by Deany Ray
“Hell yeah, I did. I thought he was Fitzgerald.”
“Yeah, I would have jumped him too.” She wiggled with her eyebrows.
Geez. The only way Fitzgerald would have liked that, was if Kat’s name was Kit.
We settled into a comfortable silence, and the drive went smoothly with no heavy traffic. I turned up some good tunes for us until we got to the set. When we arrived, we discovered that the fans were as enthusiastic—if not more—than they ever were. “Marry me, Amery!” one big sign declared. To make things even more pathetic, the exclamation point had a bright purple star where the dot was supposed to go.
“Don’t they know he isn’t here? I guess one day they’ll get tired,” I remarked to Kat. I also noticed that the guards were looking more annoyed from one evening to the next.
“Is it just me,” Kat asked, “or did the fan-atics grow in number?” Kat let out a honk of a laugh and gave my elbow a nudge. “Get it? Fan-atics?”
You had to love her.
“That’s your best one yet,” I teased.
I came to a stop and fished my ID from my purse as I waited behind two other cars in line to get onto the set. I rolled down my window, knowing my turn would arrive to get checked in. As one of the guards spoke to another driver, I noticed a familiar face in the crowd lined up near the entrance.
Crap. It was Ben Addison, one of the photographers who worked for the Gazette.
I saw him wave to someone and move closer to the van. Double crap with a bow around it! I couldn’t let him see me. It was one thing for Mike to know, but I didn’t want this to get out to others at the paper.
I instantly ducked down in my seat, smashing my head against the steering wheel. Ouch. That was going to leave a bump.
“What are you doing?” Kat asked.
I scrunched myself farther in my seat, and I turned my head to her and tried to whisper, “The photographer from the Gazette is here.”
Kat frowned. “The cartographer from the palette is here? What?”
I tried again. “No. The—”
“Ma’am, are you all right?” I was interrupted by the guard, who appeared by the window. The tone of her voice sounded grave. “Where is the driver?”
“Um . . .” Kat started, her eyes darting from the guard to me and back.
That was my cue to pop up. “Hi.”
The guard frowned.
“Everything is cool. I . . . um . . . was just looking for my . . . lip gloss!” I managed to stammer out.
She didn’t look convinced. “Must have been some important lip gloss.”
“Yeah, I’m totally addicted to those.” I smiled, wishing they would hurry up and let the cars get through. I shifted in my seat. If I twisted just the right way, the guard would keep me blocked from Ben’s line of vision.
She frowned even more as I gyrated in my seat, trying to “hide” from Ben with her as a shield. “Do you have an itch?” she asked.
“What? Me? No. Everything is good!”
She still eyed me suspiciously. “And did you find your lip gloss?”
“I . . . um . . .”
“Got it!” Kat called out. The guard and me whipped our heads around. Kat was holding triumphantly a tube of light pink gloss in her hand. “It was in between the seats.”
The guard gave us one last frown as the car ahead moved forward. We handed her our IDs, and, thankfully, we were in.
“Okay, what was up with the gymnastics?” Kat looked at me, confused.
“A photographer from the Gazette was here taking pictures.” I let out a breath I was holding in. “It’s okay for Mike to know, but I’d prefer it was only him. They’d be at me all the time for information if they knew I was working here.”
“Oooh. Now I get it,” she said. “Sheesh, everywhere you go, you gotta be careful.”
“I know,” I said. “My life was way easier up until a couple of days ago. By the way, I’ve never seen that lip gloss in my life. I take it it’s yours?”
“Luckily, I had it in the pocket of my purse, and I grabbed it fast.” She grinned. “I got your back.”
“That was quick thinking,” I said. “And I know you do.”
I pulled into our usual spot and turned off the engine. “Let’s do this thing,” I told Kat.
We got to work carrying the trays of food to the tables. Tonight there was pork souvlaki, fettucine, crispy tofu with a maple glaze, and a host of other options. People began to wander over almost right away, drawn by the sweet aromas. Susi was among the first to get there, arriving with two other women. She held her hand up in hello, and I watched her fill her plate with some salad and a sandwich.
