by Sara Rosett
I fell back in the chair. Marci was right. If she left and word got out about why…I glanced again at the closed door. Lori was on the phone, and the low murmur of her voice filled the silence in Marci’s office. If it became known that Kevin had gone on a bender—while working with a client, no less—business for Premier Locations would dry up. Hollywood reveled in stories of celebrities brought low by their own bad behavior, which generated buzz and raised movie stars’ profiles, but movie- and television-making was a business. If Kevin Dunn was regarded as unreliable, Premier Locations was done.
“You don’t think we should call the police?” I asked.
“I considered it, but what would we tell them? That he’s not answering his phone and missed his flight? You know one of the first questions they’ll ask is if it has happened before. What would I say? That he has a history of…erratic behavior, to put it nicely?” Marci shook her head. “If we go that way, then it’s official with reports and questions and interviews.”
“And records of inquiries and possible publicity.”
“And you know how Mr. O’Leery feels about publicity, especially at the beginning of a film.”
I blew out a breath. “He detests it.”
“I can’t jeopardize this project. If you go over there and can’t…find him, if he’s truly missing, we’ll contact the police.”
“Right. Yes, of course you’re right.” I sat up straight in the chair, running through my mental schedule. “But I’ve got a meeting in Palm Springs tomorrow. I finally got in touch with the owners of that ranch house that we’re hoping to use for the sports drink ad.”
“I’ll take care of everything here.” Marci swiveled her computer monitor toward me. “There’s a flight out tonight. I think you should be on it.”
A burst of laughter from Lori sounded from the other side of the door. I chewed the inside of my lip, running through mental arguments and discarding them as quickly as they came up. The sports drink company was my baby. I’d worked with them since their first tiny print ad. Now they were doing a full-scale marketing push—print, television, and Internet. They’d never worked with anyone else at our firm, and Jo, their head marketing honcho, trusted me implicitly.
I wanted to suggest that Zara or Lori go, but Zara had eight-year-old Darwin to take care of. She couldn’t leave town on the spur of the moment, and as much as I loved Lori, she’d never traveled farther than San Diego. Did she even have a passport? And, discretion wasn’t exactly a watchword with her. She tweeted, texted, and Instagrammed her breakfast choices. Entrusting her with the secret would be the equivalent of sending a press release to E! News.
“You’re right. It has to be me.” I took my phone out of my pocket, already mentally sorting through the people I needed to contact about my unexpected travel plans. My fingers flew over the keypad, tapping out messages. Then I made a to-do list in my Moleskine notebook topped with “pack umbrella.” Scouting and managing locations was all about the details. Almost everyone I knew relied on their phone to keep track of everything, but I was more old school. I kept the minutiae of my life in my Moleskine. Its battery never died, and I didn’t have to worry about it being stolen or accidentally locking myself out by messing up my passcode.
“Thank you, Kate. I owe you big-time,” Marci said. “I’ll take care of everything in Palm Springs; just send me the details.” Marci turned her monitor back so that it was facing her and began typing. “Manchester is closer to the little village where Kevin went, but London is the easier connection—there’s more flights. You’ll have to rent a car and drive, like Kevin did.”
“Just remember this when you write the bonus checks at Christmas,” I said as the printer hummed.
Marci shot me a smile as she handed me the still-warm pages. “Let’s not go overboard. That is Kevin’s itinerary, contact details for the local scout he worked with over there, and Kevin’s hotel details. Now, what time do you want your flight? Is eight too early?”
She made the reservations, printed my boarding pass, and I returned to my desk to send her the wine country photos. The door banged open again, and Zara, entered. “Mail call,” she announced. I grabbed a padded envelope that came flying through the air toward me.
Lori snagged a small cardboard box that went wide of her. “If this is Kevin’s new lens, you’d better be glad I was the best shortstop on my softball league.” She carefully put down the box and asked, “how was your trip? I forgot to ask this morning.”
