by Leslie Kelly
Her mouth opened. Closed. Then she let out a muffled groanlike sound, planted both hands on his chest and shoved. He stumbled back off the sidewalk, into the street and stood there, looking at her because she’d turned into some kind of madwoman. A jealous madwoman. That wasn’t such a bad thing, was it? That proved something, didn’t it?
Proved that he’d gotten her interested the other night, that was sure. But it didn’t prove much else.
“I guess you don’t need me very much after all,” he called out, ready to walk away.
Caroline took three steps, her shoulders square, her dark hair swinging and bouncing as she tried to march in righteous indignation. Then she stopped and slowly turned around. As if each word were dragged from her throat with a crowbar, she admitted, “I need Sophie’s house.”
He sucked in a shocked breath. She was leaving? He’d scared her off for good? That should have made him feel better, should have offered some relief. But the thought of going home to an empty house again, not hearing her stirring around in her bed or humming jingles from commercials in the shower, left him feeling empty inside.
“Your allergies…”
“I’ll take some Benadryl.”
“You gonna take it intravenously every hour for the next three weeks?” he asked, raising a skeptical brow as he stepped back up onto the sidewalk.
She shook her head, explaining, “I’m not going to live there.”
He wondered if she could read the expression of relief he couldn’t hide. “Oh.”
“I need to know if it’s available, and, if so, I need you to come over there with me.”
“Armed with Benadryl?”
“Yes. And a butcher knife. I’m about to kill someone in your sister’s house.”
Mick could only hope it wasn’t him.
HESTER HAD FRETTED and stewed most of the morning about the face she’d seen among the TV people. A face that instantly brought up long-buried memories of another life, another time. And made her quiver with the kind of fear she hadn’t felt in a few decades.
By late afternoon, however, she’d realized something. She was a different person now. A strong person. A clever one and certainly a more self-reliant one. Hadn’t she proved that, right here in town, fooling the world with one public face and successfully hiding her more private one? Even her own brother didn’t really know her. No one did.
Finally she had reason to be thankful for packing on a hundred pounds or so in the past thirty years. “I won’t be recognized. People see only what they want to see.”
That was true. People looked at her and saw the devoted first lady of the church. The one who looked after her poor, sweet, wonderful younger brother who was so beloved by the town. Miss Hester the miserable old spinster whose only role in life was to play the martyr, that’s what they saw.
Only a few—the few whose secrets she’d learned and exploited since arriving in Derryville—knew the real woman.
And now the biggest, most profitable secret of all had landed here in her own backyard. “It might even be enough to get me out of here for good.”
Taking a nondescript piece of white paper and a standard black ink pen, she sat down at her small writing table, where she so often tweaked and edited her brother’s sermons.
She wrote down two words as she pictured a face from her past. Two simple, nearly forgotten, but very valuable words.
“Victoria Lynn.”
THE ONE GOOD THING about having the network already deeply committed to this project was that they had writers on call. And Caro took full advantage, paging and faxing several of them for their immediate assistance.
“You talked to your sister?” she asked Mick as they stood on the back porch of Sophie Winchester’s small house.
He nodded. “She agreed. Have them fax you a contract and she’ll sign it.”
Caro drew in a deep, relieved breath. God, she hated having to rely on him, having to ask for his help. One more thing to be under his thumb for. First sex, now the show.
She’d almost been under a lot more than his thumb the other night. Closing her eyes, she shook off the memory. “At least she won’t have time to paint it pea-green,” she mumbled, trying to fill the silence, to make him think she was focused strictly on business when the truth was far from that.
“That’s why you needed to move the location of the shoot here?”
Caro nodded, briefly explaining their troubles with the owner of the downtown apartment, which was originally supposed to be the crime scene. “So,” she said, “I immediately thought of this place. It’s perfect, even though I can’t be inside for more than a few minutes at a time.”
He gave her a worried look, probably noting her red-rimmed eyes and puffy cheeks. “Are you going to be all right?”
