Death in Daytime (2 page)

And how did George know whom I was going to see?

Because he--and everybody else--had heard us screaming at each other just last week. Marcy Blanchard was a PA twenty-five years ago on the show. "PA" is an abbreviation for production assistant. They're basically gophers, but most people working on a show would be lost without them. They are the glue. They drop off scripts, cuts, revisions, fan mail, interoffice memos and all sorts of stuff. It's also a great position if you want to learn the ropes of "the business."

Over the years there has been a lot of upheaval on my show. Writers hired and fired, lots of changing of the guard. A few months ago, I heard that a new head writer had joined our ranks. The name seemed vaguely familiar. And then one day, I was on set rehearsing a scene, when I noticed, off camera, a woman standing there staring at me. Glaring, really. She looked familiar but I couldn't see her clearly because the lights were in my eyes. After the scene was finished she approached me and introduced herself. Immediately, I recognized her. Marcy Blanchard, the new head writer and a former psycho PA, one and the same.

As soon as Marcy came onto the show, odd things began happening. My lines started being cut down, my wardrobe changed--basically, it got dowdy, downright bland and unflattering, which is not so good on a soap--and my scripts began to disappear. That went on for months until last week, when I got so fed up that I confronted her in her office. It was so intense, I can still remember it as if it had happened half an hour ago. . . .

"Can I speak to you for a minute?" I'd asked, sticking my head in her door. "Sorry, I didn't know you were on the phone."

She looked up, saw who it was and her eyes immediately became slits. She could never quite keep the hatred toward me off her face, especially when no one else was around. I waited while she finished her call, only half listening to her conversation. Finally she hung up and then swiveled around to face me head-on.

"What do you want, Alexis?"

"Marcy, I can't do my job if I don't have the words I'm supposed to say."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," she lied.

"I know you don't like me. I heard through the grapevine that you and Gabe had a relationship. I knew nothing about it at the time. I really didn't."

Finally after months of posturing, her facade of strength fell away.

"You took him away from me," she said accusingly. "He was the only significant relationship I ever had and you took him."

She stood up then and began crying. I mean the ugly kind--spittle flying from her mouth, swollen eyes and mascara tracks running down her face. I reached out to comfort her, and that's when she lost it.

"Don't touch me, you fucking bitch. Get away from me, you slut! I hate you and what you did to my life. You ruined me!"

Gabe Fuller had been a young actor on the show and he had a thing for me. We were both young, cute and single. We went out a couple times. Barhopping on Melrose Avenue, clubbing at Helena's. These were big deals back in the eighties. It all seemed like frivolous fun when I was a young actress just starting to feel a little success and a
lot
of oats. Our relationship eventually petered out and we went our separate ways. The guy got fired and started tending bar at one of those trendy clubs where we used to party. Sad, but true. It happens.

Shortly after, scripts began to go missing, or I'd get wrong ones. Or my call time would get screwed up and I'd be late. Things got so bad that a nasty little rumor started that I was actually a man. Now, that's just not nice. It was getting ugly. Finally, I discovered that Marcy and Gabe had been in a relationship when he met me, and he dumped her. I had no idea they were an item, but she never believed me. Eventually she left the show and went to another soap on the East Coast.

Sun rises; sun sets. Twenty-five years go by . . . and she's the new head writer on my show. . . . What were the chances that I'd end up working for such a nut job? Well, pretty good, considering this is Hollywood.

"Gabe was the love of my life and you took him away from me," she carried on. "I never got over him. It's because of you I have no children. I have nothing but work."

That shocked me. Marcy Blanchard was in her forties; she still looked pretty good. I mean she looked the same as she did when she was a PA, but then again she was one of those people who looked fifty at twenty. And probably adding to the problem was her horrible sense of style, or lack thereof. She did have a modicum of social grace--except when she was around me--and seemed to comport herself with dignity and confidence. Who knew she'd been holding a grudge of major proportions for twenty-five years?

"So you better believe I'm going to keep making your life miserable on this show until you leave."

"That was twenty-five years ago. Grow up. Get over it!"

