Myra began to walk toward the theater when a security agent approached her, his hand cupping the ear with his earpiece. What now? she thought.
He nodded to no one in particular, lowered his hand and held up a clipboard to scan it as he asked, “May I have your name please?”
Myra about choked. What would Sweetie say? She would say… For some reason, Myra went blank. Sweetie never went blank. “Sweetie...and George” was her favorite cartoon and Sweetie always had just the right comeback.
“Myra Mitchell.” You know, the author who wrote this book. The we-wouldn’t-be-here-tonight-without-her Myra Mitchell. That Myra Mitchell.
“Thank you, Ms. Mitchell. They’d like you to move along the carpet a bit faster. Mr. Pitt is arriving.”
She took two steps forward as he moved away, and then slowed down. “No way I’m getting out of their way,” she muttered. At that moment, the crowd erupted and camera flashes outshone the spotlights now aimed at the arriving limo.
A devious smile crossed Myra’s lips. She hadn’t earned her “Diva of Disaster’s” tiara for simply great writing. In an instant, she did a one-eighty turn and swept across the carpet directly to Brad Pitt. They’d met on more than one occasion during the filming and had hit it off well. She’d even had dinner on the set with him and Angelina, whom she discovered was a great fan of Myra’s books. She had no doubt they could ad lib this move without effort.
She arrived at his side before any security could move in and kissed him on the cheek. Angelina was by his side and Myra moved on to give her a sisterly hug while whispering, “I hope you don’t mind sharing him. I absolutely hate walking into these things alone.”
Angelina laughed and squeezed her hand. “Only if your next book has a role specifically for me,” she replied.
“It’s a deal,” Myra answered.
“Myra, it’s a pleasure to see you again, and a pleasure to escort you in,” said Brad.
Brad offered Myra his left arm, while Angelina took his right and together they moved along the red carpet. The two women waved in proxy for Brad and Myra’s mood brightened again, until she reflected on the promise she’d just made. Her next book? Again, she saw a yawning black hole sucking away all of her creativity, and with it, that next book.
They reached an area where security was tight and the concourse narrowed. Myra noticed one security man nod at them and Brad gestured back. He leaned toward Myra and said, “Thought we might actually get to walk straight in. Sorry, but it’s time to go to work.” He lowered her arm and squeezed her hand. In an instant, he and Angelina began working the lucky crowd next to the cordon, signing autographs and posing for snapshots. Myra wondered how long those fans had camped there to secure those precious spots near the rope. She did know that security had already screened all of them and granted them leave to remain where they were.
Suddenly, Myra felt all alone. She watched the two stars interact with their fans and realized, yet again, how lonely and isolated the life of a writer could be. Still, she wouldn’t change a thing. Authors had stories to tell. Actors could only animate what an author created. Which required the most creativity?
“Ms. Mitchell!”
Shocked, Myra heard her name over the commotion about her, but couldn’t quite pinpoint it. She turned her head and slowly started to walk along the carpet.
“Ms. Mitchell! Please!”
The young female voice came from her left. Myra turned and saw a young woman, a girl really, maybe late teens, waving a book at her. Myra smiled and approached her, noticing what looked to be a personal journal in the girl’s hand. “Hi. Nice to meet you. You are?”
The girl looked at her askance. “Hi, I’m Desiree. Hey, do you think you could get Brad and Angelina’s autographs for me? They aren’t even looking this way.”
Myra did choke this time. She raised one eyebrow and tried to contain the steam rising within. She wasn’t some autograph gofer. Inwardly, she sighed, feeling more like the Diva of Deflated Ego now. “I’m sorry. I have no influence over that. Keep trying.” She encouraged the girl despite knowing that the actors would work just the one area of the crowd.
As she turned back toward the theater entrance, she heard her name again. The same voice, further down the line. She turned her smile back on and walked along, closer to the barricade. About ten feet ahead, she saw a young woman, brunette, tall and slim, holding Myra’s book and waving a pen at her. She walked directly to the gal, beaming.
“Good evening. Nice to meet you. You are?”
“Alexia. Alexia Hamilton. It’s really an honor to meet you. I adore your books. Really. I have them all – in hardcover.”
Myra chuckled, eased the pen from the woman’s nervous grip, and opened the book to the title page. “To Alexia, Best wishes and may you live your dreams to the fullest.” Myra signed off with a flourish and handed the book back. “Let me guess, your accent tells me the Carolinas, the western end, and you hope to be a writer.”
“Yes’m. Near Asheville to be precise – and I love writing.”
“Asheville. Lovely town. And Biltmore? What a place. I’ve been there once.”
“Yes’m. I’m out here now to start work next month on my PhD in Literature and Creative Writing at USC.”
“Wow. I’m impressed. That’s a highly selective program. It has what, four slots and over eighty applicants each year? Congratulations and good luck.” Myra mentally debated whether or not to mention her position with the program.
“Thanks. I, uh … Will you be attending the reception tomorrow evening?”
Myra smiled, thinking, Guess she already knows. “Why, in fact, yes, I will be there. I suppose we might see each other there.”
