For Whom
The Beep Tolls
BY CAROL HIGGINS CLARK
If only the answering machine hadn't stopped working........
Ellie Butternut pushed open the door of her apartment with a sigh of relief and then slammed it shut behind her. The sight of her small but cozy apartment on the ground floor of an old two-story building in West Hollywood always eased the tension that had been building up all day. She plopped on her couch, pulled off her shoes, and stretched her aching feet out onto the ancient coffee table as her cat, Twister, jumped up to join her.
Ellie had been running around the whole hot afternoon, from audition to audition, praying against the odds that she'd finally land some sort of stint. The thought that she hadn't gotten a single acting job for three months was dispiriting. She'd auditioned for everything from a mother superior who always turns out the lights in a South Coast Power industrial film to a two-layered shortbread cookie doing jumping jacks for a national commercial. All for naught. "Thank you for coming in," they'd say in a flat voice. Or even worse, a resounding "Next!" The last job she had had was playing in a safety video that the owner of the local car wash decided to produce. He figured it would be a good item to sell by the cash register, where an array of whatchamacallits for use inside a car was already on display. While customers waited for wheels to get shined, they often couldn't resist another plastic drink holder or dangling air freshener. Why not a reasonably priced video on how to protect yourself while getting to and from your car in dark parking lots and garages?
That's show biz, Ellie thought as she glanced out her window, which was flanked by overgrown bushes. It's a tropical look, she decided. Raising her eyes, she gazed up at the Hollywood Hills in the distance beyond Sunset Boulevard and her local 7-Eleven. Everyone out here is chasing some sort of dream. Or has a screenplay. Including me, she thought, as she stared at a mansion way up yonder that from her vantage point was no bigger than a speck. Someday I'd like to have that speck, she thought. Or at least live in its neighborhood.
Wiggling the toes of her swollen feet, she picked up the remote control and flicked on the television.
"Oh, God," she murmured as she watched the face of her biggest rival, Lucy Farnsworth, playing the part of a harried housewife complaining about her husband's dirty socks on a commercial for Force, the latest sensational laundry detergent. "If it weren't for you, that would be my face peering into that washing machine," Ellie said aloud.
Ellie had been on first refusal, which meant that she couldn't accept another job doing a laundry-detergent commercial without first alerting the folks from Force, but she had ultimately been released from her obligation. She had already been planning how she would spend the residual checks that would have arrived in her mailbox with a pleasing regularity, but the part had gone to Lucy. Now her cash was once again running low and there were so many things she needed.
"Oh, well," Ellie said to herself with her usual optimism, "maybe it means a better commercial will come along."
She hoisted her sturdy 5'4" frame off the couch and stood up, glancing into the gold-leaf mirror that her aunt Evelyn had given to Ellie just last year. "I know how you like to collect old stuff for your apartment," she'd said. "I'd like for you to enjoy this mirror before I die."
Ellie pushed back her frizzy auburn hair. Her pale skin was dotted with freckles and beads of sweat from the California heat. Stretching out her arms like a singer in agony, she smiled a crooked smile at her reflection and her green eyes glinted. "So I'm a character actor, what can I say?" She knew that she would always play the best friend. Thirty-four years old and slightly overweight, she also knew that if she could only land that one great comedic role, her life would change. She didn't have to play opposite a gorgeous leading man, but a leading man in her life wouldn't be so bad. It was just so hard to find Mr. Right. She couldn't even scrape up a Mr. Right Now.
She walked into the hallway, which was the size of a telephone booth, and glanced at her answering machine on the shelf. If there were messages, there would have been an audible beep. But now the red light was blinking too quickly and ERR, meaning screw-up, was flashing on its tiny screen.
"For Pete's sake," she muttered. "I was afraid this thing that ties me to the outside world was on its last legs. My lifeline is dead." She sighed. Everything has to come through this machine, she thought. Vital information about auditions, jobs, the occasional date, or news about how easy it was to switch long distance companies was all filtered through this most wondrous, at times most provoking, electronic device.
Tomorrow morning I'm going to have to go buy a new one, she thought. With my weary charge card. At least it'll be Saturday and I won't miss any calls from my agent when I'm out. With a sigh, Ellie headed into the bathroom to the turn-of-the-century tub, turned on the faucets full force, and prepared to take a much-needed cool soak.