Zara was marching to her desk, her thick clogs thudding along the floor, but for an instant she checked her stride and gave Lori a sharp look. “What? I didn’t go on a trip.”
“But I heard you on the phone last week with your friend, asking if she could drop you at the airport and keep Darwin for you. Where’d you go?”
There was a second’s pause. I looked up from my computer screen. Zara never thought before she spoke. She had no filter, but if I didn’t know her as well as I did I would have thought she looked worried. But Zara didn’t worry—about anything. She raced through life, never fretting over anything or second-guessing herself. “Oh, that,” she said breezily. “My ex. Causing legal trouble, yet again. I had to take a couple of personal days and fly to Chicago to get it straightened out.” Her desk chair squeaked as she dropped into it. “Never get married, Lori. That’s my advice. That way, you never have to get divorced.” She glanced above Lori’s head to the three movie posters from the recent film and mini-series versions of Pride and Prejudice that Lori had pinned on the wall. “Not what dear Jane would advise, I know, but that’s the way I see it. So, what’s going on this afternoon? We’re not talking true love again, are we?”
The news about Kevin was all I could think of at the moment. I mentally groped about for some innocuous topic, but I should have known Lori would fill the conversational gap. “Why shouldn’t we talk about love?” She raised her chin. “It’s what P & P is about.”
Zara opened a file on her computer. “It’s about money.”
“You said you’d never watched it.” Lori sounded like a lawyer during cross-examination.
“I said I didn’t like it, not that I’d never watched it.” Keeping her eyes on the screen, Zara clicked away as she talked. “If we’re keeping score, or something, I’ve also read the book. Not the manga version, either.”
“There’s a manga version? Cool,” Lori said with respect. “But that’s not what we’re talking about. The point is, Elizabeth doesn’t marry Darcy for his money. She loves him.”
Zara looked at me and sighed. “I try and tell her that life isn’t all long stemmed roses and happily ever after, but does she listen to me? Cold hard cash makes the world go round. That’s how it is now, and that’s how it was in Austen’s day.”
Before I could reply, Lori said, “You can’t tell me you didn’t fall for Darcy…just a little bit, if not in the books, then in the wet shirt scene?”
“Oh, forget Mr. Darcy.” Zara ducked her cropped head of dark hair as she shifted through the stacks of paper on her desk. “I’m sick of Mr. Darcy. Give me Wickham any day.”
Lori sucked in her breath. “Zara! He’s a cad.”
“Well, he’d certainly be more fun than stuffy, repressed Darcy.” Zara pulled out one of the pages from the bottom of a stack and shook it at Lori. “Rakes are always more fun.”
Lori narrowed her eyes. “You only want to get a rise out of me. Come on, Kate, back me up. You studied all this stuff for your doctorate. Mr. Darcy is the one you want to end up with forever, right? Not some deceptive liar.”
“I don’t have a doctorate. Far from it, actually.”
Lori swished her hand through the air as if several classes and an unfinished dissertation were minor details. “Kevin says you’re our English Lit expert. He’s adamant that you’ll be on the P & P team when he gets back. Because of your background knowledge, he said.”
“He will need an assistant,” I agreed, trying to keep my tone normal and not act as if I kne
w that our boss had seemingly disappeared into a black hole. “I can’t deny that I’m looking forward to wallowing in Jane Austen and the Regency and getting paid for it.”
“It’s those breeches, isn’t it?” Zara said with a lift of an eyebrow. “You know you could still go back and finish your degree. Your dissertation could be called the Power of Pants. I swear that’s why all those movies are so popular. It’s because of those form-fitting breeches.”
“We’re not talking about pants,” Lori said. “We’re talking about love. I can’t believe you’d even think of picking Wickham over Darcy. She’s crazy, isn’t she, Kate?”
“Mr. Darcy is better husband material than Wickham, I’ll give you that.” I clicked my mouse, sending the details for the sports drink ad to Marci. “Although, I’ve always thought the fencing scene was much sexier than the wet shirt scene. And you know there are other Austen heroes like Mr. Tilney, Mr. Knightley, and Colonel Brandon. Not everyone finds brooding attractive. Why haven’t any of her other heroes taken off in popular culture?”