She nodded. “I’m not inside much, and the Benadryl is helping. And this house is absolutely perfect. Enough light, big enough for a full camera crew. Vacant but still partially furnished. We just need to change the final clues for each team, so they’re led here instead of downtown.”
“That’s where I come in?”
She nodded. “You have to talk to the writers on my cell and give them enough information to make sure a newcomer to town would find this place.”
“Can do,” he said.
He was being extremely accommodating. But was the least he could do, she reminded herself, considering he owed her. Big time. He now officially owed her several nights’ sleep—which he’d ruined. As well as a few damn good orgasms, which he’d silently promised and hadn’t delivered.
Though, she had the feeling neither the sleep nor the orgasms were going to show up in her near future. Not unless she took his suggestion and invested in a vibrator. Because after what he’d done to her Thursday night, there was no way she was ever letting him touch her again.
Even though having Mick touch her was about the most perfect thing she’d ever experienced.
The jerk. Just when she’d convinced herself he couldn’t possibly be as good as she remembered, he’d gone and shown her he was better. Oh, Lord, was he better. And that was only just the slow buildup part. She couldn’t begin to imagine what the finale might have been like.
Luckily, before Mick could turn around and ask her why she had such a stupid, lustful look on her face, Charlie and a couple of the other techs stepped out of the bedroom, where they’d been measuring and setting up.
“Hey there, Mr. Winchester,” he said, “be sure to tell your sister how much we appreciate this, okay? She’s a lifesaver.” He turned to Caro. “This place is perfect, much better than the apartment. You still want one stiff in the kitchen and two on the floor in the bedroom?”
She nodded. “Props knows to come here right?”
Charlie nodded. “And Jacey’s heading here right after the contestants split up into groups of four from the diner.” Charlie snickered. “That is, if they ever split up considering they can’t nail the shot. Seems the chef has decided he’s an opera singer this morning. And the waitress is dressed like one of Charlie’s Angels. And the ladies in the place are acting like they’re eating cucumber sandwiches rather than greasy burgers and fries.”
Mick snorted a laugh. Caro could only sigh.
But that was Renauld’s problem for today. She was too busy putting out this fire to deal with that one. Let him douse the flames at the diner.
JACEY WAS THE FIRST one to see the fire.
Shooting had finally gotten underway, after the extras had finally changed their clothes, lowered their tea-party pinkies and nearly forgotten they were going to be on television.
Even the owner of the diner, Ed, had been persuaded to remove his tux, put on an apron, and stop singing an aria from some fat-people opera while he fried up the onion rings. Unfortunately, it didn’t stop him from trying to show off his skill with those onion rings. And that was when the trouble started.
“So how do you like our fair town?” said one of the extras, a guy in a cop uniform who looked like a k
id playing dress-up with his father’s clothes. Jacey had already dubbed the two officers—who were inseparable—Thing One and Thing Two. They looked just as alike and caused about as much trouble.
“It’s lovely,” said Ginger, who was, as expected, the first one to take to the camera. Jacey had to hand it to her, twenty pounds or not, Ginger looked pretty good on tape.
Not to be outdone, the extremely pompous college professor—Whittington—added, “This country air would inspire the bard to write another Hamlet.”
Just what the world needs, Jacey thought, remembering her high school Shakespeare. Another play that makes you want to slit your wrists. She kept her camera on Whittington. Something about the guy rang very phony to her. Or else he just creeped her out by being obsessed with a dead writer.
Before anyone else could say a word, Jacey caught a movement through the pass-through into the kitchen. The cook, Ed, was flipping onion rings out of the fryer, one at a time, and attempting to catch them on a long skewer. For some reason, Jacey pulled her camera off the cast, knowing her team had them covered from three other angles in the diner. She zoomed in through the pass-through, catching the cook’s act.