The glint in her eyes was bordering on crazy, but I was too mad to be put off by it. We screamed at each other some more, and I was sure everyone up and down the corridors could hear us.

"Get out of my office!" she finally shouted.

"I'll get out," I said, "but this isn't over, Marcy. If I have to go over your head I will."

"That won't help you," she said, with an evil grin. She folded her arms across her chest. "I've been given complete creative control to turn this show around, and that means writing your aging ass out." I was so mad I couldn't see straight, but I could see her Emmy on the bookcase by the door.

Before I could stop myself I'd picked it up and thrown it at her. Not really
at
her; more in her general direction.

She screamed and threw up her hands. I left before the little gold statue landed. I remember taking a deep breath after I'd closed the door to her office and storming off down the hall. Throwing that statue wasn't like me. I'm nonviolent. I meditated, sort of. Okay, so I didn't meditate. I
tried
. When I try to meditate I sit quietly and repeat a mantra. Unfortunately, my mantra usually turns into a list of things I have to do that day. Omm . . . groceries, cleaning, bikini wax . . . omm . . . Sarah's school cupcakes . . . omm . . . God knows I could use the stress release. I also think it would make me sound much more enlightened. Okay, I lied. I said I wasn't a diva. I never said I wasn't a liar.

But even though I shocked myself by throwing that Emmy at Marcy last week, I had still kind of hoped the thing had beaned her.

I needed a vacation.

Cut to the present. . . .

When I got out to the stage they were blocking scenes. Or, for you civilians, the director was showing the actors where they would be moving in the scenes. There were several sets erected on the stage. The art directors did a fabulous job designing and furnishing the sets with gorgeous antiques, carpets, drapes and light fixtures if the set was meant to depict the living room of a wealthy character; dowdy, drab furnishings were used to bring the set of the less-privileged characters to life.

If you've never heard it before, yes, everything does look much bigger on television, like my butt. Cables crisscrossed the floor, and the ceiling was a maze of catwalks and klieg lights. I picked my way across some cables, searching for the director--even before confronting Marcy (yes, again! It would be the second time in a week). I wanted the director to know I hadn't blown off my scenes for that day. I just hadn't known about them.

Cindy Pacelli is artsy and very creative. She directs a beautiful show but also keeps cast and crew there forever. She likes to express herself with her wardrobe. "Alexis, you're not dressed. Hurry. You're in the first scene," she said in her breathy voice.

"I'd've been ready if I'd known what scenes I was in today," I told her.

Cindy's big blue eyes widened and she took a deep breath. "What? I'll have that PA fired." Cindy was always threatening to fire somebody.

"This isn't the PA's fault," I said. "I'm sure this is Marcy's work. She's been giving me a hard time since--"

"Look out!" somebody yelled. Just in time one of the gaffers jumped out of the way as a light fixture struck the floor with a huge crash, glass and sparks flying everywhere.

"What the hell?" Cindy screamed, glaring up into the rafters. "Who's up there? Whoever it is, you're fired!"

A crowd congregated around the light. I seemed to be the only one with enough sense to stay away in case a second light fell. Everyone was looking up, but there was no answer coming from above.

"Bob?"

Bob O'Connor, one of the stage managers, is in his sixties. He's smart, he's sweet, he's funny and he's deaf as a stone. Inconvenient because he wears a headset so the booth and he can communicate, yet he can never hear what they're saying. He can't even hear someone standing two feet away. So when the actors and crew started screaming at him, it made him very defensive. Partner that with Cindy's breathy voice and you had a real comedy.

"Bob!" she screamed again.

"What?" He removed his headphones.

"Get a couple of guys up there. I want to know what the hell is going on."

"Will do."

I walked over to the gaffer, a kid named Willie Something, and asked, "Are you all right?"

He looked down at one hand, which was bleeding.

"I think I caught some glass," he said.

"Or shrapnel," Thomas Williams said.

I hadn't seen him when I first came in. Thomas is one of the show's producers. He's divorced from Cindy. When they are both in the booth it gets ugly. It was a contentious divorce and they argue constantly, pulling dirty tricks on each other whenever they can. Thomas is a screamer. When he's pissed off you can hear him on the
Wheel of Fortune
set across the hall. He's tall, and his body seems to be made up of sharp angles.

