Everybody Takes The Money (The Drusilla Thorne Mysteries)

by Diane Patterson

  “I have a favor to ask,” I said.

  “I hardly know the day has begun if I haven’t got one of your ridiculous requests. What is it?”

  “Can you bring someone to the set for a possible walk-on?”

  He shook his head. “Casting’s set.”

  “I didn’t say you had to cast her. Just have her show up as a possible.”

  He took a puff on his cigar, inhaled, and held it, staring at me the whole time. Then he blew the smoke out and put the cigar in the ashtray. “Is this concerning....” He lazily made a circle around his forehead.

  He meant my injuries. “Yes,” I said. “It’s about that.”

  “Is this person the one who tried to kill you this time?” he asked, as though only mildly interested in the answer.

  “No,” I said.

  Since moving into Gary’s house, I’d nearly gotten killed here twice, by two different people, on the same night. Looking a little worse for wear had probably set off a few alarms for him. Albeit, not the same alarms as he’d had installed after the last time.

  After a moment, he shrugged. “Certainly. When do you need to speak to this person?”

  “Are you going to the set today?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Tomorrow.”

  “Then one more thing.”

  He picked up the cigar again.

  “Can you have whoever’s in charge of casting send the request?”

  He chuckled silently as he took another drag on the cigar. He puffed out a few smoke rings. “You’re unbelievable sometimes.”

  “That’s why you love me.”

  He made a face at that. “This girl. Is she good-looking?”

  I glanced at Anne, who nodded. “Very,” she said.

  “Ooo, I like her better and better. Can I meet her?”

  I made a face. “Gary, darling, do you want to make me jealous?”

  “Depends. Will I get a laugh out of it?”

  “You’re horrible. Stop smoking. It’ll kill you.”

  When we returned to the kitchen, Stevie was stirring a giant bowl of what I suspected was brownie batter. Anne picked up her purse and keys off the kitchen counter. “What is your relationship with him?” Anne asked me.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You live with him...except you don’t. You live in the guest house, with Stevie. He tells everyone you’re his girlfriend, but...you’re not. Is he gay?”

  I shook my head. “Not gay. Despite being a British actor.”

  “So what’s the story?”

  “It’s not important, Anne.”

  “It’s so weird. Just always makes me wonder what else you’re not saying.”

  When she left, I locked the front door behind her and returned to the kitchen.

  “She’s suspicious you’re not telling her something,” Stevie said.

  “She’s not even an investigative journalist. She does puff pieces on celebrities, for the love of Zeus.”

  Stevie nodded. “She’s smart and she’s very curious. Which is a good combination for her.”

  “Yes. And it’s terrible for us.”

  My sister thought about that, and then she nodded.

  I didn’t need new friends. I needed no friends.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  GARY’S MOVIE WAS currently shooting what he described as “the endless house party scene.” The production was working out of a house up in Point Dume, taken over for two weeks to film one sequence of the movie. Instead of enjoying a mansion on its own strip of beachfront property, there were forty people standing around wearing some version of the t-shirt/jeans/headset combination. All of the trailers for the production were crammed in at the end of the street. We had to park at a nearby lot, and a golf cart was sent around to pick us up.

  To pick Gary up. I was simply along for the ride.

  The golf cart driver, named Pete, shook Gary’s hand vigorously. “Good to see you again, sir.” All I rated was a quick “Ma’am.”

  As we bumped along the unpaved path to the main house where the shooting was centered, nearly every single crew member turned and waved to Gary, who waved back. For such a strange, solitary man, he was a ridiculously popular figure on movie sets. Not only because he was a star, but because unlike many actors on movie sets he actually talked to the people working on them. He waved at the security guards standing on the perimeter. He smiled at the crew members. He remembered names. If he worked with someone more than once, he remembered their kids’ names. He opened doors for the women instead of expecting them to be held open for him. As long as people were polite, he didn’t mind signing autographs or posing for pictures.

