’s portrayal as a sensitive and loving father won it for him. Well deserved, too. That jerk playing a nice guy was the acting feat of the century.”

Tim introduced Jane to Gary Check, the head of props for the studio.

“Yeah, Jane Wheel,” said Gary, nodding. “I’ve heard of you, right?”

Jane started to shake her head, but stopped herself, considering what Belinda St. Germaine might advise. Not to mention Detective Oh.
Agree with everyone,
Belinda had advised.
Your agent can demand the change later.

“Maybe,” she said with a smile.
If you listen more than you talk, you will hear more,
is what Oh might advise in this situation.

“Yeah, you’re in a movie, or no…Bix is doing a movie about you…yeah. It’s not on the board yet, but I think I’ve seen some tags. You must have a go-getter for a designer.”

Jane squeezed Tim’s arm, hoping that he interpreted it as a warning not to mention that a bogus tag was what led Bix to opening the box

“What kind of stuff have they found for it?” asked Jane, trying to look like she might be a rising star or at least the kind of person a rising star might want to play. “Remember where you’ve seen the tags?”

“I see hundreds of those a day,” he said, shaking his head, then he laughed. “I do remember seeing a few of yours that cracked me up, though. We’re doing an inventory.” He sighed and ran his hand across his face. “We’re always doing an inventory. Too much stuff, not enough space…you know the routine. I’ve got some of my people weeding out a lot of the trash.

They filled three boxes with junk—lamp parts, broken glasses, scratched-up plastic dishes…just crap, you know. And the boxes were all by the door to be taken to the trash. Has to be disposed of properly, you know?”

Tim and Jane shook their heads. “Recycled, you mean?” asked Jane.

“Studio name is printed on the bottom of everything.
Property of
…you know. Nobody’s allowed to go through the dump-ster and take stuff.”

“What a shame,” said Tim. “What a treasure trove…movie and TV props…from the set of…”

“Exactly. Can you imagine the market for that stuff on eBay? People’d be running off to Target, buying up cheap can-dleholders, stamping the studio name on them, and passing them off as
Gilmore Girls
props. They probably do it already anyway.”

“You found a Jane Wheel tag in the boxes of junk?” asked Jane.

“Not
in
…Jane Wheel tags were
on
the boxes of junk. Somebody thought the throwaways were just right for your movie. What’s it about? Landfill?”

“Pretty much,” said Tim, nodding.

“What happened to the boxes?” asked Jane. Gary didn’t know about the tag on the box that exploded. These boxes could have been rigged, too. Jane looked at Tim. They would have to warn him. It didn’t matter how adamantly Jeb had warned Bix and the other members of the B Room off calling in the police, Jane couldn’t allow the risk of another explosion or fire at the studio.

“I went through them thoroughly, thinking one of the kids had missed something in there. Called Bix and Lou, and Lou sent a message back that we could go ahead and toss the stuff. Said the tagging was premature anyway. If they needed junk for a rummage sale, they could find it. You can always find junk, you know?”

They nodded. They knew. Back in their car, Jane watched Gary Check drive away.

“What do you think he was putting in his trunk?” asked Jane.

“Remains of his lunch,” Tim said,” or a bit of rejected inventory being disposed of into Gary’s house?”

“That’s what I was thinking, too,” said Jane. “Could you imagine letting any of that stuff go to the dump?”

“No. But we don’t really know. He’s in the middle of it all day. That’s the thing. If you work in the ice-cream store all summer, by August you don’t want any more ice cream,” said Tim.

“Whoever started that rumor?” asked Jane. One summer, between her freshman and sophomore years in college, her father, Don, had pulled a few strings and gotten her a job at an ice-cream factory in Kankakee, where she packed Popsicles and ice-cream bars eight hours a day. The old-timers had trained her and she had finally gotten fast enough to be ahead of the machine that delivered the frozen confections to be packed. She could grab a bar, tear off the wrapper and bite off half, throw the rest away, and be ready to scoop the next handful and stuff them into the box. All day long, scoop, stuff, eat, scoop, stuff, eat. At night when Jane returned home, exhausted and numb, Nellie treated her with grudging respect and the closest words to praise that Nellie had ever spoken to her.

