Act it Out (A Hailey Webb Mystery, Volume 2)

by Deany Ray

  I was still pondering about that when I pulled into my complex, noticing that my old-lady neighbor was in my spot. Again. I sighed. Was it a vision issue? Couldn’t she read the sign? If that were the case, she so should not be on the road. I maneuvered the truck into the guest spot, which was a tighter fit. Damn. I was also farther from the entrance—double inconvenient with so much to unpack.

  I turned off the ignition and was unfastening my seat belt when the “Darth Vader's Theme” blasted through the truck. I groaned in frustration. The cell was programmed to play “The Imperial March” from Star Wars as a red alert: incoming call from Mom.

  Not that I didn't love my mother; we got along just fine. Let's just say that she was . . . well, my mother was high strung, which would be an understatement. To the world, she was Sheryl Selway, high-powered superstar in the PR world. I was the only one who got to see the needy, almost clingy version, who used excuses like picking up prescriptions and going to appointments with company so that she could see her daughter.

  Almost worse were the incessant calls about my own private stuff, which could not be ignored. If I didn't call her back in fifteen minutes, tops, I must be dead or gravely injured, and she'd grow hysterical.

  The drama could be due in part to her living on her own; she and my dad were long divorced. I suspected, though, that drama simply was a thing that drew Sheryl Selway in. To add to her talents for interfering in my life, she always seemed to call when my patience or my free time was running extra low.

  I looked down at my cell, thinking I should probably just pick up and get it over with. I had programmed that ringtone right away when I got my new phone about three weeks before. My old one had gotten broken on the job, and Kat had provided me with an “antique” flip phone to tide me over in the meantime.

  I sighed and pushed “accept.”

  “Hey, Mom.”

  As usual, a wail came in place of “Hello.”

  “Hailey!” She drew out my name as if she were in pain. “Please tell me you haven’t forgotten you're going in with me on Monday for my surgical procedure.”

  With reminders twice a day for the past two weeks, I couldn’t have forgotten, even factoring in an aneurysm. “Yes. I've already asked to take off early from the paper. I’ll drive you to Dr. Goldblatt’s. You don’t have to worry about it. I’ll be there, okay? Mom, I really need to run now, but I promise we're all set.” My mother was having laser surgery on her eyes. She hated wearing contacts, and glasses weren't in keeping with the youthful vibrance that she craved.

  “How much time did you ask for specifically, Hailey? This absolutely cannot be a thing where you drop me off and run. Not with something as vitally important as my eyes. I’m going to need you to stay right there in the office. What if something were to happen?” I could hear her give a little shudder.

  “Mom, as I said before, I’m going to stay there the entire time, and I’m—”

  “It's so frightening,” she continued, moaning. “My eyes are going to be all bandaged, and I’m not to take the wrappings off for six whole hours, darling. I’m going to be helpless. And I hate being helpless. You can understand that I cannot be expected to climb into a vehicle and drive myself home.”

  I counted to three and breathed. “Mom, no one is expecting you to do anything like that when I will be right there.”

  “This is important, Hailey. It never hurts to double-check.”

  To zillion-check, however, was a bit too much. Sometimes I wished I had a little rubber toy to squeeze—a stress-ball kind of thing—during conversations with my mother. “Mom, it's been a long day, and I really need to run. I’ll see you on Monday, and your eyes will be just fine. Love you! Get some rest.” I rushed those last words into one big, long one and hung up superfast before the next round of wails could commence.

  After banging my head on the steering wheel a couple of times, I closed my eyes and took a calming moment before exiting the truck. I moved to the back to take off the tarp that was protecting all my treasures. I was excited to bring my new stuff into my apartment, especially after the unfortunate conversational with my mother.

  While I loved a successful day out at the shops, my favorite part came later, when I could set out my new things in their perfect spots. That's when they felt truly mine. I was picturing the new rug in my living room when I grabbed one end of the tarp. I imagined the new art above the sleeper couch as I pulled the covering away. It was looking fuller underneath there than I had remembered.

