Screw it, he decided. His world and his father’s were so far apart they’d never mesh. Let the old man do whatever he wanted. Rob knew what he wanted for himself, and it didn’t involve the Midwest—at all.
He’d been fourteen when he filmed his first movie—four minutes of footage in which he and Mom had dressed the family cat in baby clothes and watched its cute antics as it wrestled its way out of a tiny buggy and ran behind the couch. No plot, no acting—but, oh, the feeling of that camera in his hands!
At nineteen he’d snagged a summer job on a documentary, working with the sound crew. The director captivated him. Everything to do with movie making was about turning reality into fantasy, about controlling the angles, the lighting, the script and the players. By September, he knew his life’s calling—he would become a film producer. He watched the executives come and go in their limos, wearing their tailored suits and fat diamonds on their pinkies. As much as he loved the creativity, he craved the lifestyle.
He combed garage sales and pawn shops, and he came up with a couple of decent professional cameras, some editing equipment, and even a canvas director’s chair which he had embroidered with his name on the back. Then he discovered he would need money. Big surprise that even unknown actors don’t work for free, and the ones he’d heard of were completely inaccessible to him. It didn’t stop Rob Williams.
He moved to California, sneaked off a studio tour bus, and prowled through garbage bins, coming up with snippets of film that he pieced together to make his first movie trailer. Up in Silicon Valley he found young guys with so much money they didn’t know what to do with it, and he got them to invest. Meanwhile, the documentary he’d worked on the previous year earned a couple of Oscar nominations, one being for sound effects, and Rob could legitimately link his name with that of the famed golden statue.
He put together a short film and netted $10,000 after a year of hard work.
After that, his fundraising efforts took on a whole new dimension. He learned the value of the crowd mentality. Get one or two people in a room interested in a project and others would leap aboard. When his first gala-style fundraiser netted nearly a million dollars, his future was sealed. To hell with the work of hiring and funding and filming—he could make more money by simply pretending to do those things.
He sighed happily in his first-class airline seat.
When the flight attendant came back with his third scotch he thanked her respectfully and got a smile. Always worked. Treat ’em like you’re a gentleman and they’ll act less and less like a lady. Like that little blonde he’d picked up after the investor dinner night before last. She’d eyed his tuxedo and the fresh trim on his goatee—he’d even had a facial that day—and she’d been so ready to hop into his bed.
He’d slipped her a business card with his mobile number written on the back. After that, all he had to do was get Abby on the redeye flight back to L.A. and the blonde was all his for the next twenty-four hours. She told him she was a college intern working a semester for the Historical Preservation Society, majoring in some stupid art-preservation subject. He’d continued to pour the wine, nodded at all the right places in the conversation, and proceeded to enjoy every inch of that twenty-year-old body. Yum.
When she started making noises about coming out to L.A. sometime soon, he shut her down with the news that he’d be out of the country, filming on location in eastern Croatia or some such thing. He couldn’t actually remember what had popped into his head at the moment. But he’d sent her away with a smile on her face, after a room-service breakfast.
Now, it was back to business. He pulled out his tablet and checked his bank accounts. All the investor receipts had cleared except the one from Clarissa Claremore, the older woman who told him she was a bestseller novelist, who wrote under the name Penelope Fitzpatrick. He remembered her. Classy, like some actress from the ’40s, the kind that wore her hair and makeup subdued, her clothes well tailored in classic styles. Funny that her bank hadn’t transferred the funds. He would have Abby check on that.
He sipped his Glenlivet and thought ahead to his next money-raiser. The setup was simple: create a beautiful movie trailer, imply that a number of big names were already attached to the picture, throw in a mention of the long-ago Oscar nomination, keeping it vague, promise substantial returns—something around a double on their money (he’d discovered people became hesitant when the number was too outrageous), bank the money offshore, and do it all again.
