And the Winner Is
The first thing Wayne Rockwell noticed when he woke that January morning was the cold. He had been living on the West Coast for so long that he forgot how brutal the winters could be in the East. The warmer climate of Southern California was one of the reasons he left a successful career on Broadway to make films in Hollywood. Now, after living in Los Angeles for nearly a decade, he was back in New York but only temporarily. He was shooting on location in Manhattan, and once his scenes were completed, he would take the first flight out of Newark Airport and head back to sunny L.A.
Shivering, the sixty-eight-year-old actor got out of bed and put on a heavy bathrobe. Since he did not have to be on the set until nine o'clock, he picked up his cell phone and ordered room service. As he waited for his breakfast to arrive, he took a long, hot shower. He had just finished dressing when he heard the knock on the door.
"Just put the tray over there," he told the waiter.
"Yes, sir."
"Have you worked here at The Pierre long?" Wayne asked, eyeing the boyishly cute server.
"Only since July. I got the job right after graduating from high school."
Realizing the man was younger than he had thought, the actor lost interest. He did not want to wind up a #MeToo victim like Kevin Spacey. There were other pretty boys out there, older ones who would not ruin his career.
"Thank you," he said, giving the young man a generous tip.
The two-time Tony winner read his email while eating his breakfast. The majority of it was spam, but there were several messages from friends wishing him luck. One was from Delta Van Ness, his co-star on the film Challenges, which critics believed would receive multiple Academy Award nominations, including those for best picture, best actress and best actor. Wayne told himself not to get his hopes up. Three times in the past, his name was mentioned as an Oscar contender, and all three times he failed to be nominated.
After finishing his bacon, eggs and toast, he washed everything down with a cup of hot coffee.
"To the Oscars," he said, toasting the empty hotel room with his cup. "May the best man win."
* * *
Although it was only seven o'clock in New York, it was noon in London. As Wayne drank his coffee, Sebastian Broadman was on his way to have lunch with his fiancée at a Kensington pub. Drusilla Philbin, who was filming an episode of her ITV crime drama that day, had already left the flat by the time he woke up.
"I missed you this morning," Sebastian said, kissing her on the cheek.
"You were sleeping so peacefully that I didn't want to wake you."
Since he was currently between pictures, the London-born actor had the luxury of sleeping late.
"I'm in a bit of a rush," Drusilla told the server. "I'll just have a salad."
"And you, sir?"
"Fish and chips."
"How very British of you, darling!" the actress laughed.
"I think we're attracting attention," he whispered when the two teenagers sitting at the next table took a picture of the couple with their cell phones.
"Just wait until you get nominated today," she teased. "We'll have the paparazzi hounding us as though we were Prince Harry and Meghan Markle."
Like that of Wayne Rockwell, Sebastian Broadman's name was bandied about by Hollywood insiders as a likely nominee for the best actor. Although the World War II drama Battle of Britain did not do well at the box office, the film received critical acclaim on both sides of the Atlantic. Furthermore, the actor's portrayal of a young RAF pilot was hailed as being worthy of Sir Laurence Olivier.
"Maybe it would be better if I'm not nominated. Then I can avoid all that unwanted publicity."
"You're a movie star, darling. It comes with the territory. If you didn't want to be hounded by the press, you should have become a solicitor like your father."
"If I had, then I wouldn't have met you."
The debate over whether he was going to be one of the five nominees announced later that day continued until the server brought out their food.
"That's enough about the Oscars," Drusilla declared, digging into her salad. "Let's eat. I have to work this afternoon."
"So do I."
"You do?"
"Yeah, Nadia texted me this morning. She's sending over a script for me to read. You know how agents are. They hate to see their clients idle."
"You're already up for a Golden Globe, and quite possibly, you'll get nominated for an Oscar. I'm sure she wants to keep the momentum going."
* * *
After six hours on the slopes, Kirk Hartston returned to the chalet where Apollonia greeted him at the door with a glass of brandy.
"Thanks. I need this. I'm freezing my ass off!" he exclaimed.
"Sit by the fire and get warm."