He flung another ring. This one landed in a pot of chili on the stove. Then again—this one bounced through the pass-through, hitting the buxom waitress in the back of the head. The woman swung around to see what had hit her. Jacey wondered if the woman had thought, “big freakin’ cockroach,” since that seemed a probable explanation in this place. But she just shrugged and didn’t say anything. Meanwhile Ed continued his acrobatic show.
Or, at least, he continued to try. Flip, miss. Flip, miss. Flip, another one in the chili pot.
Then, finally, because even a broken clock is right twice a day, he got one. Jacey almost wanted to clap for the guy. Almost. Because her second impulse was to warn him that the onion ring had to be pretty stinkin’ hot.
Apparently, it was.
“Ow!” he shrieked as the ring slid down the metal skewer and landed on his fisted hand. His yelp wasn’t loud enough to drown out one of the contestants who was singing the praises of the cool days of autumn. That guy deserved an Emmy since they were all dripping sweat in this cramped diner on an unseasonably hot September day.
Nobody else seemed to notice the cook’s dilemma, but Jacey gave him a sympathetic look as she continued to shoot. The moment he’d gotten burned, he’d flung his skewer—not to mention the winning onion ring—away. He’d grabbed a big hunk of butter and started spreading it on his wrist, which made Jacey cringe from here. Butter on a burn—did people still do that? Good grief, during the two or three Girl Scout meetings she’d attended as a kid—before getting kicked out for punching another little girl—she’d learned better than that! Some people should have to get a license to walk out their front doors every day.
It was while tsking over the bad butter move that Jacey noticed the smoke. And heard the pop. And saw the tipped-over deep fryer—which the cook’s arm-waving appeared to have caused—lying on the stove. Boiling hot grease slid across the huge flat surface, which was still coated with burger guts and pieces of burnt chicken.
Whoosh.
Flames shot up from the cooktop. Ed’s eyes widened to almost comical proportions. Mr. Whittington droned on about dead poets. The camera crew and director ignored everything but the set.
And Jacey watched the kitchen go up in flames. “Umm…”
Before she could say another word, she realized she wasn’t the only one who’d witnessed the catastrophe. Digg shot up out of his chair, pushed past the waitress who’d been putting her boobs as close to his arm as she could get while taking his order earlier, and sprinted toward the kitchen. He somehow did a move Jacey had only ever seen in movies, never real life. He didn’t even break stride as he reached the breakfast counter. Throwing one palm flat on the counter he launched his whole big, yummy self over it in one leap.
Jacey never took the camera off him.
“Back up!” Digg yelled to the cook, who still watched slack-jawed as the onion ring nightmare began to consume even more of his kitchen.
The rest of the people in the diner finally noticed. Renauld started to wail about the interruption. The celebrity host, Joshua Charmagne, darted for the door. She wondered what the fans of his old cop show, Southern Heat, would think of their tough-guy hero now.
The contestants all jumped to their feet, and the townspeople began to yell for the fire department. And, per their good training, the other camera operators immediately panned to the action in the kitchen. She would’ve wrung their necks if they’d dropped the cameras to go help put out the fire. Probably pretty twisted. But hey, she was a camera junkie.
Besides, Digg seemed fully capable. Though she half hoped he’d whip off his tight black T-shirt and try extinguishing the flames with the cloth, he instead beelined for an industrial-size fire extinguisher on the wall of the kitchen. He had it off the wall and in operation within about fifty seconds of leaving his seat.
The fire was out a few seconds later, leaving him, unfortunately, fully clothed, but also a savior. Everyone froze for one long moment after the fire was out. Then activity erupted. Everyone clapped, cheered and poured into the kitchen. Ed grabbed Digg’s hand and kissed it. The buxom waitress threw her arms around his neck. Ginger and Mona shoved her out of the way and hugged him themselves.
And Jacey watched through the camera.
Finally, after the excitement died down and Renauld called for everyone to go back to their places, Digg edged closer and closer, until he stood right beside her. “You catch the whole thing?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Would you have stopped shooting if my clothes had caught on fire?”
“Huh-uh.”
He tsked. “Very nice.”