Adding some extra napkins to the table, I noticed that Nurse Patty was deep in conversation with David Rafferty. No sign of Miranda or Vicente. A crew member next to me helped himself to some pasta. I recognized him as one of the guys who had broken up the fight between Rafferty and Vicente.
“I see Rafferty is here but no Vicente yet,” I told him quietly. “Maybe you can finish up your dinner before breaking up a fight,” I joked.
“Vicente? Guess you haven’t heard yet.” He picked up a roll. “I don’t think he’s going to dine with us tonight.”
“Oh? What makes you say that?” I asked.
“The police took him in today.”
Chapter Thirteen
“What? Why?” Vicente—taken away. A wave of curiosity ran through me.
The crew member shrugged. “They said it was for questioning.” He reached for the salad tongs. “That’s all I overheard.”
“Question him about what exactly?” I pressed the man for details. “What did the cops say?”
“Beats me. I suppose it was connected to Amery, Victoria, and all of that. These days it’s all about the murder.” My companion shrugged; the man was nonchalant. In his world of special effects, car chases, and daredevil stunts to swelling background music, this must seem like no big deal—an actor getting dragged off by the cops.
“I didn’t see them whip out any handcuffs,” he continued. “As far as I could tell, they weren’t making an arrest.”
“I would have thought they questioned him already.” I straightened a stack of plates in front of me. “I figured they would have talked to everybody on the set right after Victoria was killed.”
“They did talk to everybody, but apparently, they needed him again.” He nodded to a friend, seemingly to indicate he would be there soon. “See ya,” he said. Balancing a loaded plate, he wandered off.
I wondered what this all could mean as I moved to a far table to wipe up a small spill. The cops must have a new lead—but how did that involve Vicente? I headed over to where Kat was refilling a fruit tray and told her what I’d learned. “We have to find out more,” I said.
“Yeah, seems significant,” she said. “You know what?” Her eyes lit up. “I’ll bet that hunky Mike is on the case even as we speak.” She nudged me and winked. “Are his investigative skills on par with his fine physique?”
“Kat, you are too much.” I laughed. “He seriously is a really great reporter. Hopefully tomorrow he can tell me what this is all about.” I suspected Kat was right. Mike could have already been informed of this development by one of his many sources.
“You know, you really should spend more time with that guy,” Kat said as we watched the crowd.
“Time is not a thing I have to spare these days.”
“I think I’d find time for some sexy eyes like that.” She giggled, and I blushed.
That’s when we were interrupted by a rich and smoky voice, and I sensed a presence by my side. “I’m glad to see the help is having such a hearty laugh, but I do believe you are under contract to serve dinner to those of us gathered here?”
Miranda Hyde. She held up her empty plate, as if there weren’t a feast for kings set up all around her.
Kat straightened her shoulders. “What can I help you with?” she asked.
“Either you are playing hide-and-seek with the lobster ta
ils, or you forgot again. Unacceptable,” Miranda fumed.
I took a deep breath. “I did check with my boss, who told me that no lobster tails had been ordered by the production office.”
A fury filled her eyes. “The producers most certainly assured me I could have lobster tails when I agreed to step into the role. It’s traditional that they make accommodations to secure a certain level of elite talent for a film.” She looked at me intently. “Do you know who I am?”
How I wished I did not.
“Yes, Miss Hyde, I do know who you are, and I think that you’ll find a great variety of food that your producers have generously arranged. I’ve heard raves about the pork. You are always welcome to call Cocoa and special order lobster tails. With a form of payment that is not included in what the producers specified.”
She put her plate down forcefully. “I have never . . .” she sputtered out before she stormed away.
“Try the cheesecake!” Kat called out behind her. “Highly recommended by the help,” she added. “Is that witch for real? I’m starting to sweat just by seeing her.”
