Savage Grace (A Sydney Rye Mystery, #12)

by Emily Kimelman Gilvey

  “Long day,” I say.

  She huffs a small laugh and turns to me. “I want to ask a favor.”

  “Okay…”

  She puts her drink down on a side table and clasps her hands in front of her.

  “There is more footage of you, from today. People are piecing it together—it doesn’t look good for us. Convincing the world that we had nothing to do with that riot is hard when there is video footage of you in the middle of that fight.” I nod but don’t respond. She hasn’t asked for anything yet. “You’re a liability. Please lay low. Stop fighting for a while.”

  “How can I?” my voice is quiet, genuine. “They are trying to destroy us.”

  “What you resist will persist, Sydney. They will succeed if you refuse to work with us and instead act as a lone wolf.” Anita takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry, but you need to hide for a while. Go to the island or Costa Rica. Let me deal with this—this, Sydney, is a PR situation. The more we fight, the faster we sink.”

  I sit on the bed, lips pressed tight. She’s right but I hate to admit it.

  Anita sits next to me and takes my hand, lacing her fingers with mine. “Motherhood will make you strong. Stronger than you’ve ever been, but in new ways. Please.” She isn’t pleading, just asking gently. “Acknowledge this change and work with me. You’re better off away from all this.”

  I’m exposed and vulnerable. My hand comes up and rests on my belly. Blue taps his wet nose to my elbow.

  “Okay,” I say, my voice low.

  “Thank you.” Anita lets out a long breath. “Thank you,” she says again. Then she smiles and squeezes my hand. “Don’t worry, you’re going to have plenty of time to fight, but right now you can take comfort from your friends—let us take care of you for a while.”

  I nod my agreement.

  Alone, in the dark, the curtains pulled aside, I watch planes take off and land. Blue lays on the bed with me, his back pressed to my spine. Frank snores at my feet and Nila is curled in the bend of my knees. My hand rests on my stomach.

  Determination hardens in my gut. I will survive. My child will survive. Joyful Justice will not be destroyed by rumors or lies. We will fight this war until the end of time.

  I’m pulled from my sleep by another knock on my door.

  Blue is waiting by it, his tail still, his eyes trained on the wood. Frank is still snoring and Nila waits by the bed. I cross to the door and look through the peep hole. Impossible.

  Mercury gray eyes stare back at me. I fumble to remove the chain, my mind reeling…I must be dreaming but oh what a beautiful dream.

  I get the door open and stare. “James?”

  He opens his arms, and I fall into them. This is impossible. He’s dead. There is no coming back. But his breath on my shoulder feels real, the press of his arms around me, the scent of him. It all feels so real.

  “Hey, Sis,” he says into my hair.

  I’m crying, sobbing…elated and terrified. If this is a dream I don’t want it to end.

  Book 13 in the Sydney Rye Mysteries releases in 2020. Join my newsletter using the link below for the most current news.

  Turn the page to read an excerpt from A Spy is Born, A Starstruck Thriller Book 1. Angela Daniels always wanted to be a star, and she never considered becoming a spy...now she’s both.

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  Sneak Peek

  A Spy is Born, Starstruck Thriller Book 1

  I grip my keys, the point of one protruding between my knuckles. The entrance to my apartment is right after the dumpsters. Ten feet away. Water mists the air, swirling in grey tendrils, turning the dark alley foggy and creepy. Brick walls rise on either side of me, closing me in—the main street at my back is quiet, deserted. I’m so vulnerable.

  Fear tickles over my skin, raising hairs on my arms and the back of my neck. A scuffling comes from near my door and I freeze, my heart hammering. A shadowy figure steps out from behind the stinking trash dumpster. I freeze, breath gone, blood rushing loudly in my ears.

  “Hey, cutie,” a man’s voice says behind me. There are two of them!

  I whirl around, panic closing my throat, my fists tightening—one clutching my purse strap and the other my keys. My weapon. A tall man with greasy hair wearing a pea coat and a smug expression blocks my exit.

  My gaze ping pongs between the two men. I know what they want. The shadowed figure by my door steps forward, revealing dark eyes and the low brow of a Neanderthal.

