Movie Mogul Mama

by Connie Shelton

  “I’ve got information on the bank,” she said, “but I can’t actually access an account without my special—”

  “Don’t tell me. The less I know, the better,” Sandy said, handing Amber the cancelled check copy.

  “I’ll work on it from home later.” She tucked the envelope into her messenger bag. “I was thinking about all his money movements yesterday and had to ask myself why he wouldn’t have closed these accounts once he moved the money out. I mean, without this trail we’d be having a harder time than we are. But then last night it came to me—this could be evidence that he intends to keep doing the same thing. Maybe he’s just lying low for awhile.”

  “I wondered that, too,” Sandy said. “Could be that you’re right, Amber. With new laws on money laundering and all, it’s getting tougher to set up a new account. There are lots of questions. Rob could be counting on his collection of existing accounts. You know, he’s still in touch with me at times. I’ll see if I can figure out a way to ferret out the information.”

  Amber gathered her things. “I’m going home right now to start working on this. And I’m going to set alerts on as many of his accounts as I can. That way, the banks will notify me whenever a deposit is made.”

  “You can do that? On his accounts?” Pen asked.

  “Let’s just say, I have my ways.”

  No one questioned her.

  Chapter 50

  Rob Williams paced his living room, a dilemma on his mind. Half of him wanted to just get away, forget films and become a beach bum; the other half remembered the thrill of the conquest, setting up the show, wowing the people, getting the money. Maybe he’d been hasty when he’d vowed never to do another. He still had the bank accounts that enabled him to channel the money; he could always whip up another trailer.

  A few days ago, he’d been one click away from phoning Sandy and calling it quits. Now he was thinking how handy it would be to keep her around to set up another gig—this one would be his last, he promised himself. He stared at the celebrity photos on his mantle, remembering the days when he’d bluff his way into a club or party, seek out the biggest-name stars in the place and greet them familiarly, then snap a selfie with Angelina or J-Lo or Brad as if they were best of buddies.

  The reminder made him smile and he went into the kitchen for another cappuccino, which he carried to the sofa to enjoy while he stared some more at the photos.

  He needed to think about this, but in the meantime he could string Sandy along with hints at doing another gala. Or maybe he’d tell her he was going on location to start a new film. He sipped the creamy vanilla coffee.

  Yeah, maybe that was his best idea yet. Pretend to Sandy that he was heading out to a film location but have her work on setting up another investor gala. While out of the country, he could target the exact property he wanted to buy. If it went over the current budget, he’d come back and rake in some more bucks. If the plans for the gala started to head downhill, he could simply stay away.

  This time he would look for something remote and private. No more grand plans of living in the midst of the celebrity community—he was sick of them. Sorry, Brad. Rob sent a wry smile toward the row of mantle photos. And no more of this huge city with its traffic and pollution and noise. The idea pleased him immensely.

  His eyelids began to droop as he settled into his dream scenario. He lowered his cup to the floor and put his legs up on the sofa. The beat of mariachi music began to play in his head, and he went along with the whole scene: a pitcher of margaritas, a beach full of bikini-clad girls on spring break, just wanting to get wild with him. Oh yeah.

  Chapter 51

  Monday morning Sandy received a text from Rob. She was in a meeting when it came, so an hour went by before she was able to get back to him. In the meantime, two more messages came. So, Mr. Incommunicado was now wanting to talk again. She went into the restroom to read them.

  Need to talk about plans. Call me.

  Got some great ideas for a new plan. Call me.

  Not speaking? What’s this?

  Sheesh. It’s one hour out of your life—you can wait while I pee. She finished and went back to her desk, closing her office door behind her.

  “Sorry, Rob, but I’m at my other job. I had to keep it since I don’t hear from you for weeks, much less get paid …”

  “That’s fine. I just needed to get your attention. I’ve got some big plans in the works.”

  It was as if nothing she’d just said registered. As always, the world revolved around him. Sandy had to will herself to stop making it personal and tune her ears to pick up useful data.

