Killer Ratings: A Susan Kaplan Mystery Page 3

  “Thank you,” I stammered. “Charles, thanks so much!”

  Charles smiled vaguely, returning to the pages of his own script, dismissing me. But I hesitated, risking his annoyance in order to unburden myself.

  “Did Rebecca tell you about the note she received?”

  Charles barely looked up from the script. “What note?”

  “Well, it was kind of a death threat and had a dead cockroach scotch-taped to it.”

  I had Charles’s full attention. “When was this?” he asked.

  “Right after lunch. You didn’t hear her screaming?”

  Flimsy wood walls divided the secretaries’ bullpen from the writers’ and producers’ offices. Everyone could usually hear everyone else’s conversations especially if those conversations were loud enough.

  But Charles shook his head. “I just got back from lunch five minutes ago.”

  “Oh.” There was a moment of silence between us.

  “What did the note say?” Charles asked. He didn’t seem all that concerned about Rebecca receiving a death threat. Maybe it wasn’t as big a deal as I—or Rebecca—thought it was.

  “You know, it was a ‘roses are red, violets are blue’ kind of thing. ‘I’m dead and so are you.’ Something like that. And then there was the squashed cockroach.” I made a face in disgust.

  Charles, oddly enough, smiled, seemingly amused by the news. “And I suppose Rebecca handled it in her usual unflappable manner.”

  “She thought I sent it.” My fists clenched at the memory.

  “I wouldn’t worry about it.” Charles seemed to choose his next words carefully. “Rebecca enjoys attracting attention to herself.”

  His lips curled, and I realized Charles didn’t like Rebecca.

  I felt relief—as if his dislike gave my own feelings of antipathy more credibility.

  “Rebecca said she’d fire me if I didn’t find out who sent the letter.”

  Charles sighed, reaching for a tin of tobacco on his desk, then pausing, as if remembering the no smoking ban in the workplace. I wouldn’t have minded if he had lit his pipe. The smell of pipe tobacco always conjured up memories of my travel agent grandfather, sitting in his Barc-a-lounger by the front window of his and my grandmom’s condo in West Palm Beach, chewing on his pipe stem and booking imaginary vacations to exotic ports of call that he never got to visit himself. He had been dead for three years and I still missed him.

  “This show attracts a lot of crazies,” Charles said. “They usually write letters to the actors. But some of them focus on the producers. I’ve gotten a few letters myself. If you want, I’ll talk to her.”

  “No, it’s okay.” I could tell he didn’t want to get involved, and I didn’t want to lose his support of my script. “I can handle it.” At least I would try.

  Charles returned to his script. “Good.”

  As I was about to leave his office he added, “If Ray feels the way I do about your script, Susan, you won’t have to worry about Rebecca too much longer.”

  Wow. I mean wow. Was it really going to be this easy? I move to L.A., find a job in TV, get my script read, and then become a writer! But yet, it was not that easy. For example, if Rebecca found out, would she really let that happen? Was she despicable enough to concoct phony evidence that I sent her the death threat just to ensure I was never hired as a writer?

  Jennifer sat typing at her computer as I made my way back to the bullpen that was our shared office. She looked at my grim face in dismay.

  “He didn’t like it?”

  “He loved it,” I said.

  “I knew it!” She grinned in triumph, her forest green fingernails flying over the keyboard. They matched her Stella McCartney blazer-and-shorts outfit. I didn’t know what to marvel at more: Jennifer’s ability to type with those Fu Manchu-like nails or the fact that, although only in her late twenties, she could afford designer clothes on an assistant’s salary.

  “He’s giving it to Ray,” I said. “I might get an assignment.”

  Jennifer whooped then asked, “So why the long face?”

  I glanced at the wall of Rebecca’s office and leaned in, murmuring, “Rebecca.”

  “Screw her,” she said. “You’re on your way, kiddo. I’m calling Charles’s agent and telling him he has to represent you.”

  I stared at her, speechless for the second time that day. In spite of her Baywatch looks, Jennifer was proving to be a terrific new friend.

  Sandy strolled into the bullpen. “I heard festive noises. Is there good news to share?”

