Magic Hour (6 page)
"What makes a born producer?"
Bonnie didn't have to think for much more than a second; she'd done her legwork on Sy a long time ago. "He has to have a good story sense; Sy had a great one. And the ability to get people excited over his vision. And be a trendsetter. If everyone else was making heartwarming movies about farm families with lovable old grandpaws and alfalfa blights, Sy would make something stylized and science-flctiony because he loved the script and believed it would make a great movie."
"So he became a big producer. What happened to you?"
"Nothing much. I stopped needing an unlisted number."
"You're not saying he dropped you when you stopped being a hot screenwriter?"
"Yup."
Yup? "Where are you from?" I asked.
"Ogden,
"He's okay."
"She. Can't you tell? She loves men. She drops me in two seconds flat for anything in pants. She's the town slut." Real fast, Bonnie's doting dog-lover smile faded. She glanced away, up at the wall clock, but she wasn't interested in the time. I made a mental note to check on her reputation.
"How did Sy drop you?"
"How? Not too hard, considering how much he wanted out. He told me—very gently—he had been having an affair with someone. Some society lady, like his first wife, except this one didn't look like she ate oats and neighed. Anyway, he told me he was in love with her and it was causing him enormous pain to be hurting me, but that he would appreciate a divorce so he could marry her."
"But he didn't marry her."
"No, of course not. He just wanted out. He was having the affair anyway, so he used it. I guess he thought it would be easier for me if there was another woman; he knew I could accept love a lot better than him saying, 'Hey, Bonnie, I hate taking you places because you're taller than me and a has-been."
"And you weren't angry at this kind of treatment."
"Of course I was angry! If you go back seven years, I bet you'd find twenty witnesses who heard me yelling: 'I hope you die, you louse.' But time passes. And the fact of the matter is, we wound up being friends."
"When was the last time you saw him?"
"I'm not sure." But she was! Damn it, I could feel it. She lifted her chin, examined a pot holder on a hook and pretended to think. "A few days ago, I think. I dropped in on the set."
"And before that?"
"Let's see ... Oh, about a week before. He asked me to come over, to see his house."
"Did you stay long?"
"No. He just gave me the fifty-cent tour."
"How good friends were you?"
"Pretty good friends."
"Did you spend a lot of time with him?"
"Not all that much."
"Did he visit you here?"
"He dropped by once or twice. But we were mainly phone friends. He was my colleague, my collaborator. See, I hadn't written any screenplays for a few years, but last winter, when I gave it another shot, I sent it right off to Sy. I mean, I hadn't seen him since the divorce, but I knew he'd give me a fair reading. And he really liked it!" She massaged her forehead. "Oh, God almighty, I can't believe he's dead."
"What about the script?"
"What? Oh, we were developing it together. It was a kind of female-buddy spy movie."
"What exactly does 'developing' mean?"
"It means working on a project—the script, the financing, trying to get a good director or a star involved. But Sy never moved on a project until he was satisfied with the script. And mine—it's called
A Sea Change
—wasn't quite in shape to be sent out. But he had a lot of great suggestions. I was rewriting based on his suggestions."
"And then he'd produce it?"
"Yup."
"Was he paying you a lot?"
"Well ... he wasn't actually paying me yet. But if I'd asked, he would have given me option money."
"Why didn't you ask?"
"I guess the same reason I didn't want alimony. I didn't want to seem greedy. I know, that sounds stupid. No, it
is
stupid. But Sy always worried that people—women—were out for what they could get from him. I didn't want him to think that of me, either time. Anyway, I knew he'd be fair once we got rolling."
"How do you support yourself? Family money?"
She laughed and looked around the kitchen. "Does this look like family money?"
"You live in Bridgehampton all year round?" I was really surprised.
