by Josie Brown
“The coroner will still have the dead man’s vial in his case file. We can get it as well.” Jack smiles. “Not exactly a slam dunk, but with your testimony, Roger, it certainly looks that way.”
The night manager sighs his relief. “I truly liked Charlotte. When she mentioned her suspicions, I didn’t take her seriously. If I had, perhaps I could have saved her life.” He rises to his feet. “I’m sure I’ve missed the hunt scene, but so be it. It’s all fantasy anyway, isn’t it? The real world spills real blood.”
We shake hands with him, but we let him leave first.
Jack places his hand over mine, which holds the plastic bag. “This is it—the last piece of the puzzle.”
It’s bad luck to presume we’re out of the woods just yet, so I shush him with a kiss.
He’s taking his sweet time disentangling himself from it. Fine by me.
Finally, I say, “I guess we should see what’s happening at the hunt, too.”
We’re just a few miles from town when I realize we’re not the only ones who are heading toward Castle Drogo. An ambulance, and several police cars pass us.
Not a good sign.
When we pull into the grounds of the estate, Jack runs up to a constable, who is trying to keep the crowd at bay. “What’s all the fuss?” he asks.
“An accidental shooting, I’m afraid—one of the young lasses involved in the production. She wasn’t in the scene proper, but apparently she was hit by a stray shot.”
There are only two ‘young lasses’ in the production—Mary and Rachel.
“But the actors weren’t using real bullets,” Jack reasons.
The constable shrugs. “Sadly, in this case, they were quite real.”
As I race up the lane to the castle’s grounds, my heart pounds in my chest. It could be from exertion, but more than likely I’ll die from the dread that comes with realizing I’ve lost my daughter.
I pray to God to let me live at least until I get the chance to hold her in my arms one more time.
Chapter 13
The Kids Are All Right
“It's hard enough to open your heart in this world. Don't make it harder.”
—Mark Ruffalo, as “Paul”
Imagine this:
You’re all dolled up in some bazillion-dollar gown, which was lent to you by a fashion designer, whose couture is reminiscent of the dresses worn, back in the day, by your favorite Barbie. How sweet is that?
You can tell the Academy of Arts and Sciences is about to announce the winner in the category in which you’ve been nominated because, suddenly, one of the eight live cameras roaming the Dolby Theatre is focused on you!
Immediately, you follow the lead of your competitors: you open your eyes wide, lick your lips, and turn up the star wattage on your smile.
You’re also praying that you (a) don’t break your beloved’s wrist by holding it too tightly as you wait for your name to be called; (b) don’t cry if your name isn’t called, but smile valiantly and clap with some semblance of sincerity for the bitch who beat you; and if you win (c) you don’t shout out some expletive, or trip on the hem of your much-too-expensive Barbie-worthy gown as you gallop to the stage, and (d) that you remember your well-practiced acceptance speech.
Let’s just pretend you’ve won, okay? Here’s the order in which you should thank all the little people who made you who you are today: (1) the Powers that Be (2) the film’s producers, (3) the studio distributing the film, (4) your agent, (5) your make-up and hairdresser (6) your mother, wherever she is—hopefully, not stuck in the ladies’ room— and (7) your significant other.
Should you forget any of the above, only one person on that list will forgive you. Sorry, if you can’t figure out who I mean, you deserve the obscurity that will eventually come your way because of this one brain fart.
I’ll give you one clue: it isn’t your mother.
Now, go enjoy your hard-earned fame.
My daughter lays prostrate, face down on the ground in the mossy alcove beneath a tall tree.
Everything moves in slow motion: the wind, wafting through the branches above us; the clouds sitting low in the sky, dark and engorged; and the crowd hovering just beyond the tense ribbons of yellow police tape.
Those who seem to move the slowest of all are the paramedics working to revive a child, while those who pray hardest for her look on in horror.
Of course, I’m imagining this. In truth, all the life-saving maneuvers—chest pumping and oxygen masking and fluid infusion—are happening in real time.
Maybe if I heard something, anything, I could break the spell cast over me by this nightmare. But the ringing in my ears—the loud, shrill shriek—just won’t stop.
That’s okay. I’d much rather my precious Mary be in shock than have met with the fate of her dear friend Rachel, whose limp, dead body is the reason for my daughter’s pain.
I wrap my body over hers. My attempt to shield Mary physically may provide her some comfort, but there is nothing I can do to stand between my daughter and the vision of seeing her friend’s chest torn open by a bullet, or the memory that will linger for a lifetime of Rachel’s shock, and final realization, that her life is now behind her.
Over and over I whisper, “You’re safe, I promise, and I’m here for you…”
When she finally believes this is true, her screams end and she turns around so that I may cradle her in my arms.
“What is a ‘sci-fi’ movie?” Trisha asks.
“It’s about fun things that come from outer space,” Jeff explains. “Or sometimes it takes place in the future. Trust me, you’ll like it.”
She wrinkles her nose. “Will the aliens speak English?”
He sighs. “Of course, silly! And in British accents, too. Now, grab your rain coat. If we’re going to catch the opening scenes, we have to leave now.”