Apollonia, who never used a surname, appeared on the cover of this year's Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue and was what Kirk's friends jokingly referred to as his "model of the month." This was an exaggeration. He didn't always date models. Sometimes, he enjoyed the company of pretty, young actresses. And he didn't change partners once a month. His relationships varied in length from one-night stands to his longest romance, which lasted three months—although that one was the exception to the rule.
"Where do you want to go for dinner tonight?" the former Miss Alabama asked.
"I'm too beat to go anywhere. Why don't we just order in?"
Apollonia frowned. Unlike Kirk, who had been skiing all morning and afternoon, she had remained cooped up in the rented house the entire day.
"What's with the pout?" the Hollywood heartthrob asked with annoyance.
"I was hoping we would go someplace nice and celebrate."
"Celebrate what?"
"Your Oscar nomination."
"When did you become a psychic? They haven't been announced yet."
"But you were nominated for a Golden Globe last month. One usually follows the other."
"Usually but not always."
"I have faith in you. You'll get the nomination. Just wait and see."
"Maybe. But being nominated isn't the same as winning. For every one Oscar winner, there are four losers."
"Don't be such a Gloomy Gus! Easy Street was the biggest-grossing movie last year."
"So was Titanic when it came out, but neither Leo nor Kate was nominated."
"Titanic? That was before I was born," Apollonia laughed.
The forty-two-year-old actor looked out the window at the picturesque Tyrolian capital of Innsbruck and frowned. He didn't like being reminded that he was getting older. It depressed him. Maybe it was time for him to move on to the next model or actress.
* * *
Drake Willison put three black chips on Number 11 and watched as the croupier spun the roulette wheel. Once again, his number failed to come up.
"There goes another three hundred dollars," he sighed. "And I always thought eleven was my lucky number. Boy, was I wrong!"
He put his last two chips down, lost a final time and walked away. Had Helene been with him, he would have been taken to task for gambling. However, he had managed to get away from his domineering wife—at least temporarily. Drake had yet to bring up the word divorce, but it was foremost on his mind.
It's only a matter of time, he mused, longing for his freedom.
Thirteen years earlier, he was an impoverished college dropout, playing his guitar and singing on street corners for handouts. It was Helene who "discovered" him. She took the reins of his career in her capable hands and made him one of the bestselling solo artists of his generation. Unfortunately, while he owed her a great deal, gratitude alone was not enough to make a successful marriage.
"Oh, my God!" a middle-aged tourist from Chicago exclaimed when she saw him walking past a bank of slot machines. "You're Drake Willison!"
"In the flesh," he replied.
"Are you performing here? I hope your show isn't sold out. I just gotta see it before I go back home."
"I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I'm here in Vegas only as a guest, not as an entertainer."
After asking his permission, she pulled her cell phone out of her handbag and took a selfie with him.
Although it was only six in the morning, there were at least two dozen people nearby. Fearing he might attract a crowd, he left the casino floor and returned to his suite.
It won't be long now, he realized, looking at his watch. Only two and a half hours.
Drake didn't know why he was so nervous. Despite Helene's insistence that he was a shoo-in for the Oscar, he didn't honestly believe he would be nominated. The Golden Globes were a different matter. The Best Actor award was presented in two separate categories: one for drama and the other for musical and comedy. He had gotten his role in Limelight—a retelling of A Star is Born, in which a young vocalist has a romantic relationship with an aging, closeted gay crooner and becomes a star—because he was a multi-Grammy-winning singer. In addition to playing the lead role, Drake had written the soundtrack for the movie.
"If the Academy does nominate me for anything today, it will most likely be for best original song."
Hoping to take his mind off both his marital woes and the Oscars, he put on a baseball cap and a pair of Ray-Bans to mask his identity and headed out to the Strip. He would take a brisk walk down to Mandalay Bay, turn around, head back up Las Vegas Boulevard to the Sahara and return to the Paris Las Vegas in time to watch the nominations being announced on Good Morning America.
* * *
Former football star Reggie Buckminster shut himself in his air-conditioned trailer to escape the oppressive Miami heat. It was only midmorning, but already the high temperature and humidity were getting to him. He opened a cold bottle of Evian, took out his cell phone and called Mignon, his wife. After four rings, the call went to voicemail.
"Hi," he said. "It's me again. I haven't been able to reach you all morning. I hope nothing is wrong. Call me back when you get this. Love you."