“Great. I really hope I get a chance to talk with you.”
The first tuxedoed escort came up to Myra. “Ma’am, they’d like everyone to move toward the theater. Thank you.”
“Well, I need to move along. Perhaps tomorrow night.”
Alexia nodded. As Myra began to turn away, she blurted, “Ms. Mitchell, I, um, have one more thing to ask of you.”
Myra turned her head just enough to see the woman. “What’s that?” asked Myra.
The young woman handed her a business card, and then leaned forward to speak into Myra’s ear, “Please make time for me tomorrow. I know your secret.”
Eight
**********
The movie hadn’t yet started when Myra arose from her seat and worked her way past the short row of minor celebrities lining her path to the aisle. Something was off. She was off. She neither looked forward to the film, knowing it was a hatchet job of her book, nor to the party afterward. That wasn’t like her.
“Going so soon,” asked a minor player in the movie. They had been photographed sharing a drink at the last premiere Myra had attended.
Myra sighed. “Afraid so. Something’s come up.” She didn’t want to add that it felt like dinner was about to come up. Or was it simply her nerves?
“Will we see you at the Hilton?”
Myra gave no answer, but moved on and approached the valet director to ask for her car and driver. The woman seemed surprised. Myra doubted many people left before a screening.
She returned straightaway to her hotel, and her suite. By that time, her nausea had eased but not her thirst. She needed a drink and room service obliged her request.
The clock had eased toward midnight and Myra draped herself over the chaise on the patio of her garden bungalow suite at the Beverly Hills Hotel, “The Pink Palace,” and watched the moonrise over the Hills. She imagined herself at home in Carmel watching the surf hammer the rocky shoreline below her and etch the sand with foamy frown lines. She could hear the pounding surf, until she realized the beating was a jackhammer giving her a headache the size of the Pacific and the sand was the gummy, yet gritty, dryness in her mouth. Both were the customary results of a night filled with too much Merlot and a scarcity of sleep.
The allure of Beverly Hills, the second wealt
hiest zip code in the country, “90210,” stretched all around her. The jubilant opening night party after the screening was likely in full swing at the Beverly Hilton, where a number of hangers-on no doubt would haunt the Lobby Bar to await breakfast at the Circa 55 restaurant. Once upon a time, Myra had been part of that group – just two years ago, in fact, the year Beverly Hills’ finest hauled her to the main police station and almost booked her for a wardrobe malfunction while frolicking in the fountain in the Beverly Gardens Park across from the Hilton. That was a story the tabloids had loved.
How many glasses had she consumed? She’d stopped counting at six. She arose, reentered her suite for a refill and frowned at the blinking light on her phone. She had already taken one message from her agent, Samuel DeMoss. He wanted an emergency meeting with her for brunch. Myra still wondered what “emergency” existed, but he had come to town for opening night and insisted on meeting with her. Perhaps Samuel had used the term to force a sense of importance on Myra, who had partied a bit too much when last in New York and had totally forgotten the scheduled meeting with both her agent and editor, a meeting that had been her primary reason for visiting New York. As Sweetie would say, “Get over it.”
She pressed the button on the phone to retrieve the message.
“Myra, call me whenever you get in. I heard you left before the premiere. I want to make sure we’re still on for breakfast. Call me. Please.”
Well, he said please, she thought. She placed the call.
“Bout time. You okay?” asked Samuel.
“Well, howdy-do to you, too, Sam. Yes, I’m fine.” She lied.
“Okay. We’re still on for breakfast, right?”
“Yes, Sam. Let’s do brunch at ten-thirty.”
“No can do, Myra. Got a plane to catch. See you at nine on the patio.”
“Alright. See you then.”
“Myra, do me a favor. Put the glass down and go to bed.”
“Goodnight, Sam.” She hung up, hoping she didn’t seem too irritated at his comment. He knew her too well.
She wandered back to the patio and sat down on the chaise. She sighed, and took another sip of wine to rinse the foamy frown lines from her tongue. She wondered if soaking her face in it would ease the lines there as well.
She thought back to her incident at the theater. In fact, that’s all she’d thought about since leaving the premiere early. The girl had made no mention of what secret she knew, so why was the comment bothering Myra so much? Guilt? Fear? Which one could be considered the strongest reason behind a secret? For Myra, that was an easy question. Both.
Her mind seemed like an old, scratched, vinyl record with a jumpy needle playing over and over and over, as she contemplated her situation. Which secret had that girl discovered? The one about her first husband? Maybe the shame inflicted by her second husband. Those were personal but manageable if revealed. The money she took from her almost third husband could possibly get her in trouble. There were others.
The problem with secrets? They bred like rabbits. At least, that had been her experience. One lie led to yet another. One secret, formed with only good intentions, led to another rationalized by a maybe so-so purpose, but whose real intent was to hide the first secret. Like a character in one of her novels, she knew the truth to be the easiest path. Yet, now she found herself entrenched in a sinkhole of questionable motives without a ladder to help her climb out of the hole she had so expertly excavated for herself.
