by JoAnn Ross
Jared crumbled to the floor in a dead faint while his wife held the smoking pistol, a satisfied smile on her face as she looked down at her rival.
Silence descended. The candle sputtered out, plunging the room into darkness.
"Cut!" the director called out.
"Cut," the first assistant director called out.
"It's about time," Julia Summers complained. "There's a limit to how long a person can hold their breath, Randy."
"You're a professional, love." Randy Hogan's Australian strine bespoke outback roots. "I had every faith in you."
"I may be a professional, but I'm not Houdini." She tugged against the other stocking. "Could someone please untie me before my shoulder gives out?"
"Only if you'll agree to let me take you out to dinner," Shane Langley said.
A former baseball player who'd used his appearance as Mr. October on a Men of the Minor Leagues calendar to catapult him onto the cast of a daytime soap opera, he'd been asking Julia out since joining the cable network's prime time River Road cast three months ago. She'd been turning him down just as long.
"After what you did?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Springing that damn porn movie prosthesis you got from the props department on me without any warning."
"Surely you're not talking about Mr. Happy?"
She shook her head as one of the prop women loosened the stocking. "Mr. Happy?"
"He's aptly named." He retrieved his slacks and pulled them up his legs. "Come home with me tonight and I'll prove it."
"Shane, it's a good twelve inches long."
"A very good twelve inches." Boyish dimples flashed in cheeks tanned surfer bronze. "That's why women call him Mr. Happy."
"You're incorrigible." Along with a loyal audience, Shane had brought his penchant for obnoxious practical jokes with him to prime time. The River Road set hadn't been the same since his arrival.
Finally freed, Julia left the bed and slipped into the silk robe that Audrey, the wardrobe mistress, was holding out to her. "I hope you and Mr. Happy have a lovely evening, but I'm exhausted. Besides, I need to study my Bond script tonight."
As soon as this fifth season was wrapped up, she was going to Kathmandu to fulfill a childhood dream.
She'd been eight years old when her cousin had talked her into attending a 007 film festival in Santa Cruz. Watching Ursula Andress rise goddesslike from the sea in Dr. No, and having been taught by her parents that no dreams were impossible, Julia had decided, on the spot, to grow up to be a Bond Girl. After she'd gotten a little older and had actually read the novels the movies were based on and realized they were fiction, her goal shifted from becoming a Bond Girl to playing one in the movies.
Last month she'd beat out more than a hundred eager hopefuls, including Felissa Templeton, the actress who played Vanessa, for the role. Julia felt a little guilty about that, but Felissa had assured her that she was thrilled for Julia. When she'd added that she was far more interested in "serious work that will allow me to stretch as an actor," Julia hadn't bothered to take offense at the catty little dig.
"I've got an idea," Shane said. "How about I drop by your house with a pizza? We can run through your lines together over a bottle of wine. Then we'll take it from there and if you're suddenly moved to have your way with me, I sure as hell won't resist."
Before she could turn him down again, Randy clapped his hands. "Before you all rush off, I have a surprise for you, boys and girls." He paused for dramatic effect. "We're ending this season on a four-hour two-parter that'll be packaged as a TV mini series and shown back-to-back on consecutive nights. And the budget's been expanded to include a location shoot."
"Where?" Shane asked.
"For how long?” Julia followed up.
"This time next week, we'll be shooting in Blue Bayou, Louisiana."
"Where is that? I've never heard of it," Felissa Templeton said in a petulant tone far different from her character's upper-class British accent.
"It's a charming little hamlet in southern Louisiana. You'll love it," Randy assured her. "It's very romantic, with mysterious dark water, fireflies flitting through the hanging Spanish moss—"
"Mosquitos, alligators, tropical heat," Felissa cut him off, exchanging a look with Julia, who was equally unenthusiastic about this news.
"Don't be so pessimistic. Wait until you see the house we'll be using. As for how long," he addressed Julia's question, "depending on whether or not the weather cooperates, we'll be there two weeks. Three tops."