While other actors were anxiously awaiting official word from the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, he was more concerned about his wife's whereabouts than the announcement of this year's Oscar nominations.
I hope she's okay. It's not like her to keep her phone turned off.
Reggie had no illusions about his current career. He had no acting talent. However, he did have a ruggedly handsome face and strong, muscular body that made him a believable Green Beret, Navy SEAL, FBI special agent or undercover police detective.
"Even if I am nominated," he told Mignon when she insisted he would be one of the chosen five, "it'll be because War Zone was a big hit at the box office."
"And because you're black. That's a plus. You know the Academy is always trying to silence complaints about its lack of diversity."
Oddly enough, Mignon, a white woman, was always the one to bring up the subject of skin color in their conversations. Sometimes, he feared she only married him to prove she was not a racist.
Just when he was beginning to feel comfortable, there was a knock on his trailer door.
"We're ready for you on the set," the director's assistant called.
Reggie quickly finished his water and reluctantly left the sixty-eight-degree dressing room. No sooner did he step outside the door than perspiration beaded on his forehead.
"Time for a touchup," the makeup artist said and began toweling off the sweat.
"Honestly, I don't know what's worse." he griped, "the heat or the humidity. When I was with the Patriots, there were times we played in below-freezing temperatures. I sure could use some of that wintry weather about now."
"So, you're from the Northeast, huh?"
"My wife is, but I'm from Pittsburgh originally. Mignon was born and raised in Boston. A real blue-blood from the Back Bay who can trace her roots to the Mayflower."
"Really? Is she a football fan?"
"Hell, no. She doesn't like any sports. She's more of an intellectual."
"How did the two of you meet?"
"I was the guest of honor at a charity event she held to raise money for the Boston Children's Hospital."
"Do you have any children of your own?"
Reggie shook his head. It was a touchy subject that he did not want to discuss.
* * *
At 8:30 a.m., Pacific Time, the president of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences stepped out onto the stage of the Samuel Goldwyn Theater in Beverly Hills and, after briefly explaining the voting process, introduced the hosts.
"Here are Kip Gillam, star of Hulu's original dramatic series Last Laugh, and Imelda Fiennes, who recently made her motion picture debut in Carolina Calls."
TV cameras focused on the two actors as they made their way to the podium to reveal the names of the nominees. After a few jokes that no one found funny at that hour in the morning, the hosts took turns announcing nominees for supporting actor and actress and several other categories. As they spoke, images of each nominated film or actor appeared on the screen behind them.
"The nominees for best actor are," Imelda Fiennes proclaimed, "Wayne Rockwell for Challenges, Sebastian Broadman for Battle of Britain, Kirk Hartston for Easy Street, Drake Willison for Limelight and Reggie Buckminster for War Zone."
Drake, who had watched the broadcast in his Paris Las Vegas suite, turned off the television before Kip Gillam moved on to the next category. Moments later, his cell phone rang. He did not need to look at the screen to know who was calling him.
"Yeah," he answered.
"I told you so," Helene said and promptly ended the call.
That was the bad thing about having a cell phone: it was like an invisible umbilical cord that kept him tethered to his wife and one he could not easily cut.
"I have to get away from her, but she's got her claws so deep in me, I don't see how I can ever get them out."
Fellow nominees Wayne Rockwell, who was filming in New York, and Reggie Buckminster, who was on the set in Miami, received word of their nominations from their agents. When Imelda Fiennes read their names, the stars' cell phones immediately rang.
"I already won two Tony awards," Wayne laughed when he was told of his nomination. "Why do I need an Oscar? It'll just sit on a shelf collecting dust."
Likewise, Reggie took the news in stride. After ending the call with his agent, he tried phoning his wife again. She still didn't answer.
"Hi, babe," he said, leaving a message on Mignon's voicemail. "Call me as soon as you get this. I'm really worried about you. Oh, and I don't know if you heard yet or not, but I got the nomination."
In London, Sebastian Broadman was drinking a cup of tea and reading his script when he received word from Nadia.
"You don't seem too happy about it," the agent observed.
"You know how I feel about the Oscars. They're all about money and politics, not who gave the best performance."
