said, was because of something she remembered her daughter telling her.
“A couple weeks before she went missing, Merilee said that she had met a producer on the Tarin Mistry movie.”
Tarin Mistry wasn’t Remington’s business anymore. She had been warned off the case often enough. Walter Rack was a jealous god. But in the process of tracking down the details of the Merilee Henegar murder she needed distraction. After an evening spent watching
Joshua Tree
with her dad, Remington decided that it wouldn’t hurt if she spoke to some of the people who were involved in the original production.
As far as she knew, Marc Lee Hughes was the main guy. Most modern films had lists of producers that were almost comically long. Sitting through the roll call of executive, associate and line producers, Remington always recalled the comic Fred Allen’s quip about an associate producer being the only person who would associate with a producer.
Joshua Tree,
thankfully, had only a single main guy.
But Hollywood was a wilderness of mirrors. She could well imagine how many times some tool at a party introduced himself as a producer on the Tarin Mistry movie, trying to impress a young AWC—or “actress without credits,” as the cynical acronym had it.
After she left a voice-mail message for him, it took a day for the real Tarin Mistry producer to get back to her. Marc Lee Hughes was in L.A., he said. “You’re the detective who found the body.”
Remington went through her basic interview protocol, confirming that Marc Lee Hughes had been out of the country during the period of Merilee’s disappearance. Midway through their talk, she heard what sounded like a gasp on the other end of the line.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Hughes said. Not a gasp but a sob.
“Mr. Hughes? Are you all right?”
“It’s just…I’m okay. I have trouble thinking about her in that hideous barrel…”
“Could you tell me if any other producers ever came on board for
Joshua Tree
?”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t—I can’t do this—” The line abruptly went silent. Hughes had hung up. The man had indeed been weeping.
Tarin Mistry, dead for more than five years, still reaching out and plucking heartstrings.
Remington had a dim memory of an awards show, and a whole gaggle of people onstage accepting kudos for
Joshua Tree
. The movie got passed over at the Oscars, so it had to have been some other prize. The Golden Globes? People’s Choice? The number of statuettes flying through the air during the awards season kept the metalworking industry busy.
She found what she was looking for on YouTube: the Independent Spirit Award show for the year
Joshua Tree
conquered the country. The Spirit Awards were like the Oscars for independent films. There they were, crowded around the podium, the
Joshua Tree
team, the famous and soon to be famous, Radley Holt and George Dannemoor and Mistry’s older female co-star, Jill Emil—a dozen people in all.
Among them, Remington recognized Gus Monaghan.
Ah
, she thought. She should have known. Monaghan was the biggest of the big. Mr. Mega-Bucks Producer, presently hot as blazes. Gus Monaghan had his fat, grubby hands all over numerous Hollywood projects, so it made sense that he should lurk behind the scenes at the Spirit Awards.
Monaghan had won the bidding war for
Joshua Tree
when the little indie was eventually picked up for national distribution. He wasn’t listed as a producer on IMDb or in the film’s hastily added credit roll. But he had been its rabbi when it blew up big.
Poking around a little deeper, Remington discovered that Gus Monaghan literally owned Tarin Mistry. He was instrumental in getting her declared legally dead after her disappearance. He had negotiated with Cathy Gunion for the right to exploit the name and likeness of the woman’s daughter. The State of California had very strong laws in this respect, termed “personality rights” and jealously guarded by phalanxes of
“A couple weeks before she went missing, Merilee said that she had met a producer on the Tarin Mistry movie.”
Tarin Mistry wasn’t Remington’s business anymore. She had been warned off the case often enough. Walter Rack was a jealous god. But in the process of tracking down the details of the Merilee Henegar murder she needed distraction. After an evening spent watching
Joshua Tree
with her dad, Remington decided that it wouldn’t hurt if she spoke to some of the people who were involved in the original production.
As far as she knew, Marc Lee Hughes was the main guy. Most modern films had lists of producers that were almost comically long. Sitting through the roll call of executive, associate and line producers, Remington always recalled the comic Fred Allen’s quip about an associate producer being the only person who would associate with a producer.
Joshua Tree,
thankfully, had only a single main guy.
But Hollywood was a wilderness of mirrors. She could well imagine how many times some tool at a party introduced himself as a producer on the Tarin Mistry movie, trying to impress a young AWC—or “actress without credits,” as the cynical acronym had it.
After she left a voice-mail message for him, it took a day for the real Tarin Mistry producer to get back to her. Marc Lee Hughes was in L.A., he said. “You’re the detective who found the body.”
Remington went through her basic interview protocol, confirming that Marc Lee Hughes had been out of the country during the period of Merilee’s disappearance. Midway through their talk, she heard what sounded like a gasp on the other end of the line.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Hughes said. Not a gasp but a sob.
“Mr. Hughes? Are you all right?”
“It’s just…I’m okay. I have trouble thinking about her in that hideous barrel…”
“Could you tell me if any other producers ever came on board for
Joshua Tree
?”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t—I can’t do this—” The line abruptly went silent. Hughes had hung up. The man had indeed been weeping.
Tarin Mistry, dead for more than five years, still reaching out and plucking heartstrings.
Remington had a dim memory of an awards show, and a whole gaggle of people onstage accepting kudos for
Joshua Tree
. The movie got passed over at the Oscars, so it had to have been some other prize. The Golden Globes? People’s Choice? The number of statuettes flying through the air during the awards season kept the metalworking industry busy.
She found what she was looking for on YouTube: the Independent Spirit Award show for the year
Joshua Tree
conquered the country. The Spirit Awards were like the Oscars for independent films. There they were, crowded around the podium, the
Joshua Tree
team, the famous and soon to be famous, Radley Holt and George Dannemoor and Mistry’s older female co-star, Jill Emil—a dozen people in all.
Among them, Remington recognized Gus Monaghan.
Ah
, she thought. She should have known. Monaghan was the biggest of the big. Mr. Mega-Bucks Producer, presently hot as blazes. Gus Monaghan had his fat, grubby hands all over numerous Hollywood projects, so it made sense that he should lurk behind the scenes at the Spirit Awards.
Monaghan had won the bidding war for
Joshua Tree
when the little indie was eventually picked up for national distribution. He wasn’t listed as a producer on IMDb or in the film’s hastily added credit roll. But he had been its rabbi when it blew up big.
Poking around a little deeper, Remington discovered that Gus Monaghan literally owned Tarin Mistry. He was instrumental in getting her declared legally dead after her disappearance. He had negotiated with Cathy Gunion for the right to exploit the name and likeness of the woman’s daughter. The State of California had very strong laws in this respect, termed “personality rights” and jealously guarded by phalanxes of
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