The crowds swarmed down the promenade, shuffling between theaters and souvenir stores and bars. I moved through them, stepping over to a window. The sea had the hard look of slate, blue and gray, and when I lowered my head, offering up my surrender, I heard somebody yell, “Whales!”
I looked up.
It was like yelling “Fire!”
The hordes stampeded the promenade, rushing to my window, stepping on my toes, kicking my ankles. They smashed their faces to the Plexiglas.
“Where?!”
“Over there!”
“Where?”
“To the left—see!”
Staring over their heads, I watched the slate fracture and a slick black hill rose, climbing to a parabolic peak. A geyser blasted, spraying white mist over the water, and just as that whale descended, whipping a fantail, another rose and followed the same undulating pattern. In all, four whales came swimming alongside the ship, performing a sine-wave ballet so elegant it looked like a dream.
“Oh, look, it’s a family!”
One whale. My mother wanted to see one whale on this cruise. One. Here were four. And the medical clinic had no windows.
Moving once more against the crowd, whose caps identified them as phillumenists, I walked the now-empty promenade and opened my phone. I resisted the part of my brain that wanted to call McLeod and find out the status of the blue bracelet. Maybe it was seeing that whale pod.
And maybe it was repentance.
But I didn’t call McLeod. I called my sister Helen.
“Dr. Harmon,” she answered on the fourth ring.
One of those annoying PhDs who grafted the letters to themselves, Helen worked as a full professor of painting at Virginia Commonwealth University.
I said, “It’s me.”
“What’s wrong?”
Our relationship limped along beside our mother’s mental health, or lack. Whenever Nadine Shaw Harmon’s fragile world cracked, I informed Helen. Because Helen was busy. Helen was always very busy.
“Mom’s in the medical clinic. Under sedation.”
“Oh, that’s just great.”
“Helen, she was hearing voices—she was hurting herself.”
“Didn’t I tell you not to take that cruise?”
Well, yes, she did. But as usual, my sister was conveniently skirting the specifics. She told us not to take the cruise—until July. When her work schedule opened up. And Helen deciding not to come meant Claire took her place. Claire, the cross to bear. Claire, who kicked my mother over the edge.
I wanted to tell Helen it was all her fault. But I wanted something else more. Taking a deep, deep, breath, I blew it out. “Do me a favor. Please.”
“What?”
“Call Dr. Simpson.”
“You mean there’s no doctor on that ship?”
“There’s a doctor. But I’d like some advice from somebody who knows her.”
“Advice—about what?”
“How to get her home.”
“The same way you got her out there. On an airplane.”
“Let me explain the numbers, Helen. Six hours at thirty-five thousand feet with zero ability to cope.”
“Don’t get mad at me, you were the one insisting on that cruise,” she said. “And for that matter why don’t you call Dr. Simpson.”
“I can’t remember the name of his retirement home.” No longer a practicing physician, my parents’ doctor was the only one my mother trusted, and even that trust was tentative. But the man never locked her up.
“You’re asking me to call every nursing home in Richmond,” she said.
“Helen, they’ve got restraints on her arms. Her biggest fear just came true. Don’t you understand?”
“Oh, I understand. I understand that you didn’t take care of her. Now you wondering if I’ll take over your responsibility.”
Actually, I was wondering if grace was overrated. In which case I could just kill her.
But my mouth stayed closed.
Finally she said, “I’ll see what I can do.”
And hung up.
The crowd outside the Tiki Bar had diminished, probably because of the whale sighting, but Vinnie Pinnetta wasn’t backing off his bouncer routine. As I approached, he crossed his thick arms and dropped his voice to a rough whisper.
“You think you can just come and go? This is a live set.”
“I’ll just stand here and yell for Jack.”
He leaned forward. The brow bone came out like an awning. “I know what you’re up to.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. You’re the type can’t let nobody have any fun.”
“Fun. You mean fun like murder?”
“When somebody kills themself, it ain’t nobody’s fault. You Fed types just wanna make points, pinning this on somebody. Make it look like you’re working.”
After dealing with Helen, the guy was child’s play. I smiled. “Are you going to let me in, or should I start yelling?”
He stepped aside.
Hands in my pockets, I searched the Tiki Bar for Jack and found him standing behind the second cameraman, across from Martin Webb and Sandy Sparks. The director was watching Larrah Sparks act out the scene behind the grass-skirted bar. She pulled a beer tap, filling a glass, then she wiped her hand across her forehead—to show exhaustion, I guessed. Setting the glass on the bar, she pushed it toward Milo. He sat at the end, palm open. Foam dribbling down the glass counter, leaving a wet trail to his hand.
Larrah began wiping down the counter. She leaned forward, vigorously scrubbing the bar, which explained the purpose behind that teeny-tiny top.
“Lean down more,” Webb whispered, directing. I’d learned that these comments could be edited from the sound later.
At the crowded tables, the extras playing cards whistled a catcall. Larrah looked up, showing surprise—her blue eyes darting around the bar, not very believably.
“Yo, Blondie,” an extra called out. “Get over here.”