  It’s when anyone—crew members, other actors, fans—mistook Gary’s social defenses for overtures of actual friendship that the problems started. He would tense up and fold in on himself, not leaving his trailer, his house, his bedroom.

  The entire golf cart ride I either had my hand on Gary’s forearm or our fingers entwined. The protective circle around Gary went through me.

  When we got off the cart, near the makeup trailer, I whispered, “Show me how happy you are I’m here,” in his ear and he laughed like I’d just told a dirty joke.

  Did I mention he’s a great actor?

  A guy with short blond hair, wearing one of those headsets and clutching a clipboard, came running up to him. “Gary!” he said, proving in one word he was one of the smart ones who took the star at his word about what name he preferred. He looked at me. “Drusilla, right? Hey. Good to have you back here again.”

  I kissed his cheek. “Eddie. How are Maisie and Ginny?”

  Always ask after a person’s kids. The spouses can and do change. Barring a disaster, the children don’t.

  “They’ve started walking. In opposite directions. My wife’s going nuts.”

  I laughed. “Oh, hey. Do you know where I can find Ofelia?”

  “She’s out front, I think.” Then he opened the makeup trailer’s door and said to Gary, “Let’s go over your schedule for the morning.”

  And just like that, Gary was taken care of, and I was on my own until the next time we had to do the lovey-dovey thing.

  Time to find Randi.

  Ofelia was the extremely organized person in charge of keeping casting straight for the movie. She was young and very efficient, always with her list of things to take care of and her hair in the straight, even ponytail tied back with a perfectly symmetrical bow. We had met just before filming started and chatted. She asked me if I wanted a walk-on role, and I demurred. At this moment she was at the crafts services table, going over a clipboard’s worth of information with a PA wearing a headset. On a chair near her was a very bored, very beautiful young woman with long black hair and dark eyes. She was small and slight, with the same proportion of oversized head to tiny, waifish body that Courtney had. She and Courtney had probably offered a fantastic contrast on Girls Becoming Stars: the blonde and blue-eyed waif, and the dark and brown-eyed siren.

  I walked over. “Ofelia, hi.” We kissed on the cheek, because that’s what two people who have a passing acquaintance do on movie sets. “I’m looking for Randi Narvaez.”

  “That’s me!” said the beautiful woman. “How you doin’?”

  “I don’t know what Gary was talking about,” Ofelia said. “We don’t have—”

  “It’s okay, I’ll talk to her,” I said. “Randi? Walk with me a moment.”

  I steered her toward the set, which was on the back patio, overlooking the Malibu coast. The cameraman had the video feed working and the grips were double-checking the lighting. Gary’s double, a man about the same height, with the same color skin and a similar hair pattern, was standing under the lights.

  “Who are you?” Randi asked. “I was told Sir Gareth Macfadyen called and asked for me directly.” Her Texan accent had faded, or she’d worked on reducing it. The faint twang brought back memories of when Stevie and I had briefly lived in Texas. That living arrangement had ended badly.


  Remembering Texas made me remember Courtney getting shot. I faltered, forgetting what I was about to say.

  “Gary and I live together. I asked him to call.”

  She eyed me and took a step back. “Look, I don’t know who you think you are or who you think I am, but I am not interested in any of your games.”

  “I needed to speak to you. You’ve heard about what happened to Courtney Cleary, right?”

  “Oh, no,” she said, her voice getting very angry. “I’m not talking to you about her.”

  The contrast between Randi’s voice—which definitely showed her anger—and her complete lack of facial expression was surprising. She was twenty-four or twenty-five and already used Botox. Lots of the younger actresses and models did, in order to keep any forehead wrinkles from forming. In ten years, films and TV would have no actresses able to form facial expressions. But the women would look the same for decades.

  “I need to talk to you. I had a run-in with Courtney and her boyfriend Roger Sabo.”

