Mobbed

by Carol Higgins Clark

  “How about the people who come so close to a starring role and don’t get it? They wanted it so bad they could taste it,” Laurinda said, dramatically pointing to her mouth. “It was so close they could taste it!”

  “That’s got to be awful.”

  “Awful? I’ll say it’s awful! Especially for an unknown.” Laurinda leaned in and whispered, “April Dockton was the second choice to play Cleo Paradise’s role in My Super Super.”

  Hayley’s mouth dropped. She didn’t have to fake her reaction to this tidbit. “She was?”

  Laurinda nodded. “She almost nabbed it but in the end they picked Cleo.”

  “And Cleo became a star.”

  “That she did.” Laurinda made a face. “I’ll tell you something,” she began, then laughed. “If I were Cleo Paradise, I wouldn’t want to meet up with April Dockton in a dark alley. In any alley, for that matter.”

  26

  Horace Flake was speeding down the Garden State Parkway, his father in the passenger seat.

  “Son, slow down,” Ronnie ordered, bracing his hand against the dashboard. “I want to get there in one piece.”

  “I drive for a living,” Horace reminded his father. “Did you forget that?”

  “You hang around the airport and try and get fares. Most people are afraid of gypsy cab drivers like you. They think they’re going to get in your car and get murdered. That’s not what I call driving for a living.”

  “Thanks,” Horace said sarcastically, his thick, beefy hands gripping the wheel. “I’m so concerned about your welfare that I take the day off, and that’s all you have to say? I want to see Cleo Paradise brought to justice. I want the world to know how she treated you. It’s outrageous. You were her agent on a movie that lands her an Academy Award nomination, and now she’s ignoring you.”

  Ronnie looked forlorn. “I told her it was a bad script.” He shook his head. “I still think it was a bad script. A bad script that turned out good. Cleo worked her magic.”

  “I thought the stalker movie you got her was good,” Horace said, his hands gripping the wheel even tighter. “Now I watch the movie just to see the part where the guy tries to kill her. It’s awesome.”

  Ronnie looked over at his son. Horace’s dark hair was thinning. He had a big, strong frame but he had put on too much weight. All the junk food he ate while he was driving. Wrappers were scattered all over the floor. If only he’d get his life together. “Horace, I worry when you talk like that,” he said. “Your problem has always been you like a fight. What’s going to become of you when your mother and I aren’t around? Huh? You ever think of that?”

  “I live day by day.”

  “I’ll say. You never got around to moving out.”

  “Mom didn’t want me to.”

  “She changed her mind twenty years ago.”

  They rode in silence. “I’m sorry,” Ronnie said. “But now that I’m going to retire, I worry. Your mom wants to move to Florida. Are you planning to come with us and try to snag fares at the Florida airports? It won’t be easy. There won’t be any long lines of people standing in the cold, tired of waiting for a legitimate taxi.”

  “You think I want to live in a retirement village in Florida?”

  “Then what are you gonna do?”

  “Stay here. I’ll get a room somewhere. I’ll figure it out.”

  Ronnie shook his head. “I should have been a better father.”

  “You’re right.” Horace put on his blinker and started steering his dark, beat-up sedan toward the exit.

  “This is where we get off?” Ronnie asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Then what?”

  “I know the way,” Horace said, quickly adding, “I got directions on my BlackBerry when I read about the sale.”

  27

  Connie, are you all right?” Dirk asked anxiously, as he got up off the ground. He winced at the pain in his ankle as he hurried toward her.

  Cleo was staring straight up at the sky. “I feel a little dazed but I’m okay.” She started to sit up. “This hasn’t been my day.”

  “It’s my fault again,” Dirk said. “Take it easy, Connie. Are you seeing stars or anything?”

  “I’m just a little foggy. No big deal.”

  “Relax for a few minutes, Connie.” Dirk rubbed his ankle.

  “Did you get hurt?” Cleo asked.

  “I’ll be fine. I might have a sprain. I’ll go back and put some ice on it.”

  “Can you walk all the way back to the office?”

