Peril in High Heels (High Heels Mysteries Book 11)

by Gemma Halliday

  I scrunched up my nose. "You mean those testosterone festivals full of sports cars, explosions, and tough guy one-liners?" I'd been forced to watch one with my husband.

  She nodded. "Fatal Ferrari was the last one. It was also the last time Frost had a seven figure box office weekend, too. That was 2002."

  "But don't let him hear you say that," Ellie warned as she packed her brushes and powder back into a little metal case. "At least not if you want to make it off set alive."

  We all chuckled, but I had a feeling she was only half joking.

  The 1st AD, Tarrin, reappeared on set with her signature hand clap again. "Break time's over! Let's go, people. We've got a scene to film!"

  "Back to the salt mines," I told her, grinning.

  She returned it. "At least it beats flipping burgers." She paused. "Most days. When Frost isn't in a mood."

  "This is him not in a mood?" I asked.

  Dana laughed. "Don't worry, you won't be in the line of fire. Just find an out-of-the-way place to stand, keep your head down, and you'll be fine."

  I did exactly that, and for the next couple of hours, I watched a repeat of much the same scene. Actors saying a few lines, Frost yelling, "cut!" over one thing or another, shouting (from Frost), tears (from various cast and crew), cringing (mostly from me). I felt like I watched enough takes to memorize the lines myself.

  Finally, just as my toes were beginning to go numb in my leather pumps and we were starting to lose the daylight to dim pink hues peeking through the tree line, Frost snatched up his megaphone and stood.

  "Obviously I'm not going to get any Oscar worthy performances out of you people today. I hope you can do better tomorrow. That's a wrap." Shaking his head in disgust, he glowered at the Dragon Queen, Alia Altor, as he stalked into a small trailer marked Director.

  Immediately the atmosphere seemed to lighten. I took my first deep breath since midafternoon as I shook out my arms and legs, which were stiff from standing as well as the cool chill seeping into the air as the sun set. My stomach growled softly, but I noticed the craft services snack table already being broken down.

  Dana hurried over to me. "Free at last. Give me a few minutes to change, and we'll hit happy hour at the Tipsy Moose."

  "Sounds good," I said. "Hopefully we can order some food, too. I'm kind of hungry."

  She nodded. "I'll only be—"

  Frost's voice washed over the quiet set like a tsunami. "I want to see Dashel in my trailer now!"

  Dana glanced at the trailer door where the edict had been shouted from. "Sorry. He's probably got some notes for tomorrow's scene. I'll only be a minute or two, okay?"

  Judging from his demeanor all afternoon, he probably had a firing squad lined up and waiting. But I just smiled. "No problem. The Tipsy Moose can wait a few more minutes."

  While she hurried off to answer the director's summons, I wandered around the set, honestly still a little awed by how the production designers had managed to make my favorite scenes from the book come to life. Despite Frost's complaints about their location scout, the forest setting and the makeshift castle they'd built at the edge of it were exactly as I had pictured Pixnetta's realm. Of course, the small village of trailers housing the director, actors, and various crew hadn't been in the books, but the meadow beyond it where the movie's epic battle scenes would take place looked straight out of the novels.

  The set dressers had done an incredible job reproducing every minute detail of the fantasy kingdom depicted in J.R. Ravensberg's books. The actual footprint was small, although with tricks of the camera it appeared larger on the monitors I'd snuck peeks at during filming. And while the look of the castle's stone walls had been achieved by skilled painters rather than stonemasons, they appeared every bit like the real thing. I ran my fingers lightly across the filigree on the Dragon Queen's silver throne, appreciating the workmanship. From the corner of my eye, I noticed the cache of gleaming medieval swords awaiting the property master's arrival to tuck them away for the night. I went over to them, admiring the jewel-encrusted handles.

  "You don't want to touch those," a voice behind me said.

  I spun around to find a woman watching me with a smile. Her heart-shaped face was line-free and expertly made up beneath a glossy cap of dark brown hair. Her effortlessly chic wool slacks and a cashmere sweater with low-heeled boots appeared expensive enough to eliminate her as a crew member.

