Smoke and Mirrors (6 page)

“The ceilings are high enough. We can shoot under them,” Peter said as Tony joined them.

“We are keeping the cameras low,” Sorge agreed. “Keeping the shots filled with the people.”

Still staring at the ceiling, the gaffer frowned. “A diffuser under each of them might help.”

“Couldn't hurt,” the key grip allowed.

Keisha made a noncommittal albeit dubious sound. So Tony looked up.

“Holy fuck.” Those were three of the most hideous looking chandeliers Tony had ever seen. In fact, he wasn't entirely certain they could even be called chandeliers except for the dangly bits. Although what the dangly bits were actually made of he had no idea. A certain
Leave it to Beaver
nes
s
about them suggested the same 1950's vision that had been responsible for the redecorated parts of the master suite, the bathroom in particular.

Not that particular.

“I think Mr. Foster has succinctly summed up the situation,” Peter sighed and Tony looked down to find all four looking at him. “Did you want one of us for something?”

“Uh, yeah, Keisha mostly, but you should probably all know. We've got a souvenir hunter. There's already a piece of crap missing from the conservatory.”

“Crap?”

“Broken end of a garden claw.”

“Crap,” Keisha acknowledged. “But not our crap either. All right, I'll make sure Chris keeps an eye out and we'll do a double count when we pack up. In the meantime, someone's going to have to get pictures of everything in those cabinets.”

“Tony . . .”

Yeah, he knew it. He was usually “someone.”

“. . . get Tina's digital,” Peter continued, “and get those shots while we finish setup. We all know how much CB loves unexpected bills.”

Only the center cabinet was actually a bookcase. The others were too shallow for books and instead displayed cups and saucers, grimy bowls of china flowers, and the little plastic toys from inside Kinder Eggs—Tony suspected the three-part water buffalo and the working lime-green windmill were the most recent additions to the decor. Behind the water buffalo, he found a yellowed card buffed down to the same color as the shelf by a thick layer of dust. Theoretically, he wasn't supposed to touch.

When he flipped the card over, the black handwriting was still dark and legible.

There was no sign of the finger although on the next shelf he did find half a dozen of the tiny china figurines that used to come in boxes of tea and were required inventory in every cheesy antique store in the country.

He finished up just as his radio sent a spike of pure static into his head.

“Roger that. Everett's on his . . .”
The last word was lost under another burst of static and some rather impressive profanity from the other end of the room.

“Tony!”

He closed the last cabinet and turned toward the 1AD.

“Send Everett out to the trailer and start moving the extras up here.”

“Why does it have to be extras?” Peter muttered as Tony dropped the camera back off at Tina's station. “I hear the Hall of Presidents is closed down for renovations ; why can't we borrow their animatronics? Toss 'em in a tux, stick a martini glass in their hands . . . Washington would look very feminine in a high collar and some ruffles; he's already in a wig. Who'd notice? But no, we have to use real people. Real people who don't listen, who never know their right from their left, who all want their fifteen minutes, who make
suggestions
. . .”

The director's continuing diatribe faded as Tony moved out into the hall heading for the conservatory. Everett, who'd known the talent should be in the trailer at nine, was on the move when he arrived. Sharyl was packing up her case, ready for on-set touch-ups. All that was left was moving the extras.

Humming the theme from
Rawhide
was optional.

With most of the crowd on the correct heading, Tony raced across the kitchen to prevent an unauthorized side trip.

“Hey, where are you going?” Hand flat against the wood, he shoved the door closed before it actually opened.

The actress shrugged. “I was just wondering what was down there.”

“Probably the basement.” The door felt like ice under his palm. “Just keep moving.”

Leaning in closer, she drew her tongue slowly across a full and already moist lower lip. “You're
so
serious . . . No hard feelings?” Her voice dripped single entendre.

“Give it up, love.” One of the waiters took her arm, winked at Tony, and started her moving again. “I'd have better luck.”

“What?” She shot Tony a frustrated look he answered with a shrug, and then allowed herself to be towed away. “Are there no straight men left in television?”

“You're asking the wrong fag, puss. Besides, he's only the production assistant.”

“I know that! I was starting at the bottom.”

“An admirable sentiment.”

As they followed the rest of the extras down the hall, Tony lifted his hand from the door and stared down at the red mark on his palm. It looked a bit like a letter—a Russian letter maybe, or Greek, or Hebrew. Before he could decide which, it had disappeared. When he touched the door again, it was no colder than any other surface.

“You don't want to be going down there.”

He spun around so quickly he had to catch his balance on the door handle. “Jesus!” Snatching his hand off the metal, he sucked at what felt like a burn on the skin between finger and thumb. “Why don't I want to go down there?” he demanded, the question a little muffled by his hand.

“Weather like this, the basement floods. Probably six inches of water down there now.” Mr. Brummel's red-rimmed eyes narrowed. “Nasty things in the water. You just be keeping your pretty ladies and gentlemen away from the nasty things.”

