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than I anticipated.”
    â€œI know the feeling,” Mort said. “But it’s no use banging your head against the wall.” He winked.
    I laughed. “Good advice,” I said.
    As soon as Twomby disappeared, the director emerged from the production office trailer wearing a pair of dark sunglasses and a Red Sox baseball cap set backward on his head. I wondered if he’d been hiding inside to avoid having to face the screenwriter’s wrath. But that was silly of me. There were no windows in the production trailer. How could he have known Twomby was outside?
    â€œYou’re still here?” Elovitz said. “You didn’t need to wait. I could’ve caught up to you.”
    â€œThat’s okay,” Mort said. “You’re our official tour guide.”
    Mort pulled open the door to the hangar and held it for me. I stepped inside and was immediately confronted by a wall of fabric. Heavy black curtains were suspended from the ceiling, shielding the soundstage from daylight and making it difficult for me to find the way in. I poked my hand into the material, feeling around for a break in the drapery.
    â€œTo the left,” Elovitz said, coming through the door after Mort. He grabbed a handful of curtain and tugged it aside.
    We ducked under the cloth and found ourselves “backstage,” facing a long row of wooden flats and scaffolding. Inside it was cool and dark and quiet. Dull red lights, the only illumination, glowed from the walls every ten feet.
    â€œThis is creepy,” Mort said, squinting to accustom himself to the dim light. “Reminds me of the fun house we used to go to every Halloween when I was a kid. I half expect to see one of those mirrors that make you look wavy with a big head.”
    â€œThis is the back of the scenery,” Elovitz explained, leading us along the wooden panels. “We’ll circle around so you can see the full set from the camera’s POV.”
    We heard footsteps behind us and a woman’s voice called out, “Mr. Elovitz? Mr. Elovitz? Are you here?”
    The director stopped in his tracks and turned toward the voice. “What now?” he muttered. He excused himself to us and backtracked toward the gap in the curtains.
    â€œOh, Mr. Elovitz, thank goodness I’ve found you. I’ve been looking all over.”
    â€œUntil five minutes ago I was in the production office, Estelle. Surely you know where that is.”
    â€œYes, of course, but that’s not what I meant.”
    â€œWho’s that?” Mort whispered as the pair came into view.
    â€œVera Stockdale’s astrologer,” I whispered back.
    Estelle Fancy was dressed in a diaphanous skirt that fell to her ankles and a blouse, belted at the waist. She wore several strings of beads around her neck, at least three rings on each hand, and a pair of dangling earrings that tinkled when she moved her head. A long scarf, close to the color of her gray hair, was wrapped around her shoulders like a shawl.
    â€œYou misunderstand me, Mr. Elovitz,” she said, shaking her head and setting the earrings to jangling. “I meant I was looking all over for Ms. Stockdale. I’m almost certain Vera was supposed to have a costume fitting at twelve thirty. I was to meet her there, but she didn’t show up. I must say, the wardrobe mistress was very rude to me, but I told her I am not Ms. Stockdale’s keeper. Even so, I went to Vera’s trailer to wake her. I assumed she was taking her afternoon nap and just hadn’t set the alarm clock, but she wasn’t there. And then I . . .”
    â€œGet to the point, Miss Fancy,” Elovitz said. “I don’t have all day.”
    â€œThe point is I can’t find her, and you know she’s a Gemini and they have a duality of personality. It’s not a propitious time for her; I checked her chart this morning and—”
    â€œVera Stockdale is an independent