"Two weeks? But Amanda's going to die. Why do you need me to come along?"
"She's not exactly going to die."
"Please don't tell me we're reprising the vampire plot from the first season." It had taken two hours in makeup every day to prepare for her role as the lawyer-turned-vampire, until a mad scientist lover had invented a super sunscreen that allowed her to join the living once again.
"Don't worry, love, you won't be growing fangs again. But Warren's come up with an exciting new twist in the story line. You're going to love it." He patted her cheek as if she were a five-year-old, then framed his hands in front of him. "I can see another Emmy gracing your mantel for this one."
"I don't have a mantel. Has Kendall seen it?"
"You know we don't do anything without running it by the big guy. He loves it. Which is why he's authorized the extra spending. After the last sweeps ratings, Warren can probably do whatever he wants."
Warren Hyatt was a twenty-eight-year-old wunderkind who'd been lured away from the Sci-Fi channel. Julia liked him, even though his story lines tended to push the envelope even for the most fantastical soap opera. Since demographics had shown the off-the-wall stories had a huge appeal to younger viewers, his star was definitely on the rise.
"So what is this new story line?" she asked Warren who was leaning against a wall, clad in impressed chinos and a polo shirt that had seen better days. He was madly scribbling on a yellow legal pad.
"It's a surprise," Randy broke in. "But don't worry, love. We'll get things wrapped up in time for you to take off for the dark side of the moon."
"Kathmandu."
He tipped down his Armani sunglasses and looked over the top of the dark lenses. "Do they get Variety there?”
"I strongly doubt it."
"Any Starbucks?"
"Probably not."
"How about Foster's?"
"That'd probably be a no, as well."
He shook his head and pushed the glasses back up. "Any place without Aussie beer, Variety or frappuchinos may as well be the dark side of the moon."
This from a man who'd grown up in a place where people were out numbered by kangaroos and poisonous snakes. Although technically her contract had three weeks left to run, Julia had hoped to wrap up her part in the next two days, since Vanessa had just put a bullet through Amanda's heart.
"I don't get it. If Amanda's not going to die—"
"We'll discuss it in more detail later over pasta," Randy promised. "Kendall's corporate jet is landing as I speak, and he wants to meet with all of you tonight, at La Roma."
Julia rubbed at the headache that had just shot into her temples. Last year, Dwyers' Diapers, the conglomerate that had owned River Road, had been acquired in a hostile takeover by Atlantic Pharmaceuticals.
From day one, Charles Kendall, a senior vice president of Atlantic, hadn't been able to resist sticking his unimaginative thumb into the series. After firing the show's producer, he'd declared himself the new executive producer.
He was also an ass pincher and an advocate for bringing back the casting couch. Neither of those qualities endeared him to the female cast members, though Audrey, in wardrobe, had told Damien, Julia's makeup man, that the script girl had seen one of the actors, Margot Madison, getting out of the back of Kendall's stretch limo the last time he'd visited the studio.
"Her blouse was fastened wrong," Damien had passed on with obvious relish. "And her hai
r looked as if she'd been in a wind tunnel."
"That's mildly intriguing. But none of our business." Having been on the hurting side of gossip too many times in the past, Julia was not going to help grow false rumors.
"Audrey said the knees of her stockings were ripped. I’ll bet she'd been trying to blow her way into the bad girl slot that'll open up if you leave."
"When I leave," Julia corrected. After her futile admonishment not to pass on tales, the increasingly exaggerated story had added grist to the ever-grinding River Road gossip mill for days.
Three more weeks, Julia reminded herself. Then she'd be off this soap opera merry-go-round, on her way to Nepal.
Chapter 3
After leaving his office, Finn stopped by his Crystal City apartment, which was as barren of personal effects as his desk, to pick up the suitcase he always kept packed and a stack of well-worn Ian Fleming paperbacks. Still fuming and wanting to get out of Dodge, he turned in his door and elevator keys to management, then left the building without a backward glance.
