by Maisie Dean
“Kacey Chance,” I replied.
“I’m Nate’s, I mean, Mr. Pavel’s, accountant. I work closely with Ms. Zimmerman. I’d be happy to take those for you. Ms. Zimmerman mentioned a PA would be stopping by this afternoon,” Bob said. When he smiled, I could see his teeth were white, but there was a flash of a gold filling.
I held the documents against my chest. Harrison had been clear that I was to hand over the folder to Iris directly, but surely her accountant was an acceptable alternative.
“Okay, sure. That works,” I said, handing over the files. “Thank–”
“Why don’t you come into my office for a moment,” Bob said.
I’d already handed Bob the files. What more was there to discuss? I gave Mabel a wave and smile goodbye as I followed Bob down a small hallway. There were a number of offices with crystal-clear glass walls on two sides, and white walls to meet them.
“This is me,” Bob said. He held open the door for me. There was a floor to ceiling window beside his desk that gave a sweeping view of downtown.
“Wow,” I blurted out.
Bob smiled and took it in too. “It’s something, isn’t it?”
I nodded. “It’s a slight step up from my office view, that’s for sure.”
“Please, take a seat,” Bob said.
The white leather chair was low and had a generous lean to it. It looked and felt like the kind of furniture I’d expect to find in a cocktail bar. I had to lean forward with my elbows on my thighs to keep from feeling swallowed up.
“How is everything going with Nate?” Bob asked. He clasped his hands together on the desk between us. His suit jacket pulled back enough to expose a significant timepiece.
“Great,” I said, keeping it succinct and businesslike. The details of Nate’s case were confidential.
“Great news.” Bob paused. “He was paranoid the last time he was in the office. He thought people were conspiring against him. That kind of paranoia isn’t helpful for anyone’s career. I’m glad to hear things are going well for Nate.”
I wasn’t sure if Bob was privy to the details of the case or if he was just making conversation. I decided to keep my cards in close, and simply nodded in reply.
“It’s a shame about some of his jobs going south. Sometimes the episodes don’t get picked up or the ads don’t run. That’s the business for you,” he said with a shrug. “Fingers crossed this new show gets picked up this spring.”
I nodded again. “That would be great, wouldn’t it?” I replied. Bob was involved, as far as accountants went. In my experience, they didn’t often have much to do with the talent themselves. By the time “Nate” appeared on his desk, he’d just be a spreadsheet of data to input. Although, if Nate had slowly risen with Zimmerman Talent, maybe he’d known Bob from the beginning.
Bob looked at me more carefully and leaned in across his desk. “So, Kacey the PA, is it your hope to someday become an actress or director? It isn’t in my job description to spot potential talent, but you might just have the right look for our agency,” he said, opening a drawer as if to pull something out. Maybe it was an application package.
My chest filled with little sparks of energy. I couldn’t believe it. Was it really going to happen like this? Would it happen when I was right smack dab in a new career, and in the middle of a case?
“I’d just about given up hope, to be honest. I started a new job, working for a detective agency, but I’m sure the Bookers would do fine without me.” I was rambling and I knew it, I was just too excited to care. Or to notice Bob’s face change. He slammed the drawer he’d opened shut.
“You’re working for a detective agency?” Bob said abruptly, cutting me off as I listed some of my previous film experience.
Shoot. I was going to blow my cover!
“I was working for them until I got this PA gig for Nate,” I said quickly. “I’m only working as a PA at the moment.”
Bob’s eyes widened. “Well then, it seems like you’re plenty busy with all that. It’s not the time to be considering acting or anything like that, but maybe one day.” Bob stood up from his desk and gestured with an open, sweaty palm toward his office door. “I’m actually busy today. It’s been nice to meet you.”
I stood up, confused. I’d slipped up, but what had I said that was so wrong? I’d just blown my chance at an acting career all over again.
Bob continued his disjointed pleasantries, which weren’t very pleasant at all, until he’d practically scooted me through the door like a naughty puppy.