Abby was a heck of a researcher; she had a real knack for finding people with spare dollars in their accounts. Sometimes a friend-of-a-friend got invited along, but they had to be good for at least a hundred grand before they got in the door.
Average take for an evening like they’d just staged, after expenses for renting the location, catering the dinner, and hiring young locals as escorts and pages … usually in the high six-figures, sometimes more. California was the hot spot—all that Silicon Valley money in the hands of inexperienced investors, living close enough to the film industry that nearly everyone “knew someone who knew someone” and thought they had an ‘in’ with the business.
But some government office in southern California had already been prowling around his finances, and he couldn’t afford to hold another party there. Rhode Island had taken him completely out of his own backyard, a good thing. He’d hit the West Coast plenty of times, the East Coast a couple … now, maybe somewhere in the middle. He brought up a map and set his wheels in motion to find a city with a lot of moneyed folks. Vail—too small. Dallas—possible. Scottsdale—that sounded about right. People in the nearby Phoenix cities called it Snotsdale. A town where everyone tried to outdo the others was perfect for his purposes. He added it to Abby’s to-do list. Find the location and set up the next investor party.
He didn’t want to wait too long. He’d already found a superb villa on the French Riviera—in one of his corporate names, of course—and his lifelong dream was about to come true. He was still two mil short of the asking price. Thirty-three million was just the start, he knew. He’d still need an operating fund. If he could clear ten at the Scottsdale party, it would set him up with household staff, gardeners, and pool cleaners—the life he’d always wanted.
One thing he’d learned from watching the Hollywood crowd—they didn’t actually spend much of their own money. Once they were in, everything just flowed their way, gratis. Those ten-grand a night hotel rooms? Freebies, just so the hotel could claim famous guests. The private jets? On loan from a corporate mogul who loved dropping, “Oh yeah, Angelina flew with us last trip.” Once Rob moved into that neighborhood, he’d be doing all the same things.
He grinned and drained the last of his scotch.
Chapter 10
Gracie carried dirty cereal bowls to the sink, giving them a quick swish of water and loading them into the dishwasher.
“Kids off to school?” Scott asked, walking up behind her.
“Yeah. We’re going to keep this financial thing off their radar, aren’t we?”
“That’s my vote. Until we know what’ll happen with your mother, we’d better just keep this to ourselves.”
“Except for the Ladies. We agreed on that.”
He grimaced. Agreement had come only after Gracie managed to blurt out the family secret in front of her friends.
“I’m sorry,” she said, turning toward him and wrapping her arms around his waist. “It’s just—”
“I know. You helped a couple of them with problems, now they want to help you. This club, or whatever you call yourselves, started as a scratch-each-other’s-backs deal. Everyone helps everyone else.”
“Yes, we do. And now it’s our family’s turn to be on the receiving end. You have to admit, we solved a couple of cases already when the law couldn’t help. This time, I really believe if we just gather the evidence the law will be able to act.”
He grumbled a little, looking around the room for his keys.
“Honey, don’t be mad.
Please. I’d do anything to get back in your good graces.”
“Anything?” He crooked one eyebrow upward in the way that always made her smile.
Her hands worked their way downward. “Um, as long as we’re done in an hour. I have a meeting.”
He kissed the top of her head. “Well, sadly, I have a meeting sooner than that. I gotta get to the office.”
They exchanged a promising kiss and he turned away to reach for his jacket.
“You’re the best husband on the planet,” she said. “My mother has even said so.”
He rolled his eyes. “Just get her out of this jam as quick as you can, you and your friends.”
An hour later Gracie was rolling up in front of Pen’s spacious hilltop home, where Amber’s Prius and Sandy’s Mazda already sat in the circular driveway. The group had decided they could speak more openly and have use of a better internet connection here than in a public place. Pen had promised authentic English scones and tea.
Mary pulled up a few seconds behind Gracie, and they walked to the front door together. Through the beveled glass they’d been spotted. Amber opened the door and the scent of recent baking wafted out.