With Van Halen's "Sinner's Swing" screeching from the CD player, he headed his black Suburban southwest toward Louisiana, returning to the small bayou town he once couldn't wait to escape.
Because like it or not, the sorry truth was that Finn Callahan, the hotshot Special Agent who'd earned a medal for valor in the field from one president and had dined at the White House with another, had nowhere else to go.
***
Julia smelled them before she saw them. Dashing into her dressing room for a quick shower to wash off the fake blood, she was hit with a sweet, head-spinning scent. She stopped, stunned at the dozens of roses so darkly red as to be almost black, covering every flat surface, including the floor.
"Damn it, Shane, this is getting out of hand," she muttered. Just last week he'd filled her dressing room with heart-shaped helium balloons. The week before that, it had been a gorilla-gram that turned out to be a Chippendale dancer beneath the furry uniform. The other women on the set had throughly enjoyed the show. Julia, who resented any time taken away from work these days, did not.
"Shane?" a voice asked from behind a towering arrangement that would have been perfect for a Mafia don's funeral. "What makes you think it's him?"
"Graham!" Julia was nonplussed to see the man whose marriage proposal she'd turned down six months ago. "What are you doing here?"
"I felt we left things unsettled. We need to talk."
Be firm. You won't do either of you any good by going back on a decision you know is right. "I believe we're all talked out, Graham," she said gently.
At least she was. She hadn't ever intended to get involved with the British-born UCLA professor. Not seriously. And she still couldn't quite figure out how they'd gone from having a glass of wine to him proposing marriage.
It had begun innocently enough after she'd spoken to Graham Sheffield's class, when, surrounded by a subtle cloud of discreet aftershave, he'd walked her to her car—a snazzy BMW convertible Dwyers' Diapers had presented her with after River Road had led the ratings pack every week during its second successful season.
Accustomed to self-absorbed actor wannabes, Julia was flattered when Graham insisted on walking across an acre of melting parking lot asphalt to hear her opinion on why the bold strokes and rakish wit of the Bond films was only one of the reasons they'd led the marketplace during the 1960s and '70s.
"I enjoyed your presentation a great deal, Julia. I know my class certainly benefited from hearing an insider's view of the acting business." His voice had been part Sean Connery, part Pierce Brosnan and totally 007- Julia could have listened to it forever. "It seems a shame to say good-bye," he murmured.
When he casually plucked the door opener from her hand, she'd wondered if he was actually going to try to keep her from leaving. A moment later, she realized that he was merely intending to open the car door for her. He seemed to be a man of flawless manners.
Those manners didn't prevent him from moving closer, until she was close enough to smell coffee and wintergreen on his breath. "Are you doing anything this evening?"
Looking up into his eyes, which were the color of Hershey bars and possessed the adoring appeal of a cocker spaniel—two of her favorite things—Julia decided to forgo trying out the do-it-yourself bikini waxing kit she'd bought.
Over the next months he proved himself to be a man of taste, refinement and civility. Unfortunately, Julia had discovered that she was bored to tears by refinement and civility.
Their relationship hadn't been a total loss, though. She had learned to brew a decent cup of Earl Grey tea.
"I've belatedly come to the conclusion that your going to Kathmandu for a few weeks might be a good thing for us," he said now. "You know what they say about absence making the heart grow fonder."
Of course, there was another little saying about out of sight, out of mind, which she chose not to bring up.
"Oh, Graham." Julia sighed.
He was, beneath all that stuffy Oxford reserve, a nice man. And so sensitive. Too sensitive, she'd often thought, to succeed in the competitive world of Hollywood. He'd once admitted that he tended to take rejection too personally, which was why he'd opted to teach the craft of acting rather than attempt to establish a career of his own.
"Don't worry, darling, I'm not going to rehash all the old arguments about why we're perfect for one another." His smile was as infinitely reasonable and patient as the man himself. It was also, she thought with a flash of pique, just a tad condescending. "I just wanted to give you a little going-away gift before you left town."
