Snowbound at Christmas

by Debbie Mason

  Yeah right. Shady Palms was just one of many retirement homes his grandmother had terrorized in the past five years. And he should know, since the duty of taking care of GG fell on him. Not on his cousins or his father or his aunt and uncle—him. In a voice infused with as much charm and warmth as he could manage given his frustration, he said, “Linda, we’ll discuss this when I get there. I’m sure we can come to—”

  “No we won’t, Mr. Alexander. Your charm and good looks are wasted on me. I’m too old to be swayed by a handsome face.”

  He was wondering if his badge and an imaginary infraction might do the trick when a five-foot-nothing, immaculately groomed older woman with a white Angora cat tucked under her arm scowled up at the security camera.

  “Grayson, I know you’re there. Let me in,” Dame Estelle Alexander demanded in an upper-crust British accent, lifting her cane to knock on the door.

  “Linda, I’ll…” He blew out a noisy breath. She’d hung up. At the insistent rapping, he shoved the phone in the pocket of his black leather jacket and jerked open the door before Estelle bashed it in. “GG, you promised you weren’t going to run away again.”

  She batted him out of the way with her cane, lifted her aristocratic nose, and sniffed. “I didn’t run away. I escaped. They’re trying to kill me.”

  He wouldn’t be surprised if some of the staff at Shady Palms wanted to kill her. He’d felt the same on occasion, as he imagined her last four husbands did. His grandmother was a drama queen and a royal pain in the ass.

  “Don’t keep the young man waiting, Grayson.” She directed a pretentious nod at the sixty-something man standing at the door with… four suitcases at his feet. Grayson briefly closed his eyes before digging his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans. The man gave him an I-feel-for-you-pal smile and handed him the cat’s pink princess bed.

  “Thanks.” Grayson tucked the bed under his arm and hauled the luggage into the house. As he piled the bags by the door, he said, “GG, I’m heading out of town, so you’ll have to stay—” He straightened and looked over his shoulder. She was gone. Cursing under his breath, he strode to his bedroom. “Do not put that cat on my bed.” Did she listen to him? Of course not. She did exactly as she pleased and placed the long-haired animal on his black comforter. “GG, you know I’m allergic to—”

  “It’s all in your head.” She waved a dismissive bejeweled hand, then turned to open his dresser drawers. “Where’s my luggage?”

  “I’ll get it.” He stalked from the room, closing the door behind him. Her suitcases were staying right where they were. Leaning against the wood-paneled wall, he retrieved his cell from his jacket and called his cousin India. He’d had it. Someone other than him was taking care of GG. He needed this vacation. And it was about time one of them stepped up to the plate.

  His call to India went straight to voice mail—with a message indicating that she was in New York. At the beep, he said, “Indy, how many times do I have to tell you not to let everyone know you’re out of town? It’s not safe. Call me as soon as you get this.” He paused; his cousin never returned her messages. “GG’s dying.”

  He dialed his aunt and uncle and got their voice mail with a message informing him they were on safari in Africa. Of course they were. He left them the same message as he did for their daughter. He didn’t bother calling his father. He’d get no help from that end. The only time Grayson heard from the eighth Earl of Waverly was when he needed cash.

  He called Indy’s brother, Jamie, relieved when an actual voice came over the line. “Hey, Jamie. I need—”

  “Hey, Gray, my man. I was just picking up the phone to call you. I’ve got a job for you.”

  He never should have told Jamie he was taking a few weeks off. His cousin provided security for the rich and famous. “No. I’m leaving for Bear Valley in twenty minutes, and GG’s here. You have to come and get her.”

  “She run away from Heaven’s Gate again?”

  She’d been in Heaven’s Gate two years earlier, but Grayson didn’t waste time correcting his cousin. “Yeah, and you’re up. I tried to get hold of your sister and parents, but they’re out of town.”

  “I’d help you out, but Lacy and GG don’t get along.”

  “Who’s Lacy? Never mind, just come and get your grandmother.”

