Insidious
Page 42
Cam held her, rubbed her back. And she waited. Missy shook her head, swiped her hands over her eyes. “Sorry, sorry, it’s just such a shock. And Connie was killed only six weeks ago.”
“I know. Listen now, Missy, the police working the other murders haven’t been able to connect the victims through anything on their laptops. You knew both Connie Morrissey and Deborah Connelly personally. And you’d met Molly Harbinger in Las Vegas. Did you know any of the other actresses who were killed?” Cam repeated their names. “Davina Morgan, Melodie Anders, Heather Burnside?”
“No. Isn’t it strange, though, that I knew three of them? There are so many of us trying to break into this business, thousands of us, I imagine, and we all sit around and talk and worry about how we’re doing. How we could improve our chances, who could help us and how; who got a part at an audition, who didn’t, and why we didn’t, at least why we think we didn’t win a part we wanted. Stuff like that.”
Cam felt a spark. “Show us what you have on your laptop, Missy.”
34
* * *
“My laptop’s right here in the kitchen. Let me put on some tea and show you what I’ve got.”
Once the kettle was on, they leaned over her as Missy booted up her laptop. “Lots of actresses use their cell phones, but I find the bigger screen is easier.” Missy’s screen filled with shortcuts, organized by type, in columns and rows.
“Creative Artists Agency is right on top. That’s your agency, Missy?”
“Yes, my agent’s with them. Dick North’s his name. They’re one of the largest.”
“Heather Burnside was with them, too. Was Deborah?”
“No, Deborah was with Abrams. And Connie was with a smaller agency, I don’t remember which one.”
“It was Gush,” Daniel said. “A William Burley was her agent, for nearly three years, before her murder.”
Missy nodded. “Yes, that’s it. Burley has a rep for a mover and shaker. She was lucky to have him.”
Cam said, “SAG-AFTRA, what is that?”
“That’s the new name of the Screen Actors Guild since they merged. You know, they represent actors, but just about everybody else, too—newswriters, dancers, DJs, voiceover people, everybody.”
“Do you spend a lot of time on that site?”
“Not really. I occasionally go on for some industry news. I think a lot of us spend more time on Backstage. They focus on casting, job opportunities, career advice. And the Hollywood Reporter.”
Daniel said, “I see a lot of these shortcuts are to shopping sites, magazines. Do you post on any blogs, or on online forums?”
“The only place I blog is on my Facebook fan page. I’m trying to build a fan base, so I go on and blog every couple of days and answer when people have comments. Anytime I win a part, I post it, along with any new photos to build up name and face recognition.”
Cam said, “I see a file labeled Auditions. You keep records?”
“Sure, I can’t imagine not keeping good records of those who liked me, who didn’t and why, what roles I’ve won, what roles I didn’t win, my impressions of why I may have lost a role, plus lots more stuff, like the actresses who beat me out, and why I think they did. You think that’s important?”
“Maybe, yes.”
Missy opened the Auditions file. They saw subfiles for movies, TV, and commercials going back for the past four years. Missy pressed a key. “This is for the first six months of this year.”
She scrolled slowly down, showing them how she’d formatted it all, with each comments section completely filled in. It was a history of Missy’s triumphs and failures for the past six months, more than fifty auditions. “The files are less useful after about three years because there’s so much turnover. I’ve streamlined it pretty well, though. All the information is spot-on, and easy to find. Mostly I use it to make me think about how I could do better. It’s really helpful with a repeat, say a producer I’ve already dealt with, and the impressions I had the first time around.”
Daniel thought the detail was amazing. “Do you know if both Connie and Deborah kept this good of audition records?”
“Oh yes. Deborah was even more detailed and particular than I am. I remember she told me about her experience with an advertising agency—they were pigs, as in sexists, and wanted sex for parts. I have that information in my file.
“Connie had everything on her smartphone. She had what she called a suck-up list, people she had to be nice to no matter how obnoxious they were. Wait a second—I forgot the tea.”
Missy took the whistling green teakettle off the flame, fetched three cups from a cupboard painted the same pale green, and handed Daniel some napkins and spoons.
Missy poured the boiling water over tea bags, added a dollop of nonfat milk into her tea, took a sip, nodded to herself. “I don’t know if Doc told you, Cam, but Deborah had a good part in a movie—a period piece called The Crown Prince. Most of it was filmed in Italy. They came back maybe two weeks ago, to wind it up at the studio.” Her voice caught. She stared into her cup, swishing the tea around, as if there were answers to be found amid the steam and the swirling water. “But now she won’t get to finish it. She was really excited about that role. She even hoped it might get her an Oscar nomination.” She paused. “Cam, all of those murdered girls, they were all so keen to make it, they worked hard, dreamed, dealt with their lives as best as they could, even when they weren’t sure how to pay their rent. And now they’re gone, just gone.” She looked up. “Now none of them will never have a chance to get her Oscar.”
Daniel said after a moment, “The Crown Prince—what will they do now that Deborah’s dead? Will they simply go down their list and select the next actress they’d considered for the role?”
Missy stared up at him. “You’re thinking another actress would have gone around the bend and killed Deborah for that part?”
Daniel shrugged.
“Plus five others? Listen, even if you killed an actress who won a role you wanted, who’s to say they’d give it to you? They’d have to find an actress who looks enough like Deborah to cut in smoothly, and the second actress in line probably wouldn’t fit the bill. Given that, they’d probably give the role to someone who’d never auditioned for the role before.”
