Third Time's a Crime

by Diana Orgain

  He handed me the phone and I recognized Becca’s number. As soon as I picked up, she said, “Georgia! Are you all right?”

  “Yes, yes. I’m fine.”

  “Thank goodness!” Her voice came out in a rush and I knew her so well I suspected her hand was over her heart, trying to calm herself. “Cheryl ended the first episode with you falling through the floor! Your dad and I have been worried sick. I didn’t have a way to reach you. We called Cheryl, but she hasn’t called us back yet.”

  “I’m fine,” I soothed. “Dr. Arch stitched me up.”

  “The archaeologist?” she screeched.

  I laughed. “Turns out he is a podiatrist. It’s gotta be a nickname, right? Get it, a foot doctor named Arch.”

  “Hmm.” Becca harrumphed. “Sounds like Hollywood humor. I’m sure a roomful of creatives thought themselves very clever to come up with that.” Her voice dropped an octave for her rendition of a half-witted screenwriter. “A foot doctor playing an archaeologist on TV; let’s call him Dr. Arch. Ha-ha.”

  I snickered. “I see you miss the behind-the-scenes action.”

  She laughed despite herself. “You bet.”

  “Hey, I wanted to ask you something though. Last night, before you and Dad left for the farm—”

  “Yeah?”

  “Did you notice anything strange when we were chatting at the pool?” I asked.

  “Strange? Like what?”

  It suddenly struck me that Becca didn’t know about the groundskeeper. I brought her up to speed as quickly as I could while Adam listened in. Occasionally, he’d flash his light into the bushes. I absently wondered if he’d been having nightmares since we’d found the body.

  “A body?” Becca howled. “No wonder Cheryl hasn’t returned our call.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Seems likes she was avoiding us today. You have her running around in circles, right?”

  “I don’t know about that. Seems more like she’s the one running us ragged. Anyway, last night when we were talking in front of the pool. Did you see or hear anything?”

  “No,” Becca said.

  “I ran into Dr. Arch after you left. Like he was hovering around waiting for you to go.”

  Becca was silent for a moment, then said. “So what does that mean? He probably has the hots for you. Was he waiting for me to leave so he could talk to you or something?”

  “Or something.”

  “Just because he was hanging around waiting for you doesn’t mean he killed the poor groundskeeper, G.”

  “I know.”

  Then there was the incident on the third floor.

  Where he denied even being up there. But I didn’t want to drag Becca through all my suppositions, especially not in front of Adam.

  “You said Dr. Arch is probably not his real name,” I said.

  “Of course it isn’t,” she said.

  “It’s like what? A stage name or something?”

  “Yes,” she replied patiently, as if I were a two-year-old, so naive in terms of Hollywood glam.

  Who was the real Dr. Arch and what were his ties to the Golden Castle?

  “What’s his real name?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. I didn’t do the casting on this one. That was Cheryl.”

  “Can you find out for me?” I asked.

  At this question, Adam stuck his fingers in his ears and began to sing, “La la la.”

  Becca sighed. “I can’t give you inside information. That’s cheating!”

  “It’s not cheating,” I insisted.

  Adam sang louder.

  “How is it cheating?” I asked them both. “I’m not asking for information about Jane Reiner. Just about another contestant!”

  Before Becca could reply, Adam snatched the phone out of my hand. “You aren’t even supposed to be using the phone! If Cheryl finds out, I could be fired.” Into the phone, he said, “Ignore her. She’s had a bump on the head.”

  Through the phone, I heard Becca’s voice. “I thought she hurt her leg?”

  Adam snorted. “Long story. Stay tuned for tomorrow’s episode. We saved the little doozy for our opening.” He hung up the phone and turned toward me. “If your string of bad luck continues, I might have to ask for a reassignment.”

  “Thanks a lot, Adam,” I said.

  He walked away from me, his flashlight lighting the way back to the mobile housing units. Over his shoulder, he called, “Hey, all I’m saying is I don’t want to film your death.”