"That's very sweet of you. But this is hardly a little gift." It looked as if a Rose Bowl float had blown up. Another thought occurred to her. "How did you get past security?"
"Bernie remembers we're a couple." Even if you don't, his tone implied.
"Not anymore," she tried again.
He appeared truly puzzled by her continued refusal to date a man many women would consider a great catch. Graham Sheffield was handsome, wealthy, worldly, and could, he'd informed her that first evening together, trace his family roots back to the English Tudors.
"Is there someone else? Shane Langley, perhaps? Is that why you assumed the roses were from him?"
"I only assumed that because he's got a thing for practical jokes." She told him about last week's balloon incident, then, after assuring him that the only man in her life right now was James Bond, managed to ease him out the door.
She was in and out of the shower in record time, threw on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and ran to the parking lot, where her name, stenciled in white at her reserved slot, still gave her a secret thrill.
Bernie was in his usual spot in what was laughingly referred to as the guardhouse. At the sound of the BMW's engine, he glanced up from his paperback. He grinned at her, his missing teeth giving him the look of a cotton-haired jack-o'-lantern. Julia waved. He'd been sitting in this booth since the days when people thought television would be a passing fad, so there was no point in trying to explain that he shouldn't let anyone through the gates without the proper authority.
Besides, she knew how charmingly persuasive Graham could be, especially when he wanted something.
Her irritation about the upcoming location shoot and her discomfort at finding her former lover in her dressing room eased as Julia pulled into her driveway forty-five minutes later. Her robin's egg blue bungalow, located on Venice Beach, was cozy and bright and gave her a front row seat at the continually entertaining scenery right outside her door.
The purity and simplicity of the Craftsman style also appealed to her aesthetic sense and was immensely soothing, especially for someone who'd grown up with beaded curtains, velvet beanbag chairs, crystals hanging from all the windows, and furniture carved from grapevines which, while earning her father more money than a respectable hippie should possess during that stage of his artistic career, had also been incredibly uncomfortable. Hence the beanbags.
She'd bleached the
pine floors herself and painted the walls a cheery yellow that brightened in the morning to the hue of freshly churned butter. Now, at the end of the day, it was deepening with the rich gold and bronze colors of the sunset streaming into the living room from the French doors leading out to the beach.
Toeing off her sneakers, she began leafing through the mail. There was a water bill, which seemed to get higher every month, which she found a bit ironic since an entire ocean lay just outside her front door, a postcard reminding her of an upcoming teeth cleaning, and an official looking envelope assuring her that either she or someone named Martin Stevenson from Salt Lake City may have won a million dollars.
She tossed another postcard, inviting her to a preview of the Fall Color Extravaganza at Elizabeth Arden's, onto the tile countertop.
"Maybe I can get a makeover for when the Prize Patrol shows up at the door," she murmured as she retrieved a bottle of white wine from the refrigerator. After pouring herself a glass, she took the rest of the mail out onto the postage-stamp size patio.
She discarded an offer for a pre approved new credit card, and put aside a book club announcement she'd need to respond to before leaving the country.
An impossibly gorgeous blonde wearing a bikini skimmed by on Rollerblades, deftly avoiding a collision with a Lycra-clad bicyclist, who nearly twisted his head off his neck watching her skate away in the opposite direction.
Lovers strolled along the beach, arms wrapped around each other, seemingly oblivious to the outside world; joggers ran along the hard-packed sand at the water's edge. The tarot card readers were doing a brisk business, and the tide continued to ebb and flow as it had for eons.
But after pulling a photograph from the final envelope, Julia felt her world tilt on its axis.
The photo, computer printed onto inexpensive white copy paper, showed her lying against the pillows, a crimson bloodstain spreading across the bodice of an ivory silk teddy that clung to the tips of her breasts. Her eyes were closed.
Beneath the picture someone had typed: You make a stunningly beautiful corpse, Amanda, darling. Love and kisses from your #1 fan.