Despite his feigned indifference, Sebastian was delighted about the prospect of winning the award. Although he was a well-known and beloved actor in Britain, he was not nearly as popular across the pond. He hoped winning an Oscar would earn him as much respect in America as Gary Oldman, Daniel Day-Lewis, Anthony Hopkins and Jeremy Irons received.
Meanwhile, Kirk Hartston, who had wanted to remain at the chalet and order take-out for dinner, changed his mind when he learned of his nomination.
"Now, we can go out and celebrate," he told his girlfriend.
When Apollonia went into the bedroom to change her outfit, apply her makeup and style her hair, the actor phoned Kerwin Haverford, his agent.
"Congratulations!" Kerwin said. "I told you not to worry, didn't I?"
"Yes, you did. This is my big chance to prove to the world that I'm not just a pretty face, that I've actually got talent."
"This isn't the time to rest on your laurels, my boy. Getting nominated is one thing; winning is another. I want to begin campaigning for that Oscar right away. That means we'll have to call in all our favors and kiss up to every actor in Hollywood. We'll also need to get as many producers, directors and studio big-wigs on your side as possible since they have a lot of influence over how your fellow actors vote."
"Get on it then. I don't care what I have to do or how much it will cost me, but come March, I want to be the man who leaves the Dolby Theatre carrying that gold statuette."
* * *
In the wake of the Academy's announcement, nominees and their representatives wined and dined voters. Promises of future jobs were made in exchange for votes. Some contenders even resorted to blackmail. However, of the five men nominated in the best actor category, only Kirk Hartston took an active part in promoting himself. Since he was to remain in Austria until the end of the week, he reached out to voting Academy members via phone calls and emails. He shamelessly dangled a co-starring role in his next big-budget picture to at least three dozen fellow thespians in exchange for their support.
"Are you going to be on the phone all day again?" Apollonia complained.
"This is important," the actor replied, tired of the model's whining.
"We're leaving here tomorrow. Can't we do or see something today?"
"Why don't you go shopping?"
"Alone? Can't you come with me?"
"No," he answered and turned his attention to the actor who answered his phone call. "Hi, Jack. It's me, Kirk Hartston. I guess you heard I was nominated."
Actors! Apollonia thought with disdain. They only care about themselves. I'd sooner join a convent and become a nun than ever get involved with another one.
For the third straight day, the Hollywood heartthrob sat at the desk with his phone. By six o'clock, Kirk could no longer ignore the hunger pains he felt. He had not eaten breakfast or lunch. He could order food delivered to the chalet but decided to take a break from phone calls and get some fresh air.
"I've yet to try wiener schnitzel," he told the cab driver as they made their way to the center of the city. "You can't come to Austria and not eat its national dish. That would be like going to England and not having fish and chips."
"Or going to America and not getting a hot dog."
"Is that what we Americans are famous for? Hot dogs?" the actor laughed.
"Ja," the cabby replied. "Hot dogs and baseball."
"Hell, I can't remember the last time I had a hot dog. I was probably just a kid."
When the driver pulled up in front of a restaurant whose name Kirk could not pronounce, his passenger gave him a generous tip and got out of the car. He was about to step inside the restaurant when he saw Apollonia coming out of a store at the end of the block. Knowing she would be pissed off if he went out to eat without her, he headed in her direction. The former Miss Alabama, struggling with half a dozen large shopping bags, saw him coming toward her and smiled. Kirk was five feet away from his model of the month when he suddenly fell face forward on the ground.
"What's wrong?" Apollonia asked. "Did you trip over something?"
Then she saw the spreading bloodstain on the back of his parka and screamed.
* * *
"Damn! It's cold again!" Wayne Rockwell groaned when he woke up in his New York hotel room.
"It's January. What do you expect?"
Rodrigo Alvarez, a good-looking, twenty-five-year-old bartender he had met three days earlier, was wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. Having just come out of the shower, his dark, curly hair was still wet and dripping down his back.
"Since I don't have to report to the set today, maybe you and I could do something together," the older man suggested.
"I have to work tonight, but I'm free in the morning and afternoon. What do you want to do?"
"We can go to MoMA or the Guggenheim."
"Sorry, but I'm probably the only gay guy in the city who isn't interested in art," Rodrigo joked.
"We can always go to the Museum of Natural History."
