Dazzle Me Dead

Chapter One

My husband, Tom, the suddenly successful movie producer, wanted to murder his latest director.

The director was the vastly-more-successful Jeremy Lord, and the movie that had thrown them so unhappily together was a family flick called A Merry Christmas to All; it was being shot in a sun-scorched little town in the wilds of northern New Mexico, the biggest thing to happen in the county since a tornado flattened an abandoned barn four years before. The film’s primary location was a sprawling tin-roofed ranch house; and at the moment, Tom was pacing in a spare room that had been commandeered to store props, delivering a tirade about how he’d love to wring Jeremy Lord’s skinny neck.

He’s destroying this movie! he fumed. He’s completely out of control. The cast knows it. The entire crew knows it. It’s a total, absolute disaster!

Don’t you think you’re overreacting? I cut in.

He glanced at me, startled, as if he’d momentarily forgotten I was in the room.

I had just arrived from L.A., where we lived. A harrowing plane ride, heavy turbulence the entire way, then landing in a thunderstorm in Albuquerque, during which I tried to keep the words crash from flashing like a motel sign in my mind. A goateed production assistant was at the baggage claim holding a sign with my name, Lucy Frampton, hand-written on it, except Lucy was spelled Loosy, as in Loosy-Goosy. Then a breakneck drive through the Sangre de Cristo Mountains in the sort of SUV that looks alarmingly easy to flip.

I dropped onto the only chair in the prop room. It was made of elk antlers and looked more suitable for impalement than sitting.

I can’t believe it’s all that bad, I went on. Jeremy’s a terrific director. Every one of his movies has been a hit.

Yeah, sure, his action movies, Tom said. But this is a feel-good family film. Nobody’s head gets shot off. Nobody’s car gets blown to bits. Except he’s got the elves looking like they’re packing guns under their tunics.

I could believe this. When Rolling Stone ran a recent interview with Jeremy Lord, it was captioned The Maestro of Gore. He could well have some difficulty with a movie about the family of a folksy sheriff that stumbles on a local branch of Santa’s workshop.

Look at these props, for God’s sake! Tom continued. They’re supposed to be the toys the elves are making. Cute stuff kids might actually want to play with. He snatched up a stuffed rabbit with pointed buck teeth. Does this look cute to you?

It looks more like it craves red meat, I admitted. So why did the studio pick him?

Tom tossed the carnivorous bunny back onto the floor. "Jeremy picked us. He’s suddenly afraid he’s losing touch with his kids. He thinks that if he directs a nice family movie, it’ll somehow make up for seven or eight years of neglecting them. And no studio in the world is going to say no to him. He emitted a hollow laugh. It’s a nightmare."

Okay, I understand, I said. But right now, I’m kind of stressed out too. My voice rose in pitch. I’ve just had the scariest plane ride of my life. It was so choppy when we were landing, the guy behind me actually started reciting an Our Father. Then two and a half hours in a jeep driven by a kid with a death wish to get here and another half hour just to find you. And you’re acting like you don’t even remember why I’m here.

Tom blinked contritely. He came over and held out his arms. I’m sorry, sweetheart. Of course I remember why you’re here.

I surged into his arms. The reason I had suffered turbulence and wind shear to travel to a movie set in such a remote place was, plainly and simply, to have sex with my husband. We’d decided to have a second child, and since we were both well into our thirties, time was getting on. And according to the somewhat complicated ovulation prediction formula I’d been using, the next few days were prime baby-making time.

I brought that nightie you like, I said in my throatiest voice. That clingy satin one that’s kind of see-through …

I stopped abruptly. A prop man in overalls, no shirt, loped into the room. He hovered uncertainly a moment, scratching his temple; then he scooped up a pair of marionettes that had been slumped against a wall.

Tom turned to him. What are you going to do with those?

Jeremy wants ’em for a shot.

He can’t have them. The things are terrifying. Little kids will run screaming out of the theaters!

