Free The Ticket Out by Helen Knode

Spielberg represents the very best of Hollywood with his dazzling technological and cinematic sophistication, and his basic emotions, universal in their humanity. He’s had the privilege of maturing onscreen, and now he has the freedom to make whatever films he wants, whether they be light or serious. I aim for a career like his.
    â€œContrary to what people say, I believe that Hollywood is wide open to any woman who wants to direct commercial movies. But they can do more than domestic drama and romantic comedy. They can be trusted with big budgets and Oscar material. They can make action films, war films, crime films, adventure films, sci-fi films—any type of film. All you have to do is give them the chance.”
    Stenholm had underlined the last sentence in ink. She’d crossed out “chance” and written “ CHANCE!!! ” in big letters in the margin. She pressed so hard that her pen ripped through the original page.
    I ran a finger over the rip. It was a jagged black line on the fax page.
    Stenholm had come back to this article after five years. I understood the impulse. She’d sold her
Thelma & Louise
sequel and wanted to celebrate the victory. But five years had changed her. In 1996 she defended escapist male entertainment. In 2001 she wanted the moviegoing public to know the truth about the condition of women.
    The bell rang at the driveway gate.
    I looked out the window, ready to hide my papers. But it wasn’t Lockwood—it was a woman.
    She rang the bell again. I knew I’d seen her some place recently. Then I remembered: the petite woman from Barry’s party. She’d worn a black pantsuit and couldn’t get Scott Dolgin’s attention in the reception line at the end.
    I walked outside to see what she wanted. The sunlight made my left eye water. I wiped it on my shirttail and shaded my eyes.
    The woman waited for me to get close. When I was, she said, “What happened to you?”
    She had a pixie haircut and a pointy freckled face that she powdered white. Her hair and lipstick were the same red. She wore a cutesy summer dress and carried a straw basket for a purse. Her car was cutesy, too, a little two-seat roadster.
    I stopped at the gate. “Did you ever talk to Scott Dolgin?”
    The remark caught her by surprise. “What? We haven’t ... No, what do you mean? I never met Scott before the party.”
    I made a note of that nonanswer. I said, “How can I help you?”
    â€œLet’s get out of the sun.” She rattled the gate.
    â€œI’d rather stay here.”
    â€œYou’re wigged about the murder, aren’t you? You can let me in. I promise I’m not—”
    â€œWhat do you want?”
    She shrugged, reached into her basket, and passed a business card through the bars. Her name was Isabelle Pavich. She worked in development at a company in Studio City.
    I put the card in my pocket. She said, “I’m always on the lookout for original stories and I heard through my SC connections that Greta wasn’t your average murder victim.”
    I called up the names from my research. “Let's discuss USC, then. What can you tell me about Edward Abadi, Neil John Phillips, Hamilton Ashburn Jr., and/or Penny Proft?”
    She ignored the question and smirked at me. “I heard she was killed in the pool house.” She pointed across the patio.
    I said,
“Get lost.”
    She grabbed the bars and shook them. “Talk to me, Ann! We can write a treatment together and I’ll get us a development deal. Who do the cops think did it?”
    I said,
“Get lost.”
    She smacked a bar with her hand and turned to leave. Then she turned back. The movement made her dress puff out. She noticed the effect and twirled on her toes to repeat it. She checked to see if I was watching, and smiled. “I know something you don’t know.”
    I started to walk away.
    She said, “Friends of Greta