“All right, everyone,” Pen announced. “You’ll want to get your scones while they’re warm. The teapot is just here—milk, sugar, lemon … however you like it.”
Gracie admired the lovely china cups, wondering if they had been in Pen’s family a long time. The five women took seats in the living room that overlooked a good portion of Maricopa County.
As usual, Sandy brought out a yellow pad of notes. “Okay, what’s the latest news?” she asked.
Amber wiped crumbs from her mouth and raised her hand. “I called Intrepid Dog Pictures. Abby wasn’t in, but the receptionist very kindly allowed me to leave a message on her voicemail.”
“What did you say?” Gracie asked.
“I didn’t actually plan to say anything. Her recorded message gave me the info I needed.” She mimicked another voice. “ ‘You’ve reached Abby Singer’s desk. Please leave a message. If it’s urgent, speak to my assistant at extension 327.’”
“Abby Singer,” Sandy said. “I wonder why that seems familiar.”
Blank looks all around.
“Well, maybe it will come to me. Or maybe it’s my overactive mind messing around with me.”
“Anyway,” Amber said, “the next thing I did was scout around on social media. Between Facebook and Instagram, I now know her favorite food—pizza—and her favorite Italian restaurant. There are also a couple bars where she likes to hang out. One seems like her after-work happy hour choice. The other is a hopping place on Saturday nights. Several times, she’s posted pictures of Rob Williams there with her.”
“So they’re a thing?” Mary asked.
“Kind of looks that way.”
“Not just friends with benefits?” Gracie asked.
“He’s her boss,” Pen pointed out. “Is it possible to be boss and friend? Sorry, I’ve been outside the office world too long and things have changed.”
Pen and Sandy looked toward the younger members, but Gracie just shrugged and Mary rolled her eyes.
“So … we have an address for Intrepid Dog’s office and we have some options for ways to meet up with Abby and ask some questions. Next decision is, who should make the trip to California?”
Gracie sighed. “I should probably go along. If nothing else, touch base with my mom and sister. Maybe I can learn more about their situation by being there in person. And on the more useful side of things, I do have experience rifling through files in search of juicy tidbits.”
Sandy laughed. She and Gracie had gone through the office of the museum director, and nearly been caught at it, during their first case together.
“I don’t suppose there’s any chance of coming up with a reason to request copies of the contracts, or …” Pen’s voice trailed off. “No, you’re right. There’s no way Rob Williams is going to willingly share information with us. What was I thinking?”
Sandy set down her teacup. “We’ll see what we can learn from Abby. And I think Mary’s the one for the job.”
Mary sputtered. “I don’t know …”
“I thought about suggesting Amber for this, but she’s already had a conversation with Abby and the odds are too great she would remember. It’s a little too coincidental for Amber to have happened to be at the meeting in Newport and then just drop into Abby’s favorite bar in California. She needs to think she’s talking to an absolute stranger if we hope to get her to confide anything. Plus, Mary, you’re fit, hip, and appear younger. With the hair and the tan, you have the California look. You’ll be a natural.”
Mary blushed to the tips of her frosted, spiky hair. “Well, okay then.”
“Fine,” Pen said. “that’s set. How soon shall I get your reservations?”
The group had fallen into the routine where Pen advanced money for expenses, being repaid from the proceeds of whatever they recovered. It seemed the most businesslike way to handle it, without the actual formality of forming a business for their endeavors.
“One of the bits I overheard, while Pen was receiving the hard-sell for her investment money, was that Rob was going out on a film location somewhere in Europe within a few days,” Amber told them.
She picked up her phone and dialed the number for Intrepid Dog Pictures again. “Robert Williams, please. Amber, with Direct TV.”
She listened for a few seconds.
“And when do you expect him back? Really, that long? No, no message. I’ll just check back later.” She turned to the group. “Sometimes, sounding like you’re selling something is the best way. He’s leaving town this afternoon and won’t be returning for eight weeks.”