"I've got a better idea. Why don't we go to Madame Tussaud's on 42nd Street?"
Although he had no desire to visit a wax museum, the actor wanted to please his young paramour.
"Let me just hop into the shower and get dressed. Then we'll have breakfast and be on our way."
Wayne had just turned on the water when the bartender knocked on the bathroom door.
"Come in," he called. "Did you want to join me in the shower, or do you have to use the toilet?"
"Neither. I was checking my phone for messages when I saw this."
The bartender held his iPhone up so that the actor could read the article on CNN's website. The headline immediately caught Wayne's attention: OSCAR NOMINEE SHOT AND KILLED IN AUSTRIA.
"Did you know him?" Rodrigo asked when the two men were seated at a table in the hotel's restaurant.
"I met him once at a premiere. I don't think I said more than five words to him, though."
"Now that he's dead, will the Academy nominate someone else in his place?"
"No. It doesn't work that way. An actor can be nominated after he dies. Chadwick Boseman is the most recent example. James Dean and Spencer Tracy also received posthumous nominations. Two deceased actors even won awards: Peter Finch for Network and Heath Ledger for The Dark Knight."
"I wonder if they've got a wax figure of Kirk Hartston at Tussaud's. If they do, I want to take a selfie standing next to it."
Realizing his young companion was all brawn and no brains, the actor finished his meal in silence. When they stepped out of the hotel twenty minutes later, Rodrigo raised his hand to flag down a taxi.
"Wait a second," the actor told him. "I want to get a paper from the newsstand across the street."
"Are you kidding? Who reads newspapers anymore?" the bartender called to him.
When Wayne, who was in the middle of the street, turned back to answer, he was hit by a garbage hauler.
"He walked right out in front of me!" the distraught driver claimed. "I hit the brakes, but I just couldn't stop in time."
The bartender took his phone out of his pocket and snapped a few photos. He was not greatly saddened by the older man's passing. It was a quick death. Most likely, he never knew what hit him—literally. Rodrigo's only thought as he listened to the approaching police and ambulance sirens was that the odds of there being a third posthumous winner in the best actor category had just increased.
* * *
"Can you believe it?" Drusilla Philbin asked when she met Sebastian Broadman for dinner after a long day on the set. "Two Oscar nominees are killed in as many days!"
"That is a weird coincidence."
"I wonder if the Austrian police know who shot Kirk Hartston yet."
"I doubt it. I'm sure it would be in the news if they did."
"I was surprised to hear that Kirk was shot. I didn't think guns were a big problem in Austria. New York, yes, but not Innsbruck. Every time I watch American news coverage, there seems to be another mass shooting."
"That's one of the reasons I prefer to live in England rather than California, despite the high taxes here."
"And all this time I imagined you stayed in London to be near me," Drusilla teased.
"You, my love, are the main reason."
Since carrying a gun is generally prohibited in Great Britain and Sebastian always looked both ways before crossing a busy street, the actress did not fear for her fiancé's safety. Besides, it was not as though there was a serial killer on the loose, targeting Oscar nominees.
"That steak and kidney pie really filled me up," Sebastian said as he waited for the server to return with his credit card. "Why don't we go for a walk?"
Both of them loved London at night, even in the winter. As they made their way to the Victoria Embankment, they discussed plans for their upcoming nuptials.
"I'm still not keen on having our wedding in a castle," Sebastian declared.
"Why not? We can easily afford it."
"It's not the cost. It just seems so tacky."
"Paul McCartney and Heather Mills got married in a castle, and so did Madonna and Guy Ritchie."
"And both marriages ended in divorce. That's not a good recommendation."
"What about David and Victoria Beckham, then? Their wedding was in a castle in Dublin, and they're still together."
"Posh Spice," he said, referring to Mrs. Beckham's stage name. "That's my point. Castles are for rock stars. I want a more dignified and refined ceremony."
"Where?"
"Since neither of us is a member of the royal family, Westminster Abbey is out. How about St. Paul's Cathedral?"
"A castle would be more private than St. Paul's," Drusilla argued.
They were within a block of the Embankment when they passed a group of men arguing about Tottenham Hotspur's chances of beating Arsenal when play resumed after the midseason break.
