“I guess they want to film them making a big entrance,” Bess said. “Anyway, Syd says the TV people want lots of people there to cheer and stuff.”
“Sounds kind of silly to me,” I commented.
George shot me a look in the rearview mirror. “What do you know? You hardly ever even watch reality TV.”
I couldn’t argue with her there. Besides, we were already turning into the small municipal airport, which appeared to be as busy as O’Hare at the moment. There were even a couple of security guards at the entrance gate. They flagged us down and demanded to see photo ID before they’d let us pass.
“Guess they don’t want the local riffraff coming in,” George commented once we’d finally satisfied the guards that we were who we said we were. “I hope Mom remembered her ID when she came over.”
George’s mother runs a catering company. Not only was she catering the wedding itself, but Sydney had arranged for her to cater several functions for the TV producers as well. All the extra work was keeping Mrs. Fayne and her employees pretty busy.
“I feel kind of bad about your mom,” I told George. “If we weren’t bridesmaids, she probably would’ve drafted all three of us as cater waiters.”
George shrugged, not looking too broken up about that. “It’s okay,” she said. “The TV people are paying her a ton. She can afford to hire all the waitstaff she needs without using us as her indentured servants.”
She parked her car and we climbed out. “Which way do we go?” Bess wondered.
“Mystery solved.” I pointed to a large man carrying a heavy-looking camera on his shoulder. He was hurrying down a path leading around the side of the main airport building.
We trailed along behind him. When we rounded the back corner of the building, we spotted a crowd gathered along the edge of one of the airstrips.
“Looks like this is the place,” George said.
The airstrip was a zoo. Tons of people were buzzing around setting up lights, cameras, microphones, and all sorts of other equipment. About two dozen more familiar faces—Sydney’s family and friends—were clustered nearby, watching it all.
We wandered over and found Deb standing at the edge of the crowd of onlookers. “Isn’t this exciting?” she gushed, clasping her hands together. Her brown eyes were wide with amazement as she watched a grizzled-looking man stride past, barking orders into a walkie-talkie. “It’s like we’re on the set of a Hollywood movie!”
“Hard to believe our little Syd is part of this world now, huh?” George said with a grin.
“Hello, hello!” A skinny young man with horn-rimmed glasses and a mop of sandy brown hair hurried toward us. He was carrying a clipboard and wore a large nametag that identified him as Donald Hibbard. “Are you with the bride?”
“Uh-huh. Bridesmaids,” Bess said. She gave him our names.
“Wonderful.” Donald checked us off on his clipboard. “I’m Donald, one of the PAs. Mr. Eberhart wants me to make sure everyone’s here and pass out the releases for you all to sign.”
“Mr. Eberhart?” Bess echoed.
“PA?” Deb added curiously.
“Mr. Eberhart is Hans Eberhart, the director,” George said before Donald could answer. “He’s a genius! I can’t believe I’m going to meet him. Is he here yet?” She glanced around eagerly.
“PA stands for production assistant,” I told Deb. “That’s someone whose job it is to sort of keep things running on a movie or TV set by looking after all the details.” I turned to smile at Donald. “Did I get that right?”
“Absolutely,” Donald agreed, returning my smile. He showed us the releases, which basically gave the TV crew the right to use our images in their production. Then he waited while we all signed. “And now I’d better skedaddle,” he said, tucking the releases at the back of his clipboard. “I see some more newly arrived details right over there. Enjoy the day, ladies!” He gave us a wave and turned to leave.
But he’d barely gone two steps when a woman came barreling toward him, a look of fury on her narrow, overly made-up face. “I wonder who that is,” I murmured to Bess and George. “She doesn’t look happy.”
“Hibbard!” the woman barked, stabbing a red-tipped finger toward Donald’s face. “Are you a complete imbecile? A total moron? Do you even have a brain stem?”
“What’s the matter, Madge?” Donald asked mildly, not seeming the slightest bit disturbed by her insults or the stabbing finger.
