“Leo, I heard what you said earlier.” Like the ghost in Hamlet, Janet appeared on the deserted set, Leo’s battlement.
“Whatever you heard, forget it,” he said, pushing past her, hurrying for the exit.
She followed him out of the building, down the sidewalk, cutting him off before he could get into his car. “Tell me what you meant by that.”
“By what?” For several days he’d been deliberately avoiding her. To no avail. She’d become expert at laying traps, and more than a dangerous nuisance at hurling accusations.
“Don’t be obtuse. You told the clean-up crew you wouldn’t need the hospital set again.”
Enough sun remained so that facing directly into it forced him to squint. It made him uncomfortable. “What of it?”
“Alexandra’s going back to the Winston’s house, isn’t she? The writers have decided to let her recover.”
She was crowding him, and he stepped back. Yet his Mercedes sat there behind him, parked at the curb and wedging him in. “We’ll talk about this on Monday after you see the new script.” He punctuated the finality of his tone with a push of his hand. It was like confronting Gibraltar.
Her voice, which he’d always found grating, rose an octave. “You swore you could convince the writers to drop her from the show. It was her or me. You knew that.”
“So what’s the big worry?” He tried to keep the sidewalk confrontation from getting out of hand. Attracted by the quarrel, several strangers glanced in their direction. “So she’s going to live. That doesn’t mean you’re out.”
“It was discussed. You know the writers discussed it.”
“I made my feelings clear. I am the director. I still have some say.”
“And?”
“And what? Maybe they’ll—”
She pounced on that tentative note, her voice sinking into a low, menacing register. Lady Macbeth now. “I’m through with maybes, Leo. I want certainties. As in those papers of yours that are in my possession can absolutely cause you no end of trouble. How do you feel about facing a German court, Herr Franzig?”
He wished he had a dog—a large Doberman or a pit bull. He’d let it spring for her throat. “For the last time, I did not kill him. He was already dead when I found him.”
Almost fifty years hadn’t erased that vision from his memory: going to Leo’s dingy apartment late that night for a farewell drink before the actor left for his rendezvous on the Unter Den Linden. Everything had been planned so carefully: the East German Army uniform that allowed him to reach a section of the wall where he was least likely to be seen going over, the forged passport and documents, the letter of introduction to a Herr Vetter in West Berlin.
But Leo wasn’t going anywhere, because he lay dead on the floor. Someone had garroted him. Leo ran with a rough crowd.
God knows he’d seen little up to that time, but recognizing opportunity when he saw it, he, Helmut, acted quickly. He had to, before anyone else showed up to find him with a dead body. He took all Leo’s identification, especially the passport, which he examined closely. It was forged, but that didn’t bother him. He studied the picture. With darker hair and Leo’s glasses, he could pass for the other man. Both were thin with brown eyes. Once in the West, who would look closely? He found Leo’s black shoe polish and brushed it swiftly through his own hair, combing it in. The uniform fit perfectly.
He came out of his reverie to find Janet’s angry face inches from his.
“I did not kill him.” He suspected he’d repeated it for the hundredth time.
She crossed her arms. “Who would believe you? A mere hint of scandal would end your career. Like those days when actors and directors were blackballed in Hollywood. Imagine what the tabloids would make of it, even the mainstream press. You wouldn’t last another episode as director of Beekman Place.”
The truth of that resounded through his head, like a carillon tolling a death knell. He couldn’t take the chance. After watching his star decline in Hollywood, he had come back to make Beekman Place the most-watched soap on the tube. He wasn’t about to hand it over to anyone else.
As usual, placating Janet required a soothing tone. “I’ll take care of the writers. I give you my word.”
“Which is worth what, Leo? To me, not a cent.”
He had to convince her. Later he could worry.
“I can do it.” He willed himself to sound assured. “Believe me, Janet, I still have power. I have the power to keep you on the show, and I will.”
She seemed to weigh the possibilities. Finally, her face lost its derisive look. “Okay, Leo, you have another chance. Don’t blow it.”
After she strode off, Leo remained at the curb, hands hanging loose at his sides, perspiration from the August heat forming on his face and neck. Each confrontation with Janet made his blood pressure soar, and his stomach burned as if a white hot poker eviscerated his insides. He reached into his shirt pocket for another Gaviscon tablet. If Janet’s threats didn’t kill him, his ulcer certainly would.
Why had he kept the passport, and those newspaper clippings his sister sent to him later, for all those years? He knew the answer. Ego. What a coup he had pulled off. So how could he have parted with the proof? It established him as a man of daring and courage, if only in his own eyes. Too late, he realized the stupidity of his decision. Like Nixon with his incriminating tapes. They had brought down a president. This could end his career and send him to prison.
Yet he hadn’t killed Leo. All he’d done was assume his identity. Once in the home of Herr Vetter, he’d had to continue with his ruse. After that, it just remained easier to continue being Leo, even after emigrating to London and eventually the U.S. He should have killed Janet, though. Long before he found out what little influence he held with the writers. They wouldn’t listen when he’d demanded Alexandra’s demise. How could he talk them into keeping Janet?
On the other hand, who was to say Alexandra couldn’t die at a later date? Just today, Toni Abbott had almost met death. Why couldn’t she again?