  As if reading my mind, she walked over with an outstretched hand. "I'm Selma Frost."

  "Maddie Springer." I shook it. "Frost? Any relation to the director?"

  Selma nodded, her smile unwavering. "Jasper's my husband." She tilted her head, assessing me. "You're not in the cast."

  "No," I admitted. "I'm a friend of Dana Dashel. The Elf Princess. I'm just here for the weekend."

  "Me, too." She gave a good-natured grimace. "We made a good choice, didn't we? This place is so much better than the shoe department at Saks."

  Shoe department? I liked her already.

  She glanced at the swords. "They're beautiful, aren't they?"

  "I wasn't going to touch them," I assured her.

  She smiled. "My husband has a thing about realism, especially when it comes to boy's toys like these. They may look like innocent props, but I promise you they are lethally sharp. And I'm guessing there isn't a doctor within fifty miles of here, let alone a hospital. It's not exactly a bustling metropolis, is it?"

  I grinned. "Sounds like you're no more a fan of Moose Haven than your husband."

  "It's pretty enough," she said vaguely. "But let's just say I won't be sad to get back to LA on Monday. Isn't it funny that my husband filmed the entire Fast and Dangerous franchise in Rio, and I wasn't there for a single one of them? Now I make the time to visit him on set, and it's in the middle of nowhere. Nowhere is no place for a city girl." She paused. "Are you in the film industry, Maddie?"

  I shook my head.

  The corner of her perfectly lined mouth quirked up in amusement. "In that case, I apologize for my husband's behavior."

  "You don't have to do that," I told her.

  "Yes, I probably do," she said. "He can be pretty intense when he's working. I'm sure I needn't say more."

  She definitely needn't.

  "His bark is worse than his bite," she added. "Although he's definitely got a loud bark."

  I smiled politely, not wanting to risk offending her by criticizing her husband. Even though she was absolutely right.

  Suddenly the sound of a door slamming cracked through the cool air.

  I spun around to see Dana exiting Jasper Frost's trailer, her hands fisted at her sides, her face contoured with anger.

  "Will you excuse me?" I said. "It was very nice to meet you, Selma."

  "You, too, Maddie," she called after me, her eyes on the trailer door, her brows drawn down in confusion.

  I caught up with Dana at the door to her own trailer and watched as she wordlessly ripped it open and stormed inside.

  I followed her in, noticing Selma still standing where I'd left her, watching us as I pulled the door closed behind me. "What's wrong?" I asked, concerned. "What happened with Frost?"

  "Nothing." Dana tried to take off her costume with shaking fingers, but she seemed unable to get a grip on the tiny buttons.

  "Here, let me help," I offered, taking over.

  She breathed heavily, her mouth clenched in a taut line.

  "Was it about that last scene? Because I think you showed some genuine emotion there," I told her.

  But she shook her head. "No."

  "He cut some lines for tomorrow?"

  More head shaking.

  "Was it—"

  "Look, I don't want to talk about it, okay?" she barked out, cutting me off.

  I pursed my lips. "Okay."

  She let out a long, shaky breath. "Sorry."

  "No, it's okay." I assured her, finishing the last of her buttons. "Clearly he upset you."

  "That's an understatement," she said,
fire still flashing in her eyes. She steadied herself with a hand on my shoulder as she stepped out of the costume. I folded the voluminous layers as best I could and draped it over a chair.

  "That should go back to wardrobe," she mumbled.

  "Oh." I reached for it. "I can take it. Just tell me—"

  "That's alright. I'll do it tomorrow. Everyone's gone by now, anyway."

  I cleared off a chair and sat. "Dana, what did he say?" I asked softly.

  "I said I don't want to talk about it." She flung her wig onto the table, kicked aside her shoes, and reached for her jeans.

  "He didn't fire you, did he?"

  "No." She pulled her sweater over her head. "Look, let's just go get a drink so I can put this entire day behind me, okay?"

  "Sure. Okay." I waited while she scrubbed off her makeup, hoping that a drink or two in a different environment might help her relax enough to talk about whatever had angered her so much.

  CHAPTER THREE

  "Well, this is charming," I said, trying my hand at optimism.