  They move in unison, closing in on me. Pea Coat’s smug smile morphs into a hungry grin as his gaze falls onto my heaving chest. Even through the trench coat I’m wearing, it’s obvious I’m stacked. That’s half the reason I got this job.

  Crap. Stay in the moment.

  I plant my feet, the stiletto thigh high boots I’m wearing both an asset and a liability—they affect my balance, but the sharp heel can hurt and even maim. Taking a deep breath, I bring my purse up fast and hard, whipping it at Neanderthal’s face. He steps back in mild, almost amused, surprise, and I lash out with my back leg at Peacoat.

  My heel catches him in the stomach, and he stumbles back with a muttered curse. I pivot, twisting around, and stepping forward into a roundhouse kick that catches Neanderthal in the chin. The heel of my boot gouges him, and blood pours down his neck as he gives a cry of pain.

  “CUT!!!”

  “I’m so sorry,” I say, stepping forward toward the actor playing Neanderthal. He is holding his chin, blood spilling between his fingers.

  “What the hell, Angela?” Jack Axelrod, my director, asks from his perch above me—he and the camera woman, Darlene Jackson, are in a cherry picker, getting the scene from the air. A medic rushes up to Neanderthal.

  “I’m sorry!” I yell up to him.

  Jack shakes his head and says something to Darlene. She nods.

  Please don’t fire me.

  “Let’s take a break,” Jack says, waving his hand to be lowered to the ground.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say again, but no one is listening.

  My manager, Mary Genovase, hurries over—heels clicking on the concrete floor, Birkin bag swinging from a well-muscled arm as she pushes past the medics. “Come on, Sweetie,” she says, taking my elbow. “Let’s get to your trailer.”

  Her heavy floral perfume stings my eyes as I follow her. We move off the set, weaving through the equipment and stepping over cords. Mary pushes open the door of the studio, and bright LA sunshine blinds me for a moment. Mary keeps moving forward, talking the entire time. “Don’t worry about it. They’re not going to fire you for that.”

  “Fire me?”

  “They are not going to do that.” She pulls open my trailer door and pushes me up the few steps into the air conditioned, plastic-scented space. “Have some water,” she gestures to a row of bottles lined up on the green granite counter.

  I obey, opening a bottle and taking a long sip while Mary sits on the couch and starts to type on her phone. “I’ve got a surprise for you,” she says in a singsongy voice. My chest tightens. What now? “A little present for completing your first week on set.”

  “It’s not over yet,” I point out, sitting next to her on the white faux leather cushions. She smiles at me. Mary’s dark lashes are painted with thick layers of mascara, and her brown eyes are sparkling. She is full of energy and enthusiasm.

  Mary believes in me and is one of the top agents in Hollywood, so I ignore the spray tan and the heavy perfume and the annoying way she orders me around. She got me this job. She’s convinced I can be a star.

  A knock on the trailer door and Mary pops up. “Here it is!” She opens the door and a PA stands there, his long hair pulled into a man bun, his t-shirt and jeans just the right amount of distressed. He’s holding a shoe-sized box. He hands it over to Mary. “Thanks, Sweetie,” she says before closing the door.

  “Here you go,” she grins, handing
me the package. Something inside it moves and I screech, almost dropping it. “Careful!”

  “You should have warned me it was alive,” I grumble, placing it firmly on my lap and taking off the lid. Inside is a tiny little fluff ball—a puppy. It looks up at me with giant brown eyes surrounded by soft white fur, the little black nose sniffing the air.

  The puppy jumps up at me with a squeak. I don’t know what to say. I can barely handle taking care of myself, what am I going to do with a puppy?

  “It’s one of those new designer dogs, part poodle, part Dachshund. Pick it up!” I glance at Mary; she’s smiling, her gold hoops swinging back and forth as she gestures for me to pick up the dog. “It’s going to be great for your image.” Her eyes widen. “People love puppies.”

  I look back to the animal and scoop a hand underneath him… or her. It’s warm and soft. So tiny. Its ribs poke through the fur, and its heart beats quickly against my palm. It wriggles, and I move the box to the floor, bringing my other hand up to clutch the small thing to my chest to keep it from falling.