Mabel was on the phone when I walked back to the elevator. I didn’t get the chance to ask her if Bob’s behavior with me matched his usual demeanor. I descended the seven floors feeling dejected and stupid for ever thinking I might just magically land Iris Zimmerman as an agent without even trying. Enough was enough. I’d nearly blown the case by getting caught back up in the industry world. If I was going to get through this case without blowing my cover and landing the Booker brothers in hot water, I needed to kiss my lingering acting ambitions goodbye.
CHAPTER 11
The following day, Nate did not have to be on set until later in the afternoon, which meant neither did I. To fill up the morning and get caught up on paperwork, I headed into the office for the first time that week. It had only been a few days, but it felt like much more time had passed as I climbed the stairs to the second story where the Booker Brothers Detective Agency was located.
We shared the front door entrance with the diner downstairs. The restaurant was run by an unusual but amusing man named Doyle. The stairs to our office rose up off to one side of the small foyer between two sets of old glass double doors. That morning, the pleasant smell of fresh blueberry oat-bran muffins greeted me in the small space. I’d have to remember to grab one on the way out.
When I reached the office door and pushed my way through, I heard the familiar, far from musical, tinkle of the little bell overhead announce my presence.
Judging by the smell of coffee emanating from the break room, as well as the unlocked door, I gathered that Tippy was already in.
Tippy Booker was the boys’ grandmother. She had class and style galore and a penchant for overseeing every little detail of the Booker Brothers’ business. Which is why, despite her having retired some time ago, she was first to make it into the office most days.
The office was small, as offices go, but there was enough room for five desks plus a meeting room against the back wall. My desk was on the left side of the room, just past Owen’s, which had an average of three separate computers sitting on it on any given day. Directly across the room, and facing us, was Lucky’s messy desk. And at the back beside the partition wall for the meeting room was Harrison’s. It was central and usually tidy. I had never officially been told it was the case, but of the three brothers, Harrison was in charge at the detective agency. The fifth desk sat right near the door to the office. It was meant to be a reception desk, but the budget always seemed to be too tight to splurge on hiring a receptionist. Tippy occasionally used the front desk to sit down with her coffee and thumb through the finances when Harrison was out and forgotten to hide them away. Most of the time, however, Tipp preferred to stand, pace, or hover.
“Good morning, Tippy!” I called out. I strode across the worn-down carpeted floors to my desk and tossed my purse and jacket onto my chair.
“Coffee?” Tippy called back in reply.
“Yes, please.”
Moments later, the Booker brothers’ impossibly young-looking grandmother glided down the short hallway. She wore a matching pale blue dress suit, a white satin blouse, and white pumps. Always pumps. Her blonde hair didn’t move an inch as she waltzed toward me and handed me a steaming mug. The hefty porcelain mug was all white except for the black writing, “Where’s Waldo?” I knew, from many previous mornings with said mug, that the smiling Waldo would be waving up at me from the bottom of the cup when I’d finished off the contents of my coffee. Working through a case felt like t
hat. The answer to the question at hand always seemed to be buried deep. The search was murky until all of a sudden it wasn’t, and there the answer to the case would be, clear as day and waving at you in a striped shirt.
“I’m surprised to see you in this morning, Kacey,” Tippy said. “We thought you might have run back to Hollywood for good. Or are you here to give your notice?”
I lifted my mug and nodded my thanks for the morning caffeine hit. “You’re stuck with me this morning, I’m afraid,” I replied. “Our client won’t be on the set until this afternoon.”
The bell rattled to announce Harrison’s arrival. He was listening to someone on his cell phone. He carried his black briefcase in his left hand. A navy suit jacket was slung over his right arm.
Harrison, the eldest Booker brother, was as handsome as he was serious. He had light, golden-brown hair. His hair was the straightest amongst the brothers, and always neatly combed. He had a wide forehead and jaw, and his blue eyes were bright and focused. He was broad and tall, around six feet, and usually looked as though he was carrying the weight of responsibility for his two brothers as well as himself. He wore a pale blue button-up shirt and charcoal-gray slacks.