  “My cabin is just a short ways up a path in the woods,” he said. “When you’re ready, I’ll escort you back to the trail. Then if you don’t mind, can you go the rest of the way by yourself?”

  “I don’t mind. And I’m okay now,” Cleo said. “Let’s go.” Dirk took her hand and together they stood. But when they started to walk, he had trouble. It was painful to put weight on his foot.

  “Lean on me,” Cleo offered.

  “Are you sure?”

  Cleo smiled. “What do you mean am I sure? You just saved my life. I’ll escort you to your cabin and get out the ice.”

  28

  Cliff and Yaya Paradise were enjoying a glass of wine at their campsite.

  “Ah,” Cliff said, leaning back in his outdoor chair that folded up in a snap. “I love this mellow feeling when day is done, gone the sun. After the thrill of exploration, whether it be the excitement of climbing a mountain, or the challenge of learning a new dance step, there’s nothing like sitting back and enjoying life.” He grabbed his wife’s hand and kissed it. “With my Yaya. The woman who never said no when I wanted to continue exploring Planet Earth. She only said ya … ya … Yaya!” He kissed her hand again.

  Yaya smiled. “Till the day she died my mother could never get used to the nickname you gave me. But she loved to hear about our world travels.”

  “Our world travels meant getting a lot of painful shots over the years, but it was worth it,” Cliff said, sipping the red wine they’d bought in the village. “What excites me now is the museum. Aren’t we lucky to have come across those pottery skulls? They remind me of Mexican sugar skulls, but much easier to transport.”

  “I’ll say,” Yaya chuckled. “These last few months we really found some interesting pieces.” She paused, then put her finger to her temple. “I’m surprised Cleo didn’t send us an e-mail when she received the trunk. She always opened the trunks we sent to Los Angeles right away and sent some funny comment. I received the confirmation the trunk was delivered to New Jersey. If she saw those crazy skulls, I can’t imagine why we didn’t hear from her …” Yaya’s voice trailed off.

  “Maybe she’s gotten used to her crazy old parents. At least we know it arrived.”

  They sat in silence for a few minutes. “Cliff,” Yaya finally said. “Why don’t we go into town and call Cleo?”

  “Now?”

  “Yes.”

  “But why?”

  “I want to hear her voice.”

  “Darling, can’t you hear it tomorrow?”

  “No.”

  Cliff looked at his wife. “What’s the matter?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’s a mother’s intuition …”

  “Say no more,” Cliff said, draining his glass, then staring down into the valley. “We’ll go down right now. On the one hand it’s wonderful this campsite is removed from the modern world and the technology that has taken over so many people’s lives, but on the other hand—” Suddenly he stopped talking. He turned to his wife.

  Yaya was already running down the hill.

  29

  Regan turned to her mother and couldn’t help but laugh as Edna boomed from the front porch, “Autographed books by the famous author Nora Regan Reilly …”

  “Mom, don’t worry about it.”

  “I know, Regan, but listen to her. It sounds like she’s begging people to stay and buy my books.”

  The front door flew open. “Nora!” Edna called. “I have s
omeone here who wants to buy one of your books, but only if you’re willing to personalize it—yes, or no?”

  “Of course,” Nora answered as sweetly as she could.

  “Come on out here!” Edna ordered as the house phone started to ring. “Regan, would you get that, please? I’m very busy.”

  “Certainly.” Regan and her mother exchanged looks of amusement, then headed in different directions. Regan hurried to the kitchen, where two women were examining the table and chairs. They seemed to be in a world of their own, and didn’t notice the loud ringing of the phone, or Regan’s presence in the room.

  “It’s a pretty nice table and a good price, but, eh, I’ve seen nicer.”

  Regan grabbed the cordless phone from the wall. “Frawley residence,” she answered.

  “Hello, is Cleo Paradise there?” a woman asked.

  “No, she’s not. Who’s calling?”

  “My name is Daisy Harris. I’m a good friend of Cleo’s. When will she be back?”