She stood up, empty glass in hand, and returned to the bar inside her suite. She picked up the vintage Merlot and discovered the bottle empty. She tipped it upside down, hoping her eyes had deceived her, but nothing dripped into her glass. Not just empty, dry. She empathized with the bottle.
Her trademark ebullience. Cocky comebacks. Her “joie de vivre.” All had been drained from her by four stupid words from a stranger. “I know your secret.” Her Diva’s tiara looked like the empty wine glass she now turned upside down and sat next to the bottle -- frail and empty. But was it just those four words? She had faced worse situations. She acknowledged that she hadn’t been herself for several weeks now. There was definitely something else wrong.
Myra picked up the business card for the umpteenth time and inspected it. Nothing fancy. Eighty-pound matte stock with standard black ink. No embossing. Probably a quick order from a big box office supply store. Less than a dime to produce. How much did the woman want in return?
State Senator Emory Albritton sat at his antique oak desk, a family heirloom passed down from a great-great-grandfather who had captained a merchant clipper ship in the grand days of sail. State budget shortfalls, funding for pet projects in jeopardy, and a crisis of trust in public office holders should have commanded his constructive attention, but he sat there, staring out the window of his state office in Raleigh, twiddling a pen in his fingers. He had come to the office early, and the capitol was just beginning to buzz with worker bees. The weather outside matched his mood, somber and gray. He hoped the approaching tropical storm held no forecast for his personal future.
He had come so far from that first office in Cashiers. He had made his fortune, moved into state politics and now appeared to be the frontrunner for a U.S. Senate seat. The mid-August primary was but a week away. His manager had said more than once that the race was his to lose.
Only he, and Dewey Hastings, knew how close he was to losing not just the Senate race but everything. His life teetered on the edge of an abyss. A month earlier he had gotten word that the Hamilton girl was looking into a murder case for Project Innocence and that she’d started digging into property records, records that could upend everything he’d accomplished in life. Her acceptance into the doctoral program had stopped her work, but had that young girl discovered anything and why had she run off to California now, at this particular time? Her doctoral program wouldn’t start for another month or so.
“He should have called by now,” he complained to the empty room. The minute hand of the nearby walnut Regulator wall clock had scarcely moved since he’d last looked at it.
He turned back to the desk and slipped a key into a retrofitted lock on the bottom drawer. He rifled through several folders until he found the one he wanted, background on that young woman from his district, that Hamilton girl. He’d added nothing new to the file since the woman gained acceptance to USC, until last night.
The ringing phone startled him. His private line’s Caller ID displayed the number he’d been expecting. Dewey.
“Yes?” he answered.
“Yes, Sir. I, um, got nothin’ substantial to report. I almost lost our friend at the movie premiere. Too much security and too big a crowd. But, I managed to catch a glimpse of her getting an autograph from some woman on the red carpet. Afterwards, the Hamilton girl left the premiere, walked south on Westwood and took the Metro 720 bus south. I couldn’t get to it in time to join her, but I assume she was going home.”
“Assume?”
“I know, I know. Dangerous to make assumptions, but that’s all I can say. All she’s done is unpack and settle into her new place for the past two days. Groceries. Books. Tonight was her first venture out. We took the Metro 550 to the 720 to get here and that’s the way she’ll go back to USC. You know, it’s mighty hard to tail someone on public transit. She’s gonna make me sooner or later.”
“Who was the woman she met?”
“Myra Mitchell, that author you like. I figured you might want to know, so I went back to the theater to find out. I was asking around when all of sudden she’s back out front getting into her limo. Don’t think the movie had even started yet. Anyway, she seemed agitated and it got my gut tingling. Maybe our friend said something. Or maybe passed something to her in that book. Anyway, I grabbed a cab and followed her back to the Beverly Hills Hotel. Once I knew she was staying there, I realized the Metro passed by less than a mile away. Our friend could easily have gotten off to come here and maybe that’s why the Mitchell lady left early. So, I watched her until I
was satisfied the girl wasn’t meeting her there and, quite frankly, she’s boring.”
“Trust me, Dewey, from what the tabloids say about her, she’s anything but that. Usually. What’d you see?”
“Nothing basically. She returned to the hotel, went straight to her room, and showed up on the patio with a glass of wine, which she refilled, let’s see … I tallied up eight glasses in just a couple hours and she didn’t even sway when she walked in and out of the suite. I sure wouldn’t want to face her in a drinking contest.”
“No visitors?”
“None. No phone calls either, at least while I was there. I can’t prove otherwise, but I still think something happened at the theater.”
“Why do you say that?” replied the Senator.
“Because she didn’t stick around for the movie or join the party. I did some checking and, you’re right, that’s not her reputation. She’s never missed a party at one of these things. Not that anyone has ever reported, anyway.”
“So?”
“So, something upset her enough to leave early. Never even attempted to go to the party.”
Albritton thought about that. The logic was sound. Had she felt ill, she wouldn’t have turned to two bottles of wine as a cure. However, had it been their “friend” who foiled the author’s night?
Killer Reads: A Collection of the Best in Inspirational Suspense Page 57