  “You two look adorable! Hold on.” Mary whips out her phone and aims it at me. My face breaks out into a smile, the one I’ve perfected for social media. I’m so normal and happy and LOVE sharing with you.

  “Perfect,” Mary says, head bending over the phone as she posts it on my accounts. “What are you naming him?”

  I look down at the little guy. With the long body of a Dachshund, and the curls of a Poodle, he’s funny looking. And super cute. The puppy yawns, showing off tiny pointed teeth, then spins once before curling up on my lap. He is falling asleep on me.

  I kinda melt.

  “Should it be something funny?” I ask, scratching under his chin. He makes a little sound, a vibration of pleasure.

  “Sure. Anything you want.”

  “How about Lump?”

  “Loomp?” Mary looks up from the screen, her lip raised in distaste.

  “Yes, but spelled L.U.M.P. It was Picasso’s Dachshund.”

  Mary shakes her head. “I don’t think so.”

  I scratch the puppies head and he cuddles closer. “Okay, how about Amos or Archie. Andy Warhol’s Dachshunds.”

  “Those are cute. Either one will do. How do you know that anyway?”

  “Remember, I was an art history major.”

  She nods, and turns away. “I’m saying Archie. It’s better.”

  “Okay, Archie.” The little dog blinks his eyes open. “Do you like that name?”

  He whines and wiggles closer. I bring him up to lay a kiss on his head. “That’s perfect!” Mary says, holding up her phone again. “So sweet!”

  Another knock at the door, and Mary goes to answer it. “Oh, hi Jack,” she says, stepping back. I wince at the sound of my director’s voice.

  “Mary, can I get a moment alone with my star?” My star. I like the sound of that.

  “Of course,” she reaches back into the trailer to grab her bag off the couch and raises her brows at me. This is your chance to apologize and show him you deserve to be here.

  Jack steps into the trailer once Mary is gone. He’s tall and strong, with grey hair and round glasses sitting at the tip of his sculpted nose, exposing his bright blue eyes. He gives me a warm smile. “Sorry I yelled at you.”

  My shoulders relax, releasing the tension gathered there. “Sorry I screwed up.”

  He shrugs, sitting down next to me. “This is your first action movie.”

  I nod. “My first major roll,” I say with a grateful smile. You’re giving me a chance, and I appreciate it.

  “I think you’ve got a lot of potential. And I know you’ve been training hard.”

  Seven days a week with my trainer and still managed to screw up. Ugh.

  “I have, but I can train harder,” I say, determined to get this right.

  His eyes dip down to my body for a moment. “You look great. But we need you to have.” His eyes make it back up to mine. “More control.”

  “I know,” I nod, “I’ll work on it. I swear. I'm so sorry.”

  His hand lands on my thigh. “I’m sure you will.” He gives my leg a squeeze before standing. “Back on in ten,” he says as he opens the door. “Oh,” he turns back to me, his hand on the knob, the door half open. “Come by for dinner tonight. My place in the hills. We can go over all this. I want to make sure you’re having a good experience.”

  “Okay,” I say, my instincts whispering: That’s a bad idea. He smiles and, after one more up and down glance at my body, heads out the door.

  Mary comes in, grinning. “He invited you to his house,” she says. “That’s great. Means he’s taking an interest in your career.”

  “Is that what it means?” I ask, placing Archie back in his box. He turns in a circle before nuzzling in amongst the shredded newspaper.

  “Of course. Now come on. You’re needed back on set.”

  I pick myself up and glance in the mirrored wall before stepping out of the trailer. Taking a deep breath, I put on a smile… I can handle whatever comes my way.

  The steps up to Jack Axelrod’s house are white marble. The whole thing is classic, fashionable, 1920's Hollywood glamour. Lights twinkle in the gardens surrounding the mansion. The brick driveway behind me doesn’t have one weed creeping between the stones.

  I grew up with a dirt driveway.

  Taking a deep breath, I continue up the fabulous steps. The stuff old Hollywood dreams are made of...everything I want. Everything I came to this city to get. Determined to make it all work, determined to make this dinner not a disaster, I knock on the imposing wooden doors, releasing a long, slow breath.

