‘The Extra: Frankie Ray Makes Murder’s Final Cut’ by Mel Anastasiou

In the silence that followed Marietta’s confession, Frankie noticed that moonlight turned the actress’s dress and lips grey, so that she appeared more than ever her screen self in the black-and-white world of the movies. And despite her skilled delivery of the line “I did it,” Frankie was certain Marietta was acting. Lying. 

Was Marietta capable of murder? Abso-tively. Marietta was capable of anything in the pursuit of her career. Frankie had never met anybody so ambitious in her life. But capability was not enough. 

Marietta had no motive to kill Gilbert Howard. 

Frankie said, “Marietta, it will be as obvious to the police as it is to me that you had no reason to kill Gilbert Howard. He was your only ally in your struggle to direct The Emperor of New York.”

Eugene scowled. “Yes. For once, try to control your need to be the centre of attention, Marietta.”

“It’s my job,” Marietta said bitterly.

Frankie made a strangled noise in her throat that turned into a smoky cough. And she coughed again. She’d coughed so much since Marietta had dragged her out of the fire that by now her throat felt as rough as the gravel under her feet. 

“Eugene knows every word I say is true,” Marietta insisted. “I killed Gilbert Howard.”

Eugene shook her head. “I killed him.”

Frankie snapped a look from Eugene to Marietta. Then she raised her gaze to the heavens and wished she’d never met either of them. Of the three people sitting here, exhausted in the aftermath of the studio fire, one was lying about being the murderer. The second was lying about not being the murderer. And the third person — Frankie herself — was being sought by the police for the murder. For Pete’s sake. 

She said, “You’re knitting a story out of pure deception, aren’t you? Like screenwriters write movies. Your story is a fake.”

Eugene said, “Everything in Hollywood is phony.”

“Hollywood,” Marietta said, “is a law unto itself. It is also the axis of the spinning world.”

“I’m sick of all the lies,” Frankie said.

“Look who’s talking,” Marietta retorted. “You’ve told at least three since I dragged you out of the fire. And you call yourself a gentleman.”

Frankie looked down at herself in her man’s clothing. “I’m really not so much of a gentleman as I appear to be.”

“That’s all right,” Marietta said. “I’m really not much of a lady.”

Frankie nodded. “This particular lie ends right here. Marietta, I’m not Frank Achilles. I’m Frankie Ray, dressed up as a man like Eugene here, in order to clear my name of Gilbert Howard’s murder.” 

With vigour, and with a maximum of modesty in the circumstances, she wriggled the Xeno-Flex Combination down from around her middle, over her hips outside her trousers, and down to the ground. And what a relief that was. She took deep breaths of the smoky air while her rib cage expanded like a bellows. She desired nothing more than to stomp the Xeno-Flex into shreds. However, she reminded herself that the garment belonged to the Queen, now recovering from her attack in hospital, and she ought to return it undamaged. 

“Frankie Ray?” Marietta stared. Then she laughed. “You really are the biggest liar here, then. Maybe you did kill Gilbert Howard after all.”

Eugene let out a quiet groan. “Shut up, Marietta. I’ve put Frankie here in mortal danger, and we owe her at least the good manners not to joke about it.”

Frankie said, “You owe me more than that. You owe me the truth. Tell me what happened that night. Eugene, exactly where were you when Gilbert Howard was shot?” 

Eugene looked up at Frankie. “I was with you, Frankie. I was dancing the carioca with you. Don’t you remember?”