Done to Death Page 5

  ‘Rachel?’

  ‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They wouldn’t tell me in the hospital. I pulled it up on the browser.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Half way to Shiloh.’

  ‘Are you going to be OK?’

  ‘You mean am I going to do some slicing and dicing?’

  ‘Yeah, that. Or jump off a cliff, or do the suicide slushy.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Did Dr Ebert show up?’

  ‘Yeah, he got me out. He was pretty pissed … I can’t blame him. Did she know?’

  Richard paused, picturing his beautiful nineteen-year-old sister whose outsides had nothing to do with the pain and chaos she felt inside. Rachel was a twisted human puzzle. She could be explained, but the trouble was finding the key … ‘She knew,’ he said. ‘I called her from the hospital … and right after—’

  ‘So she knew?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Good. You know she really loved you, Richard?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘You’re lucky. ’Cause she couldn’t stand me.’

  ‘That’s not true, Rachel.’

  ‘Yeah, it is. But it’s OK, maybe I’ll be better with her dead. Course she’s still in my head. I was asking Ebert about electric shock. Maybe they could just zap her out.’

  ‘I don’t think it works that way.’

  ‘Probably right. You seem to know these things. I doubt they’d let me have it now, anyway.’

  Richard felt a familiar twinge; he and Rachel and Mom all knew how to trip each other’s strings. She was holding something back and wanted him to go for it. ‘Just tell me.’

  ‘You mean they didn’t say anything? They didn’t tell you?’

  Great, he thought, another ‘they’. He said nothing, knowing she’d blurt whatever it was.

  There was a long silence. ‘I’m pregnant. And I’m keeping this one.’

  There was a knock at the family room door. He looked up. Rachel’s pronouncement rang in his ear, and sent a rush of terror down his spine. Mom dead, teenage sister knocked up, what now?

  The door opened and a woman in a dark suit entered. ‘Mr Parks?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m Detective Murphy.’ She held out her shield. ‘I’m very sorry about your mother. I was hoping to ask you some questions.’

  ‘Sure,’ he said. Still holding the phone to his ear: ‘Rachel, we’ll talk later.’

  ‘You’ll come to Shiloh?’

  ‘As soon as I can.’ Richard knew his sister well. Although how she’d process Mom’s death was a wild card. She was probably upset about not being able to drop her pregnancy bombshell. Fear clutched his throat, as he suspected there was more. Knowing Rachel, the father would turn out to be a doozy, someone especially selected to enrage Mom.

  ‘So what do you think?’ Rachel asked.

  ‘About what you just told me?’ He felt the detective’s eyes on him and wanted to end this call. Of course, hanging up on his sister was not something he’d ever do lightly.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Congratulations, if it’s what you want.’

  ‘It is. It really is. I’ll give this baby everything she never gave me.’

  ‘I got to go, Rachel.’

  ‘Be careful, Richard. You’re the heir. They’re going to think you did it.’

  He looked across at the detective with her sensible shoulder length haircut, minimal make-up and gold stud earrings. ‘Bye … I love you.’

  ‘Love you too.’

  He hung up the phone as the detective sank into the chair across from him. She pulled a form from a briefcase. ‘I’d like to record this,’ she said, sliding the document toward him with her pen.

  Richard thought of his mom and her famous tag line: ‘Lenore says …’ He looked at the form and the detective’s dark eyes that were fixed on him. Lenore says … be careful. Be very very careful.

  SEVEN

  Barry could not believe his luck. He stared at the duo from Connecticut. This was like hitting the reality show lotto. Even Lenore, who was stingy with praise, would have been thrilled. ‘Say that again.’ Barry stared at Ada. The woman was gorgeous − yes, older and adorably short, which wouldn’t matter on TV, but those eyes, her pointed chin and pixie hair … and the things that popped unscripted from her mouth. People would trust her, confide in her. She seemed fit, quick, had a wicked sense of humor, and something else. The ‘it’ factor that could only be assessed with a test.

  ‘I don’t think it’s been done before,’ Ada said. ‘It’s gruesome, but let’s face it: the entire antiques industry is predicated on things passing from owner to owner. You could call it Final Reckoning. Or … At the End of the Day … Final Tally. Cashing Out.’