Ellie spent a blessedly restful night. The usual sounds of car alarms going off, booming stereos from passing hot rods, and deranged recyclers passing outside her bedroom window with their squeaky shopping carts full of rattling bottles and cans did not awaken her. Not even the usual sounds of her lead-footed neighbor upstairs, Toni-Anne Loskow, coming in from her late-night job as a phone psychic, disturbed Ellie's slumber. Her baby greens were slammed shut. It was nearly 9:00 A.M. when she heard the sound of Frances's voice haggling with someone over the price of a set of old pots and pans. Frances was the building manager, who lived next door to Ellie and had a fondness for garage sales.
As Ellie struggled into consciousness, she sat up and peered past the flimsy shade she had bought at a hardware-store closeout and surveyed the situation. Sure enough, Frances had covered the lawn with everything from old appliances to sleeveless blouses with darts in the bust that Frances had probably worn as an extra in a film shot in the sixties. Like everyone else in the building, Frances was a card-carrying member of the Screen Actors Guild. And, also like everyone else in the building, Frances had gotten her share of little parts over the years but was still waiting for the big break that would free her from her years of scrimping to get by. In her late fifties, Frances had done some stand-up comedy. Recently someone had asked her if she didn't wish she'd moved home to Oregon a long time ago and settled into a "normal" life. "What—and give up show biz?" Frances had answered. "No way, José."
Ellie climbed out of bed and stumbled into the kitchen. Quickly she put on a pot of coffee and then dressed in a pair of sweats. She washed her face, brushed her teeth, grabbed a mug of coffee, and walked outside onto the lawn where the early birds were picking through the loot. Not only did Frances sell her own possessions but she also sold anything her friends wanted to get rid of. For a slight fee, of course.
"Morning, Ellie," Frances called from her lawn chair perched in the shade of the one big tree. She had her coffee mug in hand as well. It depicted Snoopy in a gleeful pose. Frances's dark curly hair was pulled back with a headband and her reed-thin body was dressed in an old pair of jeans and a T-shirt.
"Morning." Ellie sat down on the ground next to Frances's chair. Her eyes landed on an answering machine complete with a telephone that was resting on a towel nearby.
Ellie put down her cup on the scruffy lawn and reached out for it. "Where did you get this? It still looks pretty good."
"Toni-Anne gave it to me to sell yesterday. She was the eighty-seventh customer at the bank and since they opened in 1987 and it was their anniversary they decided to give away a few prizes. The teller handed her a brand-new answering machine, so she decided to get rid of her old one." Frances sighed. "To think I was going to stop at the bank yesterday. . . ."
Ellie smiled as she looked over the machine. "Maybe she had a premonition something was going to happen to her. She predicted the bank would be a good place to go yesterday."
Frances waved a hand at her. "She doesn't believe in that psychic stuff. She said she makes it up as she goes along."
Ellie frowned. "She's been doing it for over forty years, hasn't she?"
"In one form or another. She started at a carnival in her hometown at the Jersey shore when she was about twenty. She couldn't believe the money she could make telling people what they wanted to hear. When she came out here to act, she kept it up, which led to the psychic hot line."
"Well, maybe her machine will bring some sort of psychic good vibes to me. Mine gave up the ghost yesterday. How much is it?"
"Thirty dollars."
Ellie, ever the bargainer—which made her quite a match for Frances—held it up and smirked. "Is that the best you can do?"
Frances laughed. She gave her voice a gravelly edge and said, "With that you even get a fresh pack of tapes she just bought recently. They don't fit her new machine. And you get the owner's manual too."
"Such a deal. I'll take it." Ellie looked around and whispered, "Where is our favorite neighbor, anyway? I never heard old lead-foot come in last night. Maybe she wasn't wearing those green combat boots of hers."
Draining the remains of her Snoopy cup, Frances shrugged. "I haven't seen her this morning. Maybe she's still sleeping."
Across town, Harold Pinsworth, a forty-four-year-old accountant, woke up in a cold sweat. He had had wild dreams in the little time he managed to get some sleep. He looked over at his twenty-five-year-old sleeping wife, the beautiful Corinne, who was as far away on the mattress as she could possibly get without falling off.
