Chapter Nine #2
“Did he have any food or drink next to him?” Caceras asked.
“A big coffee cup,” he said. “I think it spilled on the floor when he collapsed. No food.”
I interrupted. “One of the technicians—his name is Mike—told us that Ray had been trying to lose weight.”
“And he didn’t make any sounds?” Caceras asked. “No groans of pain or calls for help?”
Howard looked aghast. “They were on live television. Any technician who is going to work in this town knows not to make extraneous noise in the middle of a broadcast. They’d never work again.
No excuses, unless you’re dying or something.
” I could tell the moment he realized what he had said, because all the muscles in his face suddenly went slack.
“Maybe not even then,” he added.
* * *
The rest of our interview involved sharing contact information, both during our stay in California and at home.
When the limo exited the studio parking garage, I felt both hungry and fatigued, and a look at my travel companions as they leaned back in the plush seats of the limo suggested they felt the same.
“I’ve got an awesome place picked out for you today,” Howard said as he waited at a traffic light.
“About that,” I said. “I’m not sure I’m up for a long restaurant meal and sightseeing today.”
“I know I could use a quick bite, then a short nap,” Seth said.
“Then this place is perfect,” Howard said. “Burgers, sandwiches, and salads, and we’ll do our sightseeing right from the table. How does that sound?”
“Fabulous.” Maureen rubbed her feet. “I don’t think I can walk another step in these shoes.”
“Why did you wear them?” Mort asked. “It’s not like your feet are on camera.”
“Well, you never know,” she said. “Besides, these shoes are really cute.”
Mort rolled his eyes but didn’t answer.
I might have dozed off during the drive, but not for long. When my eyes opened, we were surrounded by taller buildings. “Are we back downtown?” I asked.
“Century City,” Howard said.
He pulled into an entrance marked Century Plaza Towers and dropped us off on the sidewalk.
“See the park between the twin towers?” he said.
“Veer to your left, and in a smaller building adjacent to the tower, you’ll see a restaurant on the ground floor called The Stand.
I’ll try to grab a spot in the parking garage and meet you. ”
We climbed slowly out of the limo, much to the consternation of the driver of the car stopped behind us, who made a crude gesture at Howard as he finally pulled forward and into the circle to turn the long vehicle around.
Mort took a moment to gaze up at the shiny aluminum exterior of the twin triangular towers. “Seems familiar. Maybe Die Hard?”
“Yes, but also think private detective agencies,” Maureen said with a bright smile and renewed energy. “I know exactly where I’ve seen these towers.”
“Wait, was it that one show you like,” Mort said, “with that guy and that woman?”
Seth laughed. “Can’t go too far afield with a vague guess like that.”
We started walking, following Howard’s directions.
“I find it difficult to believe you can’t come up with at least one of the detective agencies that had their offices here,” Maureen said.
“I don’t watch all that romancey stuff like you,” Mort said.
“For someone who always answers Die Hard, how could you not know that Bruce Willis played a detective who worked in one of those offices?”
“Ah,” I said. “Moonlighting.”
“See,” Maureen said, “even Jessica, who hardly ever turns on her television, knows that one.”
“It was groundbreaking,” I said. “The whole will-they-won’t-they dynamic, the mix of comedy and drama…
Although as a mystery writer, I have mixed feelings about how they broke the fourth wall.
” When Maureen gave me a quizzical expression, I explained, “The fourth wall is a theatrical term for the invisible boundary between actors onstage and the audience. In television, breaking the fourth wall happens when actors stop talking to each other and speak directly to the cameras—or rather, the viewers at home.”
“And that’s a problem?” Maureen asked. “Wouldn’t it tend to make the viewer more involved?”
“Some would argue that, but others would say that they’re taking the viewer out of the story by reminding them it’s a work of fiction.
Writers can do a similar thing by addressing the reader directly.
The retired English teacher in me can’t bring myself to do it, but I have friends who have used the technique very successfully, especially in books for younger readers.
Enola Holmes, Sherlock’s younger sister in a series of books by Nancy Springer, comes to mind.
” I could see I was losing Maureen’s attention.
“I imagine many viewers of Moonlighting enjoyed the breaks in the fourth wall as something not seen on many other television shows.”
“That,” Maureen said, “and Bruce Willis was hot.”
Seth cleared his throat. “Cybill Shepherd wasn’t too hard to look at either.”
