Thirty-Five

Hector

MONDAY NIGHT

“Cut!”

TMB’s premier director, Hector Aldridge, squeezes his hands in frustration, silently praying for serenity. You’d think a professional camera operator, even a Neanderthal from a cable news show, would have more sense than to enter the frame.

He’s been tolerant of the producer’s insistence that designated cameras from the news pool be allowed on set. Or house. Or whatever you called these blasted home reality show settings. He’s been adamant that they not be permitted inside due to space restrictions and is of the opinion that allowing one or two operators to shoot the talent from the sidelines is an extremely generous compromise on his part.

But if you give these brutes an inch, they take a mile, rushing in for close-ups, shouting the talent’s names as if they’re walking into the Academy Awards. He cares not one wit that LuAnn promised a certain prime-time cable news show an exclusive simulcast. He’s had it up to here. Enough!

“Break?” His assistant slips a vape into his hand and just the sensation of the warming metal device in his palm unwinds the tension crippling his shoulders.

“Bless you, my son,” he murmurs, shielding himself from the lights and cameras as he inhales a medicinal dose of purple kush. Much better.

He smiles at the talent, a starkly photogenic couple despite their recent, newsworthy trauma. The man, this Robert, tall and moodily handsome, faintly Byronic with his aquiline nose and cascading dark locks, is a fascinating creature. Hector envisions him in an oil painting, elbow resting on a windowsill, quill in hand, his throat encased in a white cravat, gazing wistfully at the heath beyond.

The woman, however, is pure low-country trash, and Hector is here for it. He enjoys meeting people who aspire above their birth stations, admires their gumption, their embrace of the American dream. This Holly has obviously employed every available beauty enhancement on the market to upscale her appearance—the eyelashes, the nose job (maybe even cheekbone implants, too), the de rigueur bee-stung lips—brava for her! But she’s been savvy, this one. She’s darkened her roots and enhanced the shadows under her eyes in fitting with the publicity stunt she and her husband pulled.

Of course, it was a stunt, this business about being kidnapped by an assistant who conveniently cannot be located and a troubled former property owner who conveniently slit his own throat. Eventually, the threads in this web of lies will unravel, as history dictates, and the talent’s fraud will be exposed as a cheap, tawdry sham. For now the country is riveted and he, Hector Aldridge, a director snubbed by the industry for a teeny-tiny mishap on a movie set years and years ago, is back in . . .

“Action!” He squints over his camera operator’s shoulder, hoping the talent has taken to heart his prior lecture about emotive authenticity. No fake gasps. No, “Oh my gosh!” No clasping hands to hearts. He wants genuine tears, screams of amazement, even—if she can manage it—fainting in her husband’s arms upon stepping across the threshold.

They perform better than one would expect from a couple of amateurs, the man swooping up his delicate bride, fragile from her “ordeal,” kicking open the front door and carrying her inside. In his ear, LuAnn gushes, “Gold. Solid fucking gold. Trending on Twitter.”

Twitter. He snorts. Maroons.

Inside, without fear of a news crew ruining the scene, the talent shifts into domestic bliss, a guaranteed crowd pleaser. Holly runs her hands over the rented couch and gawps in wonder at the vaulted ceilings, his camera operator maneuvering to avoid the mirrored glare cast by the humongous windows.

“Are you telling me a huge space like this is energy efficient?” she inquires, as if she hasn’t designed every centimeter.

The man rattles off statistics. He seems to be the brains behind the engineering. She’s the designer, boldly approving of her own color scheme and complimenting an insipid watercolor by a local artist she’s purchased at a community craft fair. Then again, sexist tropes are standard on these shows. Hector will not allow her to compare the size of her closet to her husband’s, however. He has his standards.

Holly ooohs and aaahs at the kitchen with its fancy French stove, its pricey marble counters and its bump-out window complete with window boxes springing with light green shoots of fresh herbs. She blinks at the chandelier twinkling over the authentic Vermont farm table (handcrafted by a newly deceased artisan!) and lightly strokes the pyramid of waxy lemons in their wire basket.

“Can’t you picture the family dinners we’ll make here?” she asks, opening a drawer and marveling that it is actually refrigerated.

“I can’t wait.” Robert spouts his scripted line. He gives her a scripted kiss.

“Cut!” Hector shouts.

Lucrative advertisements featuring refrigerators that can text your mother and robotic vacuums ridden by cats follow for those who don’t subscribe to TMB and, therefore, must suffer the torture of commercial breaks. The cameras are repositioned while makeup teases Holly’s hair and dabs at Robert’s nose.