“At least not if it was your shirt,” Jacey admitted. “If that was coming off, I would definitely have wanted to get it on tape.” Then, to make sure he didn’t get the wrong idea, she added, “For our female viewers.”
She wondered if he heard the note of blasé amusement she’d been going for in her voice, or if he’d zeroed directly in to the attraction she was trying so desperately to hide.
“Ahh.”
Just that and she knew he’d heard the attraction. The interest. The surprising desire she felt for this most unlikely of guys. Unlikely, at least, for her, whose taste ran more to the motorcycle-riding, black-leather-wearing bad boys she’d grown up with in the poor part of L.A. Not serious-looking, thoughtful, intense do-gooders.
“Do you ever come out from behind that camera? Or do you only live life through it?” His voice was slightly challenging.
Jacey gritted her teeth to avoid letting him know that he’d scored a hit. One of the big arguments she’d had with her father was over Jacey’s desire to watch the world, not live in it.
“Why don’t you get back over there to your adoring public?”
“Why don’t you answer the question?”
As usual, when Jacey was challenged she reacted with her typical defense. An aggressive offense. “Go on, Meat, you’re the entertainment. I’m the crew. Get back to your job so I can do mine.”
He didn’t reply for a long moment as Jacey held her breath. Finally, unable to help it, she pulled her attention away from the ruckus in the diner, away from her camera lens, and turned her head slightly to look at Digg.
He was just staring with those deep, knowing brown eyes, giving her one of those tiny, precious smiles. And looking as if he knew her, really knew her, like no one ever had.
“I’ll get you out from behind that camera one of these days, Jacey Turner.” His words were a promise more than a threat.
“You can try.” Damn, her voice had cracked. She stiffened her jaw.
“Oh, I will,” he said softly. “Wait and see.”
CHAPTER TEN
“DON’T YOU THINK I should act out my death scene?”
Caro smothered an impatient sigh. “No, I don’t.”
Five seconds went by. Then the plea came again. “But I really think…”
You’re not being paid to think.
“You’re just supposed to be dead, okay, Mr. Smithback?”
Caro had been having this same argument with Eldon Smithback for a half hour here in Sophie Winchester’s house where they were setting up for the first murder scene. Eldon wanted to go out with glory. Caro just wanted him dead on the floor. God, extras were going to be the death of her. If the cast wasn’t first. Not to mention her allergies.
No, strike that. First would be the man standing in the kitchen, watching the madness as the crew got ready for the arrival of the cast of sleuths. Mick. Watching all, seeing all. Laughing silently in the background while he observed the mania Caro had become well used to in the TV business. Mania like people hired to play corpses who decided they wanted to do a Sopranos-type death scene instead.
Renauld owed her big-time for leaving her here to sort this out. Dealing with discontented extras wasn’t her job.
“I could surprise the intruder after my wife and son have been killed.”
Caro continued reading the messages she’d just received on her alphanumeric pager. Messages from the four runners she’d sent out to plant the replacement clues. The writers had come through big-time on that. Thirty seconds after the new clues had come off the fax machine, she’d had the techs racing out to place them at the four locations. They’d just paged to let her know everything was a go.
“I did a play once in high school and the schoolmarm said I was the best George Washington she ever saw.”
Considering how old the guy was, the schoolmarm had probably known the real one. She’d had enough. “Look, you’re dead, okay? Just…dead. If you surprise the intruder, well, your face might give something away to the audience.”
Instead of being dissuaded, he puffed up a little more. “That’d be great. A clue. I could be the first clue!”
Arggh! “You’re not supposed to be a clue. You’re supposed to be a corpse.”
The old man wouldn’t be put off. As if auditioning, possibly for the play he’d done in high school, he froze, let out a bloodcurdling scream, clutched his hands to his chest and proceeded to stagger all over Sophie Winchester’s former bedroom. Caro watched impassively, waiting for the guy to finish. It took a while before he clunked to the ground and twitched around a bit.