  Eleven

  I had a fitful night. Every time I moved in my sleep, stabbing pains from my leg woke me. The rest of the group seemed to have no troubles snoring away, but soon enough everyone awoke to the sound of footsteps down the hallway.

  It was still early, but since I’d been awake for hours, I was the first to scramble out of my sleeping bag. My knees almost buckled under my weight. My back was stiff from the hard wood floor and from twisting up in the sleeping bag trying to avoid lying on my right leg.

  Kyle along with some other crew members roused the group. This morning, Kyle was decked out in skintight houndstooth pants paired with a black T-shirt. The outfit was completed by a red scarf and matching red cowboy boots.

  “Up and at ’em, sunshines. We need to get into hair and makeup immediately,” he shouted, clapping his hands for effect.

  Dr. Arch startled out of his sleeping bag. “Makeup? What about breakfast?”

  “Continental style in the other room. Now get up! Up, up, up! With all yesterday’s mishaps, we’re frightfully close to running behind schedule,” Kyle said.

  Some crewmembers began clearing the room, practically rolling up Scott’s sleeping bag with him still inside it.

  Kyle closed the distance between us and pulled me off to the side. “Georgia. You need to see Cheryl in her office. Immediately.”

  A sick feeling hit me in my gut. Was this about last night?

  Had she found out about my phone call to Becca?

  “Where’s her office?” I asked.

  “She’s camped out in one of the manufactured homes. I can walk you down,” he said.

  He directed me toward the door. “Wait,” I said. “At least let me get my shoes on!”

  I slipped into my pair of hiking boots and leaned into Scott, who was still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

  “I’ll be right back,” I said to Scott.

  He nodded. “I’ll go save a cup of coffee and a croissant from the buffet for you. Chocolate if they have it.”

  My heart warmed. He remembered chocolate croissants were my favorite.

  Kyle and I left the room and slipped out into the drafty hallway. Kyle flung his arms wide, his red scarf draping behind him, cape-like, as we walked. “I absolutely love this place! Don’t you?”

  “Are you mad? This place has the ultimate creep factor going on.”

  Kyle shook his head. “No. It just needs attention. I think after the show is done, I might volunteer to be on the renovation committee.”

  I stared at him, wide-eyed. “I bet you’d be great at that. You have a great eye for style. Decor must be along the same lines, right?”

  “There has to be a lot of repairs first, before decor, though. I’ve been chatting with Gertrude.” He winked at me. “I think she has a soft spot for me.”

  I giggled. “Repair work? What? Like you’re a hulking construction worker now?”

  Kyle laughed. “Don’t knock it. I look hot dressed up like a construction guy.”

  While Kyle was about as good-looking as a man could be, he did drift toward the pretty side of handsome. And if his colorful style wasn’t a dead giveaway that he was about as far away from construction experience as one could get, his delicate slim manicured fingers gave him away.

  “You’d be the
prettiest construction man on the crew. I’m sure,” I teased.

  We walked outside of the castle and he shielded his eyes from the sun. “Thank you, G. I think you’re pretty, too.”

  I smiled at him. “Seriously, though. Now that I have you alone. What does Cheryl want?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. She didn’t tell me. Just said to get you.”

  We continued down the gravel path toward the mobile houses, where I’d been last night with Adam. “Do you know Brendan?” I asked.

  “Sure,” Kyle said. “’Course. This is a small crew, believe it or not.”

  “I heard he put the voltmeter down in the pool yesterday, before I found the body. I wanted to speak to him—”

  Kyle held up a hand. “Whoa! Wait a minute. You don’t think Brendan had anything to do with that guy’s death, do you?”

  “Well, no. But I mean, I don’t know him—”

  “Besides,” Kyle said, interrupting me again. “Wasn’t it an accident? The man fell in and died, right?”

  “We don’t know that yet.”

  “That’s what Gertrude told me,” Kyle said.