"Football fans," the actor said with a smile. "There's nothing ...."
A sharp pain in his side took his breath away, and he stopped speaking. No sooner did the men pass him than he doubled over and collapsed.
"What's wrong?" Drusilla cried. "Are you all right, darling?"
Her fiancé raised a bloody hand and grabbed hold of her coat. She immediately took out her phone and called 999. However, by the time an NHS ambulance arrived, Sebastian Broadman was dead.
* * *
"And cut," the director shouted after Reggie Buckminster completed an emotionally charged scene with the film's leading lady. "That's it for today, everyone. See you all back here tomorrow, bright and early."
The moment Reggie entered his trailer, he checked the messages on his phone. For the fourth day in a row, there was no text or voicemail from his wife. His sister-in-law told him that Mignon was spending the week at an exclusive spa and either turned her phone off or was unable to get reception.
Why didn't she tell me where she was going? he wondered.
Ever since the miscarriage five months earlier, there had been a growing tension in the Buckminster marriage. Reggie dealt with his grief by working longer hours and spending more time doing strenuous exercises. It was not uncommon for him to run five miles after spending twelve hours on the set. Mignon, on the other hand, preferred meditation, yoga and a mind-body-spirit philosophy to come to terms with the loss of their child.
Reggie tried calling her again, but there was still no answer. The possibility that his marriage might be over was devastating.
Everyone told me it would never work, but I didn't want to believe them. I still don't.
If there were problems in the couple's marriage, they most likely stemmed from the fact that the husband and wife came from different worlds. He grew up a poor, black boy from Pittsburgh; she was a rich, white girl from Boston. He struggled to get through four years at Penn State; she breezed through eight semesters at Harvard. Yet despite their differences—or maybe because of them—he worshipped the ground she walked on.
Although he had no appetite, he walked to a nearby Cuban restaurant.
"Aren't you Reggie Buckminster?" the waitress asked when she took his order.
"Yeah."
"You're out and about without a bodyguard? Damn! You really are brave!"
"Why would I need a bodyguard? I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself."
"Three Oscar nominees are dead. Two of them, possibly all three, were murdered. Aren't you afraid you'll be next?"
"Not really."
If Mignon was indeed planning on leaving him, he would welcome death. The prospect of living without her terrified him. After eating only a small portion of his camarones al ajillo, he left a fifty-dollar bill on the table and walked out. Normally, garlic shrimp was one of his favorite dishes, but given his current mood, he might just as well have been eating Fancy Feast salmon and shrimp cat food for all the enjoyment he got out of it.
Despite having to get up early the following morning, he did not return to his hotel. He was too keyed up to sleep, so he walked along South Beach's Ocean Drive. As usual, the sounds of laughter and live music added to the party atmosphere. As he passed the Villa Casa Casuarina, the mansion formerly owned by Gianni Versace, his thoughts temporarily drifted from his wife's whereabouts to the fate of his three fellow nominees.
"Three out of five," he mumbled to himself as he gazed at the steps where the fashion designer died after being shot by Andrew Cunanan. "That's way too many to be a coincidence."
Reggie considered the rumor that the three deaths in three different countries were related ridiculous. He was no conspiracy nut; he gave no credence to the crackpot theories that the moon landing was faked, the royal family had Princess Diana killed, the HIV/AIDS virus was created by the CIA, the U.S. government had advance knowledge of the 9/11 attacks or that aliens inhabited Area 51. (Although he did believe there was more than one shooter in Dallas the day Kennedy was assassinated.)
It made no sense to him. Why would anyone want to kill three actors? Cui bono? Who benefits?
As he continued to stroll along Ocean Drive, he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He did not hear the ringtone because the band at a nearby bar was playing loudly. When he saw his wife's name on the screen, his heart raced.
"Honey, where have you been?" he asked, hoping he was not coming across as a possessive husband. "I've been trying for days to reach you."
He could barely hear her response above the blaring music.
"Wait! Don't hang up. Let me go someplace quieter."
The further west he walked, the fewer people and less noise he had to contend with.
"Can you hear me now?" Mignon asked.
"Yes."
"Good because I've got something important to tell you."
"What is it?"
"I'm pregnant. Isn't that wonderful? We're going to have a baby!"