“Because they didn’t have a wet shirt scene,” Zara said.
I shut down my computer, shouldered my tote bag, and headed for the door. “There’s a lot more to Austen than wet shirt scenes.”
A call came in from my mother as I walked through the parking garage to my car. She’d obviously gotten my text.
“You can’t go out of town,” she said. “You have to come to dinner on Tuesday. I’ve already invited my new neighbor. Twenty-four B—a corner condo on the top floor, one of the most expensive condos in the building. You know he’s well-off.”
“Mom. I’m dating Terrance.”
“It never hurts for a man to have a little competition. Besides, you’re not dating him. You two simply text back and forth. That’s not a relationship. All you do is plan to meet, then reschedule.”
I blew out a calming breath. “You’ve been in my phone again.”
“I had to make a call the other day at lunch when you were in the restroom. My battery was low. I can’t help it if a text came in while I was on the phone. Of course, I looked at it.”
“And through all my old messages, too.” I reached my car and tossed my tote bag in the passenger side of my ten-year-old black Accord then slammed the door harder than necessary. The noise reverberated off the concrete, drowning out my mother’s voice for a few seconds.
“…thirty-six, single, and a veterinarian. Just broke up with his girlfriend, and has a nice head of hair—thick, not thinning like so many men in their thirties.”
“Does he have all his own teeth, too?”
“I don’t know.” She’d completely missed my sarcasm. “I’m sure I can find out,” she said, her tone serious.
The absurdity of our conversation hit me, and I shook my head, a little laugh escaping.
“Are you laughing? I don’t know why. These things are important.”
My relationship with my mom was one of those situations where I had to find the humor in it—or it would drive me crazy. “Mother, your skills are wasted in wedding planning. You know that, don’t you?”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You should be a matchmaker.” I walked around to the driver’s side. “You’d probably make a fortune. Or you should go to work for the NSA. No one can ferret out information like you.” I held open the door, letting the heat escape.
“I know what you’re trying to do, change the subject, but I’ll not rise to the bait. Dinner, Tuesday. Let’s say seven.”
“No, Mother. I can’t. I’ll be out of the country.” That excuse stunned her into silence for a moment. “You have dinner with your vet,” I said. “He sounds wonderful. Maybe you should date him.”
“Katherine! That’s—I could never. I mean—I’m sure I don’t know what to say.”
“He’s not that much younger than you. I have to pack. Love you. I’ll text you.”
My name echoed through the parking garage and turned to see Marci trudging my way, waving a cell phone. “Take this. It’s got a SIM card that will work over there.”
Kevin had a drawer full of burner phones and country-specific SIM cards.
Marci continued, “I sent an email to the local guy Kevin used over there, Alex Norcutt. Told him you were arriving.”
“Good idea. I’ll contact him when I get there.” We often used someone local to help us when we worked out of town. He could tell me exactly where he took Kevin.
“I’ll contact the hotel, tell them we’re sending someone to pick up Kevin’s stuff. Keep me updated,” Marci said.
“Of course.” I leaned into the car and tossed the phone into my tote bag.
Instead of walking quickly away, Marci lingered then surprised me by catching me up into a tight hug. “You be careful, kid.”
I come from a long-line of personal-space-respecting, non-hugging people, so I froze for a second, but her unexpected concern took away my reserve. I patted her shoulder tentatively and stepped back. “I will.”
I moved to the car, then paused, my hand on the hot metal. “You know, he’ll probably turn up tomorrow, and you’ll have paid for a ticket to England for no reason.”
“Yeah, I know,” Marci said, but her tone contradicted her words.