  ‘OMG,’ Melanie whispered. ‘Final Reckoning. That could really work.’

  ‘So a few years back,’ Ada continued, ‘our friend Evie died and named me her executrix. Just for general information, if you want to make someone’s life a living hell, make them your executor. Anyway, she had good things, lots of antiques worth from a few hundred to several thousand dollars and, as it turned out, an American Impressionist painting by Childe Hassam that sold at auction for nearly two million.’

  ‘I can so see this,’ Barry said, as he studied the subtle movements in Ada’s face. How she used her eyes, the charming way her brow arched when she was amused, the sly curve of her lips. He knew he wasn’t alone, as his team of young and talented writers − all of whom, with the exception of Carrie, had followed him from California − hung on Ada’s every word. She was that rarest of people, unaffected, at home in her skin, a natural storyteller. ‘Heirs hungry to get what’s coming to them.’

  ‘Fights over the good stuff,’ ginger-haired David added.

  ‘Sibling rivalries,’ Melanie said. ‘“Mom wanted me to have that. No she didn’t. Yes she did.”’

  ‘Tell them about the dealers,’ Lil prompted.

  ‘This is where I think you could have a winner,’ Ada said. ‘In order to keep everything on the up and up, we had a series of antique dealers come in to appraise Evie’s estate and give us quotes. The numbers were all over the place. As it turned out, two of the three dealers ended up murdered, and the third deliberately undervalued the two million dollar painting … by one and a half million dollars.’

  ‘I remember this,’ Melanie said. ‘It was this bizarre series of murders in small-town Connecticut. The guy responsible ended up killing himself.’

  ‘Yup,’ Ada said. ‘He wanted revenge against the antique dealers and an auctioneer who’d ripped off his mother. She had Alzheimer’s and a house full of priceless eighteenth-century antiques. The whole thing was sad and sordid. Lil and I were there – I mean literally – as he burned his house and everything in it to the ground. I’m surprised it’s not been made into a movie.’

  ‘This is too perfect,’ Barry said. ‘I can’t believe it’s not been done before. So like this, every week a fresh estate and a cast of dealers who come in, appraise it and try to get the heirs to have them liquidate. We can focus on the family, highlight a few prized possessions and, at the end, give the final total and who got what. And the Final Reckoning is … drum roll. It’s fucking brilliant!’ He stopped and stared at Ada. ‘Forgive my language. But you … Where have you been all my life?’

  ‘We have to test her,’ Melanie said. ‘She’s even dressed for it. I mean really, vintage Chanel. That couldn’t be more perfect. That could be her thing.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Barry said. ‘It’s what I thought even over the phone. Ada Strauss, I think you could be a star.’

  Ada looked around the room. All eyes on her. Lil twined their fingers together under the table. ‘You people are deluded,’ Ada said.

  ‘So true,’ Barry said. ‘Melanie, set up a test … like now. Just have her talk about liquidating Evie’s estate. Then get back up here. It’s going to be an all-nighter.’ />
  Melanie gave Barry an excited smile, and then paused.

  ‘I know,’ he said, and turned toward the rest of his team. ‘But what else can we do? If it turns out that this is all for nothing and LPP ends with Lenore, then at least we went down fighting. Right?’

  Heads nodded in agreement.

  ‘Good,’ Barry said. ‘Honestly … worst case scenario, we keep this under our hats, but if LPP doesn’t green-light this, we’ll shop it around. Because this is fucking gold.’

  An hour later, Lil stood back as Ada was fussed over by a hairdresser, James, and make-up woman, Gretchen. ‘Not too much,’ Melanie cautioned. ‘I like the crow’s feet.’

  ‘That makes one of us,’ Ada quipped.

  ‘You’re gorgeous the way you are,’ Melanie gushed. ‘People are going to want you in their home.’

  Ada caught Lil’s eye and gave a questioning nod.

  Lil shrugged. ‘I’d have to agree.’

  ‘Fuller on the lip,’ Melanie instructed.

  ‘Melanie,’ Ada said, as Gretchen, the make-up artist, ran a sable brush over her cheeks. ‘This all seems strange.’

  ‘Does it? How so?’

