Pretty as a Picture: A Novel - Softcover

Little, Elizabeth

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0143110551 ISBN 13: 9780143110552

Verlag: Penguin Publishing Group, 2020

Inhaltsangabe

A Wall Street Journal, Seattle Times, and CrimeReads Best Mystery Book of 2020

"Funny, fast-paced, and a pleasure to read." --The Wall Street Journal

An egomaniacal movie director, an isolated island, and a decades-old murder--the addictive new novel from the bestselling author of Dear Daughter

Marissa Dahl, an up-and-coming film editor with a flair for faux pas, travels to a small island off the coast of Delaware to work with the legendary--and legendarily demanding--director Tony Rees on a feature film with a familiar logline.

Some girl dies.

It's not much to go on, but the specifics don't concern Marissa. Whatever the script is, her job is the same. She'll spend her days in the editing room, doing what she does best: turning pictures into stories.

But she soon discovers that on this set, nothing is as it's supposed to be--or as it seems. There are rumors of accidents and indiscretions, of burgeoning scandals and perilous schemes. Half the crew has been fired. The other half wants to quit. Even the actors have figured out something is wrong. And no one seems to know what happened to the editor she was hired to replace.

Then she meets the intrepid and incorrigible teenage girls who are determined to solve the real-life murder that is the movie's central subject, and before long, Marissa is drawn into the investigation herself.

The only problem is, the killer may still be on the loose. And he might not be finished.

A wickedly funny exploration of our cultural addiction to tales of murder and mayhem and a thrilling, behind-the-scenes whodunit, Pretty as a Picture is a captivating page-turner from one of the most distinctive voices in crime fiction.

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Elizabeth Little is the author of Dear Daughter, which won the Strand Critics Award for Best First Novel, and two works of nonfiction, Biting the Wax Tadpole and Trip of the Tongue. She lives in Los Angeles with her family.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

One

 

Not that I manage to say any of that out loud.

Of course I don't.

Sometimes I think everything wrong with my life can be located in the space between what I should have said and what actually came out of my mouth. No matter how hard I try, no matter how well I prepare, the right words are, for me, forever out of reach. Not because they catch in my throat. A cat hasn't got my tongue. None of the usual phrases apply. It's a more comprehensive kind of collapse. When faced with any real conversational pressure, my personality just goes offline, AWOL, and no matter how hard I try, it doesn't respond. Catastrophic system failure.

Speak, I tell myself in those moments. Speak.

Like I'm Uma Thurman in Kill Bill, lying barefoot in the back of that truck, gritting my teeth and trying to force my insubordinate body to bend to my iron will.

Speak.

But I'm not Uma Thurman in Kill Bill. I didn't train with Gordon Liu. I don't know the Five Point Palm Exploding Heart Technique, and I don't have the body to pull off a yellow leather motorcycle suit. So I never get my toe to move. I never drive that truck to Vivica A. Fox's house. I never get revenge and I never find my daughter. I just starve to death in a hospital parking lot.

And in real life, when asked to explain to a potential employer why I'm the best candidate for a job I desperately need, I don't deliver a rousing monologue about the exhilarating, all-encompassing, soul-shifting, life-shaking power of cinema. Instead I just comb my fingers through my ponytail for the seventeenth time while mumbling something about my work ethic.

Then, to top it off, I shrug-I shrug-and I say:

"I just really like movies, I guess."

My agent makes a sound so pained I'm genuinely worried I might have killed her.

 

I don't know what else Nell expected; it's been six years since I've had to look for work. Six years since Amy hit it just big enough that we could coast from feature to feature to feature without having to hustle for work we hated in the interim. It took some doing-the plumbing in the Mid-City two-bedroom we shared was more vague promise than functional reality, and six nights a week we ate rice and beans we bought in bulk-but eventually she was able to stop taking AD gigs; I was able to stop doing TV. We found a rhythm that worked for us, postproduction bleeding into preproduction and back again, and if I didn't have time for a social life, I wasnÕt particularly bothered: I got to live and work with my very best friend.

But last month I decided it was time to start thinking about getting my own place, and Amy and I put the new movie on hold so we could figure things out.

It didn't take long to realize that blowing up my personal and professional lives all at once wasn't exactly the smartest thing I could have done. For about three days it felt freeing. But then I ran out of new-release movies to go see.