  “I’m thinking we can still do this in Scottsdale,” he was saying, “but a different guest list and venue. No reminders of the one that didn’t work out.”

  She almost laughed. If she had actually booked the venue and invited the guests from his list, didn’t work out hardly covered the fiasco. She noticed he made no mention of the huge bill he supposedly owed. She supposed that ship had sailed, forgotten forever in his mind.

  “So, what I’m thinking is that you’ll get the gala all arranged and set up. I’m off to a location shoot, but we’ll keep in touch. Once you’ve got everything ready to go, I’ll buzz down for the evening and handle the real stuff.”

  The real stuff? Buzz in for one evening? If she’d been a real employee, actually working to pull the event together, she’d be royally pissed at his cavalier attitude. No wonder Abby Singer had bailed. This guy was a case.

  Focus, Sandy. Try to learn something useful.

  “Wow, Rob, that sounds fantastic. What’s the new film about?”

  “Oh, you know … There’s this guy who’s gone through a terrible setback, so he drops out, gets away from society to ‘find himself.’ That kind of thing.” There was a pause. “We’ve got Denzel Washington for it.”

  “Nice.” She put as much enthusiasm into it as she could muster. “I like the sound of the getaway. Where will you be? Is it like a rustic place in the mountains, a grass shack on the beach …?”

  “More like the latter, but I haven’t decided yet. I’m heading out in the morning, going to scout locations. You know, it’s tricky to get just the right feel for every scene. Sometimes we move around a lot. You know, the cantina’s in one town, the hotel in another, just however it works best.”

  Hadn’t he just said he was going to this location to begin filming? Now it was just to scout around for the perfect bar?

  “Well, I guess not every palm tree looks great for the camera,” she said.

  “Start checking out venues for another gala. I’ll have the office send the guest list—but feel free to add names if you know people who want in on a great opportunity—and I’ll be in touch once I’m somewhere with a decent phone signal.”

  As if I would put my worst enemy on your guest list. “Okay, I’ll have some information for you in a day or two.” She ended the call and immediately dialed Pen.

  “He’s making his move.” Sandy’s heart raced as she realized it was true. Their quarry could easily get away.

  “I’ll gather everyone. We now need a plan.”

  Chapter 52

  They met for a quick lunch, as Sandy and Mary both needed to limit the meeting to an hour.

  “I have a feeling it’s Mexico,” Sandy said. “He avoided answering when I asked where, just gave little clues, such as, he can get back here within a day for an evening gala. He used the word ‘cantina’ instead of ‘bar’ and there was a reference to a beach.”

  Amber hadn’t touched her burger yet. “I’ve seen some money movement from the Fearless Filmmaking account.”

  “You can get data from his computer, right?” Mary asked. “Didn’t you add some little tracker?”

  “Basically, I can only monitor his email and there hasn’t been much lately that isn’t junk. But I’ll keep checking. If he’s traveling, something is bound to show up.” She picked up a fry and nibbled at it.

  “The main thing is to be sur
e he doesn’t move all the money in one big swoop. That will surely be our sign that he plans to disappear for good,” Pen said. “Not to mention, we’ll never get hold of it then.”

  “I’ve got some good ideas for the next fake venue for the gala he thinks I’m planning, so I’ll keep in frequent contact with him. As long as we dangle the carrot of another possibly big event’s revenue, he won’t go too far away.”

  “Even so, we cannot become complacent. Even if it appears he’s going to Mexico, it’s a fairly large country to start hunting for him, plus it can be the gateway to all places south.” Pen appeared concerned. “He could be targeting Brazil, Panama, Costa Rica, Columbia …”

  Sandy’s phone pinged with an incoming email. “It’s from Rob.”

  Everyone went quiet, as if he could hear their chatter, even through email.

  “Ah ha, he’s saying the guest list for the party is attached. Interesting. He told me he would have the office send it, but this message is definitely from him.”