  Ada looked at the pretty young woman with her sparkling eyes, glossy short hair and flower-and-vine tattoos on her toned arms and, she suspected, in other places as well. ‘Your boss, the head of this corporation, was murdered a few hours ago, and we’re down here doing …’

  ‘A screen test,’ Melanie said. ‘I know what you’re saying. But this is show business. Lenore would be the first to say − the show goes on. Let’s face it, you stop and you’re history. You’re only one good idea from the unemployment line. The pressure is unreal. And then, people steal your ideas, or you find out someone beat you to it. Just saying Final Reckoning in that meeting and coming up with this idea …’ She lowered her voice, as though scared they’d be overheard. ‘It’s gruesome and it’s gold, and Barry is smart enough to know it. While we’re down here he’s checking with legal to see if we’re the first to stake this claim. I’m sure he’s also …’

  ‘Also what?’ Ada prompted.

  Melanie looked at Ada and then to Lil, who was standing back in the shadows. ‘I shouldn’t say … I mean I don’t know.’

  Ada chuckled. ‘It’s OK dear, I’ve been around the block. Not this particular block, but I have the sense − and I couldn’t say why − that Mr Stromstein wants to make sure I don’t turn around and steal the idea … that I came up with.’

  ‘It’s not that,’ Melanie stammered.

  Ada fixed her with a look in the mirror.

  ‘Not just that. He’s getting legal to draw up a contract for you.’

  ‘Based on a phone call and a meeting, and a contract for what?’

  Melanie smiled. ‘I don’t think he knows for certain. He’ll cover his bases.’ She glanced at Gretchen and then at James, who was deftly teasing and spraying Ada’s bright silver locks into artful curls and spikes.

  ‘It all sounds a bit desperate,’ Ada said.

  Melanie stood back and looked at her, the blue Chanel protected from the make-up and hair products by a black polyvinyl cape. ‘It is,’ she admitted. ‘But … it’s not all that. I mean sure, that’s the downside, but—’

  Lil spoke, completing the woman’s sentence, ‘But what if you hit the jackpot? What if you’re responsible for the next big thing?’

  Melanie beamed. ‘Yes. This could be huge.’

  Ada stared into the mirror as the hairdresser stepped back and the make-up artist pulled off the plastic cape. Ada, who knew her way around the make-up aisle, was speechless. Lil was at her side and the two of them stared into the glass. ‘Who is that woman?’ Ada asked, looking at her reflection. Her short silver hair artfully spiked and curled, her skin flawless, her eyes lightly framed with smoky gray shadow that made them even more luminous.

  Lil looked from the mirror to Ada. ‘No offense – and you know I love you – could you always do this?’

  ‘What did you do?’ Ada asked.

  Gretchen smiled. ‘TV magic. The key is the foundation. And don’t worry, it won’t mess up your skin. It’s my own mix and it’s loaded with jojoba oil − won’t clog the pores.’

  ‘I have no pores,’ Ada remarked. She tilted her face, checking the artist’s subtle efforts. Her firm jaw and pointed chin given extra contour, her cheekbones accentuated. Her only jewelry a pair of creamy pearl earrings.

  Melanie beamed. ‘You look awesome! From here we’d head to wardrobe, but that suit … it’s perfect. This could be your thing, high-end vintage. The only thing it needs—’

  ‘I know,’ Ada said. ‘Pearls. I was going to wear them, but figured we didn’t know where we were going and I’d been a New Yorker for enough years not to want to risk it.’

  Melanie looked at Gretchen. ‘Any chance Peggy’s still here?’

  Gretchen looked down.

  ‘Shit,’ Melanie said. ‘I keep forgetting.’

  ‘Who’s Peggy?’ Lil asked.

  ‘Head of wardrobe … and Lenore’s dresser for more years than any of us have been here.’ Melanie looked at Gretchen. ‘How bad is she taking it?’

  ‘I think she’s in shock.’ Gretchen looked at Ada. ‘She’s the one who found her. Lenore was apparently still alive, but just. Peggy’s the one who called nine one one.’ She turned to Melanie. ‘And we all know how Peggy felt about Lenore.’

