Read The Body in the Cast Online
Authors: Katherine Hall Page
The Body in the Cast (35 page)
She held her glass to the light and regarded the pale golden sparkling liquid intently. “These were supposed to be made from a mold of either Helen of Troy's breast or Marie Antoinette's. I've always favored the latter legend.” Faith pronounced the last two words very distinctly. “Helen was more of a mead drinker, I'd say. Marie probably had champagne coming out of the taps of her bath.”
Charley thought the whole thing was very funny. “I never thought I'd been sitting in the Town Hall's basement listening to a slightly tiddley minister's wife tell stories about historic bosoms.”
“Life is like that,” Faith said solemnly. “I never thought I'd be locked up in a burning trailer by a crazed, Oscar-wielding murderess. I've been saying to Tom ever since this thing started that it was getting pretty hard to draw the line between art and reality. If you filmed all this, Siskel and Ebert would definitely turn their thumbs down.” Faith demonstrated with hers after carefully placing her glass on the counter. “Two thumbs down. Totally implausible.”
“I agree.” Charley was infinitely more sober than Faith but was having just as good a time. “Still, it is an amazing coincidence that Reed was filming a movie all about jealousy and meanwhile another story with the same theme was going on right in front of all our noses.”
Faith had been right all along with her theory, she thought to herself. She'd simply miscast.
“You are so insightful, Charley.” Faith was impressed. “Professional jealousy and sexual jealousyâa real double whammy.”
“I'm going to escort you home now, Mrs. Fairchild, before you start seeing double. The night air will do us both good.”
“Good. That reminds me. I was good, wasn't I? Admit it. You and John were stumped.”
“You were not good. You held out on usâbut yes, we were stumped.”
“Thought so.” Faith smiled. She knew her feeling of well-being was not due to the moderate amount of champers she'd imbibed. It was because Penny had won, Evelyn been caught, Have Faith's black bean soup forever vindicated, and her current job over. Max was going to shoot the rest of the movie in California, making even further alterations in the story line to account for Hester's abrupt disappearance. Faith would be able to become reacquainted with her family. She had a great deal of quality time to make up.
But what was really making her want to crow out loud into the quiet of the night as she and Charley walked past the sleeping houses along Aleford's green was the realization she was getting better and better at this detection business. Not that she was going to go around searching for bodies, yet if another one happened to come her way â¦
“What are you looking so darned pleased about?” Charley asked. “No, wait, I don't want to know, do I?”
“Probably not,” Faith Sibley Fairchild concurred. “Probably not.”
It wasn't foggy. It wasn't an airport. It wasn't Casablanca. But she took Charley's arm, anyway.
If sages were ever wise in their own behoof, I might have foreseen all this.
Alan Morris had been to more Academy Award ceremonies than he cared to remember, and mostly they were a bore. The real action was at the parties afterward. He'd start at Swifty Lazar's and go on from there, depending on his moodâand who had won. A lot of business took place at those parties once it had been established on worldwide television who was in, who was out; who was hot, who was not.
He hated the whole idea of getting all dressed up so early in the day before the sun went down. It felt unnatural. He'd decided to get his own limo for the drive to the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. He hadn't felt like riding in Max's or the producers', and now he was sorry. First, he had to listen to the driver tell him that he'd never driven a loser, the same thing the guy said to every occupant every year. Then he had to face the prospect of stepping out alone in front of a huge throng expecting Richard Gereâor Cappy Camson.
It was taking forever. They had only moved an inch or two
in the last fifteen minutes. L.A. was one vast acreage of stretch chrome.
in the last fifteen minutes. L.A. was one vast acreage of stretch chrome.
He might not be famous, but at least his tux was perfect. Made to measure last time he was in London. It fit him like a glove. When he finally arrived, the thought cheered him enough to see him through the shrieking crowds. Shrieking crowds for the stars to the front and rear of him. “Who's that?” he heard one woman ask her friend as he walked past. “Nobody,” was the firm answer. Army Archerd, the outdoor master of ceremonies, was introducing gorgeous Geena Davis, who had on a pretty crazy dress. Neither of them noticed him, either.
He found his seat. Max and the rest of them weren't here yet. “Nobody.” He was getting just a little bit tired of being “Nobody.” Of being ever so slightly in the shadow. One that was never angry. Never tired. Never without a solution. Never without the right word.
Last spring had pushed him to his limit. He'd watched Evelyn spinning further and further out of control. Max was always out of control when he was filming a movie. Living each film twenty-four hours a day. It was clear from the first moment in that hick townâwhat was it called? Aleford. Yeah, from the first moment on the set, he'd known that a whole lot of things were not going to work. Sandra, Evelyn, Caresse Carroll. But Max hadn't wanted to hear about it. Not then. Not later. He had had his plans. Nothing else had mattered. Not even life or death. The film came first.