“I know. Listen now, Missy, the police working the other murders haven’t been able to connect the victims through anything on their laptops. You knew both Connie Morrissey and Deborah Connelly personally. And you’d met Molly Harbinger in Las Vegas. Did you know any of the other actresses who were killed?” Cam repeated their names. “Davina Morgan, Melodie Anders, Heather Burnside?”
“No. Isn’t it strange, though, that I knew three of them? There are so many of us trying to break into this business, thousands of us, I imagine, and we all sit around and talk and worry about how we’re doing. How we could improve our chances, who could help us and how; who got a part at an audition, who didn’t, and why we didn’t, at least why we think we didn’t win a part we wanted. Stuff like that.”
Cam felt a spark. “Show us what you have on your laptop, Missy.”
34
* * *
“My laptop’s right here in the kitchen. Let me put on some tea and show you what I’ve got.”
Once the kettle was on, they leaned over her as Missy booted up her laptop. “Lots of actresses use their cell phones, but I find the bigger screen is easier.” Missy’s screen filled with shortcuts, organized by type, in columns and rows.
“Creative Artists Agency is right on top. That’s your agency, Missy?”
“Yes, my agent’s with them. Dick North’s his name. They’re one of the largest.”
“Heather Burnside was with them, too. Was Deborah?”
“No, Deborah was with Abrams. And Connie was with a smaller agency, I don’t remember which one.”
“It was Gush,” Daniel said. “A William Burley was her agent, for nearly three years, before her murder.”
Missy nodded. “Yes, that’s it. Burley has a rep for a mover and shaker. She was lucky to have him.”
Cam said, “SAG-AFTRA, what is that?”
“That’s the new name of the Screen Actors Guild since they merged. You know, they represent actors, but just about everybody else, too—newswriters, dancers, DJs, voiceover people, everybody.”
“Do you spend a lot of time on that site?”
“Not really. I occasionally go on for some industry news. I think a lot of us spend more time on Backstage. They focus on casting, job opportunities, career advice. And the Hollywood Reporter.”
Daniel said, “I see a lot of these shortcuts are to shopping sites, magazines. Do you post on any blogs, or on online forums?”
“The only place I blog is on my Facebook fan page. I’m trying to build a fan base, so I go on and blog every couple of days and answer when people have comments. Anytime I win a part, I post it, along with any new photos to build up name and face recognition.”
Cam said, “I see a file labeled Auditions. You keep records?”
“Sure, I can’t imagine not keeping good records of those who liked me, who didn’t and why, what roles I’ve won, what roles I didn’t win, my impressions of why I may have lost a role, plus lots more stuff, like the actresses who beat me out, and why I think they did. You think that’s important?”
“Maybe, yes.”
Missy opened the Auditions file. They saw subfiles for movies, TV, and commercials going back for the past four years. Missy pressed a key. “This is for the first six months of this year.”
She scrolled slowly down, showing them how she’d formatted it all, with each comments section completely filled in. It was a history of Missy’s triumphs and failures for the past six months, more than fifty auditions. “The files are less useful after about three years because there’s so much turnover. I’ve streamlined it pretty well, though. All the information is spot-on, and easy to find. Mostly I use it to make me think about how I could do better. It’s really helpful with a repeat, say a producer I’ve already dealt with, and the impressions I had the first time around.”
Daniel thought the detail was amazing. “Do you know if both Connie and Deborah kept this good of audition records?”
“Oh yes. Deborah was even more detailed and particular than I am. I remember she told me about her experience with an advertising agency—they were pigs, as in sexists, and wanted sex for parts. I have that information in my file.
“Connie had everything on her smartphone. She had what she called a suck-up list, people she had to be nice to no matter how obnoxious they were. Wait a second—I forgot the tea.”
Missy took the whistling green teakettle off the flame, fetched three cups from a cupboard painted the same pale green, and handed Daniel some napkins and spoons.
Missy poured the boiling water over tea bags, added a dollop of nonfat milk into her tea, took a sip, nodded to herself. “I don’t know if Doc told you, Cam, but Deborah had a good part in a movie—a period piece called The Crown Prince. Most of it was filmed in Italy. They came back maybe two weeks ago, to wind it up at the studio.” Her voice caught. She stared into her cup, swishing the tea around, as if there were answers to be found amid the steam and the swirling water. “But now she won’t get to finish it. She was really excited about that role. She even hoped it might get her an Oscar nomination.” She paused. “Cam, all of those murdered girls, they were all so keen to make it, they worked hard, dreamed, dealt with their lives as best as they could, even when they weren’t sure how to pay their rent. And now they’re gone, just gone.” She looked up. “Now none of them will never have a chance to get her Oscar.”
Daniel said after a moment, “The Crown Prince—what will they do now that Deborah’s dead? Will they simply go down their list and select the next actress they’d considered for the role?”
Missy stared up at him. “You’re thinking another actress would have gone around the bend and killed Deborah for that part?”
Daniel shrugged.
“Plus five others? Listen, even if you killed an actress who won a role you wanted, who’s to say they’d give it to you? They’d have to find an actress who looks enough like Deborah to cut in smoothly, and the second actress in line probably wouldn’t fit the bill. Given that, they’d probably give the role to someone who’d never auditioned for the role before.”
