fuonlyknew

JUNE 21 8:10 pm

Joey felt frustrated that she was late getting back to the shoot. By this time, nearly an hour after wrap, most of the movie crew had packed up and gone home after what had been a long, discouraging day. As key costumer, Joey usually started the morning on set, then ended her day at one of the specialty shops that made clothing for the film, or one of a dozen other tasks that went with her job. But tonight was different. She’d made the long drive back to the shooting location in Malibu because she wanted to talk to Courtney in person, and even though she wasn’t looking forward to the conversation, she wished she’d made it back before wrap. The second AD hadn’t answered her texts, and now Joey worried she’d missed the chance to do timely damage control, to smooth over the tension between them after their flare-up on set earlier that day. The hectic pace of the movie had everybody on edge, but their confrontation could threaten the costume department’s entire working relationship with the assistant directors. If she couldn’t talk to the second AD without starting a fight, it was game over. Determined not to let that happen, Joey bypassed the wardrobe truck and headed straight to the AD trailer as soon as she got back to location. She’d seen firsthand the problems that came from bad blood between departments. On one of her first films, the costume supervisor had gotten into a feud with the transportation captain. After that, the wardrobe trailers were permanently parked in base camp Siberia, as far from the actors’ trailers as possible. The time it took to travel those extra yards added up fast when you had to cover them many times each day. Then drivers suddenly became unavailable to do runs of any kind for the costume department, no matter the urgency. That might not sound like a big deal, but transpo can be a lifesaver when you’re up against an impossible deadline by making an important pickup or drop-off when everybody in your department is too slammed with work to do it, which can happen several times a week on a busy film. Getting on the wrong side of the AD department was even worse. Assistant directors are like air traffic controllers on a movie. Without them, everybody crashes into everybody else, literally and figuratively. Alienate the ADs and you’re just asking for trouble. The costume department already had enough problems on this movie between the lack of prep time, late casting, and a director with an ego as big as his box office grosses. Making an enemy of the second AD wasn’t an option. The thought sent a shiver through Joey, and she picked up her pace. When she didn’t find Courtney in the AD trailer, she continued her circuit of the movie’s base camp, asking everyone she passed if they’d seen the second AD. “She was by the cafe set last I saw her, but that was a while ago,” one of the grips said. Joey headed for the Paradise Cove Cafe up by the beach. All the actors’ trailers, nearest the set, were dark and locked up for the night. She tried the back door of the cafe, but that too was secured, so she peered through the windows. A single work light remained on, but there was no sign of anyone inside, the cafe apparently deserted now that the day’s filming was done. The sun was low in the sky, dipping toward the ocean. The longest day of the year, and that’s exactly what it felt like to Joey. She’d run out of places to look. Anxiety tugged at her. Her relationship with Courtney was complicated, like it is whenever your ex is dating somebody new. And she needed to be honest with herself about the way her personal feelings may have clouded their interactions. With daylight dying over the water, she stepped onto the beach, hoping to feel a scrap of the serenity she always found in the natural rhythm of the breaking waves, like a favorite refrain, a golden oldie that just gets better with time. At the water’s edge, she noticed a pile of clothing, buffeted by the incoming tide scudding across the sand. Her first thought was that one of the extras had abandoned their costume, but that didn’t make any sense. As the sun dropped out of the sky, she took a few steps closer to investigate, at the same time as a larger wave swept aside what she’d taken for coils of kelp swirling around that bundle of fabric. Horror sliced through Joey like a scalpel; she stumbled and fell to her knees. Courtney Lisle lay motionless in the shallow water at the shoreline as the cold blue Pacific surf washed over her body.

