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“I didn’t realize this place was so remote.”
Jason answered vaguely. Another unpleasant thought had occurred to him.
Even if Sam had been out of cell phone range while hiking in the National Park, he had to have seen all those messages after he got back to his vehicle. Why hadn’t he responded then? Why had he waited until after driving all the way back to Laramie? Until Jason phoned him?
Balthasar Bardolf—BB to his friends—looked like a dashing undertaker in a steampunk video game. He was a willowy six-foot-four and wore a purple silk jacquard waistcoat and moto boots. His hair was red and swooped back from his long, narrow face. His eyes were blue. He didn’t wear a top hat, which was a missed opportunity, in Jason’s opinion, but he carried a pocket watch, which he used to good effect in brushing off Jason when he tried to introduce himself Thursday morning.
“Sorry, I have to be someplace,” Bardolf told him. “But welcome to the asylum.”
“Thanks,” Jason replied to Bardolf’s retreating back. “Later.” He meant it.
However, later did not materialize.
Although in theory, Professor Bardolf was on the UCLA campus that day, he might as well have been in Santa Clarita or perhaps his moving fortress. When the man was not in class, he was in his office meeting with students or on the phone. If Jason hadn’t known better, he’d have thought Bardolf was avoiding him, but no way had Bern tipped off the archivist as to Jason’s real job description, so unless Alex was the tipster (which, at this point, seemed equally unlikely), it was just irksome coincidence.
While Jason considered Bardolf a person of interest in his investigation, he was only one of several leads yet to be followed up, so with a class-free day before him, Jason returned his attention to hunting down the remaining cast and crew members of Snowball in Hell.
It was a time-consuming process, but that was something he was used to.
A lot—maybe the majority—of his investigations were largely conducted online or over the phone.
He started with Director Henry Walsh.
Walsh had died in France in 1981.
Producer Leeland Wheeler had died in Hollywood in 1975.
Director of Photography Dudley Saunders had died in Granada Hills in 1980, and so it went. Art Director, Film Editor, Assistant Director, Sound, Special Effects, Visual Effects, Camera and Electrical, and on and on and on.
Jason scratched a quick, tidy line through one name after another.
The End.
How had he never noticed how many people were involved in making movies? Even a little indie project involved a staggering number of people working behind the scenes.
Not all these people would have access to the film pre-production, during production, or post-production, but enough would have had access at various stages to make his task a daunting one. More daunting once he realized pretty much his entire cast of suspects had moved on to that great screening room in the sky.
With the exception of Yolanda Flowers, who had played reporter Tara Renee, and Joe North, who had played Lieutenant Matthew Spain, everyone involved in Snowball in Hell was out of Jason’s reach.
For all he knew, Yolanda and Joe were also out of his reach, but they were not listed as deceased on IMDb, and subsequent searching turned up nothing.
In Yolanda’s case, the missing obit was probably an oversight. She had mostly played bit parts. In fact, the character of Tara Renee had been her largest role. Her filmography ended with an uncredited appearance as a Mrs. Twickenham in The F.B.I. TV series in 1967.
But Joe North…
Joe North had had a long if not illustrious career, and the more Jason searched movie databases, the more convinced he was North must still be alive.
Not working, obviously. He’d be in his nineties.
He could be tracked through his Medicare and social security. In fact, even if he wasn’t working, he’d still be getting residuals or royalties or something like that, right?
All that television work in the ’60s and ’70s meant North had to have been a member of SAG—now SAG-AFTRA. The Screen Actors Guild - American Federation of Television and Radio Artists was the labor union for television actors, journalists, radio personalities, recording artists, singers, voice actors, and, these days, internet influencers, fashion models, and other media professionals.
SAG-AFTRA’s Professional Representatives Department franchised talent agents worldwide, which meant there was a strong likelihood North’s agent had also been a union member. The national headquarters was located on Wilshire Blvd. in Los Angeles, but a patient fifty-five minutes on the phone got Jason the information he needed.
Though Herman Alban—North’s agent—was deceased, the Alban Agency was still around, and thirty minutes after contacting them, Jason had the address and phone number of Joseph Edward Gant’s (North was Joe’s stage name).
Promisingly, North—rather, Gant—lived in North Hollywood.
Jason phoned the number and mentally crossed his fingers.
He was expecting a phone machine, but a woman’s voice, a deep, pleasant contralto, answered.
Jason introduced himself, gave the abbreviated version of what he was after, and Mary Beth Eristoff, “one of Joe’s roommates,” handed him off to “Joey.”
“FBI, heh?” The voice that came on the line was higher and thinner than expected, but by then Jason had sat through enough video clips of Joe North to recognize it. “You’re too late. The statute of limitations has run out.”
“Statute of limitations on what?” Jason asked.
He realized that funny croaking sound was Joe North laughing. “You name it, pal. I’ve done it all.”
“That sounds promising,” Jason said, and Joe North started croaking again.
The croaking cut off abruptly to be replaced with hissing sounds. It took Jason a second to recognize several people were whispering.
“Hello?”
Joe North returned to the conversation. “You want an interview. Is that what I hear?”
Very rarely were subjects of his investigations quite this eager to talk, but Jason wasn’t about to miss an opportunity. “I do. If it’s convenient this after—”
North interrupted, “Why don’t you come over now. The girls’ll fix you lunch. Lulubelle wants to ask you a few questions.”
Girls? Lunch? Lulubelle?
“Uhhhh, okay,” Jason said doubtfully.
“Don’t worry,” cackled North. “They don’t bite. Too much!”
The house was on Ben Avenue in North Hollywood. A 1929 Spanish-style charmer set back behind a desert cottage garden in riotous summer bloom. A little slice of Old Hollywood. All that was missing was a nubile starlet with a flower basket and two Scottie dogs.
Jason walked through the wrought-iron gate, followed the stone walk through the giant cactus and lavender bushes, up the steps to the double-wide front door.
A tall, thin woman with stick-straight silver hair and piercing blue eyes in a deeply tanned face answered the doorbell. She wore high-waisted men’s trousers and a man’s plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and she was rocking that old-school lesbian vibe.
“You don’t look like an FBI agent.” The woman, who identified herself as Margot, seemed disappointed.
Jason offered his credentials’ case. “I’m undercover as a Fuller Brush Man.”
