A First Date with Death (18 page)

“I know. But I especially think I’m sick because I just got rid of Edward.”

“What do you mean?” Dad asked.

“Well, obviously I can’t pick Scott in the end. So that means I have to pick Paul.”

Dad groaned.

“At least if I’d kept Edward—”

Dad finished his bourbon. “Well, let’s cross that bridge when we get to it.”

I stared at him. “You’d rather I select someone at the end who I suspect of murder over Paul.”

Dad shrugged. “We can’t try the guy right here and now. This is the United States of America. Everyone is innocent until proven guilty!”

“Oh, my God. You do prefer me to end up with—”

He held up a hand. “Now, honey, let’s not get carried away. Why don’t you call those cop friends of yours, Lisa and Dirty—”

“Stinky.”

“Right. See if they can shed a little more light on things.”

INT. LIBRARY DAY

Scott is looking into the camera; his eyes are twinkling and he has a smirk on his face as if he’s in on some joke. His head is closely shaven and he’s in his early thirties, wearing a plaid shirt with a dark vest over it and jeans, looking like he’s slipped right off the cover of the latest fashion magazine.

CHERYL (O.S.)

Scott, can you tell us about yourself?

SCOTT

That’s a loaded question.

CHERYL (O.S.)

Would you rather not?

SCOTT

(
shrugs
) What do you want to know?

CHERYL (O.S.)

The answer to the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.

SCOTT

(
smiling
) I’m a Leo.

CHERYL (O.S.)

Love or money, Scott?

SCOTT

Ah. Money is so easy to come by these days, isn’t it? Have an idea, like building a smartphone or tablet, or hell, just create a website where people can share their pet photos, and bingo—you’re a billionaire. But love? That’s a little more complicated, right?

•   •   •   •   •   •   •   •   •

T
he San Juan Bautista Mission was breathtaking. There were five historic buildings facing the center of an original Spanish-style plaza. The plaza was an immaculate grassy square and the adobe mission buildings seemed to glow against it.

Cheryl had requested the crew set up a tent for us along the northern side of the plaza where the chapel was. One tent had craft services and the other was for hair and makeup.

Kyle was present, putting the finishing touches on my “look.”

“We have to take it up a notch, doll face,” he said. “We’re getting to the finale and I want you to look fabulous!”

He pulled out a ridiculous iridescent violet halter top that was covered in sequins. “Voilà!”

“What is that? You’re going to make me look like one of the jellyfish from the—”

Kyle screamed out in shock. “Stop it! You’re not going to look like a jellyfish! You’re going to look hot!”

“But I’m not hot. It’s forty degrees out, Kyle.”

“I mean sexy, girl.”

“The fog is rolling in, big time. I’m not going to look sexy in that; I’m going to look like an idiot. Give me a parka!”

Kyle prickled like a cat who’d just sniffed an electrical socket. “I’m not giving you a parka. Further, I secured a permit for these!” From one of his varied and multiple what I now considered “magician” bags he pulled out a pair of sequined stilettos.

I screamed.

A wicked and cunning laugh that chilled me to the bone escaped his lips.

“I’m sorry for tackling Ophelia, okay? Didn’t I already say that? If I didn’t, please let me say it again.” I grabbed at his arm. “I’m so sorry, Kyle.”

He remained stoic.

“Please don’t make me wear the stilettos. I have blisters.”

He waved a hand. “Pfft, what’s a few blisters? Want me to call you a wambulance?”

Cheryl came over, a sour look on her face. “What’s taking so long? The fog’s going to whip us to kingdom come if we don’t hurry up.” She took me in. “Great top. Love it. Get the shoes on and move it!”

Kyle gave another evil laugh. “I’m going to craft services now to stuff my face.”

“Good, I hope you choke,” I called out after him.

He looked over his shoulder and smiled at me, wagging a finger. “Careful, honey, we still have the finale and things could get a lot worse!”

•   •   •   •   •   •   •   •   •

I
took my place where Cheryl had instructed me to stand and waited for Scott. He appeared dressed in a wool crewneck sweater and long pants. He looked warm and comfortable and happy.

“Hey, there, sexy,” he said, closing in on me to give me a kiss on the lips, but getting my cheek instead.

“Hey, yourself,” I said coolly.