  “Charles loved Susan’s script,” Jennifer said, blowing blond bangs off her forehead. “I’m gonna get Susan his agent.”

  “See?” said Sandy, smiling at me, revealing her crooked teeth. “This didn’t turn out to be such a wretched day after all.”

  Rebecca stepped out of her office and entered the fluorescent-lit, windowless room. “What’s going on? I could use some good news.” A lit cigarette dangled from two fingers, and she acted as if she had never accused me of writing her a death threat.

  “Charles thinks your letter is from a crazed fan. He says it’s nothing to worry about.” I said this quickly, not wanting her to know the real reason for our lifted spirits.

  Rebecca stared at me, the smoke from her cigarette curling up to the ceiling. Jennifer coughed, making a show of blowing smoke away.

  Rebecca stubbed the cigarette against the wall. “Maybe.” I could tell she wasn’t convinced.

  “Peggy said Charles was looking for you,” she added. “Was it about the letter?”

  I wanted to tell her to mind her own business, but while I was thinking of a tactful way to say it, Jennifer jumped in.

  “Charles likes Susan’s script,” she said.

  Oh, Jennifer. No.

  I held my breath as I watched Rebecca struggle with the news, a flash of—could it be?—vulnerability in her face. “How nice,” she said, in a falsely-pleased voice. “I hadn’t known you gave it to him. Was it for our show?”

  “No, for Dress Blue,” I said reluctantly.

  “Then I’m not surprised Charles liked it. Since he doesn’t know Dress Blue as well as Babbitt & Brooks, I’m sure he wasn’t as harsh a critic.”

  Ouch.

  “It’s a terrific script,” Jennifer said. “Susan’s a good writer no matter what she writes.” I smiled at her, although I wasn’t sure I forgave her for opening this can of worms in the first place.

  “I’m sure that’s true,” said Rebecca, turning her laser beam gaze on Jennifer. “You gave the script to Charles?”

  Jennifer nodded. “This show needs good writers.”

  “Of course it does,” Rebecca said. “But you can’t bother the producers every time you want a spec script read.”

  “Charles is my boss. He’s always looking for fresh talent. I wasn’t bothering him. Especially since he likes Susan’s script.”

  Rebecca looked at the stubbed cigarette then closed her hand over it. “If you want to recommend your friends, go through me first. I’ll decide who should be passed on and who shouldn’t.”

  “I don’t work for you.”

  I admired Jennifer’s guts but knew she was fighting a losing battle. I braced myself for Rebecca’s “television production is teamwork” speech. Instead, she smiled, dropping her cigarette on the carpeted floor.

  “You will, starting tomorrow. When I become co-producer.”

  So much for keeping secrets. I watched Jennifer for her reaction, but she didn’t seem all that surprised.

  “It’s not official until tomorrow,” Sandy spoke up. I had forgotten she was there. Sandy had stepped out of Rebecca’s eye line when Rebecca first entered the room, plastering herself against the thin plywood wall. As all attention turned to her she stopped pulling at her upper lip, looking self-conscious.

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Rebecca, unable to keep the satisfaction out of her voice. “It still puts me in charge of the three of you. You have any problems, complaints
, you come to me. Call me if you’re sick, if your car breaks down on the freeway, if you’re coming in late. Starting next week, I’m putting you all on a schedule. Who comes in early. Who stays late. And don’t go running to Ray about this,” she added, anticipating Jennifer’s protest. “Like I already told you, I’ve discussed it with him, and he’s agreed with me.”

  “But Charles hasn’t,” Jennifer said, standing up so that she and Rebecca were eye-to-eye. “Why don’t I talk to him about it?” She started to move out of the bullpen.

  “Wait.”

  Jennifer paused. Rebecca licked her lips. I looked at Sandy who nodded. We both saw it. The fear was back. “Tomorrow,” Rebecca said. “This will all be straightened out tomorrow.”

  Ray wasn’t the only one who wanted the writers to cool their heels overnight. But Rebecca had been so busy lording it over Sandy, Jennifer, and me, she had forgotten the more serious implications of announcing her promotion early. Normally, I would enjoy watching her swing in the breeze but that flash of vulnerability earlier—and the fear now—made me wonder what was really driving her anger.

