Kill the Mother!. Michael Mallory
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get the entire second syllable out.
I waited two minutes before calling back. After listening to the recorded message once more, I said after the beep: “Ms. Wheeler, it’s Dave Beauchamp again. I’m a private investigator. Someone has made a threat to the Brothers Alpha, Nora’s sons, and—”
The line picked up. “And that broodmare is accusing me?” Marta Wheeler screamed.
“She’s not accusing anyone in particular,” I said, trying to sound soothing. “She has merely asked me to check things out.”
“Let me tell you a few things about your client, Mr. Beauchamp. There isn’t anyone in this town who’s ever met her who doesn’t want to push her in front of a bus.”
I cleared my throat and said: “Well, I’ll admit she is a bit insistent—”
“She’s the stage mother from Hell! Nora Frost goes into casting sessions and insists that her two little cadavers be seen before anyone else since she considers it a personal insult that they are required to audition in the first place. I was at one call with her where she didn’t just bring one headshot of boys, she brought dozens, all autographed, and handed them out to the other kids who are there to audition, telling them that someday they’ll be able to say they had met the Brothers Alpha! She tapes their every breath with a cell phone camera, too, claiming that she’s making a documentary about them. I was told that she once actually locked another kid in the bathroom at the casting office so the boy couldn’t do his audition. When they finally found the kid he was in hysterics, and his mother, who thought he’d been kidnapped, had to be taken to the emergency room. That is your client, Mr. Beauchamp.”
“Um, if she’s that bad, why do casting directors put up with it?”
“They don’t more than once, but there are a lot of casting directors in town. Word hasn’t gotten to all of them, apparently. But she keeps coming back for Junior Idol. It’s supposed to be an American Idol for kids, but I’m frankly starting to wonder if this isn’t a talent program at all, but one of those conflict reality shows where they’re going to pit the kids and the mothers against each other. Believe me, Mr. Beauchamp, the Alphas haven’t been brought back because of their talent, because they haven’t any. Denise has been taking dance lessons since she was four, and voice and acting lessons as well. She’s a pro. A lot of the other kids are, too. There’s one girl named Tiffany Epper who’s got a singing voice you wouldn’t believe. Another kid, Hugo somebody, does impressions. He’s ten or eleven, but he can do the best SpongeBob you ever heard. And Denise, of course, like I said, she’s got it. But the Alphas, they’re synthetic, they don’t respond like flesh-and-blood human beings, let alone normal child performers.”
“Thank you, Ms. Wheeler, you’ve been very helpful, so please forgive me for asking this, but simply for the record, have you sent a letter to Nora Frost making any kind of comment about Taylor and Burton, even if it was not meant to be taken seriously?”
“No…I…have…not. Were I to send some sort of letter, it would not be to threaten the boys, who I actually feel sorry for. But as I’ve told you, I sent no letter of any kind. Until now, I never even knew their names, only the Brothers Alpha. Now I really think I’ve said all I need to say about this.”
“Thank you for your time, Ms. Wheeler, I certainly appreciate it,” I said, to a dead phone line. She had hung up around the word you.
I sat back at my desk and contemplated the best course of action. I could tell Nora that I would not be pursuing the case, and return the ten-thousand dollars, since there was no signed contract, or.…
Oh, who was I kidding? Even if my client was a gene mix of the Wicked Witch of the West, Nurse Ratched and Elizabeth Bathory, I was not in a position to throw away ten-grand. Having finally discovered the price of my soul, I figured it was nonreturnable, like a damaged package. Besides, someone had threatened the twins, either seriously or frivolously—and let’s face it, these days the latter can be mistaken for an act of terror—no matter what Nora Frost was like personally.
I managed to speak with two more of the mothers, Cristina Diaz and Monica Epper, each of whom basically reiterated what Marta Wheeler had told me on all levels. Cristina revealed that she could not cut loose with what she really wanted to say because her son Hugo, the pre-teen mimic, was within earshot, but Monica had no such problems. Her vocabulary made that of Nora Frost’s sound like a kindergarten teacher’s. I contemplated going to the emergency room to have my ear swabbed out. But both denied sending the letter. What was perhaps more pertinent, both had a reaction similar to Marta Wheeler’s, which was that no matter what they would like to do to their mother, they would not have threatened the children. What I found particularly interesting, however, was that like Marta, Cristina Diaz and Monica Epper did not know the boys’ given names. They were all familiar only with their showbiz moniker, the Brothers Alpha. Yet the writer of the note had mentioned them by name.
That shifted particular weight to either Carole Gould or Leslie Brielle as being the sender of the letter, but since I was unable to find a number for Leslie, and the message I’d left on Carole’s machine had not yet been answered, I had no way of verifying my suspicion. But I really had no illusions that simply calling them up and asking if they were guilty was going to yield results. That sort of direct confrontation only worked on Perry Mason. I might have better luck with Max Gelfan, or someone on his staff who had seen all the women and all the kids in one room together. I Googled Max Gelfan Productions and learned that while it was not as well established as the operations formed by Merv Griffin or Vin di Bona, it seemed to have a solid enough reputation as a game and reality show producer. Finding an address for the company was easy, too; it was just over the hill in Hollywood.
I headed out, deciding to forego lunch, since the chili cheese combo from Barney’s was still singing an aria in my stomach. I don’t know which is weaker, a voice said inside my head, your brain or your belly.
Be quiet, Mitchum. I have a job to do.
Traffic on the 101 was kind, meaning I made it down to Hollywood in about forty-five minutes. Max Gelfan Productions was headquartered in one of those almost-studios that called themselves “production centers”—multi-level buildings containing small television stages somewhere inside, but consisting mostly of offices. This one was located on Gower, south of Hollywood Boulevard. I managed to find a parking place on the street (which effective used up my quota of luck for the next two months) and walked into the lobby area. A young, dark-haired, heavily-tatted woman sat behind the desk. “Can I help you?” she asked.
“Max Gelfan Productions,” I said.
“Who do you wish to see?”
“The person in charge of casting.”
The eyes narrowed, and I was able to read her thoughts enough to well realize I had as much chance of actually coming face-to-face with the talent coordinator for Max Gelfan Productions as I had dining with the president. Maybe less.
“Do you have an appointment?” she asked.
“No, but I’m here on behalf of Nora Frost.”
The woman’s demeanor changed as though digitally morphed. The defiance disappeared and was replaced by weary resignation. She muttered something under her breath—I thought it was Oh, Christ, but I wasn’t certain. “Are you an attorney?” she asked.
“I used to be, but I got over it,” I replied. “Now I’m a private investigator.”
“Oh, god,” she moaned.
“Look, ma’am, I’m not here to cause anyone any trouble, I promise. I’d just like to put a few questions to the person who has been auditioning kids for Junior Idol. If you tell me I can’t, I’ll accept that and leave, though I hope you won’t.”
She sized me up and down and apparently decided I wasn’t one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, even if my employer was, and so punched a number into her desk phone. “Terrence, it’s Cassandra, down front. Could you come down here please? I know, I know, but I think you might want to anyway.