  “He’s shut down the office—I’ll bet on it,” Gracie said. “Why keep it open when he only had a receptionist sitting at a desk, right?”

  Another sign he was getting ready to skip out. They all knew it.

  “We’ll have to act quickly,” Mary said. “If we don’t basically move right alongside him, he’ll get away forever.”

  Amber reached over and touched her hand. “Forever’s a long time, and don’t forget—I have my ways.”

  As if in answer to Amber’s promise, when she looked at her iPad again, one of Rob’s emails had showed up in her browser. “Well, look at this, ladies. A vacation rental service confirms his reservation for a beachside condo in Puerto Peñasco, Mexico.”

  “Where is that?” Pen asked.

  “Also known as Rocky Point. It’s the hot spring break haven for every college kid in Arizona, and it’s only four hours’ drive from here.” Amber blushed a little. “Well, okay, I did the spring break thing once with friends. Didn’t do much for me—the bars and strip clubs are just too rowdy, and there wasn’t a decent wi-fi connection to be found.”

  The others laughed at her assessment.

  “But that was a few years ago—there’s probably a decent internet provider down there now. The place does stay popular.”

  “When does his reservation begin?” Sandy asked.

  “Friday night. And he’s booked the place for a week.”

  “Friday is tomorrow—he’s heading out!” Gracie seemed somewhat panicky.

  Pen was more thoughtful. “If he’s staying a week, my guess is he’ll use the time to scout other places. He would want to be near enough to come rushing back once Sandy says she has the gala put together, yet he won’t likely permanently relocate this close to the border. I’d think he would want to be farther away.”

  “Like deep in the jungle somewhere,” Mary said.

  “Hmm, maybe. But I sense our Rob is a man who wants his creature comforts. Remember the size of that place in France he was looking at.”

  “I wonder why he didn’t go back there?”

  “My guess—money,” Amber said. “Remember the price tag on that place? Without the take from the Scottsdale gig that never happened, he couldn’t do the deal.”

  “So … he’s counting on me to arrange another one, he’ll swoop in to grab the money, and then he’ll be off to France again.”

  “We’d best be watching all the exits,” Pen said. “Right now, it appears Mexico is the place, but I don’t think we should count on its being his final destination.”

  “You’re right,” Mary said. “He might have figured a fake booking down south was an easy way to throw us off the scent while he heads for Europe again.”

  “Anything’s possible,” Amber told them, “but I’m going to keep a close watch.”

  “I don’t think he’s onto us.” Sandy sat back against the padded banquette. “But just to be sure, I’ll make certain my responses to his messages make me look completely wide-eyed innocent.” She batted her eyes a few times, and to make her point she answered his email, reading aloud as she typed. “Hi Rob, thanks for the guest list. I have two wonderful venues to consider. Do you want to come out and take a look, or shall I go with the best bid?”

  Almost immediately came his response. I trust your judgment completely. Go with the better place—cost is no object.

  “Wow, he’s good at this,” Mary said. “He gives no clue he doesn’t plan to be right there.”

  “Well, maybe he does.”

  Chapter 53

  The office had an abandoned look to it. Rob hadn’t shown up there in a week, a fact that shouldn’t have made much difference, he thought. Through the sidelight window, he could see envelopes on the floor under the mail slot. Even the doorknob felt disused. Inside, dust coated everything like a fine trace of snow.

  Clearly, the girl Aspen had not been back since her ranting phone message. Her personal things were gone, the top of her desk bare. He felt a pang of guilt. He should have at least returned her call and paid the two weeks’ wages. One of the items in the mail was an envelope from the state employment office. Trouble.

  Another fat envelope from the IRS. Quarterly taxes would have been due more than two months ago. Employment reports, workers comp forms, and three charities wanted money. He hated the first of the year. Every agency had its hand out. He tossed the envelopes on the empty desktop and wandered back to his private office.