She'd fallen out of love and he was doing anything and everything he could to get her back. When they met through the personal ads, he had believed that true recognition of his worth would soon be realized at the investment firm where he had been employed for twenty-two uneventful years. Corinne had just come to Hollywood from smalltown U.S.A. because she liked to get tan. Answering the ad written by the sophisticated forty-three-year-old bachelor who yearned to meet a young, attractive woman with sound family values, Corrine had been impressed on their first date. Twelve other women had refused to answer his calls after the first meeting. But Corinne had welcomed the second and the third. When she looked at him adoringly with those big brown eyes, he knew that no promise was too big to make.
But now, eleven months into the marriage, Corinne's patience was growing thin. She'd begun to realize that the plans he'd shown her for the house he would build her as a wedding present were just that. Plans. "Where's the land for this house?" she kept asking. "Where's the new car? The designer clothes you promised me? I don't mean to be greedy but . . ."
Harold had gotten desperate. He couldn't lose her. So his love for his gorgeous young wife had clouded his judgment and he became tempted to "borrow" some money from his firm. He had known so many who had used in-house money to make a killing and then had put it back. He had regretted he had never done it. But this time, this week, he knew he had to try. He'd always been chicken before, thinking supposed he lost it. There'd be no place to run or hide. He'd be sent to prison, disgraced.
But now Corinne had married him, looking for love and security. For four months they had been blissfully happy. But then she started getting restless.
The other night they'd been watching television in bed and she had fallen asleep. He'd been thinking all night about a get-rich-quick scheme that required a million dollars of the firm's money. Then the commercial for the psychic hot line had come across the screen. A crystal ball and the soothing sounds of a woman's voice saying, "Call us. We'll help you with your problems. We'll help you make your important decisions."
In a trance, Harold had snuck out of bed, slipped into the kitchen, and dialed their number. He'd been hooked up with Esmerelda. Harold remembered how he could barely talk to the woman on the other end with the deep, rich voice.
"I'm considering a business investment," he sputtered.
"Invest. Invest. Invest," she'd said. "I see a wonderful aura around you. Brilliant colors. You will be lucky. It will change your life, you'll see."
The next day Harold bought a million dollars' worth of stock in a company that was supposed to release a secret patent in electronics. At three the stock plummeted. He almost went crazy. Instead he called the psychic hot line that night and told Esmerelda how well he had done with her advice. "I want to take you out to dinner," he'd said.
"We're not supposed to do that," Esmerelda had whispered.
"Oh, come on. What's the harm? Whisper your real name and home number to me. I'll call you there."
Esmerelda relented. "My name is Toni-Anne," she'd breathed.
The next day, Friday, he was practically apoplectic. He called her a number of times during the day but hung up when he got the machine. Finally he decided to leave a message, thinking she might be the type to screen her calls. But she hadn't picked up. He said he'd call back later, he wanted to see her that night. He felt desperate, knowing that the firm would discover the loss the next week. He had to release his anger somehow. The next time he called, Toni-Anne answered the phone and he arranged to meet her in the big parking lot at Ralph's grocery store and walk to a little Italian place nearby.
Instead, he persuaded her to get into his car and let him drive her to a nicer restaurant a few miles down the road. When she got in she seemed pleased. But the pleasure ended abruptly when he pulled over in a park and strangled her, dumping her body in a wooded area.
It was all like a blur to him, a dream.
Now, as he lay in bed, he trembled at the thought of the message he had left on her machine. He had to get that tape. She might not have erased it, because he left it only yesterday, and he couldn't take a chance that his voice would ever be identified. As it was, he was nervous about the call to the psychic hot line, which would show up on his telephone bill.
Luckily he had her pocketbook with her keys in his trunk. He'd even driven by her building on the way home.
Harold gazed at the back of his sleeping wife. I did this all for you and now I'm going to end up in prison for embezzling. Maybe then you'll understand how much I love you. How I risked everything for you. Maybe then you'll love me and understand me and stand by my side. But before that can happen, he thought, I'm going to do whatever it takes to get that tape back tonight so I'm not convicted of murder. Whatever it takes.
Ellie had had a pleasant, relaxing day, puttering around her apartment and getting ready for the group of friends who were coming over for pasta and wine. She did some cleaning, talked on the phone, played with her cat, and even did laundry. It was nice to not go rushing around in the car.