But she moved away. Webb raised a hand, motioning to the second camera. It was manned by a younger man with the bushy blond ponytail. At the director’s signal, the cameraman drew closer to the bar.
“Lean down,” Webb whispered again.
Larrah leaned down, exposing more cleavage.
I glanced at Jack. He met my eyes, then began taking slow steps backward to where I stood.
“Blondie!” hollered the same extra. “Get over here!”
He was burly. Unshaven.
She gave him a dewy expression. “What do you need?”
“You. Over here. Now.”
She toughened up. Too quickly, if anybody wanted my opinion. But they didn’t. Not anymore.
“You want a drink, come get it.”
The extra stood, kicking back his chair. Unfortunately the chair was one of those heavy captain’s style, weighted at the bottom, and rather than topple, it tilted. Catching the arms of the chair beside it, the chair hung, comedically suspended above the floor.
The extra waited.
“Keep rolling!” The director gritted his teeth.
The extra swept his boot into the chair’s leg, crashing it to the floor. When he turned to face the bar, his neck looked wider than his head. And the brain inside that small skull convinced him to kick more chairs. None went down easily.
“Stop with the chairs!” Webb hissed. “Just get to the bar!”
The man lumbered toward Larrah. “Nobody tells me ‘No.’”
She shook her platinum mane. “I just did.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes. What’ll you have?”
“What’ll I have?”
Reaching over the bar, he grabbed her long hair. Larrah screamed and clawed at his arms, then clamped both hands on his thick wrists. Her own biceps flexed with impressive strength. The burly actor seemed to struggle holding on to her.
He delivered the line again: “What’ll I have?”
They were both glancing down the bar. So were the ext
ras. And Webb. And Sandy Sparks next to him.
Everybody looking at Milo.
The actor was draining the glass of beer.
“Milo!” Webb was seething, his face purpling. “That’s your cue—What’ll I have!”
Slamming down the empty glass, the actor jumped off the bar stool and raced toward Larrah. A ragged run, nearly sideways.
Maybe it’s the shoes, I thought doubtfully.
Reaching the struggle, he punched the extra in the head. Dazed, the man released Larrah, dropping her like a block behind the bar.
Staggering backward, tripping over the chairs he’d kicked, the extra clutched his right eye.
“I’m seein’ stars!” he cried.
“Cut!” Martin Webb launched out of his chair. “Cut-cut! Cut!”
Milo leaned against the bar, his mouth puckering.
“What are you doing?” the director yelled. “You don’t hit him.”
“Yes I do. It’s in the script.”
“Not then! Not until the fight at the table!”
Milo shrugged. “I improvised.”
Webb grabbed his hair.
“It’s a fight scene, Martin.”
“Improvised? You improvised? I’ll tell you when to improvise.” Webb was screaming again. “And quit drinking the props!”
“You told me to stay in character. My character’s drowning his sorrows. Your words.”
Closing his eyes, Webb massaged his temples and Sandy Sparks walked over, placing an arm around the director’s shoulders. He spoke into his ear, and after a moment Webb turned, retreating to his chair.
Sparks stood in the middle of the set and raised both arms, like a referee calling the game.
“All right, everybody. Cool down. Five-minute break.”
The extras, accustomed to waiting, pulled out the playing cards. Larrah complained her makeup needed fixing. And Milo staggered back to his stool. Sparks followed him, still looking like the referee, only now he was going to explain why the foul was called.
Milo stared at his empty glass.
Jack had carefully made it back to where I stood. “Nice pebbles?” he asked.
“Very. What’s going on here?”
“He’s drunk. Again. They’re just now figuring out that he’s drinking the beer on every take.”
“That seems like a no-brainer.”
“I think Sparks is finally cutting him off.”
Finishing his pep talk, Sparks glanced at his wristwatch. The producer, keeping the schedule.
I whispered to Jack, “Quick, hand me the key.”
“If I still had it.”
My head snapped. “What—?”
“Harmon, what took you so long?”
“I got . . . interrupted. You gave it back to him?”
“I stayed away until it seemed obvious we were gone too long. My plan was to hang in back until you got here, but Milo took one look at me and held out his hand. The guy can’t remember his lines but he remembers giving me his key. Drunks, they surprise you.”
Webb was gripping the megaphone. “Everyone! This is the last take.” He glared at the bar. “Milo! Last take. Get it right.”
“Jack,” I whispered. “I can’t keep these.”
“You’re just now figuring that out?”
I held my tongue. The cameras rolled and the actors went through the scene again, every word, every facial expression unfolding exactly as before. And now the burly extra’s irritation seemed authentic.
“What’ll you have?” Larrah asked him.
“What’ll I have?” He grabbed her hair. “You!”
Milo leaped off the bar stool and ran—really ran—jumping on the extra’s back. He wrapped an arm around the guy’s wide neck and squeezed. The extra’s face went red. His eyes bulged.
I looked at Jack. “Nice hold, huh.”
Jack was watching the scene with a distant expression. But that was deceiving. When I worked with him in Seattle, I made the mistake of thinking that look was cold detachment. Only later did I realize his brain had switched on its own camera, coolly documenting every moment, committing it to memory.