The woman waved the Styrofoam cup she was holding in her other hand. Brown liquid sloshed over the side. “This coffee is ice cold!” she shouted. “I can’t drink it like this. You might as well serve me a cup of fresh mud!”
“Sorry about that, Madge.” Donald reached out and expertly plucked the cup out of her hand without spilling another drop. “I’ll get you a fresh cup right away.”
“Good. And be quick about it,” Madge spat out. Then she spun on her heel and stormed off.
“Nice lady,” George said sarcastically when she was out of earshot.
“That’s Madge Michaels, the assistant director,” Donald explained. “She’s, er, a little high-strung. Excuse me—I’d better go find her some hot coffee before she bursts a blood vessel.” Giving us one last wry smile, he hurried off.
“Poor guy,” Bess commented. “I know some people will do anything to be a part of Hollywood, but I sure wouldn’t want to have his job.”
“Whew! You’re not kidding,” Deb exclaimed. “I guess show business isn’t all it’s cracked up to be! I just hope poor Sydney knows what she’s getting into by marrying a TV star.”
Personally I thought the term “TV star” might be a bit too strong a description of a reality-TV contestant, but I decided to keep that opinion to myself. “Well, as a model she’s used to being in the spotlight,” I said instead.
“That reminds me,” Deb said. “I’d better go check on Sydney and see how she’s holding up. See you later!”
Bess, George, and I spent the next few minutes wandering around, saying hi to people we knew and watching the TV crew set up. When we came across Sydney, she was standing with her parents and Deb and a couple of others. She looked beautiful in a fashionable green wraparound dress, but her face was extra pale and her eyes kept skittering off toward the runway nearby. It was hard to tell whether she was anxious to see her fiancé or just nervous about this whole extravaganza. Probably both, I figured.
My friends and I were chatting with one of our old schoolteachers when a sharp whistle silenced the entire area. “Check it out,” George said, nodding toward the temporary platform the TV people had set up near the runway. “It’s our good pal Donald.”
Sure enough, Donald Hibbard was standing up on the platform. He had a bullhorn in his hand.
“Thank you for your attention!” Donald shouted through the bullhorn. “And now, may I introduce our director, Mr. Hans Eberhart!”
My friends and I clapped politely along with everyone else as the director climbed up to stand beside Donald. Hans Eberhart was of average height and weight, with unruly gray hair, a close-cropped graying beard, and a fiercely intelligent look on his broad, weather-beaten face. He took the bullhorn from the PA.
“Thanks for coming, everyone,” he said, his words tinged with a slight German accent. “I have received word that the plane will be landing in just a few moments. Please gather in the area marked off by the ropes to welcome our visitors, all right?”
“Wow, now I really feel glamorous,” Bess joked as we all shuffled over to the roped-off area.
George was walking backward, craning her neck to keep an eye on the director. “I can’t believe Hans Eberhart is really here,” she said. “I’m dying to talk to him about his early work.”
Soon the entire River Heights contingent was crowded behind the ropes. We didn’t have long to wait before there was a mechanical whine from overhead. Moments later a small, sleek jet with the Daredevils logo printed on the side was touching down on the airstrip.
“Feel
free to cheer!” Donald called out through the bullhorn, which Eberhart had given back to him.
We all dutifully clapped as the plane taxied to a stop nearby. George let out a few wolf whistles, which made everyone standing around us laugh.
Some airport employees pushed a rolling staircase up to the side of the plane. Once it was in place, the door swung open.
“Check it out!” George said, poking me on the shoulder. “That’s Vic!”
I nodded, wondering just how pop-culture-clueless she thought I was. Anyone with a TV would have recognized Vic Valdez, with his trademark head of spiky black hair, his tall, lean figure, and his slouchy urban-punk style.
This time nobody had to tell the crowd to cheer. Everyone shouted and waved their arms, and I found myself swept along in the excitement, adding my own cheers to the rest. When I glanced over toward Sydney, I saw that she was probably the only person standing silently. Her eyes were trained on Vic, and there was a happy little smile on her lips that made my heart melt.