  The sun comes at me from the side, bright orange and glimmering in the smog over the ocean. The sky is that dark, luscious blue of almost night. There are just the fewest, brightest stars twinkling overhead.

  Are they smiling down at me?

  The door slides open on well-oiled hinges, and a woman wearing a pale blue maid uniform—including the crisp white apron—stands before me. White curls frame her smiling face. She nods to me, as if I’m important.

  I'm the daughter of a welder and a laundry lady. She doesn't care. Nothing matters here except what you make of yourself.

  This isn't Kansas, Toto.

  I heft the bag Archie is sleeping in and smile. “Hi, I’m Angela,” I say.

  “Of course, we’ve been expecting you.” She steps aside to usher me in. “Please come in. Mr. Axelrod is on the back patio."

  I step into the dimly lit entrance hall. To describe it as anything but grand would be madness. The ceiling soars above me, arching into a domed skylight—like some fancy church in Rome or something. Not that I've seen that in person, but I've seen a lot in books...

  I smile at the maid and follow her, my ridiculously high heels clicking on the hard tile floor as we move past a staircase winding up the wall to the second floor. Grand. The brass railing sparkles, and thick carpeting in the same blue as the sky runs down the steps. Photographic stills from black and white films line the walls.

  We pass under an archway into a huge sitting room with multiple couches and chairs...lots of places for people to sit. My feet stop as my eyes catch the gold statues on the mantel. Oscar. Oh, sweet Oscar.

  The maid, whose name I don't know because I'm too nervous to ask, stops with me. She waits patiently. This can’t be the first time she's stood next to some starstruck newbie. Does she know how dry my throat is? Does she know how much I want that? There are four of them. Four!

  Best Director over three decades, and the man still has it. I take a stuttering breath, pulling my guts back into myself from where they've spilled all over the fancy carpet. It looks so soft!

  I glance over at the maid. "They're beautiful," I say. What a load of crap. They are powerful. They are everything.

  She nods. "Yes."

  She must clean them. Gets to touch them. I wonder if he'd let me if I asked. A giggle bubbles up in my chest, and I repress it. Asking to touch a man's Os
car. What would my grandmother say? Slut, whore, filthy woman. The anger and hate in the old woman's voice seems to grab me around the middle in a vice that squeezes all those guts I just stuffed back into myself—threatening to spill them out again.

  I swallow. "What's your name?” I ask as the maid starts to walk again. I follow, my legs leaden but loosening with each step as I get further away from those statues. It's as if they have some kind of aura around them—some kind of witchcraft spun into the gold.

  “Nancy,” she answers quietly. Almost like she doesn't want me to know.

  Somehow, it reminds me of something… but what? A lamb to the slaughter. An image of the sheep we raised on our small farm flashes across my mind—they are standing in the rain, the lambs close to their mothers, my father striding through the storm to do his duty.

  "My real name is Stacy," I admit boldly, strangely, out of the blue.

  Nancy turns to look over her shoulder, her brows conferencing in confusion. Why did I tell her that? She gives me a half smile. "I'm sure lots of actresses change their name. You're Angela now dear, as long as you want to be."

  I nod, blushing. I'm acting like an idiot. And that is so not new.

  But I got here, didn't I?

  Nancy reaches the sliding glass doors we've been walking toward and pulls one open, revealing the back patio. The view stops me again. I'm such a country freaking bumpkin.

  All of LA is spread before me. It's glittering. And there, oh, right there! The Hollywood sign is lit up, seeming so tiny surrounded by all of the sparkling city.

  Archie stirs from within the purse Mary gave me to carry him around in and pokes his head out looking at the view for a second before licking my hand. All he sees is a blurry screen of black and white.

  Maybe I really should have named him Toto…

  Jack steps forward, his movements as elegant as his pressed linen shirt and casual jeans. He's barefoot, and something about that sends a thrill through me. It's strangely intimate. Jack Axelrod, Oscar winning director, is smiling at me, holding out a hand...not wearing any shoes...all of LA behind him. Almost like he's offering it to me.