She had been in an acting class for several years and from time to time a number of her classmates, anywhere from three to ten, would get together for some laughs and to gossip about the business. Tonight they would be six.
Ellie cut up some cheese, took out some crackers, and put them on the top of the refrigerator to keep them away from Twister. That all set, she went into the bedroom to get changed, passing her new answering machine that was still sitting cm the shelf unplugged.
I'll have to figure out how it works later, she thought. Or I could always get Toni-Anne to explain it to me. Come to think of it, she hadn't seen Toni-Anne all day. Oh, well, she thought, I'll probably hear her later.
Harold glanced at his watch. It was 10:00 p.m. Do you know where your tape is? he thought.
"I'm going out for a pack of cigarettes," he said to Co-rinne as the closing credits of the movie on cable came across the screen.
"Suit yourself," she replied, not even bothering to look in his direction.
He got in the car and drove to Toni-Anne's neighborhood, looking for a parking space that was close to her building but not too close. He didn't have to worry. There were no spaces available in the immediate area. He pulled down the block, turned the corner, and finally found one. Turning off the engine, he exhaled deeply. Here goes everything, he thought.
One minute later he was climbing the creaky outside steps to her apartment. Quickly he let himself in with her keys and sighed with relief. His heart was pounding. The apartment was totally still.
Suddenly something rubbed against his leg and he jumped into the air.
"Meowww." A cat was reaching out its paws in an attempt to snuggle with his leg.
"Jesus!" he murmured as he shook the cat off. He'd always hated them.
A faint glow from the streetlight shone through the window and onto the floor. The dejected cat slithered past an envelope that was marked "Toni-Anne."
Regaining his composure, Harold bent over and picked it up. With the aid of his flashlight he read the contents.
Dear Toni-Anne,
Guess what? Elite from downstairs bought your answering machine. Isn't that great? She was so happy to get the new package of tapes too. The old one was still in there so if you want it just let her know. Enclosed is $25. See you around.
Frances
Harold stood there trembling. Oh, God. Oh, God, he thought. Stuffing the money into his pocket, he shined the flashlight around the apartment, then crept into the bedroom. The empty cardboard box for a new answering machine was on the bed. On the nightstand a machine sat, its red light blinking.
He pressed the rewind button, praying that his message was on this machine. Holding his breath he listened to the first message.
"Toni-Anne, this is Ruthie. I found a good scene we can do for the acting workshop. Give me a call. Bye." An electronic voice recorded the time. "Friday. 8:32 P.M."
It's not on there, Harold thought frantically. I called Friday afternoon. Did she set up this new machine after I called? Or did she erase my message? I have to find out!
Stealing out of the apartment, he went down the steps on his toes. Voices could be heard floating from the window of the apartment below.
"Ellie, that was great pasta!"
Harold stopped in his tracks and crouched down in the heavy bushes outside her window. This must be the apartment!
"Hey, Ellie, can I use your phone? I want to check my messages," a guy's voice was saying.
"At 10:30 on a Saturday night?" Ellie laughed.
"Maybe my agent called with a great opportunity. An actor could have dropped out of a film that starts tomorrow. . . ."
"Sure. Go ahead. One of us has to get a big job soon."
"Your machine here isn't plugged in."
"I just bought it from the woman upstairs today. I've got to figure out how to use it."
"I'll plug it in," he offered.
The next thing he knew, Harold could hear the messages being played.
"Toni-Anne, are you there? Are you there?"
Ellie's guest remarked, "I guess she left the tape with her old messages in the machine."
Then Toni-Anne's voice came on. A rambunctious "Hello. Don't hang up. I'm here." It was followed by that electronic voice. "Friday, 4:30 P.M."
"Hey, guys, we shouldn't listen to her messages," Ellie started to say as the next voice came on.
"Toni-Anne, I've got to see you tonight. I want to reward you for what you've done. Your advice was wonderful. I'll call you back later."
Harold's blood froze as he listened carefully to what another one of Ellie's guests was saying about him.
"He wouldn't make a good actor. That voice doesn't sound too happy to me."
"Next!" another voice cried, and the whole group laughed heartily.