“Andr—Andrew! I know you’re unhappy, but Lucky had no idea that you two were dating,” Harrison was saying. He lifted his briefcase and raised his eyebrows in greeting as he walked to his desk. Apparently, it wasn’t just Tippy who was surprised to see me back at the office.
“Okay. Yes. Just cool off by tax season or we’re going to be really screwed… Hello? Andrew? Andrew?” Harrison ground out and dropped his phone onto his desk with a loud thud. He took a deep breath and clapped his hands together. “Good morning, Tippy. Good morning, Kacey. Sorry about that,” Harrison said.
“What did Lucky do this time?” Tippy asked.
“I don’t think you want to know this time,” Harrison replied.
“I think I do,” Tippy said.
“Me too,” I added.
Harrison sighed and then the three of us heard the bell rattle again. It was Lucky, who, in typical Lucky fashion, was sporting a flamboyant pink and orange Hawaiian shirt with little palm trees sprinkled throughout.
Lucky was the tallest of the brothers. His golden hair waved and curled in unruly but incredibly charming ways. He had hazel eyes, a strong jaw, and the bronzed look of a California surfer. He often showed his perfectly white teeth when he grinned, along with one dimple more prominent than the other. His broad chest and strong arms made him look more like an actor playing the role of a detective, than an actual detective. But he was the real deal, as he often liked to remind us. Each day he wore tapered, cotton khakis and button-up shirts of the Hawaiian variety, and that was the extent of his business casual. Unless he was going on a date.
“Speak of the devil,” Harrison said.
“What a warm welcome,” Lucky said with a grin. “To what do I owe the title this time?”
Harrison crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. “I just spoke to Andrew, our accountant. He seems to think you seduced his girlfriend away from him this past weekend. Is that true?” Harrison asked with a tight jaw but weary expression.
“Annika?” Lucky asked.
Harrison let out a sigh and his shoulders dropped visibly. “He was talking about someone named Leyla. It must be a misunder—”
“Leyla! Right. That was Friday,” Lucky said. He jumped into his office chair cheerfully, making it slide a few inches across the floor. “I have a terrible memory these days.”
Harrison put his face in his hands.
Tippy shot an admonishing glare at her carefree grandson, but Lucky didn’t appear to notice. This was Lucky’s modus operandi. He had new dates every week. He could turn any encounter into the perfect meet-cute and come across charming and alluring.
Lucky raised his hands to Harrison as if to say, Don’t shoot. “It takes two to tango, Harrison,” he said. “I had no idea she was otherwise engaged.”
“Fine,” said Harrison. “But it’s on you to find us another accountant if he drops us.”
Tippy drifted over to the reception desk and flipped through the latest Vogue. According to Owen, she had one monthly subscription sent to the office and a separate one delivered to her condo. I wondered if I could do that, but with gummy bears instead of magazines. You could get anything delivered these days.
“Kacey,” Lucky said, interrupting my mail-order candy thoughts. “How is the Hollywood case going? Anything to report?”
“I’m making progress. The client isn’t even positive that there is a case to solve, so that’s tricky,” I replied. “But there’s an ex-girlfriend on set, plus her catty best friend. They might be up to something.”
Lucky chuckled. “You didn’t tell us you were starring in your own drama series! If there is a case, I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” he said. He gave me a warm grin from across the open carpet space between us and punctuated it with a wink.
“Of course,” I said. “Haven’t let you down so far, have I?”
Lucky shook his head. “Not that I can recall,” Lucky scratched his head. “But like I said, my memory is questionable these days.”
I rolled my eyes and turned my attention back to my own desk. In truth, I wasn’t so confident I would be able to unravel this case before it was too late. I only had a day and a half left. With a whole cast of uncertain motives, and the suspicious cattiness of Trudy’s friend Keiko, Lucky was right, the case was beginning to feel like one of Rosie’s soaps. It didn’t seem fair that they all had an entire season to solve the mystery and I only had a week.