  “Seriously, bro, I can’t leave her with Lacy. I’m heading out of town on a job. Which is why I need your help. I just got a call from the executive producer of As the Sun Sets. He’s worried about the safety of their star Chloe O’Connor. They want to keep it under wraps, so I agreed to provide security and investigate the attempt on her life. It probably won’t take you—”

  Grayson disconnected, thumbing through his contact list as he walked to the front door. There had to be a distant cousin on here somewhere. Jamie called again. Grayson didn’t answer.

  Two seconds later, Jamie texted. I’m calling my marker. You owe me.

  As much as Grayson hated to admit it, he did owe him. Jamie had heard a rumor about Valeria Ramos’s previous relationship with one of his former clients and passed it on to Grayson. The information had changed the focus of his investigation and saved his life. He walked to the bar in the corner of his sparsely furnished living room, grabbed a bottle of Johnnie Walker, and poured himself two fingers before calling his cousin back. “All right, I’ll do it. But as soon as I wrap up the case, you’re taking GG off my hands.”

  Once Jamie reluctantly agreed, he gave Grayson a brief rundown on the cast and crew. Grayson relaxed for the first time since GG arrived on his doorstep. He’d wrap the case up in a couple of days at most, and his grandmother would no longer be his problem. He already had his primary suspect: Chloe’s sister and the beneficiary of her will, Cat O’Connor.

  Chapter Two

  Grayson didn’t know what it said about him that he preferred his usual roles as pimps, gang members, drug traffickers, and hitmen to playing a British lord, but he didn’t have much say in the matter. Two hours after he’d agreed to take on security for Chloe O’Connor, his cousin informed him he was going in undercover.

  The executive producer didn’t want to upset their star. From all accounts, the actress was a neurotic diva—no surprise there—who they worried would refuse to show up for work if she knew her life was in danger. And there was no doubt she was in danger. Grayson had a copy of the threatening letter her agent had found in Chloe’s dressing room two weeks earlier—the same day the railing gave way and she’d fallen down a couple of stairs on the set. Only the powers that be hadn’t taken the note seriously until yesterday’s incident with the chandelier.

  And since the actress had a penchant for British royalty, Grayson was playing the part of Lord Harry Halstead, a wealthy aristocrat who dabbled in acting. Other than the executive producer and the agent, the director was the only one who knew Grayson’s true identity.

  “We should keep this car,” his grandmother said as he parked the black Jaguar XJL in the studio’s lot. “I prefer it to your truck. James Bond drove one just like this in Skyfall. Did I tell you the director’s an old flame of mine?”

  “Yes, GG, you did.” Four times. “And no, we aren’t keeping the car.” Though it would serve Jamie right if he did. His cousin had reluctantly lent Grayson his pride and joy, conceding it was a better fit for the part of a British aristocrat than Grayson’s truck. “I can’t afford—” Grayson sneezed. “… a Jag.”

  “You could if you’d let me call my director friend. Did I tell you we had an affair five—No, maybe it was ten years ago. He’d give you a screen test if I asked. You’d make a much better James Bond than Daniel Craig. And with your role in As the Sun Sets, you’ll have something on your resume besides undercover work for the FBI. Which is good, mind you, but it’s your time in front of the camera he’ll want to see.” She dug around in her purse and pulled out a lace-trimmed hankie. “Stop sneezing. Your eyes are red and puffy. It’s not the least bit attractive.”

  He wiped his nose, stuf
fing the hankie in his breast pocket. “If you’d left Fluffy at home like I asked, I wouldn’t be sneezing.” She ignored him, turning up the air conditioner instead of the radio to drown him out.

  The overpowering smell of cologne filled the car. Maybe it wasn’t the cat making him sneeze after all. It was probably the half bottle of aftershave GG had slapped on his face. As soon as he’d put one foot in the hall this morning, she’d been waiting for him in full makeup, wearing a winter-white pantsuit. She must have turned up her hearing aids when she went to bed. In the end, he decided not to argue with her and use her as a lookout. He planned to check out the set and Chloe O’Connor’s dressing room before the cast and crew arrived.

  As the urge to sneeze once again overtook him, Grayson turned off the air conditioner. Strands of cat hair floated around the interior to land on his black suit. With a muttered curse, he brushed them off his shoulder and thigh.