Vic spotted her, too. Leaning over the railing at the top of the rolling staircase, he blew her a kiss. Then he went back to waving at the crowds and the cameras.
After a moment another guy appeared in the doorway behind him. He was about Vic’s age and height but was twice as broad, with shoulders as wide as the plane’s doorway, and muscles upon muscles popping out of his tight white shirt. A huge grin stretched across his face beneath his blond buzzcut as he saluted the crowd.
“That’s Bo Champion, Vic’s best friend on the show,” George informed me. “The gossip columns in New York call him and Vic ‘Vicbo’ because they hang out together so much.”
“Oh, right,” Bess said. “I remember Syd mentioning him.”
As Bo and Vic started down the steps, stopping and waving every few seconds, more people started pouring out of the plane. Each of them stopped to wave and pose at the top of the stairway as well.
“That’s Pandora Peace,” George said as a pretty blonde dressed in a flowing sixties-inspired dress appeared. “She was on the same season of Daredevils as Vic and Bo. She was Vic’s showmance.”
“His what?” I said. “Is that some reality-TV term?”
“His showmance,” George repeated a bit impatiently. “You know—show romance. They flirted a lot and sort of became a couple by the end of the show. I heard it never went anywhere after that, and of course then he met Sydney. But it looks like they’ve stayed friends at least—” She cut herself off with a gasp. “Oh, and hey, check it out—there’s Dragon!”
I looked up. The latest person to appear at the top of the stairs was a young man with an enormous dragon tattoo on his face. “Let me guess,” I joked. “He got that name because he likes reading fantasy novels?”
George rolled her eyes. “He’s on the current season of Daredevils,” she said. “Apparently his goal in life is to be the white Bruce Lee. Syd said the producers insisted on making him part of the wedding party. Guess the ratings aren’t where they’d like them to be this season.”
“Ooh, look!” Bess put in. “There’s Akinyi. Guess she made it back from Bermuda.”
I glanced up curiously. Akinyi was even taller and thinner in person than she’d looked in her photo on Sydney’s PDA. She cut a striking figure in a skintight electric-blue catsuit that set off her gleaming dark skin and hair. Like everyone else, she paused and waved gracefully at the top of the stairs, turning slightly from one side to another to allow the cameras to capture her from every angle.
“And let me guess—that must be Candy Kaine,” I said as another tall, slender young woman appeared behind Akinyi. It was no wonder she and Sydney had been cast to play sisters. Their pale complexions and vibrant red hair matched perfectly, though Candy’s hair was cut into a stylish shoulder-length bob.
“Excellent deduction, detective,” Bess joked.
More people came out, but none of us recognized them, so we returned our attention to Vic. He was now within half a dozen steps of ground level, having stopped on almost every step for more posing and waving. The camera operators were filming the whole thing from every possible angle, with Hans Eberhart hurrying around to take the occasional peek through one of the lenses.
Then I saw the director hurrying toward the onlookers. “Come, Miss Marvin,” he called, gesturing toward Sydney. “You should be at the bottom to greet your man with a nice hug and kiss, hmm?”
“Oh.” Sydney blushed, looking slightly uncomfortable. “Um, okay.”
She allowed the director to hustle her over to the base of the stairway. Vic’s face lit up when she approached.
“There’s my beautiful bride!” he called out, hurrying down the last few steps. The crowd let out a collective “awww!” as he wrapped her in his long, skinny arms and kissed her.
“Sweet,” I murmured to Bess. “But Syd looks a little embarrassed, doesn’t she?”
“Wouldn’t you?” Bess whispered back, rolling her eyes. “Just imagine if you had a dozen TV cameras filming your next date with Ned!”
I shuddered. “No thank you!”
“Hey,” George put in. “Do you guys hear sirens?”
Now that she mentioned it, I did. They were faint at first, but rapidly came closer. Soon everyone was looking toward the sound.