“Take an umbrella, too,” I warn them. “It’s starting to sprinkle.”
At my behest, Jeff is taking Trisha to the local movie house, just down the street. Unfortunately, it only has one screen, so slim pickings. The film was produced here in Great Britain, and is one the children haven’t seen. It isn’t a great choice for a six- and an eleven-year-old, but it’s better they be there than to see their sister like this.
“Who knows? Maybe it’s something Addison can adapt,” Jeff said. He isn’t just trying to make the best of his role as Trisha’s babysitter. He really means what he says.
I think he’s found his calling.
The local doctor left a sedative for Mary. I had to force her to take it, so that she’d calm down.
Aunt Phyllis is in Mary’s room, watching over her as she sleeps. My daughter cried until the sedative kicked in. Her shock over Rachel’s death came out in self-loathing and blame. She was no more than a couple of yards from Rachel when the bullet hit her friend.
“Why am I still alive, when she’s dead?” she asked herself, over and over.
I wait until Jeff and Trisha walk out the front door, and I’ve closed the door to Mary’s room before asking Jack, “How is Addison handling this?”
“After he met with the police, he went back to his cottage in order to call Rachel’s family, to break the news.” Jack looks at his watch. “It’s just now daybreak, Pacific Time.”
“I don’t envy him the task. As for her parents…” My voice trails off.
Jack puts his arm around my waist. He knows what I’m thinking—no parent wants to go through the horror of hearing the news of his or her child’s death.
“I’m sure Addison is weighing the consequences of her death on the picture’s viability,” Jack brushes my forehead with his lips. Does he feel me trembling? He must because he holds me tighter, as if he’ll never let me go.
That would be fine with me.
“Since all of Rachel’s scenes were completed as of yesterday, no rewrites are needed, so it won’t affect the production schedule,” I reason out loud. “And, as odd as it seems, her devoted fans will want to
see her final project, if only to connect with her one last time. I can see why. She was luminous on the big screen. It’s a shame she never fulfilled her potential.”
“Sebastian wrote a great script, and Whitford knows what he’s doing with it. But you’re right. As far as the cast is concerned, the only reason to see this movie is because of Rachel.” Jack shrugs. “Right now, the biggest issue facing the production is the stance of its insurance underwriters. Between the explosion in Venezuela that took the lives of the two stunt doubles and now a featured actor’s death on the set, the underwriter may have all the reason it needs to pull the plug on the production.” He takes his cell phone out of his pocket. “Speaking of which, I should check in with Arnie. He’s still at the crime scene, assessing it with the police.” A moment later, he’s murmuring instructions to Arnie.
When he hangs up, he turns back to me. “Chad and Whitford have released all the firearms to the investigators, as have the hunt club members who played extras and were allowed to use their personal guns. The Special Effects crew insists each and every gun, both real and props, was checked and double-checked to assure the ammunition in the chamber was only blanks.”
“But if the shooter wasn’t a cast member or movie extra, whose gun was it, and why would they shoot Rachel?” I ask.
“Good question. I think I’ll do a bit of snooping on my own.”
The rain is now coming down in sheets. I walk over with his coat, a hat, and an umbrella. “This weather is going to make it harder to find clues in the woods, if that’s where you’re going.”
My consideration earns me a furtive kiss.
He checks the chamber of his HK P11. The bullets in it are real.
Best yet, one of the gun’s highly touted features is that it actually shoots underwater. Considering Dawlish’s flood advisory and the way it’s pouring outside, he may get the chance to find out for himself if that’s true.
He and his gun may get soaked, but he’ll be safer than whoever killed Rachel.
Mary slept only two hours. Jack is still not back, but he’s phoned to give me updates on the ballistics reports as they come in. So far, the killer’s weapon hasn’t been identified.
Jeff and Trisha are back from the movie. While they help Aunt Phyllis prepare dinner, I sit with Mary. I’m relieved she seems to want to talk about what happened almost as badly as I want to hear about it. Her sobs trickle out between every other sentence. I hold her hand. It’s a small comfort, but maybe it will get her through the ordeal of reliving her memories.
“It’s all my fault,” she laments. “Rachel thought it would be fun to cut through the woods and follow the dogs. But she wouldn’t have done it by herself if I’d said no.”
“Wasn’t she more interested in watching the scene being shot?”
Mary looks at me as if I’m the one having the breakdown. “No way! Rachel could not have cared less about it. The fact that Willow and Reed are so unprofessional drove her crazy. And overall, she hated action movies. She would have preferred to attach herself to a small independent film. The only reason she accepted the role in this movie was so that she could get on Sebastian’s radar.” She closes her eyes. “For the next season of Bloomsbury he’s writing in a big part for an American woman, exactly her age.”
“Is that what he told her?”
She shakes her head. “She read it in the Wrap. She felt the exposure would be incredible for her. She was dying to move to England so that she could take on some stronger female roles. ‘Here, they don’t just hire you for your looks,’ is how she put it.”
“Why didn’t she just ask Sebastian if she could audition for the role?” I ask.