  “Actually,” Regan said cautiously, “she’s not living here anymore.”

  “She’s not?” Daisy sounded surprised and a little upset.

  “No, she’s not.”

  “Where did she go?”

  “I don’t know,” Regan responded. “I just answered the phone for the woman who owns the house. She’s busy right now.”

  “I heard that woman is having some kind of sale where she’s selling things that belong to Cleo. Is that true?” Daisy asked incredulously.

  Regan felt embarrassed. “Yes, Mrs. Frawley is having a garage sale …”

  “This is crazy!” Daisy exclaimed, sounding more and more upset. “Cleo wouldn’t leave her things behind. When did she leave?”

  “Last Friday, I believe,” Regan answered. “She left Mrs. Frawley a note saying she was off to do a movie.”

  “A movie! But I just talked to her Monday night. She didn’t tell me anything about a movie or that she had moved out of the house. She was waiting for me to finish work on a film I’m doing in Florida and then we were going to drive back to California together.”

  I knew it, Regan thought. I had the feeling that there was something odd about Cleo’s sudden departure. “Maybe she’s nearby and just wanted to leave this house for some reason,” Regan suggested, in an attempt to comfort Daisy.

  “Then why wouldn’t she tell me?” Daisy asked, her voice rising. “Why?”

  “When you talked to her the other day, was she on her cell phone?”

  “Yes. I tried calling it just now but there’s no answer. I left a message.”

  “I’m sure she’ll call you back.”

  “No. There’s something wrong. Cleo told me someone left wilted roses for her at that house. That happened in California, too. Both times she tried to shrug it off. She’d been in a movie about a stalker who left her wilted roses and figured it was just a prank. I have a bad feeling that it wasn’t a prank this time.”

  I do, too, Regan thought. I do, too.

  30

  I hope Cleo Paradise is enjoying her day.

  Because it’s her last.

  31

  Scott shouldn’t worry so much, Jillian thought as she drove her Jeep toward Asbury Park. So what if that Regan Reilly recognized me and starts asking questions? Jody will know how to handle it. And the girls working at the sale don’t even know us, for goodness’ sake, so they can’t give her any dirt. It will all be fine. Besides, what does Regan Reilly care if I got engaged or not?

  For the past twenty-six years, Jillian’s mother had praised her daughter for having such a sunny outlook on life. As a baby, Jillian was always smiling and clapping her hands. As she got older, she always saw the glass as half full. Many people found her saccharine ways annoying. But there was no doubt that when life got tough, Jillian muddled her way through. You’re right Mom, Jillian thought, happily. I do look on the bright side. But I also work hard. Jody would never have asked me to go into business with her if I didn’t. She’s a little older and more experienced, but she couldn’t do this alone. She’s better at pricing the items and I’m better at getting rid of the clutter. I’ve always been very neat. That’s another of my good qualities.

  Turning up the radio, Jillian listened as a reporter raved about the weekend weather forecast—beautiful and sunny. I wish I could go to the beach, Jillian thought, but we have those sales on Saturday and Sunday in Pennsylvania. Oh well. They’ll be worth it. Both sales are at McMansions, which means we should make some good money; 25 percent of the take, as usual. Jody and Jillian were leaving early the next morning and would be gone for two nights.

  I wonder how Edna’s sale is going, Jillian thought as she zipped along Ocean Avenue. She asked if it would be better to have the sale on the weekend but we were already booked. Edna needn’t have worried about having the sale on a weekday, she had quite a line. It’s summertime and people are on vacation. Garage sales don’t have to be just on Saturday or Sunday.

  Jillian was nearing Asbury Park, a town that had always been an alluring place for musicians. It was home to the Stone Pony, a bar Bruce Springsteen performed at often in his early career. After years of decay Asbury Park was finally enjoying a slow but steady resurgence, thanks to building and renovation. New bars, restaurants, and lounges where musicians could perform had sprung up. I wouldn’t mind living here, Jillian thought. The Perones seem to love it.

