by Deany Ray
First, though, she peppered me with questions about Fitzgerald’s posture and his tone of voice, any juicy detail. “I can’t believe he was right there with you in that truck.”
“I can’t believe he drove off and stole it.”
“So disappointing,” she said with a sigh, “to find out he’s a jerk. I think I’m going to need a drink, and if there was ever anybody in the history of the world who deserved a drink, that girl would be you.” She paused. “Or I guess it could be me. While you were off on your adventure, I was in that room, about to die of boredom. I think I hate my job already.”
“You haven’t even started,” I said.
“Well then, I can predict the future.”
“That’s super for you, but I could have died today, so I have you beat,” I said.
“Guess we both deserve a splurge,” she said, clasping her hands together as if it had been decided. “Let’s treat ourselves to Neddy’s. But I’ll have to borrow something from your closet.” She looked down at her plain white blouse and slacks, which did not exactly scream of a fun night out.
“That sounds good, but as you may have picked up from my story, I am now again broke.”
“Drinks are on me,” she said. “Okay, let’s check out your closet.”
Now, sitting at the bar, we ordered a second round, then Kat touched my hand. “You know I have a little saved up and you can borrow if it comes to that, right? You still need to pay rent and stuff.”
I smiled at her. “That’s so sweet, Kat, but I’m good. If worse comes to worst, I’ll borrow some from my mom.” I shuddered at the thought.
“Really?” Kat raised an eyebrow.
I shrugged. “You know her. She’ll be more than happy to do it.” Dollars were the love language my mother understood—and she had lots of dollars. I, on the other hand, insisted on paying my own way like the grown-up that I was. But if I had to have her money to keep the lights on, though, I’d be grateful it was there.
I took another sip of my margarita when my phone began to vibrate. It was Mike. I hoped he had good news and they found his truck. That would be a reason for round number three. More margaritas coming up.
Thought you should know, the text read.
Below it was a picture. I held my phone closer to study the photo he’d sent. It was a post on Instagram from Amery Fitzgerald.
To all my loving fans: I thank you for your support, and now I need your help. I am offering a reward, and my eternal gratitude, to whoever can provide the proof that I had NOTHING WHATSOVER to do with the tragic death of Victoria Fleming. $100,000 and a date with me.
Chapter Five
I nearly choked on the last sip of my margarita. “This can’t be happening,” I said absently.
“What’s wrong?” Kat asked.
I pushed my phone at her.
Her eyes grew wide as she read. “Noooo!”
“I don’t believe this,” I said. “Is he crazy? Who does this?”
Kat blew out a low whistle. “This is absolutely nuts.”
“It’s more than that.” I took back my phone. “A hundred thousand dollars for giving information? How about some cold, hard cash for his terrorized chauffeur-under-pressure? The only reason he can offer up his riches is because he stole from me.” I was livid now.
“Okay, Mr. Sexy Pants is bonkers.” Kat twirled her empty glass. “But you have to admit his plan is kind of genius too.”
I got what she was saying. Millions of screaming fans would give anything—even now—to be close to him. Why not put that to good use? One of them could have an inspiration or some secret information . . . or a convincing lie. I wasn’t really sure what Fitzgerald was expecting—if anything at all. This could just be a line thrown out to the universe in hopes that someone would grab hold and pull him back to safety.
“Even if you hate him, for a hundred thousand dollars, most people would talk,” Kat said. “This could work. I wish I could do some talking and make some money quick.”
I shot her a look.
“Yeah, okay, I wouldn’t,” Kat said sheepishly. “But I would share the money with you.”
I laughed. “I’d be very grateful for that.”
“So now what?” Kat asked. “I suggest another round of drinks.” She waved at the bartender.
I thought about it. First, I replied to Mike. The plot thickens. I added three surprised emojis as the bartender brought our drinks.
Next, it was time to strike back.
“Drink up,” I said to Kat. “Time to make a plan.”
***
The next day I was up by seven. Although it was a Sunday, this was not a day to linger underneath the covers. Way too much to do. I hopped into the shower, then put on some capris and a cute navy top. After that, I took my coffee out to the balcony along with a napkin from last night, filled with notes by me and Kat on how to get a hundred thousand dollars from a lunatic. I grabbed a pen as well, then settled into my chair to muse and plan. The sun against my face felt nice as I took that first sweet sip of coffee.
I gazed at the scribbled notes, determined not to let that jerk give away my money. First on the agenda was to find out what had really happened on that movie set. The thought of Fitzgerald out there free filled me with a rage. I had visions of him driving off to some distant state in Mike’s truck, never to be seen again. I worried that the money from my savings would stay caught up in limbo as the bank went through its motions to process my “dispute.” What dispute? I wanted to yell at the patronizing voice on the recording. I worked hard for my money, and the douche is a thief. That’s all the information you need.
That would really take the cake—for him to take the little bit of extra I had and offer someone else more money than I had ever had in my whole life.
Kat and I had dreamed big on that small, square napkin with Neddy’s scrolled in fancy cursive on the corner.