"Sure. Oh, I see; you thought this was my sincere little summer cottage where I go to get away from my forty-room Sutton Place triplex. No, this is it. I support myself by writing. I do the 'Happy News' column for the
South Fork Sun
. I'm sure it's the high point of your week: weddings, babies, anniversaries. 'Penny and Randy Rollins of Amagansett's famed Wee Tippee Inne celebrated their nineteenth anniversary with a gala extravaganza—featuring Penny's world-famous fish chowder!' And I write copy for mail-order catalogs. Stuff like 'White swirls of rayon chiffon set aglow by luminescent faux-pearl buttons.' "
"You didn't resent Sy, that you had to give up screenwriting, give up all that high living for something ... less exciting?"
"Resent? A woman tends to resent a man who says, 'I don't desire you anymore.' " She looked away, embarrassed. Then she went on: "But that's on a personal level. Professionally, how could I resent him just because other people weren't hiring me as a screenwriter? That wasn't Sy's fault. Eight studios and fifty thousand independent producers rejected my scripts. They said they were sweet. Sweet is movie speak for insignificant. But in all those years I never doubted that Sy wished me well."
"Did you ever talk about anything beyond this new project?"
"Sure. Look, I know his friends, his family."
"Any brothers or sisters?"
"No. Just Sy. Both his parents died since the divorce. But he had aunts, uncles, lots of cousins. I knew them all; we went way back. When I met him, he was still publishing his poetry magazine and trying to get his first movie produced, and his office was still in the Spiegel Crown Kosher Provisions building."
"Spiegel?"
"Spiegel was his name originally: Seymour Spiegel." She shook her head. "He changed it the summer before he went to Dartmouth. I never understood why. I mean, what did he think he would say at graduation? "These are my parents, Helen and Morton Spiegel. Their name used to be Spencer, but they Judaicized it.' Or if he was going to change his name, why not go the whole route and call himself Bucky? I mean, Sy is not a quantum leap from Seymour."
Just then, Bonnie got stopped by some memory of Sy. Her eyes opened too wide, the expression people use when they're trying not to cry. She stood up and got busy sponging off what looked like a clean stove.
And then it happened again: the imposition of self-control, followed by the conscious shifting of the gears of her personality. When she turned around, she was composed—but with just the appropriate degree of concern. "Do you have any ideas about who killed him?" she asked. Sincere. Saddened. Full of sympathy. Full of crap.
"Do you?"
"No," she said. For a woman her age, she looked like she had a great body. I tried to figure out where I'd seen her before. Maybe running. She had the slim, muscular legs of a runner.
"Think back over the last few weeks. Was Sy angry at anybody?"
She leaned against the kitchen counter and smiled. "Everybody. When he was making a movie, anyone who gave him a hard time was an enemy. It was funny, because for all his charm he was aloof, and always in control. When we were married, we'd have fights where I'd yell, kick the refrigerator, and Sy would watch, like he was watching an actress doing an improvisation: Wife Losing Her Temper.
"But when he was producing—God, that was another story! Goodbye charm. And forget aloof. His money and his reputation were on the line. He never yelled—that wasn't his way—but he'd lace into people in this icy voice. It could really get scary—all that fury expressed in this absolutely cold manner. Let me tell you: he got his way."
"Was he angry at anyone the last time you talked?"
"Lindsay, I guess."
"But they were living together. They were supposed to be in love."
"Well, I've got to tell you: the love part is debatable. But even if they had been, this is the movie business. An executive producer doesn't love an actress who's jeopardizing a twenty-million-dollar project. Sy told me the dailies were awful, which really surprised me because her success isn't just based on blatant beauty; she's a talented actress."
"But you think Sy got disillusioned with her?"
"Sy had a gift for falling in and out of love pretty easily."
"Let's put love aside. Was he annoyed with her? Angry?"
"Furious. He said she was just coasting—not putting any thought or energy into the role because it wasn't an 'important film.' That
really
ticked Sy off, because it was an article of faith with him that any movie that's true, that moves audiences—even a screwball comedy—is an important film. He believed in
Starry Night
. And Lindsay didn't. What made the problem even worse was that she has such a monumental ego she couldn't see how flawed her performance was. And naturally, she wouldn't try to fix what she'd decided wasn't broken. Let me tell you, if he hadn't gotten killed, he would have made her life a living hell."