Chapter Two
The plane landed at three in the afternoon, London time. After ten hours in the air, I wanted a shower and a change of clothes, but I made my way to the rental car counter instead. When I wasn’t napping during the flight or reading the Agatha Christie book I’d brought, I’d read the paperwork that Marci had given me, which included Kevin’s travel plans. He’d rented a car at the airport, picked up Mr. O’Leery, who flew in the same day as Kevin, and then had driven to the village they were using as their base. According to Marci’s notes, the director of photography and the production manager were both based in England and planned to meet Kevin and Mr. O’Leery in the village. The local scout had arranged for a van to shuttle all five of them around the countryside while looking at locations. Kevin planned to keep his rental car during the duration of his stay, then return it to the airport before his return flight.
I figured I’d retrace Kevin’s steps. A best-case scenario would be that I would run across him as he made a delayed return route to the office. Or, even better, I’d discover he was already on his way home, and our paths had crossed in the air over the Atlantic.
Marci had booked him a mid-size four-door sedan to be picked up at the airport last Tuesday, the day of his arrival. Normally, a scouting trip for a feature film, even a preliminary scouting trip, would involve quite a few people, and we often booked vans to accommodate our luggage and gear. We could get a lot done on the road and used the hours in the car as work time, but Mr. O’Leery was eccentric. Famous for being extremely guarded and secretive, he insisted on complete security at the beginning of his projects. Rumors even hinted there was a slight touch of paranoia about him. He had required that the first scouting trip consist of only himself, Kevin, the director of photography, and the production manager.
A woman wearing an ascot and a perfunctory smile greeted me at the rental car counter. I squared my shoulders and put on my brightest smile.
“I need to check on this rental from last week.” I consulted the papers and read off the reservation number. “Has it been returned?”
As the woman with the ascot clacked away on the keyboard, another woman, this one younger, entered the area behind the counter, knotting her scarf and tucking it into her neckline as she moved.
The woman helping me glanced behind her. “You’re late,” she said, then turned back to me, and switched on a quick, apologetic smile. “And your name?”
“Kate Sharp.” The new woman, her ascot now crooked, but in place, squinted her eyes at the other woman’s back. While the woman helping me studied the computer screen, I exchanged a sympathetic look with the new arrival. I knew what it was like to work with self-important morons who made everyone else’
s life miserable. Months working as a temp had left an indelible impression on me.
Miss Perfect Ascot’s smile disappeared. “I’m sorry, but you’re not on this reservation. Do you have another confirmation number?”
“I know I’m not on that reservation. It was for my boss, Kevin Dunn. I work for Premier Locations.” I put a business card on the counter. “I need to know if his car was returned.” I figured Kevin’s name wasn’t well known—not like Mr. O’Leery’s. It couldn’t hurt to ask out-right about the status of the car.
She looked at the card, blinked a few times, her smile now fixed. “We have a corporate privacy policy. I’m sure you understand.”
I checked my watch and did some quick mental math. In L.A. it was seven in the morning. Marci wouldn’t be in the office yet, and I didn’t have her cell phone number.
I could hear Kevin’s voice in my head. “Going in straight isn’t working for you, is it?”
Kevin was a genius when it came to convincing people to do what he wanted. I had been terrible at it when I first went to work for him. I didn’t like asking people for things like permission to look at their house or shoot on their property, but I disliked working as a temp even more. So to keep my job as Kevin’s assistant, I’d learned to ask, to push just a little, but more than that—I’d also learned that it was important to figure out what a person wanted.
I’d forgotten one of Kevin’s first lessons—assess the person and develop a strategy. Kevin was the master of visual assessments. Where Kevin had a Sherlockian ability to give someone a once-over and come up with a weak point, I had been clueless—at least when I first went to work for him. I’d learned a lot about reading people from Kevin. Sometimes a couple of folded bills handed over discreetly did the trick, but other times fawning or flirting were required. To hone my skills in the assessment department, as he called it, we used to bet on the weak point. The first time it happened, we’d found a perfect location for a sports gear ad, a stretch of rural land with rolling hills off a California highway that had a thoroughbred, back East feel to it, the look the director wanted.