And maybe it would today. Come first. Best Picture, Best Director, Best Screenplay, Cappy and Max both nominated for Best Actor. They'd be competing against each other. Evelyn had not been nominated for Best Actress. There had been no hushing up what had happened inâAleford. Why did he keep blocking on the name? He knew why. So, no more Oscars for Evelyn. No more anything for Evelynâsave a nice padded cell or whatever the equivalent was these days. Caresse was nominated for Best Supporting Actress, though. People were calling
her the next Brooke Shields. Marta should have been nominated. And they said these weren't a popularity contest. But maybe Caresse deserved it. She'd given a hell of a performance after Max rewrote the thing and had her acting as Hester in all those flashbacks to England. Chillingworth watching the child blossom, biding his time. The lust on Max's face was both pathetic and obscene. Maybe he deserved the award.
her the next Brooke Shields. Marta should have been nominated. And they said these weren't a popularity contest. But maybe Caresse deserved it. She'd given a hell of a performance after Max rewrote the thing and had her acting as Hester in all those flashbacks to England. Chillingworth watching the child blossom, biding his time. The lust on Max's face was both pathetic and obscene. Maybe he deserved the award.
A had been a huge box-office success. The publicity surrounding the murders, as well as the big names, had attracted record-breaking audiences. The film had legs like a centipede and the producers were dancing all the way to the bank.
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Here they were. Act normal, Alan old boy. You've been doing this for years. Nobody has to know how much you hate them. Hate all of them. What was it Max was always quoting from Hawthorneâsomething about in the end love and hate being the same thing? Love and hate. Then there was that other quotation. Max worked it into the script: “No man, for any considerable period, can wear one face to himself, and another to the multitude, without finally getting bewildered as to which may be the true.”
Alan put on a face. He couldn't slip tonight, of all nights. He'd been doing it so long, so well. He was sure he could keep it up. For one more night. He put out his hand to Max, who shook it vigorously and slapped him on the shoulder.
“Great to see you, Alan. Have a good vacation?” Max was clearly uncomfortable in his tuxedo and even more clearly nervous about the awards. His forehead was already sweating slightly. “Why do they always keep this place so damned hot?”
Marta was next to him. She took a handkerchief from her purse and handed it to him. She looked terrific in a beautifully cut tuxedo with a skirt slit up the side instead of pants. Her hair was piled up on top of her head. Caresse and her mother were on the other side of Marta.
“When are they going to get started?” Caresse whined. She was not happy at Max's insistence she wear a duplicate of the
film's dumb red velvet dress he'd had made for her. She thought it made her look like a baby.
film's dumb red velvet dress he'd had made for her. She thought it made her look like a baby.
Her mother smiled nervously. The rows behind and in front of them were filling up. People could hearâthe ones who didn't have their cellular phones glued to their ears, that is.
“Any moment, darling. And your category will be early!”
“I told you not to mention it!” Caresse wanted the award so badly, she had barely been able to concentrate on anything else since the nominations had been announced. She'd told her mother not to talk about it to her. She didn't want anything to jinx her chances.
Jacqueline flushed. Max had been urging her to take a firmer hand with her daughter. She'd agreed. She'd agree to anything the man said, she realized. When he'd taken off those ridiculously thick glasses the first time they'd made love and looked at her with his persuasive blue eyes, she just said, “Yes”âand “Yes” again.
There was an empty seat beside Max. Alan had left it for Cappy. He knew the game. The star arrived next. The producers, Kit Murphy and Arnold Rose, after that, and then they were all there.
All except Evelyn.
Billy Crystal strolled onstage to wild applause. These things had improved since he'd started hosting them, Alan thought to himself. Crystal told a few jokes he wouldn't tell on-camera and then they were off and rolling.
Caresse didn't win. The Oscar went to a legend, who had unaccountably never won the award before, for an admittedly lackluster cameo in a disaster film. The Academy was nothing if not sentimental.
“That old hag,” Caresse fumed.
“Shut up,” her mother whispered in her ear. “You're on-camera!”
Caresse shut up and smiled. A gallant little trouper, the press would say.
Next time. Next time. Next time, she chanted to herself.
It was late and they were getting to the good stuff. Alan didn't know whether he wanted the picture to win or not.