"So he was ready to steamroll Lindsay?"
"Yup. And the director too."
"What's his name?"
"Victor Santana."
"Why was he mad at him?"
"Because Santana had gone gaga over Lindsay and couldn't or wouldn't get her to change."
"Anyone else?"
"Oh, his usual hate list. The director of photography they'd hired—a French boy genius—was shooting too pastelly. The line producer was bellying up to NABET—the film technicians' union—too much. Sy was angry at
everyone
."
"Okay, then who of the movie people was seriously angry at Sy?"
"I don't know. I'm not part of the
Starry Night
company."
"How about Lindsay Keefe?"
"My guess is if you tell a critically acclaimed actress—a movie star—that her performance is putrid and then, no matter how many little adjustments she makes, that the dailies are still awful ... well, you figure it out. But even
I
wouldn't believe she'd shoot him because he criticized her work."
"Who else?"
"I don't know."
I looked her straight in the eye. "He was your ex-husband. He could talk to you."
"We didn't talk all that much."
"You talked enough. What else was on his mind?"
"He never really said anything specific."
"Tell me anyway."
"Well, I just want you to know this is my interpretation of what he
didn't
say."
"Go ahead."
"This is a very expensive movie for an independent production. I think maybe he was a little concerned that his backers were upset. The people who invested might have heard about trouble on the set, and they might have gotten anxious."
"Who were they?"
"Specifically? Beats me. I think a couple of them may have been from his days in the kosher meat business." She paused. "You know there are some rough people in that industry."
"Yeah, there's mob money in it."
"From the little Sy said, though, these guys didn't sound like out-and-out goons. More like businessmen in suits and ties, except with five-pound gold ID bracelets."
"Was that all? No one else with a grudge?"
"I'm pretty sure." I waited while she thought. "Nope," she said at last. "No one else. Definitely."
I stood and faced her. She lowered her head so I was looking down at her dark, shiny hair. Her breathing became quick, shallow. I knew I was getting to her. Not just the cop: the man.
"Bonnie, you're smart, observant. Sweet too, and I mean that as a compliment." She tried to look me in the eye—casual. But her face had flushed bright pink. "You're not being straight. I get the feeling you're holding back, and that concerns me."
"I'm not holding back anything." Just for an instant her voice caught in her throat.
I moved in closer. "You could help me solve a murder, Bonnie."
"I can't. Honestly. I've told you everything I know."
"Listen, if things were going lousy with Sy Spencer's movie, with Lindsay, who would he confide in? Who knows the business? Who knows him? You."
"Please. I've told you everything he told me."
"I've got to tell you: something about you doesn't feel right. What are you hiding?" She turned her head away from me. "Come on, do you want me to start thinking maybe you were involved?"
"Why would you think that?" She wasn't exactly scared, but she wasn't at ease either.
"Open up, Bonnie." I stepped toward her. She inched backward, until she was pressed against the sink. I moved in until we were almost touching. "Tell me what you're
not
talking about. Be smart. Because if I start to think you were involved, I'll go after you—and I won't stop."
I had a few minutes after Bonnie, so I drove down to the beach. I hadn't liked the way the interview had ended. A little official charm is one thing. That final minute, that simultaneous coming on to her and threatening her, was another. And I hadn't come on to her just for leverage; I'd really wanted to be close to her. I needed to clear my head.
Down at the beach, a stiff wind was whipping up the sand, blowing sharp, scratchy grains against my face and neck. Summer people were scuttling around, on the verge of hysteria. Nature was behaving badly. They closed their inside-out umbrellas, folded their chairs, picked up their coolers and rushed past me, back to their cars. There could be no grain of sand under gold spandex bikinis, or in eyes that had to be wide open for the next hostile takeover.
I took off my shoes, squatted down by the dunes near a patch of jointweed, pretty much out of the worst of the wind, and watched until all the