Love is Murder

Chapter 21

WHEN I REACHED the Dakota, I found Jay Terrill (the rodent) waiting for me by the reception desk. I hadn’t spoken to him directly since I learned he told Detectives Phoenix and Flynn he thought I was a murderer. Jay was shifting his weight from one foot to the other and clutching a ten-by-thirteen envelope to his chest. When he saw me, he flashed a big fake smile. “Hey, Morgan!”

“Jay.”

I gave my attention, and a genuine smile, to Alice, the motherly woman who is the Dakota’s first line of defense. “Do I have any mail?” I asked, leaning across her desk.

“Just the usual ton, sweetie.” She handed me the pile the postman had left.

“Thanks, Alice.” I turned to Jay, nodded at the envelope he was squeezing. “Is that the script?”

“A day early.” He handed it to me. There were sweat marks on the outside of the envelope where his fingers had left impressions. “You have the new breakdown for me?”

“Not yet.”

That was what he was afraid of. If I didn’t give him a new breakdown, that meant he wasn’t getting a script assignment for next week. I decided to let him worry for a while.

“Uh, Morgan, can we go up to the office and talk?”

“Some other time. I’ll call you about the script.”

Now he was really sweating. “Well, let me walk you to the elevator.”

“I take the stairs.” I started walking and allowed him to follow me. When we were alone in the cool interior of the building at the foot of the polished wood stairs next to the elevator, he launched into his plea.

“Please, Morgan, don’t be mad. The cops made me tell them—”

“They made you tell them you think I killed Damon? How did they do that, Jay? Electric shocks?”

“You’re upset, I don’t blame you, really.”

“That’s generous of you, Jay.”

“Look, those cops tricked me! They got me all tangled up—I didn’t know what I was saying! Are you going to fire me because I made one little mistake? You’ve got to know I’d never get you in trouble intentionally.”

And the check is in the mail, and I’ll respect you in the morning.

“I’m not going to fire you, Jay. I’m going to give you a chance to prove how valuable you are to the show.”

“Oh, I will. I’ll prove it.”

He was so eager that for a moment I hated myself for what I was about to do.

But only for a moment.

“I’m going to give you script assignments for the next eight weeks—”

“Great! Oh, Morgan, you won’t be sorry.”

“Tuesday shows.”

He looked as though I’d struck him. I would have liked to, except I don’t believe in hitting.

“Tuesday . . . ?”

“The next eight Tuesdays, Jay.”

In our business, Tuesday episodes are the ones writers like least. They are devoted almost entirely to recapping—letting the audience know what happened previously, in case they missed the much more important Thursday, Friday and Monday episodes.

“I’ll get the breakdowns over to you by messenger.”

“Yeah, okay,” he said, looking furious.

“I’ll call you about this,” I said, indicating the script he’d given me, “when I’ve read it.” Then I started up the stairs. I didn’t look back.

When Harrison Landers was training me, he said most daytime writers hated two things worse than having a root canal. The first was writing Tuesday episodes, and the second was writing breakdowns, the synopsized layouts of daily episodes. At the time, I decided I was going to love both of those assignments, was going to do them with every ounce of ability I had. I was determined to be the best breakdown writer and the best Tuesday scriptwriter Harrison ever had. I don’t know if I became the best, but I was the most cheerful and the most enthusiastic.

Miraculously, I really did come to enjoy what others considered drudgery.

The nighttime dramas frequently start with brief clips from earlier episodes and a voice over that intones, “Previously on NYPD Blue” or “Previously on ER . . .” Those scene snippets fill in details the audience needs to know. But “prime-time” dramas produce only twenty-two, twenty-four or twenty-six hour-long episodes a year. We produce two hundred and sixty episodes for that same year. With a five-days-a-week show, film clips won’t do it.

A Tuesday-writer’s task is to create scenes in which characters recount recent events to each other. There’s an art to turning what is “old news” to the daily viewer into lively scenes that can be enjoyed whether a viewer knows what has happened or not. The technique I used often involved having characters argue about what they had been doing, or about what other characters had been doing. To make the recaps entertaining, I injected comedy whenever possible. Sometimes I used confessional scenes, or fantasy scenes of “what I should have said.”

Harrison enjoyed my Tuesday scripts because he didn’t have to rewrite them. He was generous with his praise, and he let me know the actors looked forward to Tuesday scripts that had my name on them. Damon noticed the ratings for our Tuesday shows had improved, learned about my work from Harrison and used a compliment to me as a tool to berate other writers. That made me about as popular as a rash. I remember thinking at the time that life is just high school all over again, only with bigger bills to pay.

Harrison . . . I’ve missed him very much.

When I saw him at Damon’s funeral, it was the first time I’d seen him in more than two years, since he banned all visitors. He’d sent me a brief note, telling me he did not want his friends and colleagues to see him helpless. Harrison had been such a vigorous, physical man. It was terrible for him suddenly to find himself a prisoner in his own body. Even though he wouldn’t allow me to visit, I sent him notes at least once a week. I sent him anything I could think of that might make him smile. I kept it up, hoping that one day he would respond. Only two weeks ago I’d sent him a book of his favorite hilariously eerie Charles Addams cartoons, but, as usual, there had been no response.

As soon as I entered my apartment, I put Jay’s script and my pile of mail down on the bedside table and checked for telephone messages. The first was from Penny. “My five o’clock appointment cancelled. If you can come over then, I’ll give you that complimentary Deluxe European guaranteed-to-banish-all-cares facial. I’ll keep the spot open until I hear from you.” She left the number of Natasha’s on Madison.

When Penny answered her line, I said, “Hi, it’s Morgan. Thank you. I need my cares banished. Be there at five.”

“Wonderful. I think I can promise you’ll be glad you came.”

The next call I made was to Harrison Landers. His answering machine picked up. I left a message telling him I’d missed him, and asking if I could come to visit soon. Before I finished the sentence, he picked up the phone.

“Doll, it’s good to hear from you. Of course you can come over. How about tomorrow?”

“Perfect. Can I take you out to lunch?”