We arrived at the restaurant, and Mort held the glass door open for us.
A few tables held office workers enjoying either a late lunch or an early dinner, but there was plenty of room at the tables near the windows for us to enjoy the light and the view while eating.
We joined the short queue to the counter, and after considering a variety of mouthwatering salad combinations, I ordered a chimichurri steak salad and their house-made cucumber-mint agua fresca, then took a seat at the checkered cloth-covered table where Seth, who was the first to decide his order, was already waiting with his fountain drink in front of him.
He yawned. “I don’t know why I’m so tired. It’s not like we’ve been on our feet all morning.”
“Could still be jet lag,” I suggested. “Circadian rhythms can be stubborn. Or maybe stress. That we’re in a live television competition is pressure enough, but add the anxiety of knowing that a murder has been committed and a killer is still out there.
Not to mention the physical exertion from the medical attention you’ve provided.
I know supplying first aid to someone who doesn’t rally can create issues all on its own. ”
“Even if they do rally,” Seth said, “it can cause post-traumatic stress disorder. Yes, I’ve read the textbook. I’ve even contributed to a few of them. I’ll admit, I’ve seen things that triggered a few dark moments through the years, but this is different.”
Maureen pulled out a chair to join us. “What are we talking about?”
“PTSD,” I said.
“Oh,” she said. “I think I might have a touch of that. Last night I kept seeing that poor man draped over his console. Probably why I couldn’t sleep.”
Seth looked up. “If it keeps up once we get back home, be sure to come in and we can discuss some options.”
“Sure, Seth,” Maureen said. “Although I don’t think it will come to that. Mort and I had a long talk about it this morning, and I did feel a lot better. I expect it was a combination of that and the nerves.”
Mort sat down across from me.
Maureen looked up. “We were just talking about PTSD.”
“Now, there’s something those private eye shows you like don’t even consider,” Mort said.
“How’s that?” Maureen asked.
“Well, that one with Bruce Willis, those two detectives…”
“David and Maddie,” Maureen supplied.
Mort grinned. “I see we’re on a first-name basis. Okay, say David and Maddie were trying to solve Ray’s murder. How exactly would that go?”
“Well,” Seth said, “if I recall, first David would make a bunch of one-liners along with a few suggestive comments to Maddie, followed by some rather witty banter.”
“Then Maddie would go off and try to solve it herself,” Maureen said. “Or they’d compete to see who could solve it first.”
“And Agnes would answer the phone with a poem,” I said.
Maureen looked up. “That’s right. I forgot about the poems.”
“Might be the best part,” I said.
“And then they bumble around for forty-eight minutes, give or take,” Mort said, “until they stumble on the killer. There’d be a fight or chase scene, and the next week they’d do it again. It never gets to them, ages them, or keeps them up at night for weeks.”
“Even broken bones are somehow healed the next week,” Seth said.
“Suspension of disbelief,” I said. “The audience becomes so caught up in the story that they’re willing to put aside issues like that.”
“Exactly,” Maureen said. “It’s not a gritty true-crime show. It’s entertainment. Still, maybe there’s something to learn from their methods.”
“I don’t see what,” Mort said.
“Maybe it’s in the witty banter?” Maureen suggested. “Two divergent opinions coming together can often generate more creative solutions than one dominant opinion without any argument. I think that’s one of the reasons our trivia team does so well.”
“I hope you’re not suggesting homicide is best solved by committee,” Mort said. “Maybe the next murder that happens back home, I should buy a dozen doughnuts, call all the deputies into the conference room, and we can engage in witty repartee until a light bulb goes off.”
I laughed. “In a way, you already do.”
Mort’s eyebrows rose.
“When you arrive at a crime scene,” I explained, “you don’t start issuing edicts. You listen to the deputies who responded, and to the witnesses. Some of what they tell you is fact, and some is opinion, and you discern which is which.”
“And sometimes we talk about a difficult case over dinner,” Maureen said.
“I try not to bring the tough stuff home,” Mort said.
“I know,” Maureen said. “That’s when you’re a few minutes late because you’re having tea with Jessica.”
Seth laughed, while Mort’s ears colored.
“And there’s nothing wrong with that,” Maureen added quickly. “She’s got a brilliant criminal mind.”
I cleared my throat. “That’s not exactly how I would put it.”