FOURTEEN HOURS EARLIER

Chapter One

The first day of principal photography on a film is always a milestone in production, like opening night in the theater. After working mostly independently of each other for three months or more, all the different departments merge to become one big machine. No matter how many movies you’ve done, every new job is a blank slate. Each time, you ask yourself: Do I have what it takes to climb that mountain again, to create a new world out of whole cloth? Put up or shut up time. Joey slept poorly the night before, which was par for the course; but she couldn’t shake the feeling of dread that dropped on her like a net as soon as she opened her eyes that morning. She’d had a bad feeling about this job from the start; she’d nearly passed on the movie for a number of reasons, both personal and professional. But the carrot of working so close to home was finally too tempting to resist. The costume department had been prepping for months, but the schedule was rushed for a project so large and complex. Lots of special effects, stunts, and complicated costumes; lots of money and reputations on the line. Still, she felt her department was as ready as they could be, and her standards for readiness were high. So she tried to chalk up her misgivings to first day of shooting jitters. Later, she’d wonder if they’d been a premonition. Just before sunrise, she pulled her car into the crew parking lot, about a mile south of base camp in Malibu. A shuttle van idled, waiting to ferry people to the set. It was empty save for the driver, whose head rested against his seat back. The teamsters were respon- sible for the setup of vehicles and equipment, so that all was ready for the shooting company when they got to work. They were the first in and last out every day, and most of them were expert at grabbing a few winks when they had the chance. Joey gathered her purse and work satchel, then locked her car and pinned her keys to her waistband. She had keys to the costume offices and storage space for the movie as well as her personal keys, and this was the only sure way to keep them at hand throughout the day without losing them. She trotted over to the van and pulled the side door open, startling the driver out of his catnap. A grizzled veteran in his late forties, he sat up with a frown until he saw who was climbing into his back seat. “Joey Jessop! Girl, how you doin’?” A wolfish grin lit his face. “You are lookin’ fine as ever, Sweet Cheeks.” Pete O’Neill was a relentless lech, and even though he was basically harmless, he could be tiresome, especially first thing in the morning. “Pete, what a nice surprise,” she said, trying to hide her true feelings. “I didn’t see your name on the crew list.” “We ran three weeks over on the last job down in Louisiana. Made it back in the nick of time to get on this one. Didn’t want to miss out on a big show in LA, for a change.” “No kidding,” she said. “This is the first job I’ve booked in the past four years that’s shooting here. I’m thrilled to be sleeping in my own bed for the next six months.” “You coming off location, too?” “I’ve been back here prepping this one for a while, but before that I was out of town shooting a Western.” “How’d that go?” He wiggled his eyebrows. “You meet a lot of hunky cowboys?” She managed to keep from rolling her eyes. “It was an education.” “Never done a Western before, huh?” He gave her a knowing look. “Whole different animal.” “That’s one way of putting it.” Joey had been on dozens of location shoots, but the Western was a real eye-opener. From the wild temperature swings in the desert—25 degrees at night to over 100 in the afternoon—to the dust storm that took out their generators one day, or the flash flood that nearly trapped them in a box canyon on another, the experience had given her a fresh appreciation for the comfort of shooting on a studio back lot. She stifled a yawn. “At least it was fast. Six-week shoot.” “Yeah?” His expression was skeptical. “Who was directing?” “Clint Eastwood.” She smiled as she pictured the director on set, watching the shot in progress on a handheld monitor. Despite the difficult conditions, Joey enjoyed working with him. Pete nodded appreciatively. “That man’s a class act, old school Hollywood.” “Yes, he is,” she said. “A real filmmaker. We could use more like him in the business these days.” “You got that right.” Pete checked his watch. “I don’t think I’ll be getting any more customers for a while. Crew call’s not for another hour. If you want, I’ll run you up to base camp now.” “That’d be great.” She slid the door closed. “I can use some quiet time before everybody gets here.” He dropped the van into gear. They turned north onto the Pacific Coast Highway as a pale watercolor wash of daylight began to spread across the ocean, sketching in the horizon line to the west. Joey took a deep breath, bracing herself for the nonstop activity the next sixteen hours would bring. “Have you read the script for this one yet?” Pete glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “Didn’t have much choice,” she said lightly. “That bad?” “Not my cup of tea. I’m not a big fan of comic book movies.” “’Bout all they make around here anymore,” he said, “if you want to earn a decent living.” “Don’t I know it.” The screenplay was 125 pages of special effects–driven gobbledygook, but Joey had no doubt it would play well with the movie’s crucial fourteen- to twenty-year-old target audience. “I heard this one’s about some new superhero.” Pete caught her eye in the mirror again. “It’s actually the Legion of Phenomenals, based on some underground comics that have a big cult following. Nothing new, but they haven’t been used in any movies so far.” “Why not just call it that, instead of UMPP?” He was asking about the working title for the movie. “Sounds like a noise you’d make if you got punched in the stomach.” She couldn’t help smiling. “It’s code for Untitled Marcus Pray Project. You know how paranoid the producers are. They’re trying to keep the fanboys in the dark.” “Like that’s going to stop them. The director’ll probably be posting pictures on Instagram from the set, and the studio won’t say boo to him.” Pete leaned back to talk to her over his shoulder. “Marcus Pray’s no Eastwood, even if he is a big dog in the business right now. I’m taking care of his trailer, and I got a mile-long list of special stuff that’s gotta be on board for him and his friends.” Pete gave the word a suggestive emphasis. Marcus Pray was a powerful Hollywood hyphenate, a producer-director with a string of action-adventure blockbusters to his credit. This movie was sure to be another lucrative notch on his belt. Joey hadn’t worked with him before, and some of the stories she’d heard made her think twice before she signed onto this job. *** Excerpt from FINAL CUT by Marjorie McCown. Copyright 2023 by Marjorie McCown. Reproduced with permission from Marjorie McCown. All rights reserved.