  I imagined that for the historical society that would be the best story to circulate. An accident. Nothing unseemly going on. Just an accident.

  Kyle seemed to sense my disbelief because he lunged at me, clutching my arm in a dramatic fashion. “OMG! Girl! What do you think? You think Brendan killed that poor man?” He sucked in his breath and thumped his free hand over his chest. “I never did trust him, you know? He’s got those weasel eyes.”

  I pulled my arm free from his clutch. “Weasel eyes don’t mean—”

  “And there was the fight!”

  “What fight?” I asked.

  “I heard Brendan and the groundskeeper had a fight. Brendan trampled some roses when he was hiding stuff for the scavenger hunt. The groundskeeper got all over him.”

  Was that enough for murder?

  Maybe the argument had escalated?

  “When did they argue?” I asked.

  “The night before you found him dead,” Kyle said. He looked at me meaningfully, as if he was convinced we’d just uncovered a killer in our midst.

  Could he be right?

  With a flap of his scarf, Kyle left me at the door of Cheryl’s office. I knocked and waited for her to call, “Come in!”

  When I entered, I was surprised to find that she wasn’t alone. Next to her, seated at her makeshift desk was a lean, tan gentlemen dressed in a suit. On Cheryl’s desk was a stack of manila folders and a MacBook Pro laptop that was closed. The room was small, and had a claustrophobic feel. All the windows were painted shut and the walls were cluttered with old Indian sand art.

  Cheryl stood. Her blond hair was pinned back in a loose bun, and she was dressed in a cream-colored business suit that hugged her curves like a drowning child hanging on to a lifeboat. “Georgia. Thank you for coming so quickly. This is Mr. Martin. He’s an attorney with RTV Studios.”

  My throat went dry. An attorney? Was he to inform me that I’d broken the rules and would therefore be kicked off the show?

  Mr. Martin stood and thrust a hand in my direction. I shook it, suddenly feeling wildly underdressed and unprepared for this meeting.

  He flashed an oozing Hollywood smile. Uneasiness stirred inside me. If I was about to get kicked off the show, why was he bothering with the charm?

  “Ms. Thornton, I understand you had a very rough day yesterday,” he said.

  I froze. Did he know about the groundskeeper? No. He was an attorney for the TV studios, not a criminal attorney. I said nothing.

  He stroked the bridge of his nose. “Your leg was injured. Your head . . .”

  I pressed my lips together and glanced at Cheryl, who lowered her eyes.

  “I understand you even needed stitches,” Mr. Martin continued.

  At the mention of my wound, my leg burned and throbbed, as if it were rearing its head when we discussed it. I rubbed at it absently, hoping to soothe it.

  Mr. Martin picked up a folder off Cheryl’s desk and tapped it against his palm. “Ms. Thornton, had you been advised not to go to the third floor?”

  I looked around the office and saw for the first time a hidden camera. Why would Cheryl have a camera in her office? I turned to her. “What’s this about?”

  “We need to make sure you aren’t going to sue RTV Studios, Georgia. I’m sorry,” Cheryl said.

  “Sue?” I asked. I racked my brain. Hadn’t we all signed waivers before we began filming? I was sure I’d signed a hold-harmless about death and dismemberment. “You need me to sign another waiver or something?”

  Mr. Martin flashed me his lawyer smile. “Well, yes, Georgia.” He flipped open the folder and laid it out across the desk. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

  I glanced at Cheryl. “How is this waiver different than the other one?” I asked. “I believe we all signed—”

  “You received medical care from someone in the cast. We didn’t sanction that,” Mr. Martin explained. “I need you to confirm that it was your choice to receive that care. Should you develop, say, an infection or . . .” His dark eyes searched the ceiling as if the answer were up there along with the yellowing, chipped paint. After a moment, he concluded with “worse.”

  Cheryl shifted uncomfortably. “Well, Dr. Arch is a medical doctor,” she said, her voice turning shrill. “Jose is only an EMT.”

