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like pixie dust on my windshield as I
parked in the lot, as close as I could get to the golf cart
stand.
    Like most working studios, this one required
you to leave your car in a lot before entering the sound stage
area. It’s an audio thing. Electric golf carts make almost no
noise, which is a big plus when working in a locale that’s been
wired to pick up sound six ways from Sunday.
    I checked out one of the available carts and
zipped off towards the forbidden sound stage at the north end of
the studio lot. I passed through a couple clusters of buildings,
heard the buzz of people and equipment as filming was done. The
whine of a saw or lathe from one of the art departments. Off to one
side, a couple of prop guys hurriedly flung a tarp over an exposed
background wall set.
    Even this light patina of noise subsided, as
I pulled to a stop in front of a weather-beaten wooden sign: SOUND STAGE MACBETH.
    My stomach went all crazy, like I’d swallowed
a whole flock of butterflies.
    Ridiculous, I know. Part of it could have
been the doom-and-gloom curse that reputedly hung over anything
involving Shakespeare’s ‘Scottish Play.’ But I think the rest of
it…well, what exactly was I going to say to whomever I bumped into
at the sound stage?
    Why, hello there…the strange rantings of a
new-age advice columnist directed me to see you, Mister DeMille.
Oh, yes, I’m ready for my close-ups, just don’t tell my husband,
because if he shows up, everyone here is going to have a very nasty
case of whooping cough…
    I pressed my fingers to my temples, willed
myself to calm down and cut out the ridiculous thoughts now.
A breath, and I got the cart going again. Besides, there probably
wasn’t going to be anyone there, anyway. This whole thing would
turn out to be a wild goose chase, considering how the stage
looked.
    The entire building had an air of neglect
hovering about it. As I came up the slope, drawing closer to the
half-dome shaped Quonset hut, I could make out rust-ringed dents in
the corrugated metal side of the building. The view didn’t improve
much as I rounded the back corner and pulled the cart to a stop by
the only entrance I could see. Chips of flaked-off paint littered
the ground next to a simple metal-frame door. I frowned, puzzled,
as I spotted the outline of a much, much larger entrance right next
to it. It looked like a hydraulically-powered roll-up exit, the
kind they used on hangars that stored medium-sized aircraft.
    But why in the world would they have that out here? There wasn’t an access road – let alone a
runway – out at this end of the lot. The property actually ended at
this point, right where it butted up against the steep slopes of
the San Gabriel Mountains.
    I shrugged the mystery off for a later date
as I shut off the cart’s motor and got out. The breeze kicked up a
bit, made the drizzle sting against my skin as I went to open the
metal-framed door.
    I paused. No doorknob. I bent to look at the
knob plate, saw something else that puzzled me. Instead of a knob,
someone had etched a picture into the metal. And a pretty wild one
at that. From what I could tell, the etching depicted a muscular
man with a bird’s head, holding a crooked staff and a flail.
    The plate glowed green and let out a chime as
I moved my hand close to it. I jerked back, startled, as the door
slid open smoothly, with a hiss of compressed air.
    I swallowed, hard, and stepped inside.
    I did my best not to flinch as the door
snapped shut behind me.
    Warm amber light bathed the inside of a
narrow corridor, lined with glass cases displaying scrolls of
parchment, gold-trimmed headdresses, jewel-encrusted bronze swords,
and photographs of mummy cases, framed against teams of Egyptian
digging crews and Britons wearing the kind of pith helmets you saw
in the old pulp serials.
    Definitely, these were some of the
best-looking props I’d seen in a long time.
    At the end of the corridor lay the circular
shape of the kind of door used