“At least now you know what work is,” she’d say. “You’re not sitting around reading like a lazy bum.”

And what did Jane do each night after being nurtured by Nellie’s version of maternal concern? She ate ice-cream bars. If the work hadn’t been so physically demanding and if it hadn’t been the hottest summer on record so that her appetite for anything besides something cold vanished, she would have gained fifty pounds. Just thinking about it now gave her a taste for an Eskimo Pie.

“I don’t get why somebody tagged the boxes of junk. I mean, the box that got Bix was placed in the aisle of Depression glass…where she would look if she was in the prop shop. And anybody who saw the passes for the day would know that Bix was going to bring a guest through,” said Tim.

“Wait a second,” said Jane. She found the phone number of Bix’s hospital room and dialed. “I want to find out if Lou Piccolo was a writer in the B Room. Nobody’s mentioned him as a…No answer. Skye is probably in the family waiting room, but I don’t want to call and ask her and end up telling her about Lou over the phone.”

Jane told Tim to drive directly to the hospital.

“ We won’t beat the B Room there, I’m sure they’ve already set up camp. It’s odd, isn’t it, how they move as a pack?” asked Jane.

“More than odd. Spooky. How did you ever date that guy Jeb Gleason? He’s one step away from telling everybody to drink the Kool-Aid.”

Jane would have liked to defend Jeb, but right now she couldn’t think of anything about him that was defensible. In college, he was handsome and charismatic. He gave off a kind of smoky cool—dry ice. Steamy, but cold. All irresistible qualities to a girl from Kankakee, Illinois, in a twentysomething campuswide world.

That was it. It was still college here in L.A. Jane realized what irritated her about Jeb and the crowd surrounding Bix was that, in a very short time, she could see them as a clique…a campus or sorority or a fraternity clique. They all buzzed around Jeb as the leader, and they all stuck together. Last night, in Bix’s hospital room, they were all pairing off to go home, watching over each other. Or just watching each other. Didn’t they have families or other lives? They had worked together on a successful show years ago. Why were they still going to the Pasadena flea market together on weekends? No spouses? No children? No real-world commitments? Did working in Hollywood mean you never had to grow up?

Tim drove to the hospital and on the way, since she wasn’t needed for navigation, Jane tried to put together the pieces to the puzzle in front of her. Someone rigged a box in the prop shop that was baited for Bix with a Jane Wheel tag. A gaggle of television writers, joined at their hips, were being threatened by someone. Someone connected to them was murdered at the Pasadena City College Flea Market.

“Who would target a group of television writers?” she asked Tim.

“Disgruntled television watchers?” said Tim.

“If that were the case, we could cut the population of this town in half. Gosh, my dad would have killed the writers who killed off Edith Bunker if he’d had a weapon and if he’d ever bothered to read the credits and find out their names.”

Jane tried to play Detective Oh and ask the next level of question. If she could figure out
why,
she would know
who.
Bix and Lou…and maybe, if everything Louise had told her was true, Heck, too, had been the targets so far.

“Tim, you said your name tag was ready for you at the prop warehouse, right?”

Tim nodded and made a left turn onto a one-way street which led to the hospital parking lot.

“Did Bix have a name tag?”

“No, I don’t think so. I had something like a visitor’s pass. There was a sheet out on the table that said I was the guest of Bix Pix Flix.”

“Not just Bix?”

“It was the whole company name.”

“Why have we been assuming that the box was intended for Bix? Could have been Lou who opened that lid. We know now somebody was out to get him,” said Jane.

“The Depression glass. All the shakers in the office. Bix would go down that aisle where the box was planted,” Tim said, swinging the Volvo into a parking spot.