  Mr. Martin nodded reassuringly at her. “No one is questioning your judgment. You did the best you could under the circumstances.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sure everything will be fine, but you understand, Georgia. We just need your signature.” He pointed to the bottom of the sheet. “Here.” He turned the page. “Here.” He turned another page. “And here. And if you wouldn’t mind initialing at the bottom of every page.”

  I stared at the file. It was about thirty pages long. “Well, can I read it?” I asked.

  “Certainly, certainly,” Mr. Martin lulled, showing me his even, square white teeth. He turned to Cheryl and indicated the door.

  Cheryl nodded. “Right. Take your time, Georgia. Except hurry. We need to get on with our filming.”

  They left the mobile office, the flimsy door clunking closed. I quickly scanned the file. It looked fairly boilerplate. I really had no problem signing it. I’d been of sound mind accepting Dr. Arch’s care. There was a section explaining that the waiver did not include my acquiescing my rights to sue Dr. Arch should I lose my leg.

  Egads!

  Was that really possible? Lose a leg from stitches? Well, with an infection anything was possible. But even though the wound burned, I doubted I had an infection. I turned my back toward the hidden camera, blocking the view to ensure my privacy, then lowered my pants and checked the wound. There was a bit of clear seepage from it, which was normal. But I was relieved to see there were no angry red tentacles radiating from it. So far, I was infection free. I yanked up my pants and signed the paperwork. As I picked up the file to return it to Mr. Martin, the file beneath it became visible.

  Across the top of the file, in red block print was CONFIDENTIAL: THE TRUTH ABOUT THE MURDER OF JANE REINER.

  I hesitated. My breath rushed out of my lungs as if I’d just finished a sprint.

  Did Cheryl have the answer to the unsolved murder?

  My fingers hovered above the file, itching to open it.

  Then the thought struck me. The cameras!

  Was this a trap?

  Twelve

  I stepped out of the dark office into the brightness of the day. Despite the early hour, the day was heating up and Cheryl and Mr. Martin were standing under the shade of a large oak tree.

  I walked over to them and handed Mr. Martin the file. “Here you are,” I said. “All signed and initialed.”

  He nodded and
flipped through the file quickly. “I appreciate your cooperation.” He glanced at his gold wristwatch. “If I want to catch my flight, I better head out.”

  Cheryl looked sour. No doubt she was probably wishing she could head back to L.A. with him.

  Mr. Martin said good-bye to us, then turned on the heel of his designer shoe and strolled back up the gravel path toward the parking lot of the castle.

  We watched him walk away for a moment, and when I was sure he was out of earshot, said, “I’m sorry, if I got you in trouble.”

  Cheryl waved a hand dismissing me. “Pfft. I know you’re not going to sue, but that awful woman, Gertrude, called corporate and raised a stink. They dispatched Martin out in short order.”

  “She called them about what? My injury?”

  Cheryl laughed. “Oh, heck no. She doesn’t care about your leg. It was a complaint about the destruction to the castle.”

  “Ugh.” I sighed. “The third floor?”

  Cheryl nodded. “Yup. That woman is driving me crazy. She’s trying to get us out of here as soon as possible. I don’t know what it’s to her. The masquerade fundraising ball isn’t for another few weeks. We can get a construction crew to come in here and repair the third floor by then,” she said.

  Guilt flooded me. I was responsible for the damage to the third floor, but certainly I didn’t have any money to pay for repairs.

  Would the studio sue me?

  “Maybe I should have Mr. Martin prepare a hold-harmless for me,” I said.

  Cheryl smiled. “Ha! Now that’s an idea. I should sue you for damages, huh?”

  I must have paled because Cheryl patted my arm. “Just kidding. The network made a ton of money last night. The footage of you falling through the floor is golden.” Suddenly, she looked in the direction of the parking lot and her face grew serious.

  “What is it?” I asked, following her line of vision.

  “The police,” she said, as my eyes landed on a cruiser parked in the lot. “Urgh,” she grumbled. “What is it now?”