Luckily for Harold, the guests didn't stay much longer. I've got to get through this window before she shuts it for the night, he thought. He had heard her take the tape out of the machine after his message. It has to be right there.
Slowly starting to stand, he glanced into the apartment.
She had gone into the kitchen and was doing the dishes. Luckily she had turned on the radio. Now, he thought. I've got to get in there and hide.
Boosting himself up, he climbed in the window. Another damn cat was standing in his path!
He took three quick steps across the room and slipped into the closet just as Ellie came back and asked her cat, "Twister, what's the matter? Don't scratch the door, honey."
A few minutes later, Ellie got into bed with a sense of contentment. It always made her feel good to spend time with her friends. She sank into the pillow and turned to the news station on her radio.
"An unidentified woman was found in a wooded area a few hours ago by a group of hikers," a report began. "Apparently she had been left for dead. Someone had attempted to strangle her but she is still alive. She's in a coma and the doctors are not sure of her chances. They believe her to be about sixty. She has platinum-blond hair, was wearing a long skirt and a peasant-type blouse and a pair of unusual green boots."
Ellie bolted upright in bed. That sounds like Toni-Anne! she thought. Those crazy boots. Ellie hadn't seen her all day. That weird message on the tape. I've got to listen to it right now, she thought wildly.
Jumping out of bed, she darted into the hallway and put the tape in the machine and listened.
"I've got to play this for Frances!" she said aloud, pulling the cassette out of the machine and running to her front door. Suddenly she felt a hand go around her mouth.
"You don't have to play that for anyone."
It was the voice she had just heard on the tape!
Frances was relaxing in her bedroom, watching the eleven o'clock news, when Toni-Anne's cat jumped on the ledge out-side her window and scratched at the screen.
"What's the matter, baby?" Frances asked. "Where's your mama?" She opened the screen and let the cat jump in on her bed.
With that, the report came on about the unidentified woman with the green boots.
"Toni-Anne!" Frances gasped. She picked up the cat and her master key ring and hurried out of her apartment.
This can't be happening, Ellie thought as she tried to slide away from him. The audition for the shortbread cookie flashed into her mind. Jumping jacks. If only she could free her body. But in the safety video they'd said to go for the bridge of an attacker's nose. With all her might she jabbed her hand behind her but missed. They struggled to the floor and the television fell off the stand. She could hear Frances's voice outside.
"What's going on in there?"
Her attacker was distracted for a moment and Ellie gave him a good whack across the nostrils. Blood started spurting as she managed to scream and Frances unlocked the door. Twister had jumped on Harold's legs and was scratching him when Frances hurried in. Toni-Anne's cat leapt from her arms and jumped on his face as he yelped in pain.
"Call the police!" Ellie yelled to Frances, standing up and grabbing the can of Mace she'd been given when she did the video. It was right in the drawer of the table next to the couch.
"Watch out, kitties," she ordered, dramatically spraying his face. "Mister, you're not going anywhere!"
Three weeks later, Frances and Ellie brought a paler Toni-Anne home from the hospital. Ellie made a pot of tea and they sat around her living room, rehashing everything.
"I tell you," Toni-Anne was saying as she petted her cat, whose purring motor was in overdrive as he cuddled in her lap. "I would have had a premonition if I were going to die. But I still shouldn't have gotten into that car with him. Hey, I never said I was the world's greatest psychic."
"Well, thank God you're okay," Ellie said as she poured her another cup of tea and broke off a piece of cookie for Twister.
Frances was drinking out of her ever-present Snoopy cup. "I always knew garage sales were exciting. I just never knew how exciting they could be."
The phone in the hallway began to ring. They all looked at each other and laughed.
"Uh-oh," Ellie said. "I think I'll just let the famous machine pick it up."
It was the owner of the car wash. "Ellie, those safety videos have been selling like hotcakes since you got all that publicity. I'd like to get a photo of you with Toni-Anne and Frances for a new cover. And guess what? A producer who bought the video thinks I have real talent. He's optioning my screenplay. I told him I'd sell it to him as long as there are parts for the three of you. . . ."
That night, when Ellie got into bed and turned out the light, all was quiet. Then she heard Toni-Anne clomp into her bedroom directly above. Ahhhhh. That's the sweetest sound I've heard in a long time, Ellie thought as she drifted off to sleep.