The extra flung his arms around until his hands found Milo’s forearm. He yanked on the arm around his throat. But he couldn’t move it. Gagging, he staggered backward, crashing into the table of extras. The cards flew to the floor and the men glanced furtively at each other, then over at Webb. The director was watching intently. So was Sparks. Nobody said “cut.”
Leaping up, one of the extras raised his fist and pretended to swing at Milo, who pretended to duck. He continued choking the burly man, who was now making a sound like a sick cat hacking up fur balls. And his tongue came out of his mouth. It was a burgundy color, engorged with blood.
“Hey, Milo!” Sparks came out of his chair.
Webb picked up the megaphone. “That’s enough. Cut!”
Milo didn’t hear. Or didn’t care. He pulled tighter. The man’s eyes bulged from his small head.
“Cut!” Webb said. “Milo, I said, cut!”
Two extras landed on Milo’s back. The choking man staggered under the added weight. Like a rugby scrum, the man-pack shifted across the room until crashing into the bar. Suddenly the burly man shot out.
Bent, coughing, he looked up. Eyes like cups of blood.
“He was gonna kill me!” His voice sounded like rust.
Holding Milo’s arms, the extras restrained the actor. He was panting, out of breath, his famous face shiny from exertion. But the most disturbing sight was his glassine eyes. They were blind. Without emotion.
Sparks walked toward him, arms open. The dad who can’t believe what his son just did. “Milo—”
I turned to Jack. “That’s quite an effective choke hold.”
He nodded. “It gave me an idea.”
“Me too. He choked her to death.”
“No, the shoes.”
“What about the shoes?”
“The plastic ones. The black ones. I’ll tell him I want them back. Then we can get in there again.”
“But those shoes don’t fit.”
“I’ll say these sneakers are worse. I’ll tell him they gave me blisters, then he can go on and on about the blisters on his feet. I’ll listen while you go put those pretty pebbles back where they belong.”
“You think he’s going to let me into his cabin—by myself ?”
“My feet hurt, remember? I can’t walk.”
Milo was stumbling back to his bar stool and staring into the empty glass, as though willing it to refill. Sparks was talking to the extras, explaining how his lead actor was going through “a really tough time.”
Jack stepped forward, touching Sparks on the shoulder.
“Sandy?”
“Yeah, Jack.”
“Give me a minute with him? Maybe if I explain how an agent would handle this situation.”
Sparks nodded, then looked directly at me before broadcasting his opinion. “Here’s a concept. The consultant who actually helps. All right, everybody, take five.”
With his back to the set, Jack leaned in so close to Milo their heads almost touched. I saw Milo glance down at the bright blue sneakers before reaching into his back pocket. Jack, like a magician concealing the more important move, began patting Milo’s shoulder while his other hand took the keycard and slipped it up his sleeve. He offered Milo more pats, then waved to Sparks.
“We’re good to go.”
Jack stood beside me as the scene began again. When the extra kicked back his chair, it hit the floor with an impressive crash. He lumbered to the bar, growled at Larrah, and recited Milo’s cue— What’ll I have? Milo ran straight for him and Larrah jumped back in pretty disarray. The actor and the extra followed a series of choreographed punches, though Milo kept glancing down at the floor, locating the taped marks. And the extra seemed to regret every pulled punch. But they crossed the bar swinging and pivoting toward MJ, who sat at the piano, and when Jack touched the back of my hand, a sudden tin
gling raced up my arm. I held my breath, kept my eyes on the men, and suddenly MJ screamed.
She screamed with a pitch that could shatter glass.
I wondered how anybody could miss hearing a scream like that coming from the chapel Monday night.
I slipped the keycard into my pocket and Webb began whispering directions again. “Roundhouse on three.” He leaned forward in his chair, voice rising with anticipation. “And one . . . and two . . .”
And bursting forth, “Ode to Joy.”
Milo’s fist was frozen in midair. The extra turned his head, trying to find the source.
I yanked my cell phone from my belt, smashing my fingers into the small keys to silence the song. Jack was backing away, his hands raised to show his innocence. When I looked up, the extra was shaking his head. Milo looked lost. And Webb needed no megaphone.
“You ruined it!” he screamed. “You killed the scene! We finally get it to work—and you killed it!”
Sparks remained nonplussed. Picking up the megaphone, he said, “Vinnie, get her out of here.”
Only too happy to obey, the Forehead flashed into view.
Chapter Twenty-eight
I glanced at my phone, checking caller ID.
Area code 804.
DeMott’s phone number.
With a flash of fury, I bounded up the stairs to Deck Fourteen, running down the hallway to Milo’s cabin. At the other end, a steward’s cleaning cart sat outside an open door. Head down, I keyed open Milo’s door, went straight to the bedroom, and slid out the bureau’s top drawer.
The box was gone.
I pushed the lingerie back and forth. Then opened the second drawer.
T-shirts. Shorts.
The third drawer contained pants.
No box.
Standing still, I listened for noise. The only sound was blood rushing through my head. His bed looked exactly as it did when I left. The drinking glasses were still upside down on the paper doilies.
But the closet door was closed.
The Mountains Bow Down Page 23