  I was about to climb into the bed of the truck to get the nightstand out when a figure leaped out and lunged at me with a crowbar in his hand.

  I shrieked and almost lost my balance.

  It took a second for my brain to comprehend what was going on. But then I recognized those eyes, those chiseled features, that shock of golden hair.

  It was Amery Fitzgerald.

  Chapter Three

  “What the . . . how did you . . . this is where you . . .” I stumbled over every word.

  But he didn’t have time to chat.

  He grabbed my arm so hard it hurt.

  With a pounding heart, I screamed, imagining the crowbar being slammed into my skull. I was terrified to move but also terrified to stay. Instinctively, I pulled my arm away and tried to make a run for the door of the apartment building. Not that I was an athlete, but with a crazy person after me, I was betting I could manage to work up some lightning speed.

  Unfortunately, he was faster. He grabbed me from behind and clapped a hand over my mouth. “Don’t run and I won’t hurt you.”

  I wanted to believe him, but how can you trust a nut?

  Giving up on the idea of running for my life, I desperately looked around the parking lot, which was full of cars. There was no sign of people or movement anywhere. Where the heck was everyone? It was Saturday. They should come out of their apartments, run errands, go see friends. All I needed was one person to drive close enough to see us and make a call. Stat! He was already shoving me back to the truck. A dizziness overcame me, and I thought I would pass out.

  “Back into the truck,” he barked. “Now!” He shoved me through the passenger door and nudged me to scoot over into the driver’s seat. Then he climbed in beside me and slammed the door. “Get us out of here.”

  Half-frozen in my terror, I stared into the deep-set eyes across from me. Unlike in the movies, they were filled with desperation rather than the cocky confidence he usually had going on.

  “Move! You forget how to drive or something?” he yelled.

  “Yes . . . drive!” My hands were trembling so much I could barely get the keys into the ignition. Still feeling faint, I managed to start up the truck and pull to the exit. “Left or right?”

  “What the hell do I care about left or right? Just drive the truck already.” I could see he was shaking too. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Okay, I’m sorry. I’m just going through some things.”

  Was this guy for real?

  I pulled onto the road as thoughts swirled through my mind. Not that long ago I'd joked with Mike about how major this news day had become. Now I wondered if it would be my picture up there on the website next to a shot of the downed plane. The headline would be “Gazette Staffer Killed.” I’d bet it would sell like gangbusters.

  I was so caught up in my own thoughts, I almost blew through a stop sign. Just in time, I slammed my foot against the brake.

  “Watch it!” Fitzgerald touched my shoulder. Okay, so, in my dreams, him touching my shoulder would have meant a completely different thing than what it did now. “You can't be driving like that. The last thing I need is to get stopped by the damn cops.”

  Nope, this definitely wouldn’t have happened in my dreams. This was some twisted parallel reality kind of nightmare.

  After we drove a while in silence, I decided I had to speak. Too many scary thoughts were popping up in the quiet of the truck. “So what now?”

  He shrugged.

  “Where are we he
ading to?”

  He shrugged again.

  Awesome conversation.

  “Are you going to hurt me?”

  He turned to me. “No, I’m not. Just don’t do anything dumb.”

  Okey-dokey.

  Was that compassion in his voice? Or was that wishful thinking? I stole a look at him, and the weirdness of the situation hit me with a force. Amery Fitzgerald. Was sitting. Next. To. Me. Holding me hostage, but okay.

  I turned my eyes back to the road. A million times I'd imagined being close to him like this. But as I sensed the man shifting next to me in his seat, it was more disappointment and not some romantic thrill that came coursing through me.

  “We’re going downtown,” he finally said.

  If this were a movie, this would be the point where movie Amery would save me from this creep who looked like him and talked like him and would probably kill me any minute.