“She did. He said he’d certainly consider it. He was always flirting with her, so she thought he meant it. But…well, I don’t think so. Frankly, I think he was leading her on to…you know, just to date her.”
I’ve seen that side of Sebastian. He can turn on the charm when he wants something. When he gets it, he goes his merry way.
“Why do you feel he wasn’t being honest with her?”
Mary frowns. “He takes a full set of bound copies of each episode’s teleplay with him wherever he goes. She asked him if she could read them. She wanted to learn them backward and forward. But he wouldn’t lend them to her. He said he needed them for research while he worked on next season’s scripts. But she was determined to change his mind, so that he wouldn’t see her as just another ‘silly American actress.’ She knew about his—well, about his ‘dates’ with Willow.”
No surprise there. So Emma’s scuttlebutt was right and Willow was sleeping her way through the whole cast and crew!
“Rachel was desperate to impress Sebastian before she left tomorrow,” she continues. “He finally consented to hear her read. She was even more determined than ever to get her hands on the scripts. She knew the desk clerk at the inn where Sebastian was staying had a crush on her. The clerk gave her a skeleton key so that we could sneak into Sebastian’s room and grab a script whenever we wanted one. She’d memorize it, then we’d slip it back into his room. Soon, she had the lines all memorized.” Tears roll down her cheeks. “She auditioned yesterday. She told me she pulled out all the stops. She knew he was impressed with her knowledge of the show, and with the insights she had on all the characters. He was even laughing at her imitations of some of them, calling them spot on. She thought she had the role in the bag.” She sighs. “I think it’s why she confessed about our break-ins to him.”
I sigh. “I presume he didn’t take it well.”
“You can say that again!” She shudders at the thought. “She said he turned purple, he was so angry. He yelled at her, telling her that there were no copies in circulation for a reason—because they were historic, and that every word in the script was there for a reason. He made her assure him that she’d returned all of them, and he threatened to ruin her if she were lying.”
“What a pompous ass,” I mutter.
“She thought so, too.” She shrugs. “For the most part, he’s right. The actors follow the script verbatim—that is, except for the character of Virginia Woolf. Every now and then she’ll alter a line or two.”
That’s certainly strange. “How do you know this?” I ask her.
“It was part of Rachel’s obsession with Bloomsbury. After getting her hands on a script, we’d compare them to the actual episodes, which we’d stream on Netflix. She wanted to see how the actors read their lines—their tone, the inflections they’d use, that sort of thing.”
“Was there anything else that stood out to you, or to Rachel, regarding the scenes in which the lines were changed? For example, did it take place on a particular set, at the same time within the course of the show?”
“No, not that I can remember.” But then Mary hesitates and a strange look comes over her face. “Wait! Yes, there was one other thing Rachel noticed. Whenever a line change occurred, the phrase ‘the Apostles’ was substituted for another—‘the Clapham Sect.’ At first I didn’t get it, but Rachel explained that both were elite social cliques for really smart people who the Bloomsbury Group respected—Mom, what’s wrong? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost!”
She’s right—it’s the ghost of Johan Richter.
Sebastian is a Quorum operative.
Somehow, the scripts fit into the equation—
Oh my god—the shows are syndicated throughout the world. Could he be using the shows to relay messages to the terrorist cells controlled by the Quorum?
The only way to verify this is to get my hands on the scripts, and compare them to the actual episodes.
“I…I’m just so surprised Rachel picked up on something so—so insignificant,” I say as nonchalantly as possible, but in truth, the last thing I want for Mary to learn is the significance of those words in our lives.
“Rachel was really smart in so many ways. Her attention to small details was amazing.” Mary’s eyes cloud up again. “And now she’s gone.”
I pat her arm
. “You can’t blame yourself, Mary. You both just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“I should have never let her walk so far ahead of me! If the hunter had seen both of us, perhaps he wouldn’t have shot her.” Her voice is practically a whisper.
I guess the sedative is still doing its magic. I have to ask her one more question before she drifts off to sleep. “Mary, do you know if she still has any of the scripts?”
“Yes…one…” Her eyelids are too heavy now.
The next thing I know, she’s snoring.
I wrap the blanket around her and give my sweet girl a kiss on the forehead.
If Sebastian checks his scripts, he may realize one is missing. He’ll be searching Rachel’s room for it.
I’ve got to get it before he does, so that we have the proof we need.
I make Aunt Phyllis promise to keep the doors locked to anyone besides Jack, Arnie, Emma or me. She has Jeff and Trisha set up in front of the cozy fireplace, roasting marshmallows. Considering the storm slamming up against the house, no one should be outside unless his or her life depends on it.
Mine does.
I brace myself for whatever awaits me, slamming the door behind me.
Chapter 14
Lady Killer
“Too many hurricanes, blow you right out of bed. Wake up in the morning and find a boat in your lap.”
—James Cagney, as “Dan Quigley”
[Final scene in the screenplay for The Housewife Assassin’s Handbook]
Cut to:
Ext. Railroad Bridge – Night
The camera captures DONNA STONE’s face as she walks slowly along the RAILROAD TRACKS on a SEAWALL, clinging to a SEASIDE CLIFF.
