Catch and Kill, page 11
When the sycophants scattered, Angie slid into the seat across from her. “Hey, thanks for meeting me.”
“Well, here’s our little New York literary light. Glad you found the place.” Patricia flagged down a waiter. “Bring us some calamari and get my girlfriend here a nice chardonnay.”
“Just iced tea,” Angie told the waiter.
“Iced tea and chardonnay,” Patricia insisted.
The waiter looked at Angie, who gave a nod.
“So big bad LA hasn’t scared you off yet?” Patricia asked. “I suppose that’s a good sign. Or a bad one.” She took a slug of wine. “Seriously, this was Scarlett’s world, a piece of it, anyway. What’s your impression?”
Patricia was testing her, and Angie was weighing how much to say. “Everything is beautiful, and everybody has money and nice houses and gorgeous clothes, and the movie business seems terribly exciting, but . . .”
“But it seems fake? And fucked up? Right on all counts!” Patricia raised her wineglass.
Patricia was certainly successful, but it was apparent to Angie how bitter she was underneath the party persona.
“Did you talk to my sister before she . . . before her death?” Angie asked. “I mean, like in the days before, or that week?”
“I talked to Scarlett a lot right up until the end.” Patricia turned serious. “Look, it’s clear you don’t know much of what she was going through. Before she died, Scarlett was a mess. I mean, the girl wasn’t herself. She was either not sleeping at all, or sleeping all the time, and she’d call me and go on about things that had happened, obsessing. She couldn’t let go of anything and it made her crazy.”
“What couldn’t she let go of? I found her journal. She seemed incredibly stressed and talked a lot about how hard things were on the Catapult set.”
“Look, it’s a tough, tough industry and you have to learn to roll with things or you will get crushed. Scarlett was getting crushed.”
“Did you do anything? I mean to try and reach her or . . . ? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that to sound—”
“Like I didn’t intervene and should have? The first time she did a film with DreamWeaver—it was a small role—I warned her about how things work and she just said, ‘Not me.’ I believed her. I knew better but I still believed her.” Patricia eyes became distant before she came back to Angie. “It’s nothing I don’t ask myself. Scarlett was a good friend. But she couldn’t handle it here. Not when it came right down to it, even though she had a great career going.”
“How do you mean? I know she was busy and wanted parts she thought were, I don’t know, more meaningful or challenging than the typical blockbuster stuff.”
“That blockbuster stuff makes a shit ton of money and allows you to do the other stuff, but you’re right. She wanted to hold out for roles that would get her noticed. And it cost her.”
The waiter brought Angie’s wine and tea and a fresh glass of pinot for Patricia. “And bring us two chopped salads with dressing on the side,” Patricia said, then eyed Angie. “Okay, New York?”
Angie nodded. “What do you mean, it cost her?” she asked when the waiter had departed. “Cost her what?”
“Cost her everything. I mean, she was making a name for herself as someone to be taken seriously. Scarlett didn’t take crap but you can’t just tell certain people to fuck off if you want a career in the industry. She doubled down and worked harder when things got tough. And that would wear anyone down.”
Angie nodded again, urging her to go on.
“Look, your sister didn’t draw a line, she didn’t walk away, she just took it all on until . . . until she just couldn’t anymore. And, out here, there’s a lot riding on these projects. Money, reputations, everyone wants something from you . . .” She took a big sip of her wine as if as punctuation.
Angie wondered if she was talking about Scarlett or herself. When Patricia didn’t continue, she considered. Do I go there? Now? She lunged ahead before she lost her nerve. “I got a weird delivery before I left New York. A messenger dropped off an envelope in the middle of the night.”
“How noir.”
“It said something about Scarlett deserving better and had a police report number. I went to the police station, and they didn’t have any record with that number. The cop said it didn’t exist.”
“Of course, it doesn’t exist,” Patricia said quietly. “Doesn’t mean it never existed.”
“What do you mean? Like, someone . . . erased it? Why? I mean, it was a suicide, not a murder investigation.”