  Jennifer stared grimly at Rebecca. “I don’t think so,” she said. “I think we’ll straighten this out now.” She turned her back on Rebecca and marched toward Charles’s office.

  Rebecca took a step after her, almost as if she was going to follow her or try to stop her. But then she stopped. Licked her lips again. As she turned back to her office her glance fell on me, and I watched her regain control with an effort.

  “Congratulations again on your script, Susan,” she said. “I can’t wait to read it.”

  Innocuous words, but I shivered anyway. Now that Rebecca had two script assignments of her own would she start viewing me as the competition? Would she use the death threat to knock me out of the running? I didn’t know, and as a result I felt off balance. Rebecca must have sensed my insecurity because she gave me a final smug smile, the fear and vulnerability banished, before going back to her office and gently shutting the door behind her.

  3.

  Ten minutes later Jennifer returned to the bullpen, still raging. I looked at her in concern as she slammed into her seat.

  “What did Charles say?” I asked.

  She reached into a drawer, pulled out her Kate Spade purse, and slammed it on her desk. “He was on the set. I tried to grab his attention but he was too busy talking to Tabby.” Tabitha Wentworth. One of the stars of Babbitt & Brooks.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Why? It’s not your fault.” She grabbed a compact from her purse and reapplied lipstick. “I’ll tell you one thing, that bitch …” Jennifer glared at the wall of Rebecca’s office, not bothering to keep her voice down, “won’t get away with it.” She slammed her purse back in the drawer.

  “Has something happened to upset my lady Jennifer?” Patrick Hager, the unit production manager, appeared in the bullpen. He held a single, long-stemmed red rose in one hand and a sleeved DVD in the other.

  “That’s an understatement,” Jennifer said, smiling bitterly. He stared at her in friendly puzzlement. In his late thirties and a little over medium height, Patrick was attractive if you liked Nordic-looking men with white blond hair and pale blue eyes. But he was slender to the point of effeminacy, and Jennifer and I often wondered about his sexual proclivities. He turned to me, one blond eyebrow raised, as if looking to me for an explanation of Jennifer’s behavior.

  I shrugged my shoulders, pretending ignorance. He pointed the rose in my direction.

  “And how doth the lady Susan fare?” he asked, acknowledging me with a courtly bow. The keys attached to his belt loop jingled softly.

  For a second I thought he was offering the flower to me. Fortunately, I stifled my instinct to take it. Patrick had a three o’clock appointment with Rebecca; the rose, I realized, was for her.

  “As well as can be expected,” I answered. “M’lady Rebecca is awaiting you in her chambers.”

  Patrick bowed his thanks and started toward Rebecca’s office. He paused, turned back to me.

  “If you see my Lord Raymond, tell him I have the shooting schedule for next week. Mistress Neely actually has Tuesday off.”

  Gail Neely was one of the stars of the series. She played Alexandra Brooks, the sophisticated, upper class half of Babbitt & Brooks. Because she and Tabitha Wentworth were the stars of the show, they were in every episode and usually filmed every day.

  “Gail must be doing somersaults,” I said.

  Patrick bent his head in acknowledgment. “She’s most pleased.” He once again headed to Rebecca’s office when Jennifer’s voice stopped him.

  “Great news about Rebecca’s promotion, isn’t it, Patrick?”

  He turned toward Jennifer, his eyes alight. “Yes, it’s most pleasing news …” He stopped. His eyes narrowed. “I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”

  “‘Course you do.” Jennifer’s eyes danced maliciously. “Rebecca’s promotion to co-producer.” She nodded at the rose. “That’s what the flower’s for, right? To congratulate her? We’re all sooo happy for her.”

  Jennifer offered him a wide, gleaming white smile. Patrick returned it with a tight one of his own. He rapped on Rebecca’s door and entered. I waited until I heard him present Rebecca with the rose and her delighted, throaty laugh of thanks before sidling over to Jennifer’s desk.

  “What the hell was that all about?” I demanded, speaking low enough so Patrick and Rebecca wouldn’t overhear.