And so, this afternoon, I found myself pacing the inadequate length of my short-term rental in Burbank, restless, anxious, fingers fluttering at my sides. I had finally managed to work up the nerve to send a few emails to old colleagues, hoping I could pick up an episode or two of I truly didn't even care what, but either they didn't remember me or they were all out to lunch or Google was down for everyone but me.

By two p.m., my nerves-already frayed by the arrival of my credit card statement-drove me to a desperate act: I made a phone call. I left a message for my agent explaining that Amy and I were taking a break, that I needed a job, and, therefore, that I might actually be willing to take her advice for once.

I should have known something was fishy when she called me back right away.

"You have a meeting," she said.

"Who with?" I asked.

"Don't worry about that. Get here by six, I'll take care of the rest."

"Today? At rush hour?"

"You want a job or not?"

"Nell. Have they even seen my reel?"

"Don't worry about that, either."

"The more you say that the more I worry."

She sniffed. "Worry, don't worry, either way this is the only open assignment that isn't scraping memory cards for Transformers 7. So if you want it, be here at six." She paused. "And maybe do something with your hair."

She hung up without saying good-bye, and I wished, not for the first time, that I were an agent, too.

Imagine being able to end a conversation whenever you want.

When I arrived at Nell's office-ten minutes early, despite a slowdown at Coldwater and Mulholland-I still didn't have a clue what I was walking into. Nell hadn't mentioned a script or a story or even a logline, so my best guess was that she'd arranged for a late-day meet-and-greet with a producer too green to know this was a below-the-line agency. As a strategy, it didn't make much sense: Nell knew my personality wasn't my strongest selling point. I figured she was planning to keep the meeting short.

Nell gave my ponytail a tug when she saw me. "You got this," she said, all historical evidence to the contrary.

And that's how I found myself sitting here, across the table from two agents, three lawyers, and an important studio executive, interviewing for a job I know absolutely nothing about.

I obviously forgot the important executive's name immediately. I think it has a "y" in it, maybe? He's wearing chunky statement glasses and a plain black T-shirt that probably cost more than my car payment. He's the picture of bland, reflexive courtesy, steepling his fingers and leaning forward in his chair, nodding at every third word no matter what that word is.

After more than a decade in the film industry, I can confidently assert that this particular demeanor indicates one of the following:

1. measured enthusiasm

2. catatonic boredom

3. a recent corporate-mandated webinar on best listening practices

I suppose it could be worse.

I blink his face back into focus. I think he's finally saying something relevant.

"-coming in this late in the game is somewhat less than ideal, obviously, so what we need here is a quick study."

My eyebrows go up. "And you called me?"

"Well," he says, "we've been told there's no one better at watching footage and knowing exactly what the director's trying to say."

"It helps that they usually give me a script."

The executive beckons to one of the assistants stationed along the back wall. She pulls out a folder and hands it to him. He slides it across the table toward me.

Inside is a photo. Glossy, eight by ten.

"That's not a script," I point out.

"No," he agrees. "It's a still. And I want you to tell us what you see."

I draw a breath, preparing to explain to the room at large why this is a terrible way to gauge an editor's skills (for a start, my job is putting pictures together, not picking them apart), but then I catch a glimpse of the photo, and because at heart I'm just a dog who happens to be into a very particular type of squirrel, this is all it takes to send my thoughts racing off in a new direction.

It's a medium close-up of a young woman asleep on a beach, and the first thing worth noting is that this is no ordinary young woman: She's being played by Liza May, Oscar-anointed ingenue and the reigning, relatable queen of the "Stars, They're Just Like Us!" social media sphere. Last time I saw her, I think she was waxing her mustache on Facebook Live.

So this is a big-time job. For a big-time director. No wonder Nell was so responsive.

The second thing worth noting is that the woman is dead.

Her body occupies the left half of the frame, visible from the shoulders up, the straps of her neon orange swimsuit the only discordant shade in an otherwise tranquil palette. Her hair is silky, taupe and raw umber and...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Penguin Publishing Group
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2020
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0143110551
• ISBN 13: 9780143110552
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 352
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Harder; https://www.edel.com; ; Neum�hlen 17; Hamburg; Hamburg; 22763; Deutschland