I sat glumly on my chair, swiveling to the right, then back to the left. I hadn’t even booted up my computer yet when the bell rattled for a third time. Owen shuffled through the door and headed straight for his desk without uttering any greetings. Silent Owen was not uncommon. I’d come to learn that it usually meant he was thinking hard about something and he wasn’t yet ready to take a break. As usual, his computer bag was slung over his shoulder and across his body, and he carried a reusable travel mug of green tea.
Owen Booker was quiet, sweet, and extremely smart. His medium brown hair was curly and a little unkempt, but it was just one of the many endearing things about him. He was shorter and skinnier than his older brothers, so much so that if you were judging by body type alone, he’d look nothing like Lucky or Harrison. The family resemblance was in the big, clear eyes, strong jaw, and straight nose. Owen sported T-shirts most days, jeans or khakis, and sporty sneakers. He was most comfortable hard at work on one of his many computers, and least comfortable when he had to make eye contact with someone for any length of time. Owen was odd, and some days downright peculiar, but he was consistent, loyal, and reliable. All traits which came in handy in the investigative line of work.
For the remainder of the morning, I looked through the documents we had been sent by Ms. Zimmerman at Nate’s request. There were lists of projects he’d been a part of. There was a slew of what I guessed were Japanese advertisements and a number of pilots that had never been aired or picked up. I looked through the international movie database, scanning for actors or crew Nate may have worked with in the past who were now on “Phantom Hunters,” but there was only a key grip and a stand-in, and I’d never seen Nate have any interactions, positive or negative, with either of them.
The more I turned it over and over in my head, it became clear that Keiko was my strongest lead. She’d called Nate “irresponsible,” and her animosity had to have a story behind it. How would I be able to get Keiko to tell me more? It didn’t seem like we’d gotten off on the right foot. I had my work cut out for me that afternoon.
As soon as noon rolled around, I packed up my things and headed out of the office. It was much better to be there early than right on time. I was a PA, after all, that was part of my job description. Besides, I was getting nowhere sorting through the paperwork.
As I packed up, Harrison looked up and pointed his finger at me
. “Dinner tonight. Downstairs at seven-thirty if you wrap by then,” Harrison said.
I raised my eyebrow. “Impressive. You know your film set lingo,” I teased.
Harrison scoffed. “I grew up in this city,” he said. “Kind of hard not to.”
Lucky perked up from his slump behind his desk to chime in. “Plus, it helps when you go to two and a half years of film school,” he said.
My mouth fell open and I looked back and forth, wide-eyed, between Harrison and Lucky. “Harrison? Film school? You’ve never told me that,” I said. It may have been my imagination but Tippy suddenly seemed to be flipping her magazine pages a little too forcefully while pretending not to be listening to our conversation.
Harrison glared at Lucky. “It was another life,” he said. “But now that you’ve jogged my memory there are a few things I could say about you too, Lucky.”
Lucky crossed his arms and grinned. “I’m sure,” he said. “Unfortunately, Kacey doesn’t have any time for that. Cases to solve, movie stars to pacify. Isn’t that right, Kacey?”
I hesitated. “I have to go but promise me we’ll return to this topic later.”
“I’m not promising that,” Harrison said without looking up from a file.
Lucky shot me a wink.
As I swung open the door, Tippy caught my eye. Her jaw was tense, and her mouth was pursed as though she’d recently sucked on a lemon. “Break a leg!” she said.
CHAPTER 12
Traffic moved at a snail’s pace the entire way back to the studio. By the time I arrived back on-set, Nate had already begun filming his first scene of the day. The scene included Trudy today, and it was the first time I’d caught more than a glimpse of her all week. She was slim and athletic with naturally blonde hair. She would have been right at home filming a surfing movie. “Phantom Hunters,” however, was far from a beachy romance. And unfortunately, for both Nate and Trudy, the scene happening that afternoon was an intimate one where Nate’s character, usually more hardened and sarcastic, let his vulnerability come through the cracks. He couldn’t tell Trudy’s character the truth about why he had to leave her, because she didn’t know that monsters and demons were real. All the fictional Nate cared about was keeping the fictional Trudy safe. Nate’s acting was truly on point. I kept finding myself welling up each time the slate slapped closed for a new take.