He squinted at me, trying to figure out my mood, but I avoided his gaze by walking across the grassy square in front of the mission. The sky was beginning to darken and it emphasized the radiance of the row of white adobe arches. The mission was made famous in Alfred Hitchcock’s
Vertigo
. There was a three-bell wall alongside the church. It was a beautiful campanario, high and majestic, and it loomed in our background.

“This looks different than I thought,” I said.

“That’s because there’s no tower,” Scott said.

I recalled the tower in
Vertigo
.

“How can there be no tower? It’s where the girl fell from—”

Scott smiled. “Trick photography. Hitchcock did it in a studio in Hollywood.”

I stopped walking, suddenly feeling as if I were the one with vertigo. Everything in my world was upside down, inside out.

Fake.

“You should know by now the tricks Hollywood plays,” Scott said.

I searched his face. What was I looking for?

“Were you inspired by Hitchcock?” I asked.

“Of course. He was a master. I’d have to say most of today’s thriller writers were inspired by him.”

“The girl in the Hitchcock movie committed suicide,” I said.

Scott shrugged. “I suppose she did. Remember her falling from the tower?” He gave a fake scream and windmilled his arms around as if he were falling off a forty-foot tower, one leg suspended in the air in a warrior pose.

A chill crept up my spine.

“It’s sort of like what happened to Aaron,” I said, trying to calm the alarms flashing through my body.

Scott straightened and put his foot back on the ground. He said nothing, but gave me a strange look.

“And Pietro killed himself, supposedly. Did you know that the note found by Pietro’s body was like—”

“Cut,” Cheryl yelled.

Ignoring her, I said to Scott, “A character in one of your books committed suicide, too.”

He frowned. “What are you getting at?”

“Cut! Cut!” Cheryl screamed. “What are you doing? You two are supposed to be falling in love here!”

“Well, I’m not falling in love with this man. He’s a liar, or worse,” I spat out.

“What?” Scott asked, taking a small step away from me as if he feared I’d physically lash out at him.

“You were never married,” I said. “Your sob story about your wife, Jean, dying of cancer. That was a complete fabrication!”

Scott looked like I’d just punched him in the chest. He stumbled backward in disbelief.

Probably couldn’t believe I was onto his game.

“What do you mean, I was never married?” he asked. “Why would you say that?”

It was time for me to fess up about Martinez and the dossier.

“Someone researched it for me,” I said. “You’re not the only one who likes to play research games, you know.”

“Someone who?” Cheryl demanded, her eyes blazing like flamethrowers right through me. She was thinking of Becca, of course. I had to come clean. I couldn’t get Becca into trouble, but then again, I couldn’t throw Martinez under the bus, either.

“LAPD,” I lied.

“Everyone take five,” Cheryl yelled. She shooed the cameramen away and approached me. “What are you doing here? We’ve got a scene to film here and we need to get on to the finale today. I can’t afford another day at La Playa Carmel!”

“Hold up,” Scott said. “Obviously she’s got a few things to say to me. We need to clear the air. Can you give us a minute?”

Cheryl literally looked like her head might pop off, but some part of her must have recognized that the sooner Scott and I talked, the sooner she’d get her scene.

She held out her palm, fingers fanned out under Scott’s nose, and said between gritted teeth, “Five minutes!” She turned on a heel and walked toward the mission.

Scott turned toward me and I realized I was shaking.

“What’s going on? Evidently someone’s told you something that wasn’t true—”

“Save it,” I said, furious now. “When Pietro was found in my dressing room they gave me some information about his body.”

“What’s that got to do with me? With my being married? Why did you say you thought I’d never been married?”

“People talk. I know that you were lying about her,” I said.

“But I wasn’t!” he said. “I’m not. Why would I lie about something like that?”

“To get my affection or to win the stupid show. I have no idea!”

He shook his head. “No. No. I would never lie about something like that. Actually, I just don’t lie. Lies are for people scared of the truth.”

He reached out for me. I pulled away from him.

“Georgia! Please,” he said. “I don’t know who told you all this or why you believe it, but—”

“There’s another reason to lie.”

He cocked his head toward me. “What’s that?”

“To hide something bigger.”

He squinted at me. “Like what?”

“You killed Aaron and Pietro.”

•   •   •   •   •   •   •   •   •

S
cott’s jaw dropped open, his eyes wide. “What?” he sputtered. “I don’t know if I should laugh or cry. You’re joking, right?”

“The note in my dressing room—”

“What note?”

Anger welled up inside me. “Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about! Pietro’s suicide note was straight out of your book
Death Thief
!”