I sighed. “We may not get close to the filming, but we always get a show.”
I kept a close eye on the tables, making a mental note to grab more napkins soon. A deep sense of fatigue was creeping up on me. It had been a full day, to say the least, without a lot of sleep. If this was not resolved real soon, I might fall asleep one night standing up with a scalding-hot dish of something balanced in my hands.
Nevertheless, I was here, and I was determined to use this time on the set to pick up on some clues. I listened carefully to the talk around me as I moved around the tables to make sure each tray was full. The chatter, though, seemed bland and unrelated to the murder. Except for the news on Vicente, tonight was a bust. I didn’t have the energy to start up a chat and figure out a way to direct the conversation to the topic that now had me obsessed.
The time came at last to pack up, and I couldn’t have been more ready. I had plans to go home and fall almost immediately into bed. On the way back to Cocoa, I had to focus hard on the road in front of me to make sure I stayed awake.
Kat looked at me, concerned, as we pulled into the back lot of the restaurant. “Man, you look really tired tonight,” she said.
“Well, gee, thanks a lot,” I teased, trying to reassure her with a smile that I was okay.
“You know what I mean. Try to get some sleep, okay?”
Sleep wouldn’t come, however. I lay in bed wide awake, going over, once again, what we knew about the investigation and its cast of characters, especially Fitzgerald, because something had just hit me. The cops supposedly believed some kind of breakup drama had caused my tormentor to shoot his costar dead. He’d admitted dating her and that she had broken up with him, but now I understood that must have been a lie. How could it be the truth when he wasn’t into women? The loud fights that people heard between the two of them—well, they could have been about almost anything. I fluffed my pillow and tried once more to drift off.
Fitzgerald was now even more of a mystery to me. I mean, he could have wiped that motive right out of the cops’ minds by telling them the truth about his sexuality. That would have been way easier than taking off in somebody’s plane with hardly any fuel.
I tried for a more comfortable position as I mulled over that. This was craziness. The man, apparently, would rather be a murder suspect than let it get out to the public he was gay. A sense of outrage at the world mingled with my musings on the murder. What a mess we make when we can’t just be accepting and let people live their lives.
Fitzgerald was now further down in my suspect rankings. That did not mean, however, he was off the list. If Victoria had somehow found out he was gay, that could have been a motive—and a reason for their arguments to turn explosive as they had.
My mind ping-ponged from “innocent” to “maybe” to “who knows” as I tried to banish all of them—Fitzgerald and the others—from my head. If this story kept on twisting, how was a girl supposed to ever fall asleep?
***
The next morning, after maybe three hours of very restless sleep, I showered and threw on the first outfit I could find that seemed to go together. Then I headed into work. Arriving at the office, I rushed past Sandra’s desk, not bothering again to even lift my hand in a wave. She couldn’t be bothered with a nod or half smile or wiggle of her fingers, and I was way too tired for my little game of “Will this be the day that Sandra cracks a smile?”
But weirdly, I caught her frown once I was almost past, as if she were disappointed or affronted by the lack of a greeting. Seriously?
I waved at her, amused, and also curious to see what would happen next.
She looked almost relieved—but did not return the gesture. So, that was how things would remain between the receptionist and me. Our routine would stand.
I slid into my chair and turned on my computer to see what tasks were on tap for me today. My eyes zeroed in right away on Mike’s name. He had blocked out an hour of my time shortly after lunch. There was no description, but I knew what that was about. We were going to try to talk to Ferguson. I eagerly hit “accept,” then I headed to the break room. I needed coffee. Bad.
I somehow powered through until lunch, fueled by adrenaline and caffeine. I was swallowing a spoonful of veggie soup from Banyon’s when my cell buzzed. Kat’s name appeared on the screen, and I picked up with a, “How’s it going?”
“You are so going to love me,” she said enthusiastically. “I got you out of going to the set tonight.”
“You what?”
“I’ve arranged a night off from the set for you. Yeah, yeah, I know why you’re doing it, but you also need to get some sleep.”