“What is this?” Eberhart muttered loudly. “If we have to redub this entire scene…”
The sirens came even closer, drowning him out. A second later a pair of police cruisers sped around the corner of the building and skidded to a stop at the edge of the airstrip.
Chief McGinnis of the River Heights Police Department climbed out of the first car. “Stop right there, everyone!” he blustered in his usual self-important way. “We’ve just received a tip that someone is trying to smuggle in stolen goods on this plane!”
A TASTE OF DANGER
The next few minutes were all chaos and confusion. Several people descended on the chief to protest, and there was much shouting and waving around of hands. Sydney looked horrified and perplexed. Vic seemed to waver between being outraged and tentatively amused, wondering aloud every few minutes if he was being punked.
But I watched the whole scene unfold with concern, knowing that whatever else this was, it was definitely no joke. Chief McGinnis doesn’t roll that way. He takes his job very seriously, even when he’s, um, not doing it very well. Trust me, I’ve learned that the hard way after solving a few too many of his cases for him.
Finally, though, Hans Eberhart and Ellie Marvin seemed to convince him that this was all some kind of mistake. Still, the chief insisted on sending a couple of his men up into the plane to check things out. They emerged minutes later, having found nothing suspicious, and soon the cruisers were on their way out.
“See? No biggie, dude.” Bo Champion laughed loudly and clapped Vic on the back. “They’re just not used to our brand of trouble out here in the sticks, yo!”
Vic seemed to settle on being amused rather than annoyed. “Okay, you’re right, bro,” he said. “But nobody better mess up this wedding for my gorgeous bride, or they’ll have to deal with me! Where are you, sweetie?”
He glanced around for Sydney, who came hurrying toward him. I bit my lip, noting the anxious look on her face. I guessed that so far, her dream wedding wasn’t unfolding quite how she’d imagined it.
“All right, everyone. That is enough of that, I think.” Hans Eberhart clapped his hands, his voice carrying over the hubbub even without the bullhorn. “Now we shall move on to the party, all right? Please follow Donald.”
Once again we found ourselves shuffled along like cattle. This time we ended up in a cavernous hangar at the edge of the airport’s grounds. Inside, a wooden dance floor and several enormous rugs had been laid over the concrete floor. The metal walls were draped with swaths of shimmery metallic fabric, and the high ceiling was festooned with what seemed like thousands of blinking, twinkling lights. Several dozen people were already inside, including a DJ pumping out dance music, a few uniformed
cater waiters, and more guests.
“Ew,” George said, glaring across the room. “Looks like Deirdre squirmed her way in again.”
Glancing over, I saw that she was right. Deirdre was wriggling and shimmying in front of one of the cameramen who had just come in. I also recognized more friends and acquaintances from around town. “Looks like they invited all the wedding guests,” I surmised. “They must have wanted more people to fill up this huge place.”
Bess was staring around the hangar. “What are they trying to do, turn this place into a hot, happening nightclub or something?”
“A hot, happening nightclub in River Heights?” I couldn’t help being amused at the thought. “Yeah, it would really take the magic of television to make that happen!” I wrinkled my nose. “Too bad they couldn’t do anything about the smell of jet fuel. It reeks in here.”
“They probably figured it would be easy to film a party scene in this kind of space,” George said, pointing to several large cameras already filming the proceedings, including a couple on tracks overhead.
“But why have a party scene at all?” Bess asked.
Before any of us could come up with an answer, Sydney hurried toward us. She was arm in arm with Vic.
“Hi, guys,” she greeted us breathlessly. “I wanted you to meet Vic. Vic, these are my cousins Bess and George, and that’s Nancy.”
Vic grinned at us. He was surprisingly good-looking up close once you got past the wild spiky hair and weird clothes. “Yo,” he said. “Nice to meet you. Syd’s told me a lot about you guys.”
“Ditto,” George said. “I’m a big fan. But that won’t stop me from tracking you down and making you sorry if you ever hurt my cousin, dude.”
Model Crime 1 Page 3