The puppets were terrifying—huge heads with pinprick eyes and garishly painted stick bodies. We all stared at them a moment, as if actually expecting them to spring to life and come at us in the way of Chucky.

The prop man gave an I-only-do-what-I’m-told shrug. Jeremy wants ’em, he repeated. He trundled out with the marionettes.

Tom turned back to me. I’m sorry, sweetie, I’ve got to go have it out with Jeremy. Come on.

He began briskly after the retreating prop man. I hesitated a moment, then I followed.

Being on a movie set always makes me feel as if I’ve been suddenly transported into a parallel world. One that, on the surface, is identical to our own, but on closer examination makes me realize I’m not in Kansas anymore. After we clattered down a steep set of stairs, we hit a knotty pine-paneled rumpus room that had this existing-in-another-world feel to it. The dun-colored chairs and sofas, for instance, though authentically frayed, looked slightly too stylish for the room. The clutter of ordinary stuff on shelves was as artfully arranged as a Dutch Old Master still life. And every surface was almost spookily dust-free.

There were other tip-offs that this was not quite reality: For one thing, the opulently-decorated Christmas tree shimmering in a corner, even though it was only the middle of October. For another, the half-dozen or so Little People dressed in rather rakish moss-green tunics, lounging with bored, I’m-dying-for-a-Marlboro expressions in various corners of the room.

A jungle of cameras, cables, booms, and boxes had completely overgrown one end of the room. In the center of that presided the director, Jeremy Lord. His hatchet face, with its shock of rusty-brown hair, was familiar to me from dozens of red carpet shots. He was dressed, as was his trademark, completely in black: black shirt under black sweater; black jeans; black suede loafers with black socks.

I examined him with particular interest. We had something in common. Five years before, we’d both been nominated for Academy Awards; Jeremy, of course, for Best Director, myself for Best Animated Short—the difference being that he had scored an Oscar and I had lost to a stop-action film about an environmentally-conscious toaster.

But I’d have no opportunity now to explore this bond between us. At our approach, Jeremy narrowed his eyes.

Problem? he said to Tom.

Tom, as was his trademark, opted for a diplomatic approach. No big deal, Jeremy, he said smoothly. I just wanted to remind you that we had agreed to definitely lose the puppets.

The Director in Black pulled himself up to his full six-foot five-inch height. I changed my mind. I like them, I want them. This is a Jeremy Lord movie, and it’s going to be done my way.

The elves, sensing a drag-out fight, immediately perked up. Everyone else sort of melted away, like the townspeople in High Noon when Gary Cooper goes out into the square to face down the gunslingers. I had the sinking sensation that this could go on for a long time.

I decided to go check into the hotel where Tom was quartered and get some of my own work done. I was halfway through the latest adventure of Amerinda, a flying blue hedgehog, in a YouTube kids’ animated show called Excellent Science. Amerinda’s exploits each illustrated a major scientific principle. At the moment I was stuck on a catchy scenario for magnetism.

I wandered through the crew, looking for my goateed driver, but he was not among the milling throng of electricians, gaffers, and harried-looking ADs. A tall young woman sporting the telltale headset of a production assistant hovered nearby. I tapped her on the arm.

Excuse me, I said. I’m Tom Frampton’s wife. Could you tell him, when he’s finished with Jeremy, that I’ve gone to the hotel?

She swiveled to face me. The first thing I registered was Hair—a furious meringue that ran a gamut of Crayola shades from chrome yellow to burnt sienna.

Then Lips: a startling pair of very full crimson lips that seemed artificially pinned onto her fairly tiny face, Mrs. Potato Head-style.

Then finally Clothes: a lavender Spandex tee, stretchy plaid miniskirt, white ankle boots. An oblong crystal pendant dangled around her neck—the kind of healing crystal that was supposed to ward off everything from leprosy to the common cold.