  It was like he read my thoughts. “You really, really don't have to worry.”

  Gee, I don’t?

  He sounded more frustrated now than mean. “I just need transport. Drive me to the city, and you’re free to go. But I would advise you not to call the cops. I do know where you live.”

  It was like he had two personalities. I wondered which one would finally get ahold of him.

  I nodded, not really sure how serious this man was. I got the impression he used movie-like threats to make his point. And he should know them.

  I stole another glance at him, noting with surprise how weirdly normal this guy looked. Not like a half-crazed killer or a movie legend, but someone you would see picking out a box of cereal in the grocery aisle or walking down the street. He wasn't smoothly shaven like he was on the screen, and that sexy smirk was gone. Amery Fitzgerald—right there in the truck with me—seemed like a normal guy, a magnificent, muscled, extra-fine version of a normal guy. I allowed my thoughts to dwell on the way his biceps bulged from his black tee, which, like his khaki pants, had gotten really rumpled. Ridiculous, I knew, but better to think about his biceps than the amount of potential danger I currently was in. His hair was mussed up in a way that made me want to smooth it down. But I dared not touch.

  Okay, it was time to snap out of it. This guy was charged with putting a bullet through his costar, then he broke out of jail, sort of, stole a plane, took me hostage, and came at me with a crowbar, one he’s still holding in his hand with a tight grip.

  He rummaged through the glove compartment, causing me to start. He pulled out a purple baseball cap with a black rim: Mike’s favorite cap, complete with the insignia for the Colorado Rockies, not a familiar sight here in California. I had teased him more than once about the cap, which despite being somewhat worn, was still so purple that it almost glowed. It also brought him a lot of grief from the guys in sports when the Rockies played the Dodgers.

  Fitzgerald pulled the cap on. He stared nervously around us at the passing cars. “Every cop in this damn town is on the hunt for me; this is a freaking nightmare,” he said, slumping down in his seat.

  That was true, indeed. We had about ten minutes to get downtown. In ten minutes, this whole thing would be over.

  Or Fitzgerald could snap. He'd run from the police station. He'd stolen someone's plane. That meant he was desperate, and a desperate guy right beside me with a crowbar couldn’t be good news.

  He couldn’t sit still, his head darting left and right as he periodically barked out “Turn right,” or “Take this side street here.”

  “So tell me something,” I said. “Did you really kill Victoria?”

  He whipped his head around to face me. “No, I didn’t. Why doesn’t anyone believe me?”

  “Um . . . because she’s dead?”

  He glared. “I had no idea that was a real gun. I was framed!”

  “Okay, okay!” I said. I hoped he wouldn’t grab the crowbar and bash my head in. “I’m a fan!” I chirped inanely, although he could care less right now.

  In a softer voice, he said, “I’m really not a killer. I would never . . .” He let his voice trail off.

  “You know, just some advice, for what's it worth: running from the cops is not going to help your case.”

  “Well, thanks,” he said with a pinch of sarcasm. “But if we’re giving out advice, you should be nicer to your mom.”

  “Excuse me?” Was I hearing things?

  “I heard you talking to her,” he said. “I gathered she was scared.”

  “You know what, pal? That’s none of your business, okay?” Sheesh, like I was going to take lessons on being nice from him. The man with the crowbar.

  I saw him roll his eyes. “Whatever.”

  “So why did you run?” I asked.

  He ran his hands through his hair. “The thing about it is that I can't go to prison. I know what prison is like. I've been there before to research a part. That was some horrific stuff, stuff I don't even want to mention. And I’m not going to do it. No way. Because I am not a killer.”

  I caught a tremble in his voice, and again I felt the contrast between my fantasy and this screwup in the truck. He went from hot lover to hot mess.