Patricia gave Angie a penetrating gaze. “Yes, it was a suicide. I told you. Scarlett just couldn’t handle things anymore. So she took an exit. And you won’t be able to handle things either if you keep asking questions.”
“What? What can’t I handle?” She felt heart start to pound. “I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m not accusing anyone of anything. But I’ve heard twice now that Scarlett didn’t deserve what she got, and I don’t know what that means. Were people surprised she was depressed? She wrote a lot about how hard it was working on the movie, and how difficult Charles Weaver was. She said if the director walked, she would, too. It just sounds like the stress of that job really got to her. But why would—”
“Listen to me. I’m only saying this once.” Patricia cut her off and leaned in so she and Angie were eye to eye. “Your sister was a sweetheart, and I loved her. I get it. I do. And everyone knows how hard some of these assholes like Charles can be to work for. But that’s the deal. You make a movie with a place like DreamWeaver, and you get everything that comes with that. Hollywood is full of people with money and power, and they love it. They know how to get people to do exactly what they want.” The words dripped tartly off her tongue. “And no one in this town has the balls to go after them. If these people can get an NYPD report to vanish, what do you think they would do to you, poking around in the death of your sister? Huh?”
“I don’t understand what anyone has to lose by telling me why Scarlett became so horribly depressed,” Angie returned. “I’m not here to cast blame. But something weird is going on.”
Patricia’s expression grew darker. She was obviously losing patience. “Go home, Angie. These people . . . Go back to New York and forget all about this.”
Angie started to feel angry. “I can tell you know more than you’re saying.”
“Go home,” Patricia hissed. “Look at yourself. You come out to LA, you get all dressed up and make a big speech about your sister and depression. You think you can take on DreamWeaver? You’re nuts. You’re worse than nuts. You’re pathetic.” She stood suddenly, steadied herself, and threw a bunch of cash on the table. “You’re nothing. Get out of here. And don’t come back.”
Angie watched her stumble out of the restaurant, but continued to sit at the table, shocked and hurt. And confused. Patricia’s rancor had come out of nowhere, cutting her off at the knees.
Suddenly there was a loud screech followed by a commotion outside. Everyone in the restaurant turned to look. Waiters ran for the entrance and Angie followed, several other patrons on her heels. A small group crowded on the sidewalk and at first Angie couldn’t see anything, but there were gasps. Some people in front of her pulled out phones to make calls, others to take video, and finally they moved enough for Angie to make out what was going on.
Patricia lay in the street, her face bloodied and bruised, her left arm was angled unnaturally beneath her back. Oddly she still held the stem of the wineglass she had fled the restaurant with, the remainder of it sparkling in shards in the sun beside her.
Angie heard a click! and turned to find a young man in a white T-shirt and jeans snapping photos. He sheepishly explained, “Tabloids. They pay big money for pics, especially for a huge star like Patricia Bartlett.”
Angie was sickened by the depravity. She’d had enough of Los Angeles.
It was time to go home.
***
As she packed that night, she let the TV drone in the background. “One of Hollywood’s biggest names cut down in a hit-and-run,” one anchor breathlessly reported in her blue suit and perfectly shiny and cemented blond hair as she fixated on the camera lens. “We’ll have exclusive coverage and an update on Patricia Bartlett’s condition coming up.” The developing story was that Patricia had been drunk and stumbled into traffic. She was expected to pull through, but it was going to be a long road to recovery.
Angie knew there would be no getting near her again. She’d be guarded against any media or other intrusions.
She texted Nicole, thanking her again for her kindness, and made a mental note to keep in touch with her. She had thanked the stylists who had glammed her up, and Candace, who did not respond. Then she carefully packed Scarlett’s journal and Oscar and went down to the lobby to await her limo to the airport.
***
Scott was still in Taipei, so Angie went to see her parents that Saturday on her own. Her father was chilly, as she knew he would be, but her mother gushed over how beautiful Angie had looked and wanted all the details about the Zac Posen dress and the celebrities and all the perks and parties.