  Jennifer studied her nails, then reached into her center desk drawer and pulled out an emery board. “I was just having a little fun with him.”

  “Yeah. But why?”

  Jennifer began filing her already perfect nails. “Did you notice the DVD in his hand?” I nodded. “That’s his director’s reel. He showed me some of it in his office the other day.”

  The director’s reel is for the wannabe director what the spec script is for the beginning writer. A sample of his work, usually a thirty-minute movie, shot at the director’s expense, to show off his directing talents to interested producers. For already established television directors, it is simply clippings of scenes from their best work.

  “Patrick wants to direct?” I asked, surprised. As unit production manager, his job was to work out budgets, break down locations, and generally ensure the smooth flow of production. Some UPMs became producers. Granted, I was new to show business, but I had never heard of any becoming directors.

  Jennifer shrugged, blowing nail shavings from her fingers.

  “Everyone in this town wants to be something else. You want to be a writer. Sandy a producer. Rebecca—God.”

  I stifled a giggle. “So you think Patrick wants to show the reel to Rebecca?”

  “Patrick told me he wants a shot at directing a ‘Broads with Balls’ episode. But associate producers don’t hire directors.”

  “And co-producers do?”

  “No. But our newest co-producer would like to. When I saw the DVD in his hand I had a feeling Rebecca had jumped at the chance to tell Patrick about the promotion. She knew that he would bring her his reel and she could recommend him to Ray. Rebecca likes power.”

  “Do you think that’s what the letter was all about? Someone who already knows about Rebecca’s promotion and is angry about it?”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me.”

  “I guess that leaves Patrick out.”

  Another throaty bubble of laughter burst from Rebecca’s office. Jennifer stared over my shoulder, also momentarily distracted by the laughter. Her gaze focused back on me. “True. If she likes his reel, her promotion benefits him as well.”

  We fell silent, mulling this over, when Peggy Stevens exited her office from behind Jennifer. She looked dazed. “You don’t have any other work pressing, do you?” she asked me, a thick strand of hair coiled in her fingers. I shook my head, hoping she hadn’t overheard Jennifer’s and my conversation.

  “Good. I just got off the phone with Gail. She
’s got some notes on tomorrow’s scene with the drug dealer. We’ve got to get the rewrite to her ASAP.”

  “No problem,” I told Peggy, relieved she’d been on the phone while Jennifer and I had had our little bitch slap, er, chat. “My computer is armed and ready. Let the rewrites begin.”

  Peggy smiled, her brown eyes crinkling at the corners. I felt happy that I could lighten the air of sadness that always seemed to surround her. When I first met Peggy, I had thought, “This is who I want to be when I grow up.” She made a six-figure salary on a show that was nominated for an Emmy, had received accolades from various women’s groups around the country, and lived in her own house in Beverlywood, on the outskirts of Beverly Hills. Therefore I was stunned when, straightening up, her office late one night, I found a note she had written on a torn scrap of paper.

  “I’m a thirty-eight-year-old single woman going nowhere,” it read.

  I recognized Peggy’s handwriting. It could’ve been a line of dialogue that came to her mind suddenly, but deep down I knew it was how Peggy felt about herself. And I couldn’t understand why. She had the life I was struggling to build for myself. If—no, when—I finally achieved that life, would I, like Peggy, discover it meant nothing, that I had gone nowhere as well? No, I said to myself. No.

  Unaware of my thoughts, Peggy returned to her office, unconsciously pulling at the bulky white sweater that reached mid-thigh to her jeans, hiding her curvy figure. The aura of sadness seemed to once more settle like a heavy cloak around her shoulders.

  We worked on the revisions long into the night, my mind half on the rewrites and half on who might’ve sent Rebecca the threatening letter. While Peggy rewrote the drug dealer scene for Gail in her office, I plugged all the changes she emailed to me into the computer, asterisking line changes, making sure we had enough blue paper with which to run off the new pages. (All changes are made on different colored paper: starting with blue, going to pink, green, yellow, etc. If, God forbid, the changes exceeded the number of colors allotted, we started back at the beginning with white.)