Item One: Get onto The Impact of Justice set, where Victoria Fleming had met her end. If someone had really framed Fitzgerald, they must have known what was in the script—that he would pick that gun up and fire it at Fleming. That meant it was a good bet the killer was someone from the set and they would still be hanging out there, where work was still proceeding despite the tragic loss.
I thought about the motives that could be attached to a desperate act like that. I supposed money was a common reason for that kind of thing, or it could have been love gone wrong. Fleming and Fitzgerald were always in and out of romantic scandals, according to the TV and the magazines.
I took another sip of coffee, savoring the rich and nutty blend. It was crazy to me that filming had continued with minimal delays despite one star being on the run and the other dead. If that was not enough to shut a movie down . . . well, movies were the thing here in Southern California; the show, it must go on.
The Gazette’s movie section had reported that producers had recast right away. Budgets for movies in Palm Shores did not have as much wiggle room as those shot in LA, and shutting down and starting up again, I guessed, would have meant eating too much cost.
So off to the set we would try to go, although it would be even more closely guarded than before. In addition to looking for a person with a grudge against Fitzgerald, we had to consider that the target might have been her, not him. Fitzgerald could have simply been a way for the killer to deflect attention from himself.
Also on the agenda, learning more about the victim and what enemies she could have had. I knew she was gorgeous but not a whole lot else. I’d seen her pictures in the magazines and admired her clothes as she made her way through airports in Paris and Milan with her trademark oversized Prada sunglasses and her three-inch heels. That and a few movies pretty much summed up my knowledge of the victim.
I headed to the kitchen and made myself some oatmeal, with my plans for the day still forming in my mind.
Kat was fast last night when I first floated the idea of somehow stepping onto the crime scene to explore. “I know it’s
a long shot, but we have to try at least,” I’d said.
Her response had been to pick up her phone and type. “Don’t worry, I’ve got it,” she said after a moment. “Okay, we’re in. They have catered dinners on the set of the movie, and they need drivers in the evenings. It turns out Kat and Hailey have their evenings free, and they want to be on set. It’s a perfect match!”
I stared at her, amazed. “How did you do that? Kat, that could really work.”
She shrugged. “You know I’m a frequent visitor to the help-wanted ads. Plus, I was a barista at the restaurant that put out the ad. Our new employer will be the restaurant Cocoa. Remember when I had that job?”
“No, I really don’t. There have been so many jobs.” Kat’s free-spirited joi de vivre did not lend itself to the requirements of most any kind of work, so jobs came and went for her at a rapid speed—except for her dog walking, which was her only constant. However, one of the waitresses with whom she kept in touch had mentioned the movie job to Kat. That explained why she had zeroed in on it so quickly when I had suggested an investigation on the set. She was going to call today, and I expected to get a text any moment, letting me know we were in.
“The owner’s cool,” Kat had said optimistically. “I’m sure she’ll be thrilled we want the job.”
***
Our plan worked like a charm. The owner, whose name was also Cocoa, had hired us on the phone. It seemed Cocoa had been relieved when Kat agreed we could start work right away.
“Right away, as in . . .”
“Tonight.”
“Okay. Wow.”
Just like that, it seemed, I had a second job.
I picked up Kat at 6:30 p.m., and we made our way to Cocoa, which was located in the heart of downtown Palm Shores. We found it nestled among some shops that made me long even more for my stolen money. The place was cool and hip, and the smells of food and coffee made me think I needed to get myself back there very soon for a pastry and a latte.
Cocoa, a tall woman in her fifties, had dark-brown, shoulder-length, wavy hair. Kat mentioned her parents came from Réunion, a French overseas island located in the midst of the Indian Ocean. She seemed happy to see Kat who, I soon understood, had been among the more popular baristas at the place. My new boss shook my hand after Kat made the introductions. “Welcome to the team,” she told me with a smile.
She then explained the process of setting up and serving. We were to set the food up, hang out for about two hours to oversee the service, then load the stuff back into the restaurant’s van and head back to unload. She explained that food trucks or other caterers were there during the day while her staff handled dinner. “I was so happy when you called,” Cocoa said to Kat, including me in the warm smile. “It’s hard to find someone to work when you can only give them those few hours every day.”
“None of your other regular employees took the job?” I asked.
Cocoa shook her head. “They start early at the restaurant, and for them to be working this late, I’d have to institute two shifts.”
“Which means your costs would go higher,” I said.
“Exactly,” Cocoa said.
“Well, we’re glad to give you a hand,” I said.
“Great. The van is already loaded.” She nodded toward a door behind the counter. “If you don’t have other questions, you’ll find the van in the back, all ready for the trip.” She handed me the keys.
Kat and I walked out to the van, which was decorated with a line of flashy silver knives and forks. “Cocoa” was spelled out neatly on the door in black and white.
“Can you drive this thing?” Kat asked. “This is a big van.”
“I’ll just go slow,” I said, opening the driver’s door and climbing in. We’d given ourselves enough time, thankfully, to allow for traffic or surprises. Kat got in too, and we were off.
“I’m so excited to see the set.” Kat clapped her hands like a little kid. “I was an extra once for just a single day, but being there every single night will give us a whole new perspective.”
