Sibylline Greetings (Book 2, the LiteraTours Cozy Mystery Series)

Chapter 25 - Clued up

Photo by Jacob Owens from Unsplash

Only the three people Ike had already spotted from her perch formed part of the filmcrew. Plus the actors of course. That was assuming the glittery crowd were actors. If they were, they needed to try a tick harder. 

The women stumbled over their hemlines, the men slopped about in buckled shoes, much to the disgust to the director who had emerged from the pine tree, his face an unusual shade of beetroot. No, the costumed lot had to be students or something. Doing it on the cheap, like most things these days. 

"Ten-minute break, then we retake the scene. And again and again if you don't get it. Not good. Not good enough," the director yelled with a strong French accent and stomped the flattened grass like a petulant child. 

Apart from the fantastic colour of his face, he seemed perfectly ordinary, a mid-sized man in a white shirt, sweaty rings under the armpits, wearing dusty black combat pants. The cameraman returned, grey defeat on his stubbly face that gave the impression he hadn't been getting a lot of sleep recently. His hapless minion had veered off, dumped her equipment and was sulking her way through a fag. Ike doubted either of them would be keen on a chat. 

Brigitte proved her wrong. 

She sauntered towards the director and the cameraman and clapped. "Ah, bravo, Messieurs. I have never seen a real film taken. That is so efficient what you are doing, non? Only the two of you handling this crowd?" A slim white hand arced through the air, framing the actors, now sitting on the lawn, chatting and smoking unfazed by the mini-volcano simmering next to them. 

The director looked up. "Vous-êtes Française?" 

"Mais oui!"

The director's colour faded as a smile surfaced through the clouds of his fury. A torrent in French burst from his mouth, a mad rush Ike's command of the language was too rusty to channel. 

The cameraman tried to join but got in only a few words edgewise. With explanations that were heavy on the gestures (and the spittle, judging from the way Brigitte jerked back when the director opened his mouth) the man seemed pleased to vent all his spleens in one go. 

Good job, Brigitte wasn't charging him by the minute. The torrent slowed, trickled and came to a halt. Brigitte jumped in, and this time Ike was able to follow what was being said.

No, they had noticed no monsieurs in the vicinity of the statue. No madames either. They didn't have time to see anything. Not when these imbéciles masking as actors were making life difficult. 

No microphone poles missing either. The assistant was another imbécile and kept dropping stuff, but so far she had lost nothing. Not that they noticed anyway. What tour group? And when had that been? Three days ago? Ah, no, they hadn't been filming here. 

Yes, Brigitte wasn't wrong. She had noticed a film team.

 But not this one. This one was doing a commercial. The other one was re-filming Mastroianni's La Dolce Vita. The famous film from 1960 with Anita Ekberg in the Trevi Fountain. 

Would Brigitte remember?

Brigitte did and Ike ditto. 

For a moment, the director's eyes shone. Until the heat rose once more. The director of that outfit was yet another imbécile. He wasn't on a budget, oh no, not him. That chap could do what he bloody well liked. It was an image project, financed by Cinecittà, the old film studios in the outskirts of Rome. No money spared. Not like in this production where one was surrounded by imbéciles.