“I had more than a few rough moments, but there were nice parts too,” Angie told her over bagels in the kitchen. “It’s beautiful there, and I was treated to this very luxurious spa, which I’d never be able to afford on my own. The lunches were fancy, and getting my hair and makeup done and wearing that beautiful dress, and the jewelry from Tiffany . . . I mean, it was nice, but it wasn’t really me.”
Ellen beamed. “You looked wonderful, honey, so lovely. And those things you said about your own depression and about Scarlett and whatever . . . she was fighting . . .” She choked up. “Well, you were just wonderful. I’m so proud of you. Not just for what you said but that you went out and faced all those people on your own. That’s really something.” She took Angie’s hand, tears in her eyes. “You really made Scarlett proud.”
Angie let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. It meant a lot to hear that from her mother. Unable to embrace the moment, she made a joke. “The lights were in my eyes when I got up there—couldn’t see a thing. That helped.”
They both laughed and Ellen turned to pop a bagel into the toaster.
“The thing is,” Angie went on, “it’s clear a lot of people loved Scar. They made remarks about her deserving better, and about how hard it is in Hollywood. I think there’s more to her story, to what made her . . . do what she did. I just don’t know what. Not yet, anyway.”
“Your sister was playing in a very powerful league. She was smart and savvy and could handle herself.”
Angie gaped at her mother, dumbfounded and suddenly angry. “Obviously, that’s not true, Mom. Turns out she couldn’t handle it at all.”
“Oh, Angie . . .” Her mother was suddenly flustered. “All I meant was—”
“It’s toxic, all of those people, all of it.” Gerry walked in, having obviously caught part of their conversation. “They’re bad news. Scarlett ruined her life. You will, too, if you keep talking to that crowd out there.”
Why didn’t her parents want to know more? Was it just too painful? “This really isn’t about me, Dad,” Angie protested. “It’s about what happened to Scar. And, honestly, I really can’t believe neither of you is the least bit interested.”
There was silence.
“We are not having this conversation, Angela.” Gerry’s voice was practically shaking. He departed without another word.
Angie turned to her mother. Say something. Anything. But she knew her mother wouldn’t contradict her father. Ellen met Angie’s eye for a moment, then the bagel popped up and she turned away.
***
Monday morning, Angie couldn’t help but compare her small, drab-green workspace to LA’s sunny vibrance. Rita had given her two new manuscripts and she had started one over the weekend, but she was having trouble focusing. She kept replaying the conversations with her parents and thinking about the weird message with the police report and Patricia and the hit-and-run. The news was reporting Patricia was still in serious but stable condition.
Angie phoned Scott once he was home from his trip and filled him in. He listened thoughtfully as always.
“Look, it had to be really hard for you to be out there. So you heard a few things. You’re exhausted. Just let it go. We’ll never know why. You have to accept that.”
“But Patricia was trying to warn—”
“Patricia Bartlett was drunk, you said so yourself. She likely didn’t know what she was talking about. And it’s not that extraordinary that someone who’s drunk would stumble into traffic.”
When he put it that way, it all made sense. Everything can be explained away. But it still didn’t sit well.
“And look,” Scott continued, “even if you were to start investigating, run down every red herring—you’ll just drive yourself even crazier.”
A heavy pause hung in the air.
“Wait, Ange, that came out wrong. I didn’t mean that. I just meant . . .”
“I know what you meant,” Angie retorted. “You sound just like everyone else. You think I’m exaggerating and that I can’t see clearly what’s in front of me because there’s something wrong with me. You weren’t there. I was.”
She hung up, angry. No one trusts my judgment. They dismiss me as a fragile girl who can’t distinguish truth from fiction. Impressionable. Naïve. Not able to accept what happened to Scarlett. Unequipped for the world. Unable to face reality. But she was a grown woman. Not a girl. She coped with depression and anxiety, yes, but that didn’t make her impressionable and naïve.