  “Her boyfriend?” Randi snorted. Loudly.

  “Well, they were certainly together when Roger decided to beat me up.” I lifted the sweep of hair to display my cut.

  “Wow.” She leaned closer to me. “Did Roger kill her? I always thought he might.”

  Oh, thank you, Zeus above. Randi knew something about Roger, something that might help me immensely with getting that son of a bitch off my back.

  “Why did you think that?” I asked.

  “I could tell you a few things about Courtney and Roger.” She paused, as if trying to remember a particular incident. “And why would I tell you one damn thing about that asshole?” Randi asked.

  Whenever someone asks you a question, assume they’re not being rhetorical and they’re actually asking for information. The same goes with sarcasm: take the words at face value and respond accordingly. It saves everyone getting into fist fights.

  “What would make you tell me anything about Roger, Randi?”

  “Am I actually here about a part on this movie or what?”

  “No,” I said. “But you have met Ofelia Delasante, and now she knows your name. And you’re on this set. What do you want?”

  Her eyes flicked to her right and then back again. It was a quick, involuntary movement.

  I turned around to see what she was looking at.

  The crew were making last-minute adjustments to the lighting and placement of furniture. It seemed amazing that that much gaffer’s tape could be on the floor and that many lighting scrims could be positioned around the room without some of it showing up on screen. Lots of beautiful people wearing cocktail attire stood off to the sides, waiting for the call.

  The main thing happening to the right side of the scene before us was the sight of Gary listening carefully to everything a wild-haired guy wearing a Mariners ball cap and Metallica t-shirt and ripped jeans had to say. Wild Hair was the director, probably. A man who was maybe thirty and had done some commercials and music videos was telling Gary how to act.

  Gary’s best acting job on the movie was going to be pretending this kid had anything to tell him about his craft.

  Who was dating whom was a popular story in Hollywood.

  “You know he’s my boyfriend, right?” I asked.

  “How serious are you two?” Randi asked.

  I thought about what Micah Schlegel had said: everybody’s got a story. Randi wasn’t accepting any phone calls—until word got to her that Sir Gareth Macfadyen wanted to talk to her on a movie set. When she figured out there was no role, she hadn’t stormed off. Instead, she stayed to talk to me. Gary’s girlfriend.

  Randi wanted the Story of the Girl who was Dating a Bona Fide Movie Star. Actually working in movies was not as high on her priority list, it seemed.

  “We’re flexible with our arrangement,” I said.

  “I don’t do three-ways,” she said.

  I took a moment to imagine a three-way involving Gary and me and just about anyone else, and it ended much the same as whenever I imagined Gary and me dating for real: my mental movie machine broke down, unable to form the picture.

  I also didn’t believe Randi about what she would and wouldn’t do, but that was neither here nor there. “Neither do I. However, I will introduce you to him. Possibly even convince him to have dinner with you.”

  “Why?”

  “You tell me whatever you know about Roger Sabo and Courtney Cleary. Especially Roger. In as much detail as you can manage.”

  Something akin to glee flitted across Randi’s face. “More than happy to talk after dinner.”

  I smiled, no glee whatsoever. “You need to make this worth my while to even broach the topic with my...beloved.”

  Every single fiber in Randi’s body radiated annoyance. “Okay. So Roger was a producer on the show—”

  “Mostly because of his drug-dealing skills. Well ahead of you there. What else?”

  She clicked her tongue a couple of times. “Do you know Greg Hitchcock?”

  “The construction bloke? You and Courtney worked for him, right?”

  “Still do, sometimes. You want to know a few things about Greg?” Her drawl got lazier by the syllable.

  Hm, interesting. But not germane to the topic under discussion. “Not unless it has something to do with Roger Sabo.”

  “Well, this certainly did. The second I heard Courtney got murdered, I immediately thought of Roger and Greg. Both of them might be kind of angry at her. Roger had quite the temper on him to begin with.” She pointed at my hairline. “I’m guessing you know that.”