Upon return, the talent slowly climb the floating staircase, keeping up a constant chatter of more awe. The steel railings are sleek. The stairs are grand. The up lighting is brilliant. The atrium to the floor below is unreal. “I like how you can call down to the kitchen from the top floor,” she says. “Just imagine the parties.”

“Wench, fetch my flagon of wine!” Robert jokes.

Hector takes another hit of his vape.

They pause so the crew can enter the rooms on the second floor to catch their reactions, the only shots they’d need, since the rooms themselves are cued up and ready to go. Holly shakes her head at the Murphy bed in the guest room/office. “We could convert it to a nursery, too.” She utters her scripted line with an appropriate blush.

Robert responds by placing a suggestive hand over her belly and leaning down for another kiss. “Linger on that shot. We’re Tweeting that as a very suggestive hint,” LuAnn prompts. “Hashtag Barronbaby here we come!”

“Ah, my favorite room—where the magic happens,” Robert says, winking at his wife, who is doing an impressive job of keeping her face flushed in modesty as they view the king-size bed. While the canned shots roll, the couple changes into their swimsuits.

Commercial break featuring bedding from Wayfair and high-end bathroom fixtures.

The crew reconnoiters on the outdoor entertainment area. Miracle of miracles, the night sky is clear in this godforsaken state, despite flurries the day before. It’s unseasonably warm, which makes the talent’s display of the geothermal swimming pool’s properties a bit easier to handle.

Wineglasses have been set out, along with skewers of mushrooms, tomatoes, and zucchini in the exact same order as the canned shots. Hector thinks of the local assistant who did all that last week. Hard worker. That he was side by side with a suspected cokidnapper leaves him tingly.

When they return, Robert is glistening wet from the pool. Market testing has showed a high female approval for him bare chested and slick, though not so sexy that viewers would be staring at his treasure trail instead of the five-figure outdoor kitchen that is generating six-figure advertising dollars per minute.

“Take your positions,” Hector commands to the small group of actors playing friends. “Are the firepits lit?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he notices movement. Someone is frantically waving. What the . . . ? There’s no time for this. They’re back live in three.

“There appears to be an incident brewing,” LuAnn says in his ear. “We’re cutting to another commercial while we figure out what’s going on. This is why I hate live-streaming, people!”

Incident? What kind of incident?

He glances over at LuAnn, who is directing security to where three middle-aged women stand in the shadows, arms folded—except for a short blond overdressed in a huge bright parka the color of Gatorade, smoking a cigarette.

They don’t look like trouble; they look like the local bowling league.

“What do they want?” he hears LuAnn ask.

The blond with the cigarette hollers, “I need to talk to my daughter, Haylee.”

“Not now,” LuAnn says. “We’re live-streaming a show. And we’re almost back on. Hector, get everyone in position.”

“Positions!” Hector shouts. Holly and Robert stand by the pool, poised to dive in for the cameras. Holly in her tiny black bikini is hopping up and down to keep warm. Does she not know her mother is right there? How could she not have heard that bobcat yell?

“That kidnapping story is a damn lie!” the mother in the parka persists. “What have you done with Erika Turnbull? Haylee Dawn Beauregard, answer me! I am your mama!”

LuAnn goes, “What the hell is happening?”

“Five, four, three, two . . .” Hector counts down. “One!”

The cameras capture Robert’s athletic dive while Holly, still apparently unaware of the ruckus her mother’s causing, lowers herself into the water, the “friends” applauding.

“You guys are crazy,” one of them chortles, taking a swig of nonalcoholic beer.

“It’s super warm and sooooo lovely.” Holly is careful to keep her head above water as she kicks her shapely legs.

Robert tosses his long, wet hair with the grace of a champion stallion. “Plus, the pool’s heating our house!”

“When’s dinner?” the “friend” asks. “I’m starving.”

“Coming right up!” Robert pulls himself out and offers his bride a helping hand as she ascends the underlit steps and slips her arms into a fluffy terry cloth robe that will be available for order straight off the TMB site.

She’s patting her face with a corner of the robe just as the fireplug blond has somehow managed to storm onto the bluestone patio.

“Haylee Dawn Beauregard!” she calls out, parting the friends. “You come over here right now. I am so sick of your bullshit, I could tan your hide!”

Holly freezes midpat. “Mama?”

“Shit,” Hector says. “We need to cut to a commercial.”

“No fucking way,” says LuAnn. “This is dynamite. Close in!”