"You better get that looked at," I told Willie.

"It's okay," he said. "I'll find a Band-Aid or something."

Thomas turned to Cindy and said, "You've gone too far, Cindy. Someone could have really gotten hurt, besides me."

"Don't try and put this on me, you asshole! You knew I was directing today, and you wanted to sabotage me, as usual!"

A producer in daytime TV also directs the actors. Has more of an overview of story and where to go with it, and how to play a scene. We hope. They faced each other with their chins thrust out pugnaciously, Cindy's hands on her hips, Williams's arms crossed, both ready for the next chapter in their own War of the Roses. Nothing the rest of us hadn't seen many times before.

"I would never do anything to hurt anyone--except maybe you," Cindy told him.

"Ditto."

While they had pulled all kinds of tricks on each other, none had ever been this dangerous. I figured it was just an accident. It had to be. What other explanation could there be?

"So if it wasn't you, and it wasn't me . . . ," Cindy said.

"Bob!" Thomas screamed, as I was about to voice my opinion. "Are you getting someone up there?"

"He went to do it," a voice said timidly.

"This is going to hold up taping," Cindy said, then turned to me. "Gives you time to talk to Marcy while we get this cleaned up. But keep it down to a low roar this time. Last week everybody in the building heard you two going at each other."

I knew it!

"Isn't Alexis in the first scene?" Williams asked.

"Alexis, aren't you in the first scene? Why aren't you dressed?"

"You tell him," I said to Cindy. "I'll try Marcy's office and try to finally gets things straightened out."

Still amped from the light incident--excuse the pun--

I left the set and took a shortcut to Marcy's office. If you didn't know your way around, it'd be easy to get lost in the maze of offices and dressing rooms, but I'd been on the show a long time and knew all the ins and outs of the building like the back of my hand. Reaching Marcy's office, I turned the knob with the intention of barging in and yelling at her, but I stopped myself and knocked. Yelling and screaming at each other last week hadn't helped. Maybe it was time for a more sensible approach.

I knocked on the door, waited, then knocked again when there was no answer.

"Marcy?"

Still no answer.

"Marcy, it's Alexis Peterson." I decided to try a new tack. "There's been an accident on the set. Cindy needs you."

It was a lame try. Why would they want a writer because of an accident?

"Damn it, Marcy!" Pissed off all over again, I finally grabbed the knob and entered.

"Marcy, damn it--" I started, but she wasn't at her desk. Maybe the ladies' room, I thought. As I turned to leave I saw something on the floor. It was a long line like a velvet ribbon of . . . red. What had she spilled? I wondered. It was coming from behind her desk. I walked around to have a look and froze. Marcy was under her desk. For a moment I thought she was trying to hide. Why I didn't know, but it made sense at the time. Then I saw something dripping from her head. It was blood, and that's what was moving across the floor, a single, long rivulet of blood. Marcy's blood.

I wanted to scream, but I couldn't. No, wait, I'm lying again! I didn't want to scream. I wanted to laugh, like when you're at church and it's really inappropriate. I didn't hate her that much and I'm not crazy. I was just unnerved. Even more than that, though, I was very interested in the details. Where was the blood coming from, exactly? Was it congealed at all? It looked to me as if rigor mortis had not yet set in. An interest in forensics, plus Paul, a boyfriend who was a forensic scientist, was more powerful than the instinct to run hysterically out of there. A guilty secret of mine was that I always wanted to be an amateur detective. I couldn't resist taking a closer look.

I crouched down for a moment, avoiding the blood on the floor, wondering if I could help her, but she was definitely dead, and whoever had killed her had stuffed her into the cubby under her desk, with her Emmy Award--covered in blood--beneath her. The blood had not congealed yet. I reached out and touched her wrist. No pulse, and she was still warm. And I was right, no rigor.

Finally, I got it and realized exactly what I was looking at. And that was the time I decided to get the hell out of there.