  We'd grabbed two seats at the bar in the Tipsy Moose Tavern, which had gone so heavy on the moose décor, I wondered if it kept a taxidermist on the payroll. Beyond featuring the requisite mounted moose heads and antler light fixtures, the Tipsy Moose had several framed photos of impressive looking moose mounted on the walls. One side of the room was filled with tables and chairs in dark, scarred wood, carved with moose antlers along the sides. Most of the tables were currently filled with members of the Lord of the Throne cast and crew munching on fries, chicken fingers, and burgers. The other side of the room held a slightly battered red-felted pool table and a silent jukebox with a picture of a moose in an Elvis wig painted on the side.

  Dana and I sat at a straight line bar running the length of the far wall, manned by a burly forty-something with a dark beard, a flannel shirt, and a slightly crooked nose. We'd learned his name was Brock when he'd negotiated Dana out of a Chateau de Pressac Bordeaux and into a moose-tini. Which, as it turned out, was a martini made with black currant vodka and raspberry liqueur. After learning it contained zero moose parts, I'd joined her.

  "So, you sure you don't want to talk about it?" I pressed, sipping at my drink. Which was actually surprisingly yummy.

  "Maybe after another a few more of these." Dana held up her glass, studying her drink for a moment before draining it and signaling for another. "Brock had the right idea with these things."

  "Hey!" A paunchy white-haired man at the end of the bar stared at us. "You with that movie, ain'tcha? Them Hollywood people."

  Several heads swiveled toward us.

  "Them Hollywood people? This day just gets better," Dana muttered.

  "He's probably a movie buff," I said, going for optimism. "Maybe even a fan. Just watch—he might ask you for your autograph."

  "You people are scarin' away all the beavers." The man narrowed his eyes at us, his mouth curling into a snarl.

  Okay, so not a fan.

  "Beavers?" I asked.

  "That's right. It's beaver mating season, and all y' noise is scaring 'em from…y' know."

  "From mating?" I bit my lower lip to keep from laughing.

  "It ain't funny," the man said, dropping his beer glass on the bar with a thud. "Them beaver don't mate, and we don't get enough dams. Then what do you think's gonna happen come salmon spawning season?"

  A small snort escaped my lips. I couldn't even imagine.

  "Maybe we should play them some romantic music to get them in the mood," Dana joked, her moose-tini obviously kicking in.

  "Some low lighting?" I suggested. "A little Barry White?"

  "Don't you be making fun of the beavers!" the man shouted.

  "Settle down, Gus," Brock told the man, coming up to refill Dana's glass.

  Gus settled as told, sitting back on his stool, though he was still shooting daggers our way.

  "Geez, I thought Canadians were supposed to be friendly," I mumbled.

  "Maddie!" Dana shot me a look. "That is a racist stereotype."

  I blinked at her, trying to ascertain if she was being serious. It was hard to tell around the second moose-tini she was pounding back.

  "Maybe we should order something to eat," I suggested.

  "Good idea," Dana agreed, setting her empty glass on the bar top.

  The white-haired man had been joined by some friends—all of them wearing flannel, all of them glaring at us as if we'd committed a cardinal sin, like ordering craft beer. Apparently they took their beavers as seriously as their moose around here.

  "Uh, maybe we should order to go," I suggested, not at all liking the way the locals were eyeing us. Not that I thought they'd actually attack us. But the glares were a bit unnerving.

  Twenty minutes later, we were back in Dana's room at the Big Moose Hotel, conveniently located just a few steps from the Tipsy Moose tavern, enjoying our take-out meals. Mine a cheeseburger with all the trimmings and Dana's a plain patty on lettuce. Probably why my hips were hourglass-padded and hers looked like a movie star's.

  Her hotel room was a duplicate of the one I had next door—on the small side but clean, with a pale peach and sage green color scheme, a fluffy sage comforter on the bed, and a beige Berber on the floor. The bathroom was white-on-white. Everything looked freshly painted. Thankfully, there wasn't a moose head in sight.

  "What a day." Dana splashed herself across the bed with a sigh. "What was I thinking, going into acting? I should've gotten a job selling french fries. At least I'd enjoy that."