  “What about them, Randi?”

  “I never did understand why Courtney came back to Los Angeles,” she said. “Not when she was making such good money from both Roger and Greg staying put in Oklahoma. But of course she wanted to be here.”

  “Are you telling me both of them were paying her off?” I asked.

  “You didn’t know that, huh? I’ll tell you the rest. Tomorrow.” She smiled.

  If the Hollywood actress thing didn’t work out, perhaps she had a career in writing suspense.

  Well. Time to put up. I consoled myself that in this situation everyone won: I would get my information, Randi would get her moment having dinner with a famous man, and Gary might get laid, which normally put him in a good mood.

  Stevie would be disappointed that I had done it, though. But she had her methods and I had mine.

  As I approached him, Gary didn’t even stop the conversation he was in with one of the gaffers to wrap his hand around my waist and let his fingers rest on my ass. Then he looked at me and said, “You’ll need to leave the set soon, darling.”

  The gaffer moved away to give us a modicum of privacy, in the middle of the chaos of a film shoot.

  I put my hand up to his face but was careful not to make contact with his skin, lest I mess up his makeup. We leaned toward one another simultaneously, as though having an intimate moment. Since nearly everyone working on the movie was standing in the room at that moment, everyone saw us in action. Gary could sell our fake relationship so hard that sometimes I wondered if he was actually coming on to me. He was, after all, a professional.

  “Randi wants a date with you,” I said quietly.

  “A date?”

  “You know. Dinner. Chitchat. Possible pap photos.”

  “Possible?”

  Randi wasn’t going to be the Girl Who Dated Important People if there wasn’t photographic evidence. “Okay, yes. Definitely photos. Think of it this way. You’ll be the stud cheating on his twenty-eight-year-old girlfriend with someone even younger.”

  He groaned. “Anything else?”

  “That part I leave up to you, tiger.”

  The guy with a different ball cap on wandered by and said, “We need to clear the set.”

  “Five minutes,” Gary told him. To me he said, “Is this important?”

  Was this important? Most likely, anything Randi had to say I could find out some other way, but gett
ing her to tell me directly would simply be faster.

  I crossed my fingers over my heart. “You don’t have to do anything except have dinner with her. Enjoy.”

  He made a moue, leaving no doubts of his feelings about this setup. “The thing about women half my age is they don’t know anything, so they’re really dull. Not counting Stevie, she knows a lot of things, she’s extremely interesting. But most of them...” He shook his head.

  I interlaced my fingers with his. “They can have their upsides, darling.”

  “You’ll save me if things go wrong, won’t you?”

  “That’s what I’m here for, Gary. You light up the bat signal, I come running.”

  Thankfully, that had only happened once, with a woman who had turned out to be a crazy stalker. It was nice, proving my usefulness to him with a bare minimum of effort.

  He kissed me on the cheek, his lips barely making contact with my skin. “Fabulous.”

  One crook of my fingers at Randi and she came running over to us. I left them to discuss where they’d be having dinner that night.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  MY STEPFATHER ROBERTO had asked me to talk to Dr. Anson Villiers about the nonprofit foundation Villiers was setting up to help at-risk youth in Los Angeles. Roberto was going to lend his company’s name and donate money. I made a call to Villiers’s phone number, which turned out to be in Beverly Hills, to set up an appointment to see him later that day. Then I asked Stevie to find out who this fellow was.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Because I need to go talk to him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s starting a nonprofit charity thing that I’m going to help with.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Why?”

  “Could we do the Socratic method another time? Do your keyboard tippy-tapping thing and tell me who this person is.”

  Anson Villiers turned out to be a psychiatrist who worked in Beverly Hills. I wasn’t sure which part surprised me the most: that Roberto was acquainted with a psychiatrist, that said psychiatrist would be in Beverly Hills instead of on the Upper East Side, or that Anson Villiers was black.