You’re Lucy, aren’t you? the Lips pronounced. I’m Cheryl Wade. I’ve met you before.

Of course we’d met before. Everyone in L.A. had met Cheryl Wade.

It’s not news that Hollywood runs on connections. The best connection of all is to have a relative in high places, preferably a star; and Cheryl had hit the jackpot—she was the baby sister of Alison Wade, currently the world’s highest paid actress. With no other claim to fame, Cheryl managed to get around to an impressive degree. She was everywhere: Attend the Grammys, and there you’ll find Cheryl on the arm of some aging K-Pop star. Show up at any catered affair, and it’s Cheryl again, at the head of the buffet line, batting bronze-shadowed eyelids at everyone around.

In fact, I’d even seen her just several hours before. You were on the plane from L.A. this morning, weren’t you? I asked.

Oh my God, yeah! she gasped. Wasn’t it scary as shit? I’ve had three psychics tell me they saw a plane crash in my reading. I don’t know about you, but I was just about peeing in my pants.

Oh, I wasn’t worried, I grinned. "All my psychics tell me I’m going to go down at sea."

She stared blankly at me for a moment. Then broke into a rather excessive giggle. That’s funny. You do those cartoons, don’t you?

I stiffened a little. My animated films had pulled in a gratifying share of awards and acclaim, including the glorious Oscar nomination. I considered them more than just cartoons.

Before I could set her straight, she was already chattering on. "Shit, am I glad you’re here. I mean, at least you talk to me. Everybody else treats me like I’m lower than crap. I’d quit, except I’m really broke, and my car’s gonna get repossessed. I can’t help it if I suck at managing money—I’m a Capricorn with Virgo rising. She reached into the snug back pocket of her miniskirt, dug out a grape lollipop, and began to peel off the waxed-paper bonnet. I tried to borrow from my sister, you know, Alison? I mean, she makes more money than God, so what’s the big deal? But she said she was sick and tired of bailing me out, and why didn’t I get up off my ass and go to work for a change? And I said fine, but you can at least get me a job, can’t you? So she told Jeremy to give me something to do."

I remembered that Cheryl had yet another enviable celebrity connection. Your sister and Jeremy were married for a while, weren’t they?

Yeah, a couple years ago. She was his third wife.

A marriage, I recalled, that had lasted some three or four months, then terminated in the kind of bloody, take-no-prisoners divorce in which both parties issue frequent how-I-suffered-from-that-monster! statements. I guessed that Alison and Jeremy had now made up—at least enough for Jeremy to be throwing jobs to his supremely ditzy former sister-in-law.

I thought it would be fun to work on a movie, Cheryl went on, but all I do is run everybody else’s stupid errands. Like, Jeremy just had his two kids here for the weekend? The ones from his first wife, that cross-eyed girl, Judie? So I was the one who had to baby-sit them the whole time they were here and then schlep them all the way back to L.A. Which is how come I was on that plane that almost crashed. I was just coming back from taking them there. She shuddered, contemplating her narrow escape from death. Then she inserted the lollipop like a pacifier into her mouth. ‘‘My nutritionist says I have to give up sugar, she mumbled. She says it’s interfering with my body’s ability to process trace minerals. But I’m in AA, I haven’t had a single drop to drink for over a month, so I need the sugar substitution."

My overnight bag was beginning to feel like it was loaded with concrete blocks; I shifted it to my other shoulder and searched my mind for an excuse to get away from Cheryl before being treated to insights from her acupuncturist, masseuse, and, very possibly, feng shui master. My salvation arrived in the form of a second AD striding toward us.

I’ve been looking for you everywhere! he barked at Cheryl. You’re supposed to bring Jeremy his Diet Snapple every ninety minutes, and you’re exactly twenty-six minutes late. Also, the last one you brought was in the can, not in a glass like he wants it. He thrust a brown-filmed Coca-Cola glass into her hand. And don’t forget to wash it this time. He turned and moved quickly away.