The fireplug marches up to her daughter, hands on hips. “You tell me right now, right this minute, what you’ve done with Erika Turnbull.”

“Um, little help here.” Robert, suddenly not so masculine in his fancy robe, is drawing a hand across his throat with a pair of rustproof titanium tongs. Unfortunate imagery in light of current events.

“I’d cut except we’ve got cable news here and they are all over this,” LuAnn says. “If we fade to black, they get the eyeballs, we won’t. Keep going. This is gonna rule the watercoolers tomorrow.”

The fireplug taps her finger against Holly’s chest. “I. Am. Your. Mother!”

“You need to get out of here,” Holly hisses and then, as if just remembering this is being live-streamed, quickly adds, “You silly prankster!”

Hector directs the camera to catch a better angle of Robert as he moves to intervene. Big mistake, Hector thinks. Break up a cat fight, you’re gonna get scratched.

“Excuse me,” Robert says, affecting a patrician drawl, “but this is not the appropriate—”

“Appropriate my sweet buns.” The fireplug turns on him, snarling. “You! You know what happened to that girl, the assistant. I am your mother-in-law. You tell me now.”

“You need to leave my house,” he says firmly.

“It ain’t your house. It never was your house. Haylee knows that!” She turns back to her daughter. “Don’t you, honeybunch?”

“That is a complete lie!” he declares.

She rotates back to Robert. “Oh, please. That’s how my darling daughter blackmailed you into this chicanery. If you didn’t do what she wanted you to do, she’d expose you for being the buffoon you are and so much for the famous Robber Barron. Turns out the legendary real estate investor ain’t nothing but a lazy-ass fool who got suckered like his sucker followers.” She takes a wheezy breath. “In your case, property really was theft.”

“Okay, I’m totally lost,” LuAnn says. “I can’t look away, but I need a playbill to keep score. This isn’t their house?”

“Mama.” Holly extends a steadying hand. “We’ll talk later.”

“Hell we will!” Tammy shouts. “You’re gonna tell the whole world watching that Zeke Strickland and Erika Turnbull took you captive? You know that’s a lie. Just think of the effect that will have on his children. I am ashamed to admit you are the fruit of my womb.”

“That’s enough,” Robert thunders, storming toward the tiny, enraged blond. “I will not stand by while you insult my wife!”

“No, Robert. Stay back!” And with what seems to Hector like an unnecessary amount of force, the female talent lunges at her husband, both of her hands landing hard on his chest. His bare heels slip on the wet bluestone as he crashes backward into the electric-powered grill connected to 240-volt wiring.

The word electrocution is the combination of electric and execution. Not everyone who suffers a shock from a 240-volt outlet dies or is even severely injured, though most regret the pain and the burns afterward. However, in this situation, a perfect storm of factors combine to inflict a lethal dose. The flooring is stone. Robert is wet. The tongs in his hands are metal and the freelance master electrician no one noticed had ulterior motives.

The camera instantly pans away. Hector shouts for people to keep clear and for someone to call 911. The mother, aghast, clutches the hand of her daughter, the two of them frozen in place as the husband falls to the ground, his body twitching.

“Turn off that goddamn current!” LuAnn hollers. “And call 911!”

Pushing aside her daughter, the bobcat rushes to her son-in-law, parts his robe, makes a fist, covers it with her other hand, and proceeds to pound on his sternum to the rhythm of “Stayin’ Alive” by the Bee Gees, actually belting the “ah-ah-ah” of the chorus with each thrust.

Too late, the twitching remains of Robert Barron’s beautiful body have stilled.

A hired actor covers Robert’s body with a beach towel that’s not long enough to hide his pedicured toes.

“You killed him!” Holly screams. “You killed Robert, Mama!”

“At least I tried to save his life, which is more than I can say for you,” the mother spits back. Squeezing her daughter’s face, she says, “This is your last chance, Haylee. Where. Is. Erika? Tell me before it’s too late. Tell me while there’s still a chance she’s alive so you won’t burn in hell for eternity.”

From the way Holly hesitates, it’s not clear she knows or, if she does, will answer. But then her pretty pink mouth opens and she says, “Robert said he put her in a cellar hole. I don’t know where, though.”

“I know!” shouts one of the trio in a North Face jacket and hiking boots.” I saw a root cellar on the Barrons’ survey map I recorded last week.”

Immediately, she takes off toward the field, everyone following while the blond bobcat with the frizzled hair hugs her daughter, the two of them rocking back and forth on the patio, weeping.