  “If you must use foul language, say bloody hell. Did you not pay any attention to me last night?” His grandmother tapped his temple with an arthritic finger. It was about the only thing she hadn’t had Botoxed. “Get in character. From this moment on, you are Lord Harry Halstead, ninety-eighth in line to the British throne.”

  His grandmother had taken to her role as a female Henry Higgins with a vengeance. Jamie had called her on the sly and asked her to prep Grayson for the part. He’d spent the entire night before being taught to walk and talk like a proper British lord while devising ways to make his cousin pay. He might keep the Jag after all.

  Ignoring his grandmother’s comment, Grayson unfolded his six-foot-three frame from the XJL. He wasn’t worried about fooling Chloe O’Connor. He made a living pretending to be someone else.

  He rounded the car and opened the passenger-side door. As he waited for GG to alight, he tugged the cuffs of his white shirt a precise inch below the black suit’s sleeves and scanned the lot.

  His grandmother rummaged through her purse. “I can’t find my pills, Grayson. I must have forgotten—”

  “Harry,” he said in a clipped British accent. “You didn’t forget your pills, Estelle. I gave them to you at breakfast.” He didn’t eat the morning meal as a rule, but with his grandmother there, he had no choice but to feed her.

  She glanced at him, covering the flustered look on her face with a brisk nod. “Your accent is quite believable, my boy. Well done.”

  “Thanks. Now come on. There’s the director.” Grayson lifted his chin at the short, rotund man with gray hair and a goatee. Offering his grandmother his arm, Grayson studied her as he did so. With all the work she’d had done, she looked two decades younger than her actual age. But she was seventy-six, and he wondered if he should be taking her moments of forgetfulness more seriously. They’d been happening more frequently, as he’d noticed on his weekly visits to Shady Palms. And obviously she was aware enough to be concerned. He’d mention it to Jamie. Have him… Grayson’s shoulders rose and fell on a heavy, inward sigh. No, as he’d learned in the past, when it came to GG, there was only one person he could depend on: himself.

  The director extended his hand as he met them at the door. “Good to meet you in person, Grayson.” They’d spoken the night before.

  He shook Grayson’s hand, then took his grandmother’s, lifting it to his lips. “An honor to meet you, Dame Alexander. I’m a big fan. I’d love you to do a walk-on if you’re interested.”

  Estelle’s eyebrows rose, and her nostrils flared. Obviously, she felt the role was beneath her. Grayson was thankful good manners prevented her from saying so. “Quite impossible, Phillip. I have a job to do. I will be my grandson’s eyes and ears on the set. We’re partners, you know.”

  Sweet mother of God. He never should have agreed to bring her with him. She continued before Grayson had a chance to correct her. “I’m playing his manager. As me, of course. I’m too recognizable to pass myself off as someone else.”

  If you were of a certain age and a fan of Broadway, Grayson conceded she had a point.

  “I can’t say I’m not disappointed, but I understand. We want this wrapped up as soon as possible,” Phil said as he opened the door and handed Grayson a script. “Sorry to put you on the spot. But we need you to start today. You’ll be playing Rand Livingstone, an ex-lover of Tessa Hart.”

  “Not a problem.” Grayson had a photographic memory, so that was the least of his concerns. But he worried that springing him on the cast today would raise suspicions. “Was this a story line the cast has been expecting?”

  “Yes. Though another actor was hired to play the role. Unfortunately for him, but lucky for us, yesterday he caused a furor on social media with some inappropriate pictures, and we’ve been scrambling to find a replacement.”

  His cousin’s work, no doubt. Grayson wasn’t the only one who was good at his job. Once they’d done a walk-through of the set, which took longer than it should, thanks to his grandmother lobbying for Grayson’s role to be expanded while suggesting how to capture his best side, Phil gave Grayson a key to Chloe O’Connor’s dressing room. “I’ll leave you to it. Chloe arrives around eight, so you have a good hour.”

  As Phil walked away, Grayson said, “Estelle, stand at the end of the hall. If you see anyone coming this way, tap your cane twice. I’ll leave the door—What do you think you’re doing?” he asked as she pushed past him into the dressing room.

  She handed him the cat. “I have to go to the loo.”