Cheryl held the glass with the tips of her fingers as if it were emitting plutonium. I hate that creep, she declared.

Who, that AD?

"No, Jeremy. I hate his guts. And don’t think I’m gonna wash his crappy glass for him. Considering all the places he’s put his mouth, he’s not going to know the difference."

She swiveled abruptly on her boot heel and headed to the stairs.

Several yards away, Jeremy Lord was in mid-rant, proclaiming that it was his, Jeremy Lord’s, name that put butts in seats, not Tom’s, not the frigging studio’s, it was a Jeremy Lord movie that audiences paid good money to see; and Tom was replying in a voice that was starting to sound like Peter Finch’s after he went bonkers in the movie Network that yes, when audiences wanted decapitation, Jeremy Lord was the name that packed them in, and if they wanted to see globs of brain matter spattered on refrigerator doors, absolutely, it was Jeremy Lord all the way, but they were dealing with something just a tiny bit different here....

And as I stood listening to them, I was hit by a sudden, chilling premonition.

I never should have come.

Chapter Two

Last Fourth of July, my life turned upside down.

Or more specifically, the third of July, the day Tom’s last movie, Willigher, opened in four thousand theaters across the country.

Willigher starred Robert Downey Jr. as a ghost who suffered from a persecution complex. It was crammed with edge-of-your-seat special effects, and featured cameos by everyone from Sir Ian McKellen to Timothée Chalamet. A huge hit at a time when Hollywood desperately needed one.

Tom became instantly in huge demand.

And somewhere in the heady whirl, he began to change in the way I’d seen other successful people change. Rubbing against such success could give you a kind of rash. Like a poison ivy. The itching made perfectly down-to-earth people start behaving in strange and unusual ways.

With Tom, the symptoms were small, but worrying. It began about a month after the movie’s premiere: on a Monday morning at the crack of dawn, I awoke to find Tom already up and outfitted in a sweat suit and Adidas cross-trainers.

My bodybuilder’s here, he announced.

Wha… I hauled myself out of bed, staggered to the window, and, with astonishment, peered down at an enormous van idling outside our gate. The logo BENDER’S BODIES was written in purple italics on its side.

The bodybuilder proved to be an ex-Navy SEAL who answered to the single name of Bender, and who arrived with military punctuality three mornings a week at six forty-five sharp. The van was filled with weights and pulleys and other instruments of torture. It swallowed Tom up, then spat him out precisely fifty-five minutes later, wobbly-legged and gasping for air.

Are you sure you don’t want to join in? he asked me.

I was very sure. I went back to sleep.

Symptom Number Two was a new haircut by a famous stylist, engineered to disguise the thinning spot on the crown of Tom’s thatchy blond head. The stylist also sported a single name—Sylvester—and he too made house calls.

And Number Three. Pre-rash, Tom’s idea of a perfect weekend night had been to watch three or four movies at home with a freshly popped bowl of Newman’s Own. But lately we’d started going out more, dinners in cafes and at the homes of the entertainment world’s elite.

All of which was one reason I was so eager to get started on a second child. A new baby in the house would bring Tom’s focus back to the really important things in life. I knew him well enough to be sure of that. Three a.m. feedings, dinosaur mobiles, tiny waving hands and feet...

It would snap him back to reality.

At just after midnight, we were finally back in Tom’s suite in the Chipotle Inn. We’d had dinner—a long dinner at a rustic roadhouse with wagon wheels on the walls. And now Tom was in the bathroom, brushing his teeth. I’d washed up already. I unpacked my nightgown—the slithery see-through number —and slipped it on. Then I pulled back the rather scratchy Navajo-print bedspread and arranged myself provocatively under the sheet.

When we’d conceived our daughter Chloe, it had been a snap. One night I simply stopped taking the pill, and wham! Three weeks to the day later, the lines on the home pregnancy test shimmered up a winning cobalt blue.