  "I haven't seen you eat a french fry in ten years," I said. Dana's body was a temple, to which she made the regular sacrifice of eating clean and dedicating half her life to the gym. I would call her a masochist, but I had a strange feeling she actually liked it. "And you do enjoy acting," I added.

  "Fourteen-hour days, being yelled at by a narcissistic director, stuck out in the middle of nowhere? Yeah. There's a lot to love there."

  "But if you weren't acting"—I spread my hands—"you'd miss seeing these great tourist destinations."

  Dana propped herself on one elbow. "I can't believe I'm saying this. I know Moose Haven is a long way from LA, but it's kind of pretty, don't you think?"

  In an Elmer Fudd's paradise kind of way. "It's a shame you don't have time to see more of it."

  Dana grinned. "You mean there's more to it than four blocks?"

  "There has to be," I said. "It just seems tiny compared to LA."

  "Nope." She sat up to take a drink of water. "It seems tiny because it is tiny. There's not a single Starbucks or movie theater or—"

  I held up my hands in surrender. "I get it. But it is kind of surprising there are two hotels in such a small place. We must be missing something."

  "Well, if I get a spare three minutes tomorrow, we'll go look for it."

  There was my opening. "Speaking of tomorrow, is there a problem between you and Frost?"

  "Sooner or later, everyone has a problem with Frost." She shrugged. "Usually sooner."

  "I noticed that. But what happened in his trailer that made you so mad?"

  She peeled the label from her bottle in strips, saying nothing.

  "You still don't want to talk about it."

  Her silence answered that.

  "Well, you know I'm here for you if you do," I told her, wiping my mouth on a napkin.

  "There's only one thing I want to talk about right now," she said firmly.

  "What's that?"

  "Can I try a french fry? For old times' sake."

  * * *

  "Maybe I should go knock on his trailer door," Tarrin said at ten minutes past eight the next morning. The 1st AD checked her wristwatch again. "We need to get started if we have any hope at all of keeping to the schedule today."

  Filming had been set to begin roughly forty-five minutes earlier. The actors, in full costume and makeup, sat chatting together, clearly reluctant to risk returning to their trailers in case Frost and his megaphone showed up, ready to go.
His wife, Selma, was perched in the director's chair, perfectly turned out and seemingly unconcerned about her husband's lateness.

  "Give him another few minutes," she said. "He might be on an international call."

  "We don't have too much time." Tarrin glanced at her watch again. "We have scenes to make up from yesterday."

  "He'll be here," Selma said, apparently used to her husband's eccentricities.

  Another ten minutes ticked by while everyone grew more restless. Some of the crew members pulled out their phones, holding them up to the trees as if searching for a few bars. The drawbridge was open and serving as a seat for a dozen Elves armed with the medieval swords I'd admired the previous night. A few of the actors outfitted as Bobbits—the race of small, troll-like people—were vaping near hair and makeup. Evil Prince Demoy nursed a can of orange juice. In the corner, Alia Altor and some of the Dragon Queen's minions moved slowly through a group yoga session. An epic battle between good and evil was on the horizon, provided the catering truck didn't arrive first to set up lunch.

  After another five minutes, Tarrin spoke up with obvious reluctance. "We can't wait any longer. We're losing the morning light. I think I should go check on Frost."

  No one argued with her. No one offered to go in her place, either.

  She squared her shoulders. "I'll be right back, everyone."

  "Take your time," someone called out.

  Light chuckles rippled across the set.

  I watched her head for Frost's trailer. "She's brave."

  Dana shook her head. "She'll be fine. It's her job to deal with him. She can handle it."

  I glanced around for Selma Frost, thinking it was her job to handle it, but Selma had disappeared, probably on her way to the hotel to pack her bags for a flight back to Los Angeles.

  "You guys do an awful lot of waiting around on set, don't you?" I noted, stamping my ankle boots in the dirt to keep feeling in my feet. While they were slightly more practical than the pumps I'd worn the day before, they still sported a three-inch heel, which was made for showing off my calves in the circle skirt I'd picked out that morning and not for standing around for hours on end.