Fletch’s Moxie

That could drive anybody to murder.”

“Stella killed Peterman,” giggled Gerry Littleford. “Out of respect for his wife.”

Stella colored. “Okay,” she said. “Why was Marge Peterman there? She’d never shown up before. There was no weekend planned, or anything. Our work schedule gave Peterman no more time off than it gave us. We had weeks to go before a break.”

“Is what you’re saying, Stella,” Fletch asked. “Is that Marge Peterman showed up on location with the intention of killing her husband?”

“Sure.”

“Does anybody know if she was expected?” Fletch looked around at the faces at his table.

“I don’t think she was,” Sy Koller said. “When you’re on location, directors—at least some of us—prefer not to have wives around…” He looked quickly at Geoffrey McKensie and then away. “Extraneous people.” He looked at Frederick Mooney who was blinking drunkenly over his plate. His eyes settled on Stella Littleford. “Apt to be damned distracting. It’s tough enough, you know, dealing with the emotions, the feelings, of the people working on a film. When those people have wives around, and husbands around to back them up, echo everything they say: lovers, retainers, and the odd relative …” Again Koller glanced at Mooney. “All telling them they’re right, they’re wrong, they’re this, they’re that, they look tired this morning—” Koller’s voice went to a bitchy falsetto, “—and is that a pimple coming under your nose? And tell that Sy Koller that scene will never be right until he gives you a stronger exit line… Makes it damned tough for the director.” Sy Koller laughed at himself. “Didn’t mean to take advantage of a simple question and climb on my hobby horse. No,” he said to Fletch. “I don’t think Marge Peterman was expected. I think Peterman and I were of one mind on this topic. I bribed my own wife off with a trip to Belgium. I think if Steve knew his wife was coming he could have asked her not to.”

“And she would have stayed home in her closet,” Stella said with disgust.

“Stroking her chinchilla,” put in Edith Howell.

“Well, this time Marge Peterman didn’t stay home,” insisted Stella Littleford. “She showed up on location and stabbed the bastard.”

Gerry snickered.

“Well, where was she during the taping of The Dan Buckley Show?” Stella asked.

“With me,” Fletch answered.

“And who the hell are you?”

“Nobody.”

“He’s our host,” said Edith Howell. “Would somebody please pass the wine?”

“And later,” said Stella, “where was she? We found her over there behind those trailers.”

“With me,” Fletch said.

“Looked to me like she was hiding,” said Stella.

“It’s decided.” Gerry Littleford put down his knife and fork. “Stella killed Steve Peterman and thus struck another blow for the equality of women.”

Mooney’s eyes kept closing and his head kept bobbing and he kept eating. He was napping during dinner.

“Investors,” said Geoff McKensie.

“Yeah,” mocked Moxie. “Let’s hear it from the investors.”

McKensie wrinkled his eyebrows at her. Apparently, like most taciturn men, when McKensie spoke, he expected to be heard. He waited for attention and then spoke in a tone far friendlier than what he had to say to the people present: “I’ve been thinking it out. Who had the most reason to kill Steve Peterman? He was really muckin’ this film up, he was. Here the company had hired a first class director—me. I only took on the job with the understandin’ I could have a free hand with the script. I spent months goin’ over that script. My wife and I flew halfway ’round this spinnin’ earth. I spent a week in California, thrashing the new script out with Talcott Cross. He approved everything I wanted to do. ’Course, he’s a professional, he is. I come out here to this American boot camp for heaven—”

“I think he means Florida,” Fletch whispered to Moxie.

“—and here’s this Peterman bloke rollin’ ’round on his back like a pig turnin’ everything on the menu into garbage.”

Sy Koller’s color was deepening. “You mean, he fired you.”

“Right he did,” said McRensie. “And he hires a second-rate, has-been director—” McKensie jerked his thumb at his directorial table mate. “—who proceeds to film the original lousy script as if it was half-good. As if it was any good.”

“Excuse me for living,” said Sy Koller. He was a deep crimson.

“Come on, Geoff,” said Edith Howell. “Be fair. You were the victim of a terrible, terrible tragedy. Your wife was killed. You couldn’t expect to carry on—”

“I’m not used to yankee-land,” said McKensie. “With a little luck, I never will be, I now think. But where I come from—Down Under—when something like that happens a decent interval takes place. A chap’s allowed to take the blow and recover.”

“Come on, McKensie,” Gerry Littleford said. “You were in no shape to direct after your wife’s death. You still aren’t. How could you be?”

McKensie’s eyes attacked Littleford. “I’ll tell you, sonny, your best chance was to film my script. With me directing.” He made another disparaging gesture toward Koller. “You haven’t got a lawyer’s chance in heaven doin’ things they way you’re doin’ ’em.”

Fletch was looking at Moxie. His eyes were repeating, Having two directors in the house is like having two ladies wearing the same expensive dress.

“What happened here?” McKensie asked rhetorically, dropping his h’s onto his plate. “The day after my wife was killed there was no filming—of course. That same damn day this failed director—” Again, he jerked his thumb at Koller. “—is flown in by Steven Peterman. Named the director of Midsummer Night’s Madness. My script is thrown into the hopper and the day after that, you all start filming the original pile of garbage. He didn’t even wait until after the funeral.”

“I know, Geoff,” Moxie said. “I spoke to Steve about that. I thought it was rotten. I tried to get him to hold off filming for a few days—”

“It wasn’t respectful, for one thing,” said McKensie. “My wife was a lady who deserved a little respect, you know.”

“I’m sure she was,” Edith Howell said quickly. “I wish we had all known her.”

“But Steve said,” continued Moxie. “Oh, you know what he said. He said, how many thousands of dollars filming costs a day. How many thousands of dollars it cost to have the whole crew idle.”

“‘Idle’,” scoffed McKensie. “Respect for the dead, I’d call it. A little respect for the bereaved.”

“Steve read me the figures,” Moxie said. “Said the investors would have every reason to raise hell if we closed down for a few days.”

“Exactly,” McKensie said. “Investors. Maybe your investors have got more sense than Peterman gave ’em credit for. Maybe in the old days in Hollywood you could pull the line investors don’t want the movie good—they want it Thursday. But films cost a bit too much for that, these days. From my experience with investors, they’d rather have a piece of somethin’ that has a chance of makin’ a profit than a piece of somethin’ that stinks so bad it’ll have to be buried at sea.”

Koller’s face was going through the whole color spectrum. “Tell me, McKensie,” he said. “If you think Misdummer Night’s Madness is basically such a lousy script, how come you agreed to direct it in the first place?”

“You don’t expect me to be honest about that, do you?” McKensie said.

Koller raised and dropped his hands in despair. “Right now, I don’t know what to expect.”

“It was my chance to direct in America,” Geoffrey McKensie said. “I thought I could make a silk slipper out of a dog’s paw. I could have, too.” He sat back on his chair. Lopez was clearing the table. “If I were an investor in Midsummer Night’s Mad-ness, and I knew what was going on on location, I would have murdered Steve Peterman ruddy fast. The bastard deserved it.”