That was why Blue Eyes spoke to Artie on the 19th, as they were wrapping up their final trimming and planting.
“Mr. Carter,” he said, as he always did, even though the rest of the workers called him Artie. He had explained it was because he had been taught to respect the boss, and he sensed that Carter was pleased by it.
Actually, Artie Carter felt there was something not quite right about Bruno Hoffa. He never joined the other workers for a beer after work. He never entered debates about the baseball season when they were driving from one job to another. He never complained if the weather was lousy. In Artie’s opinion, Bruno had one card missing from his deck, but so what? He was the best worker of all his crew.
As Artie finished inspecting the grounds, he was satisfied. Even the pain-in-the-neck client, Mr. Robert Powell, couldn’t find anything to complain about.
It was then that Bruno Hoffa approached him.
“Mr. Carter, I have a suggestion to make,” he said.
“What is it, Bruno?” It had been a long day, and Artie was ready to go home and have a nice cold beer. Or maybe a couple of nice cold beers.
Now Bruno, his narrow mouth extended into a forced smile, his lidded eyes fixed on Artie’s neck, his tone unusually subservient even for him, hesitantly began his planned speech.
“Mr. Powell came out the other day when I was planting flowers around the pool house. He said that the flowers were beautiful, but he was really annoyed because he knew the film crew would crush the grass. He supposed it would be inevitable, but he wished he could do something about it.”
“Mr. Powell is a perfectionist,” Artie said. “And our biggest customer. From what I understand they’ll be photographing outside all week. What are we supposed to do about that?” he asked irritably. “We’ve been told to stay off the property after today.”
Blue Eyes began his carefully prepared pitch. “Mr. Carter, I was thinking. We couldn’t have one of the trucks in the driveway, because Mr. Powell would have a fit. But maybe you could suggest I be stationed in the pool house. That way if the film crew tramples on the grass or makes holes with their heavy equipment, I could repair it the minute they leave the area. Also, the people who are in the film might decide to take a walk on the grounds, or maybe have lunch outside and leave litter behind them. I could take care of that, too. If he agrees, I’d have to be dropped off in the morning and picked up when they’re finished shooting at the end of the day.”
Artie Carter considered. Powell was such a perfectionist that this might appeal to him. And Artie knew that Bruno was so self-effacing that he wouldn’t get in the way of anyone in the production company.
“I’ll give Mr. Powell a call and suggest that you be around for the shooting. Knowing him, I bet he agrees.”
Of course he will, Blue Eyes thought as he struggled to keep a triumphant smile off his face. Laurie, you won’t have to grieve much longer for your husband, he told himself. That’s my promise to you.
19
Much to Nina Craig’s dismay, there was a message for her mother waiting at the desk at the St. Regis when they checked in.
As she had feared, it was from Robert Powell, inviting Muriel to the 9 A.M. breakfast.
Muriel smiled with delight, then waved the note in Nina’s face. “You thought he was toying with me,” she snapped. “You don’t, or won’t, understand that Rob and I were deeply in love. The fact that his head was turned by Betsy Bonner doesn’t mean he didn’t care about me.”
Nina realized that Muriel, having drunk a vodka and at least two glasses of wine on the plane, and after their argument in the car when she was screaming how much she hated Betsy, was out of control.
She could see the two desk clerks taking in the tirade. “Mother, please…,” she began.
“Don’t ‘please’ me. Read the reviews I got. You’re nothing but an extra, a nobody. Didn’t that woman stop me on the street and tell me how wonderful I was in the remake of Random Harvest?”
Muriel’s voice was rising and her face was becoming flushed as she spat out the words. “As for you, you couldn’t make it to first base as an actress. That’s why you’re an extra, a member of the crowd scenes.”
Nina could see that the clerk had put the keys to the rooms in separate envelopes. She reached out her hand. “I’m Nina Craig,” she said quietly. “I apologize for the scene my mother is making.”
If Muriel had heard her, she did not indicate it. She was still finishing her sentence. “… and you’re always trying to put me down.”
The clerk was tactful enough not to offer any reply to Nina other than to murmur, “I’ll have your bags sent up to your room.”
“Thank you. I just have the large black one.” Nina pointed to it, then turned and brushed past Muriel, who had finally stopped talking. Furious and embarrassed by the curious eyes of the onlookers who were in line at the desk, she walked rapidly to the elevator and managed to get in as the door was closing.
On the sixth floor she got out, and following the arrow to the odd-numbered rooms, hurried to get into 621 before Muriel arrived and tried to follow her into her room.
Once inside, Nina sat down in the nearest chair with her hands clenched and whispered, “I can’t stand any more. I can’t stand it any more.”
Later she called for room service. It would have been typical of her mother, who was in the room next door, to phone her about dinner. But that didn’t happen. Nina would not have agreed to meet with her, but was denied the satisfaction of saying the words that were crowding her throat. Go ahead. Make a fool of yourself tomorrow. I tried to warn you. You’re Muriel Craig, B-actress and a total failure as a mother and as a human being.
Hoping to hear more from them, Josh had arranged the car service so that he was the one who picked them up in the morning and again taped their angry conversation.
That morning, Josh had arrived half an hour early for an eight o’clock pickup. But when he phoned Nina Craig, she had said, “We’ll be right down.”
Nina had thought that there was nothing else her mother could possibly do to upset her, but she quickly realized she was wrong. Muriel wanted to arrive at the breakfast early so she could have time with Robert Powell before the others arrived. At least this time they rode in silence.
When they arrived at the estate, the door was opened by Powell’s longtime housekeeper, Jane. She eyed them up and down, greeted them by name, and said that Mr. Powell would be down at nine, and that the producer, Ms. Moran, was already in the dining room.
Nina watched as her mother hid her disappointment and became Muriel Craig, the actress. Her smile was gracious, her tone warm when she was introduced to Laurie Moran, and she thanked her for being invited to accompany Nina.
“Mr. Powell is your host, Ms. Craig,” Laurie said quietly. “I can’t take any credit for it. I understand that after the breakfast you’ll be driven back to the St. Regis?”
Wonderful, Nina thought with satisfaction. As she extended her hand to Laurie, she realized how surprised she was that the producer of the program was so young. Mid-thirties, Nina thought enviously. Nina’s forty-second birthday the previous week had made her keenly aware that her life was going nowhere, and this three-hundred-thousand-dollar windfall would only serve to buy her mother an apartment and get her out of her hair once and for all.
On the set of her last movie, Nina had been an extra in a ballroom scene, and the producer, Grant Richmond, had told her that she danced beautifully. “You put the others in the scene to shame,” he had said.