  ‘The poor thing,’ Melanie said. She shook her head. ‘Well, so much for pearls. Ada, it’s time to get you in front of the camera.’ She pulled out her cell. ‘Jason, is Studio C set? Yeah, at least two, preferably three cameras. Great. Like we’re doing it for real.’

  EIGHT

  Barry looked around the LPP penthouse conference room. They’d all gotten the memo signed by the executive team and Richard Parks. The line under Lenore’s son’s name – ‘acting director and CEO, LPP’ − answered one question, and raised more.

  They were seated three to a table and there was not an empty place; extra tables and chairs had been added. He nodded at fellow producers, putting names to faces and taking note of which ones currently had shows, and of those, which were hits and which were headed toward the chopping block. Of course the biggest question was: come tomorrow, do any of us still have jobs? Lenore’s death was a game changer. The central premise of this corporation was Lenore, her style, her personality, which on video was warm, engaging and gave her audience the absolute assurance that they too could master whatever it was they set out to do.

  It was nine p.m., barely nine hours since Lenore was shot. They were all there, even the west coast producers and show runners for the scripted dramas LPP had developed over the past few years. The memo had been brief and carefully crafted.

  To all LPP management:

  Topic: Interim Planning

  In this time of grief and transition, we will be holding the first of a series of meetings to review changes to the LPP structure. While attendance is not mandatory, your presence, and input as we move forward, are greatly appreciated.

  It had been signed by the three people seated on the raised platform at the front. In the center − Lenore’s seat − was Richard Parks, every dark hair in place, his navy suit making him look a decade older than his actual twenty-two. To his right was Patricia (Patty) Corcoran, LPP’s Chief Financial Officer, her hair bright blond and cropped above the collar of her white button-down blouse, her black suit as stiff as armor. On Richard’s left sat Garston Green, the Chief Operating Officer, also in black with a tie the color of fresh blood and recent hair plugs made obvious in the harsh glare of the overheads. They were Lenore’s inner circle.

  Richard tapped his microphone. ‘Thank you for coming. And thank you for the outpouring of condolences. My mother’ – he gripped the edge of the table – ‘was a great lady, and if it seems callous to do this so soon after her death … anyone who truly knew her would know this is what she would want. We … LPP … all of us, we are her legacy. The future and health
of this corporation now rests in our hands.

  ‘As most in this room are aware, the ongoing and unprecedented transformation of the entertainment industry has created tremendous opportunities, as well as a contraction in traditional media that shows little sign of stopping. At this time—’ his throat constricted. Patty Corcoran poured a glass of water and passed it to him. ‘At this sad time, we are faced with harsh realities. As LPP’s executive team, we must move forward with an aggressive corporate restructuring. While plans for this have been under way for some time, my mother’s … death, necessitates advancing the time frame.’

  Barry’s anxiety spiked. He wasn’t alone. ‘Restructuring’ was a euphemism for ‘heads will roll’. Lenore’s death was no reprieve and, as he’d feared, loss of the company’s major asset − the bitch herself − could cost him his job. Listening to her son Richard, it seemed things had gone from bad to worse. Barry knew that without a show − a hit show − his fifteen thousand a week salary and those of his team were a three million dollar annual drain on the corporate coffers. Lenore couldn’t have been clearer: produce … or get out. The ax would fall swift and certain. Barry tried not to panic, but what was he supposed to do at thirty-eight? Pack up his family and head back to LA? Back to the shark tank of the younger and more desperate? Or try to stick it out in New York, going from pitch meeting to pitch meeting, where he’d get warm smiles and vague promises and nothing that would pay the rent. Or worse, see ideas he’d thrown on the table worked into someone else’s show. His pulse raced, and glancing about he knew that every producer in that room − his competition − was thinking the same thing.

  His only hope, as Richard Parks went on about his mother’s plans to increase the use of ‘outside contractors’, was the incredible footage of Ada Strauss in vintage Chanel making antiques and murder in the Connecticut countryside sound charming and funny. Even the title she’d thrown out − Final Reckoning. It has legs, he thought.

  As Patty Corcoran laid out the grim financials, Barry was left with little illusion. If he didn’t get something green-lit fast, he’d be out of a job. It wasn’t just a question of Final Reckoning having legs, but of legs that could hit the ground running.