  At the same time, I kind of believed him when he said he was framed, or I wanted to at least. There was something in his voice that sounded . . . authentic. Or maybe he was really just a terrific actor. I felt kind of sorry for him despite the fact that terrorizing me was part of his stupid plan. “Don't you think it would make sense not to do things that can only add to any time you get in prison?”

  “Well, if I do this right, there will be no prison time. And there shouldn’t be for a crime I didn’t commit.”

  “Even if you’re innocent, you did escape from police custody and steal a plane,” I said.

  “I know.” He sighed. “But I’m thinking the time I’d get is shorter.” He groaned. “What a disaster of a flight. I can’t believe they left the plane with hardly any fuel. Who does that?” He tapped his foot furiously on the floor. “What I'm really hoping is that I can strike a deal.” He leaned forward in his seat. “Take a left beside this building.”

  I complied.

  “What kind of deal?” I asked.

  “If I could somehow provide them with the real killer, then you bet your sweet bippy I’m striking a deal,” he said.

  I wished he didn’t mention my bippy. I had a hard time focusing on driving as it was.

  “Gee, well then, good luck with that,” I said.

  He sank in his seat and lowered the cap over his forehead. “Nobody believes I didn’t do it. Nobody. Not even my lawyer.” I sensed disappointment and sorrow mingling in his voice. In that second, he sounded like a man who’d been wronged by the whole world. Then again, he was an actor.

  “Is there a way to prove you didn't do it?” I asked.

  “I'll figure something out.”

  Here was a man, it hit me, who was used to things working out for him. He had grown accustomed to having people jump to meet his every need. That’s the way I imagined it at least. This seemed to be new territory for him: trouble that he couldn’t snap his finger to get out of. “Get out of jail for free” was not a perk for movie stars, like the best tables at restaurants and champagne on arrival. I figured his only plan for now was to survive, a plan that didn’t extend into the future by five minutes even.

  Which meant there may not have been a plan to tell me to pull over so he could get out of the truck.

  “Where are we going anyway?” I stopped as we hit traffic closer to the city. I hoped he had somewhere in mind by now, and I hoped like hell it was close.

  “Still unsure,” he said.

  “Oh. Well . . . yes, I see. I guess being famous makes it hard to hide.”

  “There are wigs, and there are hoodies and other ways to hide my face. Which I shouldn't have to do.” He scowled and banged the back of his head against the headrest as his anger bubbled up. “There is someone out there who wanted her to die and who planned out the whole thing. That person is out there fre
e, living their life, and I have to run. This sucks.”

  “Yes, I know it does.” I hoped he wouldn’t lose it on me now. I had to do my best to keep him as stable as possible so I could walk away from this unhurt and undead. But how? With flattery, perhaps? “You know,” I said, “those were quite the moves. Escaping like you did. Almost like the movies.”

  “Except in the damn movies, the plane would have freaking fuel, and I wouldn't have to fly the thing into a ditch.” His face was turning slightly red. Uh-oh. My plan may have backfired.

  “I really thought I could fly that plane,” he said. “My characters are always doing stuff like that: jumping into planes, or ships, or submarines. And I always have to learn how to do that. For my last movie, I took flying lessons.”

  “Did you learn to fly a plane for Revenge, Be Sweet?”

  “Yes, it had to look real,” he said. “I used a simulator, and I flew with an experienced pilot. And when I saw that private jet at the hangar, I knew that could get me the heck out of here.”

  We passed some upscale shops, then moved into the more crowded part of town, frequently stopping for traffic. I could tell the crowded streets were making him more nervous, and I prayed he'd just pick some quiet street off to the side and get out of the truck already.

  In the Honda beside me, two teen girls were bouncing to some music. I wished there was a way I could discreetly signal to them I was in trouble. They turned the music up and stepped on the gas. There went my chance. My only choice to escape at that moment would have been to just jump out of the moving car. However, I was not as crazy as the maniac sitting beside me.

  I turned to him. “Who do you think killed Victoria, then?” To be completely honest, I was curious as hell.