“What?”

The caretaker snorted and shifted his grip on the black cat in his arms. “Look, kid, we got the original knob-and-tube wiring down there. Damned stuff gets wet and every piece of metal in the place is conducting power. Now, I personally don't give a crap if nosy parkers fry, but I don't like doing the paperwork the insurance companies want, so stay out. You already picked up a spark off the door, didn't you?”

It could have been a spark. “Yeah.”

“Well, there, then.”

“Isn't all that free-floating electricity dangerous?”

“Yep. And that . . .” He enunciated each word carefully. “. . . is why you don't want to be going down to the basement. Let me see your hand.”

Cat tucked under one arm, his fingers closed around Tony's wrist before Tony'd decided how he intended to respond.

The caretaker's second snort was dismissive as he peered at the dark pink splotch. “This is nothing. You aren't even bleeding.” His grip tightened to the edge of pain, his fingers unnaturally warm. He leaned in closer, his eyes narrowed, his nose flared—he looked like a poster boy for dire warnings. “You don't want to be bleeding, not in this house.”

“Why not?”

“Because we're miles from anywhere.” He didn't so much release Tony's wrist as toss him his arm back. “For pity's sake, kid, use your head. These cinnamon buns for anyone?”

“Sure. Help yourself. The uh, cat . . . is it yours?”

“No. I just like carrying it around.”

The cat yawned, the inside of its mouth very pink and white against the ebony fur.

Rubbing his wrist, Tony backed slowly out of the kitchen. He didn't turn until he was halfway through the butler's pantry and Adam's voice filled his earjack.

“Graham's not going to like this, Cass. This isn't what I'd call staying out of sight.”

She smoothed down the heavy velvet folds of her skirt and smiled. “It's hiding in plain sight. Like the purloined letter.”

“What about that feeling you had? The familiar feeling?”

“What about it?” Rising up on her toes, she peered over the heads of the people milling about the drawing room. “It felt familiar.”

“Cassie! You just want to meet that actor.”

“Well, why not? He's cute. And you're the one who was complaining you were bored.” She settled back on her heels, tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, and smiled up at him through her lashes. “This isn't boring.”

“It's dangerous,” Stephen insisted, but his hand closed over hers and he didn't sound as convinced as he had.

“With all those people and all those lights crammed into one room, there's energy to spare.”

“It's not the amount of energy.” He glanced around and shook his head. “They're all older than us.”

“So frown. It makes you look older.”

“They're going to notice . . .”

“They won't.” Her smile was triumphant as she waved a hand at the bank of lights. “It's hot enough in here that in a worst case scenario all we'll do is drop the temperature down to a more bearable level. Seriously, they'd thank us if they knew. Come on, he's over by the door.”

No one noticed them as they crossed the room. The waiters practiced holding their trays and offering drinks in ways most likely to get them asked back for a larger part, maybe even a part with a name, later in the season. The guests did much the same with bright, animated, but-not-upstaging-the-stars, background chatter.

“Cassie, this isn't going to work.”

“Well, it won't if you're going to be so negative. Just think ‘party guest.' ”

“But . . .”

“Concentrate, Stephen!” As they neared the door, she licked her lower lip and dragged her brother around to face her. “Is my face still on?”

He frowned. “I guess. But you overdid it with the eye shadow.”

Lee was standing by the door talking to a couple of the extras. It was one of the things Tony liked about him—he didn't have the whole,
I've got my name and face in the opening credits and you don't
thing going on. He was smiling down at the girl now, saying something she had to lean closer to hear, and Tony felt an irrational stab of jealousy. Irrational and idiotic and yes, still pathetic.

“Places, everyone!”

Interesting that Lee seemed to be telling them where they should stand. More interesting that they were standing almost entirely out of the shot.

“All right, people, listen up. This is what's going to happen!” Peter moved out into the center of the room and raised both hands as though he was conducting a symphony instead of episode seventeen of a straight to syndication show about a vampire detective—not so much a symphony as three kids with kazoos. “Mason and Lee are going to come in from the hall and cross the room to the fireplace as you all go through the usual party shtick. You'll all ignore them until Lee calls for your attention, which you will give to him. Mason will then say his piece, you'll listen attentively, reacting silently as you see fit—just remember that reaction because odds are good you'll be repeating it all morning. Do not drop your glass. The glasses are rented. Mason'll finish, and Ms. Sinclair . . .”

A distinguished looking silver-haired bit player Tony had last seen playing Dumpster diver number two in a CBC Movie of the Week, raised her martini glass in acknowledgment.

“. . . you'll say your line: ‘If you're trying to frighten us, Mr. Dark, you're not succeeding.' Then Mason will reply, ‘I'm not trying. Not yet.' And we'll cut. Let's run through once for cameras.”