She looked around the office. She had been avoiding life, in a way, safe in her tiny space, where all she had to do, for the most part, was read. Hell, even Scarlett had written in her journal that Angie was “still at Rita’s after all these years.”
That was Angie’s world. But it couldn’t be anymore. I have to stop hiding. No matter what anyone thought, no matter what they said, no matter how much people doubted her, it was time to be brave. Scarlett had always taken care of her. At home. At school. At summer camp. There was more to her sister’s suicide. She knew it. And she owed it to Scarlett to find out.
She quickly picked up the phone, before she had a chance to chicken out. She was relieved when the call went to voice mail. She left a message. Then she went down the hall and knocked on Rita’s door.
“Yeah, what’s up?” Rita looked up from the piles of paper stacked on her desk, her glasses propped on her fiery beehive.
“I don’t really know how to say this, but there’s something I have to do. I’m giving you two weeks’ notice, as of today. I’m . . . moving to LA. Maybe I can take an extended leave of absence? I’ve loved it here but—”
“Honey,” Rita cut her off. “I’ve been waiting years for this.” Angie’s jaw dropped, but Rita gave her a knowing smile. “It’s okay. Just go. Go now. I’ll get Joaquin in to help. You know he’s always wanted to be you.”
Angie couldn’t help but laugh.
“And he always needs the money. I’m going to miss you,” Rita continued. “No one can really replace you, you know. But, go. You need to spread your wings beyond that shoebox down the hall.”
Angie shook her head in amazement. She knew how much Rita relied on her, but she had never known how she saw her.
“But do me a favor. When you go, take a couple manuscripts with you—to read on the plane. When you’re done, call me and tell me what you think. Now, get the hell outta here.”
6
As Angie was going through her things in her apartment that evening, sorting what to take, what to give away, she glanced at her phone and saw she’d missed a call. A return call, from the voice mail she’d left earlier that day. She nervously dialed back.
“Hi, it’s Angie Norris. We met at—”
“Hi, Angie!” Nicole Hawkins sounded just as upbeat as Angie remembered.
“I’m sorry we didn’t connect before I left LA. I’m back in New York, but I remembered you saying that I’d be good at DreamWeaver. If you, you know, could use someone who can read really fast and connect with writers . . .”
“Are you coming out? Like, permanently?”
“Yes, actually. I’m moving to LA for . . . indefinitely. I’ll be needing a job, of course. I mean, everyone needs to work, and I just thought, well, I remembered what you’d said, that I’d be a good fit for that department that looks for books to turn into films.”
“You’d be perfect. I’m happy to arrange a meeting with the executive team. The fact you’re Scarlett Norris’s sister and your Oscar speech—all that will definitely help.”
“Oh, wow, that would be great. Thank you so much.” Angie felt awkward, unsure how to keep the conversation going.
“Listen, though. You were in town for the biggest night of the year. Everyone was feeling good and being super congratulatory. But that’s not how it is here day to day. There’s a lot of money on the line, and people have huge egos and a lot at stake, so being nice and not hurting anyone’s feelings, all that just doesn’t enter into things. It can be tough. You sure you’re up for that?”
Angie understood Nicole wanted to prepare her for the reality of the film industry, but she was irritated. Why did everyone assume she was a vulnerable creature incapable of handling any sort of pressure? She had a sharp mind and a good work ethic, but all anyone saw was her reserve and anxiety.
It’s because that’s what I project. I have to work on how I come across, always hiding away. She took one deep breath and steadied herself. May as well start now.
“I’m up for it. I read quickly, I know fiction and how to improve a story. I deal with writers, and I know publishing. Plus, I live and work in New York. It’s not Hollywood, but it’s not exactly the hinterlands.” That made Nicole laugh, which gave Angie’s confidence a boost. Why not be confident? Everything she’d said was true. She knew good stories. Publishing wasn’t the same as movies, but it was all selling stories, one way or another. And selling stories meant selling herself. “I realize Hollywood is a very different animal, but I’ll make it work.”