  The Perones were the owners of the house where Jillian was headed. A couple in their early thirties, they were on a spiritual cleansing kick and believed that if they got rid of their junk, they’d be more creative and productive. Striker was a musician and Harriet worked in sales at a radio station. Jillian had helped Harriet go through the house, and had to be kind but firm, just like she was with Edna. People had a hard time letting go of their possessions.

  The Perones’ garage sale was beginning at 2:00. It was now 12:30. Plenty of time to assemble everything out on their patch of front lawn. No helpers needed. Jillian and Harriet and Striker would handle the sales themselves.

  Jillian turned onto their street. The quiet block resembled a ghost town. The sun was beating down and there were few trees to provide shade. Even optimistic, glass-is-half-full Jillian felt a teensy bit nervous as she pulled down to the small house and turned into the tiny driveway. There were no people waiting out front. Jillian had posted signs in the morning all over town. There were always garage sale addicts who staked out a place in line hours before sales started, paranoid that they’d miss out on a good bargain. Some of them were downright scary.

  Jillian wasn’t even out of her car when a barefoot Striker came out the front door wearing his usual black jeans, black T-shirt, and an odd assortment of metal chains around his neck.

  “Hi, Striker,” Jillian said cheerily, thinking that he probably just rolled out of bed. Striker often played until the wee hours of the morning in bars around town. “Ready to stage our sale?”

  Striker pointed his finger at her. “I have to talk to you,” he said angrily.

  Jillian closed her car door. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “What’s wrong? Do you see any line? No one’s going to bother coming here with that other sale going on—the one with Cleo Paradise’s stuff. We booked you first for today and that sale is stealing all the attention! You wasted our time!”

  “But that sale is several towns away. Believe me, the people there who know about yours will be here afterward. Definitely.” Jillian smiled broadly. “I hung signs all over the place. Remember that movie Field of Dreams? If you build it, they will come. Believe me, if you have a garage sale, they will come!” Jillian started to laugh, a lilting, high-pitched ha ha ha.

  Striker failed to find any humor in Jillian’s little joke. “Not only that,” he continued, his expression unchanged, “but Harriet let you throw out too much of my stuff! I’m furious!”

  Jillian shook her head. “Oh, Striker,” she said in a placating tone as she walked toward him. “It is so incredibly
normal for you to feel that way. People have such a hard time letting go of their things. When the sale is over, you are going to be sooo happy. You are going to feel soooo free. Let’s have a positive attitude, and get ready for your sale!” she said, doing her best to sound perky. “Where’s Harriet?”

  “She’s in the house sobbing. She feels the same way.”

  32

  My life is so messed up, Scott thought. I got married too young. Things were okay for a while, her parents helped us get started, then that witch always wanted more. She wanted to do nothing but shop, lunch with the girls, go on great vacations, join the most expensive country club. Then when Trevor came along she had to have a nanny and send him to private school. For a while I could swing it, then I lost my job. Things were never the same. I tried to keep up and we started fighting.

  It was a relief when she met that rich old guy at the gym. When she told me she wanted a divorce, she thought I’d be heartbroken. Huh! What a joke. I just feel sorry that Trevor has a woman like that for a mother. He’s stuck with her for life. I’m stuck dealing with her until Trevor graduates college.

  Wouldn’t it just kill her if she found out about the garage sale business? She’d die. Even though she liked the finer things in life, she stopped at those sales every week to get her fix. Sometimes she brought home something decent but mostly it was junk. The amount of money she wasted had driven Scott crazy and he told her as much.

  Now he needed $25,000 and had to score it soon. I’ll pay that guy back and never ever borrow again, Scott thought. Luckily I have this appointment today. An elderly couple who had been at the restaurant last night—Betty and Ed Binder—were so touched by the romance of Scott’s proposal that they sent over a round of drinks. Good thing that Regan Reilly was gone by then. He was sure she was. Most of the restaurant had thinned out. Scott and Jillian thanked the Binders and asked the couple to join their table. Now Scott was going to pay them a visit. He had a few investments he wanted to talk to them about. Hopefully they’ll get out their checkbook.