All five ladies smiled. “While the cat’s away …” Amber said, her dark eyes sparkling.
Chapter 11
Southwest flight 1613 touched down at LAX at precisely 2:41 p.m. Mary and Gracie retrieved their small carry-on bags and wheeled them to the rental car transport van. Paperwork done, they found their white Toyota in the lot.
“Do you want to touch base with your mom? Let her know we got here?”
Gracie ran her hands through her long hair. “Not yet. I can’t handle her right now. Plus, she’s out in Pasadena and the traffic will be horrid this time of day. Let’s take care of business first, and maybe we’ll have some answers before I have to face her questions.”
Mary patted her friend’s shoulder. “I get it.” She programmed the GPS with the address of their hotel. Pen had made reservations for them just a few blocks from both the Intrepid Dog Pictures offices and the hangouts where Amber had determined Abby Singer liked to go.
“How do you want to work the meetup with our quarry?” Mary asked as she steered through traffic. “I can go by myself, but I sense that a drink would add to your ‘happy’ right now.”
“No kidding. I’m—never mind.” No reason to get into the tension at home as she was packing for the trip. “Yeah, I’m up for a drink. We can head straight to the bar, for all I care.”
“You’ll need to reprogram our little buddy then. I can’t imagine taking my eyes off the road at the moment.”
“This is fine. We’ll go to the hotel, freshen up. Then we can locate the bar. Might be a good idea for us to walk in separately and not sit together. If Abby takes a seat at the bar, as Amber says she seems to do in her photos, you can try to sit next to her and with luck I’ll get close enough to overhear. Or not. Let’s play it by ear.”
It was five-thirty when Mary walked into Zeb’s, an office worker hangout with a modern exterior and a dim, noisy interior. Tables around the perimeter held groups of four and six, guys dressed in youthful corporate attire—jeans or slacks, jacket, white shirt unbuttoned at the top—women in fitted dresses with contrasting jackets and impossibly high heels. Seriously? They worked all day in those things?
She looked around, tagging herself as most likely the oldest person in the room. She lif
ted her chin and held her shoulders back. Everyone at the gym told her she looked twenty years younger than her actual forty-seven, and she was determined to pull it off here, as well. She spotted Abby sitting at the bar, dangling a beige-heeled shoe off the footrest of her barstool, chatting quietly with another young woman. Neither appeared to be scouting out the males. Abby laughed suddenly at something her friend had said, throwing her head back. Clearly, she wasn’t on her first drink of the evening.
Mary stepped up to the bar behind Abby, smiling an apology to the man on the left whose elbow she had bumped. She glanced at Abby’s glass. Some kind of whiskey, neat. She caught the bartender’s eye and ordered a bourbon on the rocks. When it came, she made a small production of swirling the ice, clattering it in the glass a little more than necessary. When Abby turned to glance at the sound Mary spoke.
“Abby? Abby Singer? Oh my gosh, I’d forgotten you work in this neighborhood.”
Abby turned her chair, staring with incomprehension.
“Sorry—last June? Crystal and Josh’s wedding … we sat there laughing over that old couple dancing, so cute.” Be careful what you post on Facebook, especially with a comment like ‘how wasted was I?’
“Yeah, yeah, the wedding.” Abby was clearly searching her memory for the connection.
“Hey, I gotta go,” said the friend. “Catch you later.”
Mary deftly slid around to take the empty stool. “Mary Holbrook. We met over the shrimp on the buffet, and … well … Some party that was. So, anyway, I’m at Holmes-Barney now.” She waved vaguely over her shoulder toward what could have been any office in any building in the area. “Are you still working with Rob Williams?”
“Yeah—actually, I am.”
“It’s going good? I remember you talking about how much you liked it, but I forget what you said you do there. All I know about him is that he’s a pretty big-name producer, right? It must be amazing, you getting to hang around all those movie stars all the time.”
Movie Mogul Mama Page 5