It was as though Reggie walked beneath a waterfall that washed away his fears and worries.
"That's fantastic!" he exclaimed. "Are you feeling okay?"
"Yes. I feel great. Oh, sweetheart, I'm so happy I could burst! Dr. Belding told me everything seems to be fine and that there's no reason why I should fear having another miscarriage."
"I wish I were there with you."
"Me, too."
"I ought to be done filming down here in another week. As soon as we wrap, I'm getting on the next plane to Logan. Hell! I won't even bother changing out of my costume or taking off my makeup."
For the next ten minutes, the couple talked about the pregnancy and professed their love for each other. When the telephone call finally came to an end, Reggie found himself on an unfamiliar street. He turned and headed east toward the beach.
He didn't get far.
A figure dressed in black stepped out of a shadowy doorway, came up behind the actor and hit him over the head with a baseball bat.
* * *
From the moment Drake Willison stepped out of the elevator, heads turned in his direction. People whispered to each other, and some pointed their fingers at him.
I suppose I ought to expect this. I'm the last man standing, so to speak.
As he headed toward Café Americano, people shied away from him in fear. When he sat down in the restaurant, the couple at the next table moved to the other side of the room. Even the server seemed reluctant to wait on him.
"I'll have the Denver omelet, an order of beignets, a pomegranate mimosa and a large cappuccino. And make it quick; I don't know how much longer I'll be alive."
The look of horror on the server's face made him laugh.
"Relax. It's just a joke."
Of the five men who were nominated for the Best Actor award, he was considered the underdog. He was a singer, not an actor. It was Helene who convinced him to accept the lead in Limelight just as she had pushed him to do world tours, television specials and star-studded benefit concerts.
"Lots of singers become actors," she argued. "Harry Styles, Will Smith, Justin Timberlake, Ice-T, Mark and Donnie Wahlberg, Steve Van Zandt and old-timers like Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin and Bing Crosby."
As usual, he gave in to her. However, all that was about to change. His solo trip to Las Vegas was just the beginning. The next step was to talk to a well-known divorce lawyer.
Thirty minutes later, Drake finished the last beignet and washed it down with the cappuccino. As he exited the restaurant, he felt everyone's eyes on him.
I gotta get out of this place. With everybody staring at me, I'm beginning to feel like a circus freak, like the goddamned Elephant Man!
When he saw a crowd of newsmen lying in wait for him in front of the hotel's main entrance, he exited through a door that led to the parking garage. With no clear destination in mind, he walked past rows of parked cars. Suddenly, two men jumped out of a delivery van. One of them came up behind him and took hold of his arms. The other jabbed a hypodermic needle into his arm.
"Put him in the back," he heard one of the men say.
The actor was then locked inside a windowless cargo area. As the sedative began to take effect, he feared he was about to join his four fellow nominees on that great movie set in the sky.
* * *
"Where am I?" Drake asked when the two men, whose faces were concealed by ski masks, helped him out of the van.
"This way," was all the answer he got.
His two captors walked beside him, leading him to an elevator.
"Where are you taking me?"
"Just walk."
When the elevator doors slid open, the two men shoved him into the car and rode it to the thirtieth floor.
"This way."
Drake wondered if his kidnappers planned on throwing him out a window or over a balcony.
If they kill me, I can finally get away from ....
"Helene!" he exclaimed when his wife suddenly appeared.
"Welcome to our new home," she said and then spoke to the two masked men who had abducted him. "You can go now."
"Where are we?" Drake asked once he was alone with his wife.
"The Westgate."
"I already have a suite at the Paris. If it's all the same with you, I'll stay there."
"I checked you out of that room. Your luggage will be delivered here shortly."
"What's this all about?" he demanded to know.
Helene ignored his question and asked one of her own.
"Do you know the history of this place? Back in the Seventies, it was known as the International Hotel. This is the penthouse suite where Elvis Presley stayed when he performed here. I arranged with the owners of the Westgate to lease the entire thirtieth floor so that we could live here."
"Why?"
"It may surprise you to learn that I'm a huge Elvis fan, as were my mother and grandmother before me."
Her admission did surprise him. In the twelve years they had known each other, she had never spoken about herself. All he knew about the woman he married was that she came from Louisiana and did a hell of a good job managing his career.