It was time to announce Best Actor and a clip from each film was being shown. There was Cappy, much bigger than life, in his final scene. Max had constructed a platform just like the scaffold on the village green and set it in the middle of a busy downtown L.A. intersection. He had Cappy make Dimmesdale's final confession to a crowd of commutersâEveryman and Everywoman, Max had called them. At the climax, Cappy rips open his shirt, showing his gorgeous chest, which the director had agreed to oil a little, with a hideous, scab-encrusted letter A carved over his heart. It was always one of those “Ooooh” moments in theaters across the country. The audience at Dorothy Chandler didn't “ooh.” Most of them had seen it before, but they clapped loudly. Cappy didn't have too many enemies.
I wonder if he was in Evelyn's pants? Alan thought as the two presenters played cutesy games with the envelope. Max thought so; he could barely tolerate working with the guy. Evelyn must have told Max. She liked doing things like that.
“And the winner is: Caleb Camson!”
Max and Cappy hugged like blood brothers. Up on the stage, Cappy captured a few more million hearts with his self-deprecating ways. He thanked his parents, Max, the producers, on and on, even Alan. Then he paused. “And I'd like to take a moment to remember someone who is not with us tonight ⦠.”
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“Evelyn, of course. I wish he'd said something about Sandra Wilson. I'm sure the studio never had a service for her, either. Then there's poor Corny. I'll bet Max has completely forgotten about her. She told me she'd invited him to the wedding and didn't hear from him. Alan Morris called to say Max couldn't make it. I wonder what he sent for a present?”
Cornelia Stuyvesant's family had taken a dim view of an industry in which employees were rendered unconscious by
trophy-armed lunatics, and they'd whisked young Cornelia straight from the hospital to Bermuda. Not at all coincidentally, the eminently eligible son of dear friends happened to be sailing there. It was love at first tack, and if Cornelia was watching tonight's hoopla, it was on a wide-screen TV in Connecticut.
trophy-armed lunatics, and they'd whisked young Cornelia straight from the hospital to Bermuda. Not at all coincidentally, the eminently eligible son of dear friends happened to be sailing there. It was love at first tack, and if Cornelia was watching tonight's hoopla, it was on a wide-screen TV in Connecticut.
“Oh, come on, after the commercial, it's going to be Best Picture. You can't not watch!” Tom was reading Larry Bird's
Drive: The Story of My Life.
Drive: The Story of My Life.
“Yes, I can or can't. Whichever means I'd rather read my book.” Tom had been ready to go to sleep an hour ago and had trouble understanding why Faith was so insistent on watching the rest of the tedious show. “You can find out tomorrow,” he'd said.
“It's not the same. Besides, I like to see what people are wearing,” she'd replied. And here they were, still up in front of the tube.
“All right, if it means so much to you.” He put the book away and slung his arm around his wife's shoulders. “At least can we neck?”
“After, I promise.”
“That's what all the girls say.”
“Sssh, here it is.”
A few minutes earlier, the screen had been split to show the reactions of the nominees for Best Director. Along with viewers all over the globe, the Fairchilds were able to catch Max's joy at winning. Now the screen was divided again. Max was holding Marta's hand.
“I'm sure it's going to get Best Picture, since Max got Best Director,” Faith told her uninterested husband.
“Millicent never had any doubts. You could have trusted her and we'd be in bed by now.”
Much of Aleford had been quietly taking credit for the picture's success during the last months. It had been tacitly assumed that of course their movie would win. And Aleford was right.
Max's acceptance speech was brief. He opened by saying, “There is someone who should be on this stage with me, and if I didn't think Billy would kill me for getting us off schedule, I'd have him up here.”
“Him?” Faith said. “I thought it was going to be Evelyn again. Oh, I know, he's going to thank Nathaniel Hawthorne.”
“I'm sure Nate would have appreciated that,” Tom said sardonically. “And, by the way, would you mind telling me how Hawthorne would join Max onstage?”
“Sssh! I can't hear what he's saying!”
“He's my right hand.” Max flung his whole arm out dramatically. “Maybe even the right side of my brain. All I know is, this picture could never have been made without him. Alan Morris, my assistant director.”
Alan was floored. Cappy jabbed him to stand up and he did, bowing slightly as the audience applauded wildly. For him. Maybe just one more picture with Max. Love and hate.
Clutching this best of all Oscars, Maxwell Reed closed by acknowledging the townâas was only fair.
“Some of those watching know that we went through a few tough times on this film and the good folks of Aleford, Massachusetts, were there for us. I'd like to thank them for their generous help and for providing the perfect landscapes.” He chuckled and waited for the slight laughter to die down. “The individual people are too numerous to mention.”
The camera was panning along the faces of A's cast as Max spoke these last words. Alan Morris had tears in his eyes. Cappy looked relieved. Caresse smiled her famous smile. Jacqueline had moistened her lips. It lingered on Marta, who looked directly into the lensâdirectly at Faith.
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