  “No, there’s no…” He trailed off when she closed the bathroom door. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, placing Fluffy on the white club chair. At least her hair would blend in.

  Grayson scanned the dressing room. The three drawers in the makeup table were the most likely place to find what he was looking for. If he didn’t solve the case in the next twenty-four hours, he’d break in to Chloe’s Redondo Beach house. He needed something Cat O’Connor had written to compare to the threatening letter. Although the note was comprised of words cut and pasted from a magazine, he could check it for phrases she commonly used.

  Cat O’Connor remained his primary suspect. She had the motive and opportunity. She hadn’t been on the set at the time of Chloe’s “accidents.” An unusual occurrence according to Phil. Cat was always close at hand during filming in case her sister needed her. Which, invariably, she did, Phil confirmed. Grayson didn’t share his suspicions with the director because, if he wasn’t mistaken, Phil had a crush on Cat. From the file Grayson had already gathered on her, he understood why.

  Like her sister, Cat O’Connor was gorgeous. Not surprising, since they were identical twins. But Cat’s natural beauty appealed more to Grayson. Her chin-length dark hair framed intelligent green eyes and high, sculpted cheekbones. Combined with her lean, athletically built frame, she came across as a strong woman, one who could take care of herself. The only thing soft about her was her lips. Full, pouty lips Grayson had fixated on while studying her photo.

  A women’s magazine open facedown on the glass table caught his eye. There’s no way as a former detective she’d leave evidence lying around in plain sight. Then again, she’d been involved with a guy running a Ponzi scheme. Maybe she was unraveling. Her relationship with Michael Upton was another reason she’d ended up on the top of Grayson’s suspect list. She’d been engaged to the guy, living with him, and she expected people to believe she had no idea what he was up to? Grayson didn’t buy it, and neither did the special agent in charge in Denver.

  As far as SAC Turner was concerned, the file on Cat O’Connor was still open. And the fact that she’d cleaned out her bank account last month, anonymously giving it to the victims of the fraud, only made her look more guilty in Grayson’s and Turner’s eyes.

  Grayson retrieved the women’s magazine from the glass table and leafed through the pages, checking for missing words. He didn’t find any, but what he did find caused his mouth to lift at the corner. He was on the right track. Because unless Chloe had taken the job-satisfaction quiz, which he highly doubted, Cat
O’Connor hated working for her sister. Now the question was, did she hate only her job or did she hate her sister as well? It had to be difficult living in Chloe O’Connor’s shadow. The money notwithstanding, would it be enough for her to commit cold-blooded sororicide? If Cat had also confided her involvement in the Ponzi scheme to Chloe, he imagined it would. Her sister was a loose end that needed to be taken care of.

  * * *

  Chloe had been gloating ever since Cat informed her that the job she’d lined up had fallen through and she wasn’t leaving. She’d held off telling her until late the night before. Cat didn’t want Chloe to connect her change of plans to the incident with the chandelier. But with the crew blaming a piece of steel on the overhead beam for the cut wire, there should be no reason for her sister to be suspicious.

  Even though Cat didn’t buy the explanation, it worked to her advantage. The last thing she needed was for Chloe to think she was in danger. The exhausting reality of dealing with a hysterical Chloe aside, Cat wanted to find whoever was responsible, not send them to ground. She didn’t want her sister spending the rest of her life looking over her shoulder. And Cat didn’t want to spend the rest of hers protecting her sister from an unknown enemy.

  Chloe, looking far from her glamorous self in a pink velour tracksuit, shot her a disgruntled glance as Cat parked the SUV. “There’s no one here. I told you the clocks were wrong. There must have been a power outage last night.”

  “Guess so.” There wasn’t. Cat wanted to come in early and check the set without raising her sister’s suspicions. It was just Cat’s luck that Phil had decided to arrive early today, too. She didn’t recognize the black Jag and wondered who else was here.

  As she got out of the Range Rover and scanned the lot, Cat skimmed her hand over the back of her brown leather jacket to be sure it hadn’t ridden up to reveal her gun. The late November morning was cool enough that she could get away with wearing the jacket for now. She’d probably have to change by midday.