But now, ten years down the line, things were somewhat more complicated. Now there was a monthly visit to a jovial fertility specialist named Dr. Eliza Kelshok, who possessed a vast repertoire of Fallopian tube jokes. There was the Clomid I popped down each morning with my half glass of apricot nectar, and which, I had the horrible suspicion, was making my feet grow larger. And there was the ovulation prediction kit that dictated when we were required to Do It.

Hurry up, I called to Tom. I’m feeling particularly fertile tonight.

I’m ready, he called back.

He sauntered naked into the bedroom. He gave an exaggerated wolf whistle at my clingy lingerie, then climbed onto the bed and stretched out beside me. We lay somewhat awkwardly a few moments, haunch to haunch, as if waiting for some official signal to begin.

Why, I wondered, was sex-on-a-schedule sort of unsexy? My most passionate desire at the moment seemed to be to catch the last of Stephen Colbert, then burrow in for a lengthy snooze.

How about Thaddeus Thor if it’s a boy? Tom said.

It was an ice-breaking game we played— picking the most outlandish name for our yet-to-be-conceived baby.

Hepzibah for a girl, I countered. Hepzibah Pansy Frampton.

We both giggled. Giggling led to nuzzling, nuzzling to kissing, and then Tom began a rather tentative breast fondling. Things were just starting to really progress when his phone rang.

Tom froze, one hand still clamped on my left breast.

Don’t answer it, I said hoarsely.

He hesitated another second. If someone’s calling this late, it must be really important. He picked it up from the nightstand. Tom Frampton. A pause, then he passed it to me. It’s for you.

Chloe was my first thought. She was on a sleepover at her best friend’s house. Thoughts of kidnappers, conflagrations, bone-crushing falls skidded immediately through my mind.

I grabbed the phone. Yes?

Lucy? It’s Cheryl. I need to see you.

Cheryl? Then I remembered—the hair, the lips, the lollipop. Cheryl Wade. For God’s sake, it’s late, I snapped. This is not a good time to talk.

I’m going out of my mind, she yelled shrilly. You’ve got to come here.

Come where?

My room. It’s number three-oh-eight, right down the hall from you guys.

This gave me momentary pause. The relatively posh Chipotle Inn had been commandeered for the above-the-line members of the production: stars, cameraman, director, and producers. The rest of the crew were bivouacked in a local Motel 6. But then I realized, none of the other crew were blood relations of a star the magnitude of Alison Wade.

Can’t this wait till morning? I said.

No, it can’t! Cheryl’s voice rose to a high-octane point of hysteria. I told you, I’m going totally out of my mind! You’ve got to come and help me, immediately!

Okay, calm down. I’ll be right there.

I turned to Tom, who was propped on one elbow, directing a What the hell? squint at me. It was Cheryl Wade. I think she’s been hitting a bottle. I’d better go cool her out before she creates a scene.

Shit. I knew she’d be trouble the minute she walked onto the set. She’s useless as a PA. She’s forever tripping on a wire or making eyes at one of the grips. Call her back, tell her to forget it.

No, she’s really freaking out. I won’t be long. I got up and wriggled my feet into the nearest pair of shoes, a pair of Tom’s Keds. Then I pulled a long raincoat, also Tom’s, on over my nightie.

Don’t lose the mood, I told him.

He grinned wanly back. I’ll try not to.

I hurried down the hall, the too-big sneakers flip-flopping with each step, wondering how I’d explain my get-up if I ran into anyone from the production. But at this hour, the corridor was deserted.

I found Room 308 and rapped loudly.

Who is it? Cheryl’s voice hissed.

It’s me, Lucy, I hissed back.

She cracked the door and peered out, as if to assure herself that it wasn’t some imposter cleverly assuming my voice. Then she increased the opening just wide enough for me to squeeze in.

Her room was a single, but identical in its Southwest decor to our suite—same