  His executive chair felt cold and stiff, unused to having his backside parked there. He looked through the desk drawers, but nothing inspired him these days. Aside from Sandy’s enthusiasm for planning another of his gala investor events, he’d lost all zeal for his business. It was time to get out, but he needed to plan correctly unless he wanted the authorities from every stupid government office in the country to come looking for him.

  Someone had sent him a day planner for the new year; he stared at it, tapping his pen against the desktop. He needed to make his exit look unremarkable, as if everything was business as usual. He opened the little notebook’s crisp pages and began writing. With different pens and pencils, he made notes of upcoming engagements, filling the pages with everything from dental appointments to important-sounding phone calls to meetings with well-known names at major movie studios. He blocked out the upcoming two weeks with one notation: Scout locations for “Whizzbang.” The made-up movie name sounded generic enough; no one would guess whether it was a thriller or a rom-com.

  Within ten minutes, he’d filled all of January and February with busyness, and jotted in random appointments throughout the first six months of the year. Even birthdays received attention. He noted when to send flowers to actresses he’d claimed to work with and a case of whiskey to certain A-list men. Hopefully, the fact that he was making up these dates would never get checked. Did cops actually know when Julia Roberts’ birthday was? He was betting they didn’t. He left the book in the center drawer of the desk.

  That task complete, he scouted all the desk drawers and pulled out the few important items: the first Montblanc pen he’d ever bought himself, half a bottle of Courvoisier liqueur he’d rather keep than let some cop take home, a collectible postage stamp in a tiny glassine envelope. He’d bought the thing on a greedy whim when he was told it was nearly priceless. Turned out it wasn’t, but you never knew when someone else down the line wouldn’t know that.

  All the ordinary office supplies stayed in place to make it look as if he would be back anytime to resume business. All except one large brown envelope. He hand addressed it to his accountant, went back to the reception desk, and dropped all the official-looking mail into it. Alice would assume he wanted her to take care of the taxes and employment forms, and she would simply fill them out and file everything without question. She’d been with him long enough she had his signature down pat.

  He sealed the big envelope and set it beside the other ‘keepers’ on his desk. Now, to make it look as if he was actually heading out to scout
those locations he’d noted in the appointment book. He walked through the offices, studying, making a plan.

  In the art director’s office were some old storyboards he’d designed back when there was a possibility he might actually make a movie. Same with a couple of good cameras. They’d been secondhand at the time, but were far from new technology today. He’d even had a Director chair made with his name stenciled on the back. He debated taking them along with him, but aside from sentimental value, they would merely be useless extra baggage. He shook his head and decided against hauling them along.

  For the sake of show, he stacked the items near the door so it would seem he planned to come right back for them. Let the landlord keep them as souvenirs if he wanted—the old guy was a pain in the ass anyway, nagging him relentlessly the last couple months for rent. Let him sell the expensive furniture; it would more than compensate.

  What do I need with office furniture where I’m going? Rob justified to himself. Even if the villa had worked out, it made far more sense to buy everything new over there rather than ship his old stuff.

  The villa. What an embarrassing phone call that had been the evening he got out of jail, asking—practically begging—the realtor to say it was still available. Of course, it wasn’t. Even though the man tried to put the best face on it and talk him into looking at other properties in the area, Rob found he’d lost his taste for the French Riviera. He’d rather spend his efforts brushing up on his Spanish anyway. His sights were now set to the south. Acapulco, Mazatlán or Puerto Vallarta … he could practically hear the mariachis already.

  He looked at the small pile of items on the desk. Nah, there was nothing much worth keeping from this place. He slipped the expensive pen into his pocket, the postage stamp into his wallet, took a slug from the whiskey bottle, and jammed it into his briefcase. He would drop off the packet for the accountant at the post office on his way home. It wouldn’t take but a few minutes to pack up his clothes and a few personal mementos. The crappy rental house could go the same way as the office, back to its landlord.