Scott frowned. “Are you saying that the—”

I jammed a finger into his chest. “The note in my dressing room was the same as the note in your book!” I repeated.

He recoiled from me. “Well, that’s weird.”

I leaned into him, my face close to his. “Weird? Is that all you have to say for yourself?”

His shoulders hunched up to his ears and he stepped back. “You think if I were going to kill someone I’d be stupid enough to plagiarize my own stuff? Leave a note that would directly point the finger at me?”

I stepped away from him, a nagging sensation making its way through my bones.

He did have a point.

“Anyway, the idea of murder is ludicrous,” Scott said. “It was a crowded set with witnesses all around—”

“That didn’t stop someone from killing Aaron! You couldn’t have more witnesses than we did that day . . .”

I turned away from him, suddenly feeling defeated and confused.

“What?” he prodded.

When I remained silent he said, “Come on. Don’t hold back on me now. You’ve already accused me of—”

“Pietro was killed because he knew something about that day on the bridge. I’m sure of it. He wanted to talk to me. Someone killed him to silence him.” I turned back to Scott and studied his face.

His jaw was clenched and his eyes narrowed in thought. He rubbed at the stubble on his head. “Hmm. Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“What? Do you know something you want to tell me?”

“No.” He shrugged. “Well, I don’t know. That day on the bridge. It was me, you, Pietro, the doc, and the cowboy.”

My mouth went dry.

“The day at the studio, it was the same people,” he said.

“Plus the crew,” I said.

He nodded. “Right, but . . .”

“What?” I asked.

“The night we drove back from San Francisco . . . Ty was asking a lot of questions . . . asking me about the tapes that I got to watch . . .”

A jolt of adrenaline blasted through me. “He knew about the note! You didn’t know about the note. The police didn’t say anything to anyone but Paul and me, but Ty knew about the note. He mentioned it to me in Solvang!”

Suddenly the world seemed to tilt and I lost my balance.

Scott grabbed my shoulders and righted me. “What’s wrong?”

“Last night . . . Becca was going to go out with him!”

•   •   •   •   •   •   •   •   •

S
cott and I raced toward the chapel. Cheryl was chatting with a tall, lean cameraman and eating a vegan wrap that the craft services had provided.

“Cheryl!” I screamed. “Call the police!”

She whirled around, a look of surprise on her face. “What’s happened?” she asked, a piece of lettuce peeking out from between her front teeth.

“It’s Ty! He’s with Becca. She’s in danger. Where are they?” I yelled.

The cameraman came to the rescue. “I can get her right here,” he said as he pulled out an iPhone from his pocket.

“Call her, call her!” I screamed. “We have to warn her.”

“I can do better than that,” he said. “I have her on my GPS phone locator.”

I didn’t want to ask. I was just happy that we’d be able to track her down quickly. He pushed a few buttons on the iPhone. We waited, the intensity mounting, until he said, “She’s inside the chapel.”

We ran toward the chapel together. Scott was the first to reach the heavy door. He pulled on the handle.

The door didn’t budge.

“It’s locked!” he said.

“There’s another entrance around the side,” the cameraman said.

We sprinted down the courtyard toward the three-bell wall. I swore under my breath about the stupid stilettos.

An image of Becca falling from the tower, like the woman in
Vertigo
, propelled my legs to move faster than I’d have thought possible, although logically I knew that there wasn’t really a tower.

Part of me finally felt relieved that Hollywood did fabricate things.

The side door creaked open, revealing the inside of the chapel. The church smelled of incense and had three wide naves and a pulpit that jutted out from the wall. The ceiling and wall frescoes were repainted in native-influenced style with deep earthy tones that matched the reredos behind the main altar. In the reredos were six niches holding six statues. In the center bottom niche was the statue of the mission’s patron saint, John the Baptist, that I found myself praying to intensely.

Please let us find Becca!

My stilettos clicked on the tile floor as we canvassed the church. Scott and Cheryl seemed to follow my lead and looked in the same areas as me, but it was the cameraman who said, “What’s that?”

A flash of red on one of the pews in the front row caught my eye. I raced toward it, feeling sick to my stomach. The red thing was a lady’s handbag, but I didn’t recognize it as Becca’s. I felt a mixture of frustration and hope. I grabbed at the bag and tore into it.

Becca’s phone was inside the bag.

Cheryl let out a string of profanity that would’ve made a sailor blush, and then said, “Where, in the name of John the Baptist, is she?”