From Chapter 1

Wren stood on the shore and stared, trying to sort out her feelings about the ineffable house in front of her. She was only vaguely aware that while she looked at the house, her companion looked at her. “So, Ms. Architect—what say you?” Bronwyn finally asked. Wren saw her wry smile. She knew she’d have to answer, and Bronwyn would expect it to be clever. “Architecture should speak of its time and place, but yearn for timelessness,” Wren said. “Is that an original observation?” asked Bronwyn. Wren laughed. “You flatter me. It’s the great modernist architect Frank Gehry. This house is very much of its time and place. Look at the white stucco walls, the glass and steel, the absolute cleanliness of lines. The geometric arrangement of the layers is mathematically perfect.” “Why do I sense a ‘but’ coming?” asked the woman, arching an eyebrow. Wren knew there could be no softening the message. “I don’t find it welcoming. There is something very self-aware about modernist homes. A look-at-me arrogance about them, as if they are doing you a favor of letting you inside.” She paused, wondering if she had gone too far. “But maybe I’m being unfair. I haven’t been inside it yet. And there’s no doubt that it’s stunning.” She looked at Bronwyn, waiting for her reaction. “Are you saying I may have made a mistake buying it?” asked Bronwyn. Wren heard the teasing in her voice. “No. Nobody ever made a mistake buying a house that spoke to them.” Yes, even if they spent $30 million for it. “If you are honest with yourself about what you want, you will be happy here. And if you are honest with me, I guarantee I can give you what you want with the renovation.” “Fair enough,” said Bronwyn. “Was that Frank Gehry again?” “No, that was entirely me.” “Ah. But as Gehry said, it should yearn for timeliness. Has this succeeded in that?” “We’ll need to give it another century.” Bronwyn nodded. “Maybe it’s because I’m a writer. I become obsessed in making sure my books, the plots and subplots, are exciting. This house looks exciting. I was happy in my nice, simple co-op, and then my financial advisor told me I could do better. Much better. I fell in love with this right away. The more I walked through it, the more I liked it, the idea that I will be able to stay in it a long time, and keep finding something new about it.” “Then you absolutely did the right thing. Indeed, that is the very purpose of a house like this,” said Wren. She mulled over her next statement. “When I was a girl, however, I wanted to live in a Victorian manor house, with a great hall with a huge hearth and handmade wooden furniture. I’d wear long dresses and be attended to by maids in starched uniforms.” Did I just sound silly? “That’s very romantic,” said Bronwyn, and Wren wondered if that was a criticism, a put-down for a flighty young girl. “But then again, I feel romantic about this, about men in classic tuxedos and women in Chanel dresses, with cigarettes and dry martinis and Dave Brubeck playing in the background. I guess we’re both emotional that way, so despite our differences about favorite eras, I’m thinking hiring you is going to turn out to be a good decision as well.” Wren felt relief wash over her. She felt confident building houses but closing a deal—that involved people. She still didn’t trust her abilities when people were involved. Of course, there was still one more feature of the house they needed to discuss: The “tragedy.” That’s how the papers had described it. But Wren wasn’t going to bring it up first. Bronwyn hugged her leather jacket. “It’s a great view, but it’s getting cold. Let’s go inside.” Yes. Wren always looked over the outside first, but she was especially excited about seeing the interior. Until Bronwyn had bought it a few weeks ago, no one had been inside the house since the 1950s, except for the caretaker staff. The house overwhelmed Wren despite herself. Oh yes, she thought, Marius Cadieux knew it would. He would be so amused. So very proud. No—smug. Even if it wasn’t to her taste, there was no denying what Cadieux had achieved here: the soaring ceiling, the clever use of windows filling the house with light even on a dreary day, the unexpected curves and angles, the steel staircase, which also served as a sculpture. Wren just stared. There really was nothing to compare it to—a Cadieux house was always unique. She could see him standing over her, “Very nice, isn’t it, little one? And of course, your client is overwhelmed by it, as she should be.” “I’m glad I bought a house that even knocks the socks off another architect,” said Bronwyn, grinning. “It certainly does,” said Wren. “I’ve seen pictures, but they’re not the same as really being inside it.” Wren took in Bronwyn, with her attractive, angular face and the matching pixie haircut. Did the author indeed have a modernist personality, a match for this home, a connection with Cadieux? Indeed, did Bronwyn know how perfect she looked in her new house? Wren walked among the rooms, taking note of the artful ways Cadieux had divided the house—very few true walls and doors, just a series of levels and passages, rectangular pillars clad in stone. Cadieux loved granite and marble, quartzite and sandstone, and merged them with oak and walnut, teak and lyptus. Wren saw Bronwyn marveling over it, even though she had already visited her new home several times. That was the thing about a Cadieux home, that Bronwyn had already realized: You could live there 40 years and marvel over it every day for the rest of your life. “I’d like to see upstairs.” Wren smiled. “But as you no doubt noticed, ‘upstairs’ is relative in a Cadieux house, with its intersecting layers. It just flows. That was a hallmark of Cadieux, but none I’ve seen are quite as…” She let her voice trail off. “You can’t find the word?” said Bronwyn. “You’re the writer—can you? Architectural journalists struggled to describe him. But here we go…’intriguing.’ No other Cadieux house is as intriguing as this one. It may take me a while to figure it out.” “You mean, how it’s put together?” asked Bronwyn. “Oh no. That’s easy. I meant what is its personality? Marius Cadieux stamped a personality on this house. It has a reason, and I will find out what that is. For now, we look at it: See the extraordinary flow of the house, the ways the rooms are separate and yet merge into each other, the way the light plays along the floors and walls. The materials blend into each other, and Cadieux is taught in every architecture school—as if you could teach this.” “It sounds like you studied him,” said Bronwyn. “It sounds like you knew him. Did you?” She fixed her eyes on Wren, who gave that question some thought. She didn’t want to go there, not yet. *** Excerpt from The Cadieux Murders by R.J. Koreto. Copyright 2024 by R.J. Koreto. Reproduced with permission from R.J. Koreto. All rights reserved.