"Is that why you wanted me to try my hand at acting? Because Elvis did? And do you now expect me to do a Vegas residency?"
"Not yet. You have to make a few more pictures first. I've been toying with the idea of your doing a musical version of Bell, Book and Candle."
"Do you hear yourself?" he cried. "This is my career you're talking about, not yours."
"It's a career you have because of me. You'd still be singing on street corners if I hadn't taken charge. Besides, I'm not just your manager. I'm your wife."
"Not for long."
There. He said it. He finally made his personal declaration of independence. He tensed, waiting for Helene's temper to erupt. But, surprisingly, his wife remained eerily calm. Without an angry word or gesture, she walked to a nearby cabinet, opened the doors and removed what appeared to be five wax figures.
"See this?" she asked, picking one of them up. "Notice the gray hair and the broken body?"
"Yeah," her husband replied, sensing something ominous in Helene's demeanor.
"It's a voodoo doll, one that represented Wayne Rockwell. All I had to do was run over it with my BMW and—poof—no more Wayne."
"Are you saying ...?"
She didn't wait for him to finish his question. Instead, she picked up the next doll.
"And this one? See the hole in the back? That was Kirk Hartston. And here we have Reggie Buckminster and finally Sebastian Broadman."
Helene then picked up the fifth doll. Unlike the other four, it showed no sign of damage.
"Need I tell you who this doll represents?"
The fact that his wife practiced voodoo or that she might snap the doll in half and kill him at any moment did not trouble him half as much as her reason for killing four innocent men.
"Why?" he cried. "What purpose did their deaths serve?"
"Do you think I didn't know that you were planning on leaving me? I wasn't about to let that happen. Had I simply threatened you, chances are you wouldn't have taken me seriously. I needed to prove to you beyond a doubt that I was capable of destroying you."
"Why target those four men, though?"
"Self-preservation," Helene said matter-of-factly. "If I do have to kill you, no one will ever suspect me. You'll go down in history as one of the five victims of a bizarre, unsolved murder conspiracy."
"And if I stay with you, what exactly would you expect of me?" he asked.
"I want to make you the greatest entertainer of all time. Not only the bestselling recording artist but also an Oscar-winning actor. With my help, you'll be bigger than Elvis ever was. You'll surpass the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, Michael Jackson ...."
"I don't see how I can say no to such an offer," he said, keeping a close eye on the wax figure in his wife's hand.
"I hoped you'd see reason."
When Helene put the voodoo doll down, her husband moved quickly. He snatched the doll and ran toward the elevator. As he pressed the down button, the wax figure slipped out of his hand.
"Shit!" the actor cursed when he saw the doll straddling the track of the elevator doors.
When Drake leaned forward to retrieve the fallen object, the doors closed, cutting off the heads of both the voodoo doll and the doomed Oscar nominee.
* * *
After much debate, the Motion Picture Academy of Arts and Sciences chose not to cancel its annual Oscar presentation. Those actors, directors, producers and other artists and technicians of the film industry who were in the audience at the Dolby Theater felt as though they were attending a funeral, not an award ceremony. A particularly solemn atmosphere pervaded the theater when it was time to present the award for best actor.
Jessica Chastain, having read the names of the five nominees, opened the envelope handed to her by an employee of PricewaterhouseCoopers, the accounting firm that tallied the votes.
"And the winner is," she began as more than three thousand attendees held their breath in anticipation. "Drake Willison for Limelight. Accepting the award is his wife, Helene du Pré Willison."
The widow walked out onto the stage to a standing ovation. Tears came to her eyes as she read the speech she had prepared earlier in the day.
"In conclusion," she said after being given a signal to hurry things along. "I'm sure my late husband would have agreed with me when I say that this award belongs not just to him but to all five of the great actors who died so tragically and mysteriously. So, I accept this Oscar in all their names. Thank you."
As she was escorted off the stage, Helene's eyes went to the strikingly handsome young singer who had accompanied her to the event.
In six or seven years, the Machiavellian voodoo priestess thought, it'll be him on this stage, accepting an Oscar. Provided, of course, he is willing to do what I say.
This is not an Oscar; it is an award called the Salem. So far, only one cat has won it: Salem!