I did have to admit I was curious as well. For a SoCal girl, I didn’t know every single detail about the movie business, although there was no way to avoid it altogether. I’d happened upon a few scenes that were being shot out on the streets and been fascinated. I always stopped to watch if I had the time. However, I didn’t have any connections in the industry. There was always someone who knew someone who directed, or their mom had cut the hair of some unnamed star. Perhaps they themselves had stood next to some A-lister in a scene and had an honest-to-goodness line.
I glanced at Kat next to me and had to smile. Guess she was now my connection.
I also wondered if we’d even be close enough to see any filming on this job. There might be a kind of “dinner hour” when the filming stopped. I had no idea how that worked.
“I’m still amazed you found this,” I told Kat as I navigated off the interstate. “My life is going to be crazy with one job in the daytime and another job at night.” It was only a few hours, but those were the only hours I had to myself except for the weekend.
“For a hundred thousand dollars, you can suck it up,” Kat told me with a smile.
I laughed. “Aren’t you the funny one?”
“It works out well for me,” she said, gazing out the window. “Next Saturday is my last seminar on that accounting crap. I start work the following Monday.” She turned to me. “Does the Gazette know you’re going to be on the set?”
I cringed. I've kind of been oppressing that thought.
I shook my head in response.
“Are you going to tell them you’re on the set?” Kat asked.
I shook my head again.
“They’re so lucky to have you.” Kat laughed.
“You know I can’t tell them about it,” I said. “This is personal. I’m not going to be on set as a press person so I can’t give them any information. And you know they would want information. Especially while being in the midst of the Fleming and Fitzgerald events.”
“Yeah, I get it,” Kat said. “Just be sure to hide it really good.”
We found the place without any complications using the van’s GPS. It turned out we didn’t need it for the last bit of the drive. We could have recognized the place from the huge knot of fans pressing up against the gates.
“Jesus, what’s going on here?” Kat asked, craning her neck.
“Murder draws a crowd,” I said, “or maybe all of them are after the hundred thousand too.”
Kat smiled. “But we’ll be the only ones who get to drive through.”
I wanted to give her a high-five, but I had to focus on my driving as we pulled up to a station with two guards. The last thing I needed was to wipe out a fan. They barely gave us room to pass as they peered into the van with interest.
We identified ourselves to the man and woman at the gate by showing our IDs, and they wearily waved us through, after crossing us off their list. Both of them looked frazzled; Fitzgerald and his scheming had apparently turned their day into hell. I could sympathize.
We passed some trailers and some sets outdoors and I totally wanted to see a scene filming. As Cocoa had instructed, we parked near a building that seemed to be a bit away from the main action on the set. We unloaded the food (very hot!) and arranged them on long tables already set in place.
It was quite the spread. There were burritos and pasta dishes and plates of dessert along with healthy options, like fruit, hummus, avocado toast, and salmon. Plus a whole lot more! I regretted not eating something before I came to work. Seeing all that food left me feeling famished. Tomorrow I’d do better.
Kat studied the offerings, her hands on her hips. “Why have none of my zillions of other jobs ever come with catered meals?” she asked in awe. “They should list that in the ads, along with other basics like benefits, working hours and, well, you know—all that important stuff.”
Not ten minutes later, people began to mill around the area and ap
proach the tables.
“Remember why we’re here,” I told Kat quietly when no one was close by. “Be friendly, ask some questions.” If we could make a friend or two, that would be really awesome.
We kept fairly busy refilling trays, getting extra napkins, and brushing crumbs off the tables. You’d better believe, however, that it didn’t stop me from some first-class people-watching. I recognized a girl from the hospital drama that I loved to watch on Thursdays, and it felt a bit surreal to direct the lovelorn, much-beloved Nurse Patty to the salad dressing.
“Just over to your right,” I said. “Light Italian, ranch, and honey mustard.”
“Thanks, and lemon for the water?”
“At the end of that first table, near the napkins and the salt.”
It seemed odd to see her dealing calmly with such ordinary business. I was used to her being in a tizzy, rushing off to answer an alarm or trying to hold back tears when a patient neared the end. Otherwise, the actress looked pretty much the same as she did on TV, although maybe not so tall. Michaela Cohen was almost forty, although she didn’t look it. She had short brown hair and a cute birthmark underneath her right eye, which had become her trademark.
I had read that early on in her career, she was told to have it “taken care of.” She had insisted it was part of her unique look and would give her an extra edge. Standing up for herself like that had made me love her even more—and it had turned out she was right.
As I grabbed a dirty plate, Kat sidled up to me. “I don’t think I can breathe,” she said into my ear. “Vicente Torres to the left!”
I almost gasped before remembering I was a professional on set. My mother and I used to love the hunky Spanish actor on our favorite soap, Hot Nights and Teary Days. Now, there was Oscar buzz surrounding his first movie role last fall as an undercover cop.
When things slowed down for a minute, I looked around, gazing through an open door into the building next to us. I could see long hallways along with lots of cables, and I could feel an air of busyness about the place. People rushed about, speaking urgently into small devices, pushing carts with hanging clothes, and conferring with each other.