I had to admit, I was filled with gratitude, and a sense of relief. “Kat, are you sure? How did you manage that?”
“I told Cocoa you were tied up and that I could handle things myself. She was cool with that, so we’re set.”
“Won’t that be a lot for you to handle by yourself?”
“I have handled worse. Plus, I’ve got a week until my day job starts, so I can sleep the day away tomorrow. All I have to do is walk some dogs.”
“Oh wow, Kat, I do admit this is . . . amazing.”
“I knew you were going to like it. I understand why you’re a little manic to bring this case to a close, but a sleepless zombie has never been much good at solving anything.”
“I owe you big,” I told her. I was pumped. I’d settle in early with some takeout and some good red wine and be asleep by ten. How long had it even been since I’d had any downtime? I felt relaxed already. “Best friends!” I said to Kat. “I know how to pick them.” Without my saying so, she’d known exactly what I needed—and she had handled it.
I hung up and was eating my last bite of soup when I felt a presence next to me.
“You ready?” Mike asked heartily.
Startled, I swallowed hard. “Why do you always do that?” I asked him. “You sneak up so quietly and scare me. You have to knock that off.”
His answer was a grin.
I gathered up my stuff, and he asked if I would drive.
“No worries,” I told him as we headed to the door.
Five minutes later, we were in the Jeep, fastening our seat belts, then I put the key into the ignition. “Left or right?” I asked him. “We’re heading off to the hotel, I guess? To look for Ferguson?”
“That’s the plan,” he said.
I knew how to get to the Palm Shores Heritage, so I pulled out onto the roadway, and we made our way there through the traffic, which was already building up.
“I forgot to ask you something,” Mike said.
“Excuse me?” I teased. “You? The great reporter forgot to ask something?”
Mike laughed. “It happens sometimes.”
“What do you want to know?” I asked.
“How exactly did you hear about this John Ferguson guy and his problems with Fitzgerald?”
/>
“Vicente Torres mentioned it.” I paused. “I was looking for the bathroom, and we got into a conversation.”
“And naturally you picked the handsome movie star to ask,” he said teasingly.
“Of course.” I grinned. “I’m curious about something too.”
“Which is?”
“What’s your plan on getting information on the murder weapon?” I pulled to a stop at a light. “Have you had any luck with this source of yours? Who exactly is this source?”
“It’s complicated, but I’m working on it.”
“Complicated in what way?” I asked.
“Well, I have to kind of signal to them that I want to talk and then wait to hear from them.”
“Sheesh. I feel like I’m in a movie.”
He laughed. “Movies, movie sets. I’m sure you’ve had enough of that.”
“More than enough,” I said. “So tell me all about this mystery source of yours.”
“You’ll know about it when the time is right,” he said.
“Someone is being evasive.”
“It’s for your own good,” Mike said with a wink.
I passed a silver Lexus whose driver didn’t seem to be in any kind of hurry. “Well, I won’t be like you,” I told him cheekily. “I will freely share the information that I have—about a certain actor being taken in for questioning by the police. But I’m guessing you already know about that.”
For a moment, he just stared. “What? Who did they take in? Was it Rafferty?”
“So you didn’t know. No, it was Torres.” I paused. “Maybe it’s not such a big deal. I’m sure they’ve talked to everyone who was on the set the day of the murder. But I guess it could mean something that they decided to come back and question him again.”
“That is interesting,” Mike said. He thought about it for a moment. “What could the connection be—between Torres and Fitzgerald?”
I cringed a bit at the question. It would have felt so wrong to divulge Vicente’s secret, but keeping things from Mike . . . well, both options just felt wrong. I went with the one that made me feel less guilty.
Mike was musing out loud. “You told me it was Torres who knew about this thing between Ferguson and Fitzgerald. Maybe that’s the reason they pulled Torres in for questions. Which would mean the cops are looking hard at Ferguson as a person of interest in the case.”
