The Spiral Path

by Mary Jo Putney

  Half a dozen photos of Kenzie showed him in roles where he played dark and dangerous characters, or wearing as few garments as possible, preferably both. Since he was a workaholic who'd made a lot of movies, the tabloid had plenty of material. One shot was of her and Kenzie in a steamy embrace in Lethal Force, a thriller they'd made together the year before. The caption below asked ominously, "Did Raine Marlowe Leave Kenzie Scott When She Discovered the Real Man Behind the Handsome Mask?"

  The sneering text said that Kenzie Scott claimed to be British, but his stories about his past were one long string of lies designed to make fools of his countrymen, who generously accepted him as one of their own. Stone challenged his readers to come forward if they'd known Kenzie Scott in his youth. The Inquirer would pay handsomely for early photos. Together, Nigel Stone and his readers would uncover the truth!

  Rainey swore. "This makes Kenzie sound like an ax murderer. Can he sue the Inquirer for libel?"

  Val shook her head. "Everything is done with questions and suggestive pictures. They don't actually accuse him of anything, so there's no libel."

  A pity. Knowing Kenzie wasn't much of a newspaper reader, Rainey stood, retrieving the tabloid. "I'd better show this to Kenzie so he's prepared."

  His suite was just down the hallway from hers. She knocked crisply. "It's me."

  A minute passed before the door opened to reveal Kenzie in a bathrobe and damp hair. A faint shock jolted along her nerves. Stupid, stupid, stupid. It was hardly the first time she'd seen his chest, and a great deal more.

  He ushered her in with a courtly gesture. "I suppose the obvious, vulgar implication of your calling on me is too much to hope for."

  "In your dreams, Scott." She handed him the newspaper. "You're not going to like this."

  His levity vanished as he saw the front page. "You're right. I don't."

  He turned to the story with the granite expression that appeared whenever the subject of his past came up. Hesitantly she said, "I've tried to respect your privacy, but under these circumstances, I need to know if anything illegal might turn up."

  His mouth twisted. "You think I'm a criminal?"

  "No, but I've had to wonder what you're so secretive about. If really catastrophic information might become public, I'd like some advance warning. It's my neck the investors will chop if the production is jeopardized by something you did."

  "You can relax. There are no outstanding warrants for my arrest."

  Which was not the same as saying that he had a guiltless past, but she didn't pursue the point. "Anything else that might cause trouble if it's made public?"

  After a long silence, he said, "There are ... incidents that would make splendid tabloid headlines, but no one will come forward to talk about them."

  She sighed. "Why am I not more comforted by your confidence?"

  "It's all you're going to get, but don't worry. Nigel Stone will be swamped with spurious leads that I'll be able to deny with complete sincerity." He handed the tabloid back. "If you'll excuse me, I need to get ready for the last day of rehearsal."

  Troubled, she returned to her suite, hoping that whatever her husband wanted so much to hide would stay hidden.

  Thoughts of Nigel Stone's crusade to unmask "Britain's most popular movie star" gnawed at Kenzie all day. There was almost no one left who could connect the boy he was with the man he became, and those few had good reason to stay silent. But...

  When the rehearsal ended, he told Rainey, "You can have the hired car. I'm going to visit an old friend."

  She managed not to ask where he was going, barely. "Have a nice evening."

  Since reporters waited in front of the building, he used the back door and hailed the first taxi he saw. "Ramillies Manor, please."

  A half hour ride in heavy traffic brought him to a quiet corner of Kensington. Though it had never been a manor, the sprawling Victorian brick house made a handsome retirement home. He entered the familiar beveled-glass front door. The elderly receptionist finished up a phone call, then greeted him with a smile. "Why, Mr. Scott, how nice to see you again. Mr. Winfield will be ever so pleased."

  "How is he doing?"

  She sighed. "He has good days and bad days, but he never complains. Such a fine gentleman. I believe he's taking the sun in the garden now. You know the way. Shall I send out a tea tray for the two of you?"

  He agreed, knowing it would please her, then made his way through the house toward the rear exit. Would any of the employees of Ramillies Manor be tempted to contact Nigel Stone and tell what they knew about Kenzie Scott? Probably not; since this establishment catered to moneyed people, employees were chosen for discretion. Even if an employee revealed his regular visits to Charles Winfield, none of them knew anything about his past.

  Charles Winfield sat in the shade of a rose arbor, a knee blanket tucked over his lap and a set of earphones on his head. Thinking it had been too long since his last visit, Kenzie approached, touching the old man's shoulder to get his attention. "Charles. Sorry I couldn't come sooner. How are you?"

  Winfield tugged off the headset and stopped his tape recorder. "Kenzie, my dear boy, what a pleasure! No need to apologize--I know you've been madly busy ever since arriving in London." He spoke with the deep, sonorous voice of a stage actor. "Do have a seat."

  "What are you listening to?" As Kenzie sat on the stone bench, the older man adjusted his wheelchair so that he could see his visitor with peripheral vision; macular degeneration had robbed him of most of the sight in the center of his eyes.

  "That delightfully malicious Hollywood autobiography you sent me. Not so witty as the British equivalent, but quite amazingly forthright."

  "You should dictate your memoirs. They'd be a bestseller."

  Winfield shook his head regretfully. "As a gentleman, I'd have to leave all the best bits out, which would remove much of the appeal."

  "Speaking of revelations, are you familiar with a reporter called Nigel Stone?"

  "A miserable weasel of a fellow who's probably the most malicious entertainment reporter in London. I believe he's British born, but spent some years working in Australia. For our sins, he returned home a couple of years ago and became established at the Inquirer. He's known for his scandal mongering. You've met him?"

  "Yes, and he's decided he owes it to the British public to reveal the truth about my background. He's made an open call for information and is offering money for early photographs."

  "A dreadful man. Mean to the bone." Winfield's lips pursed. "He won't find anything, if that's what you're worrying about."

  "I hope you're right. But if he does a good job investigating my years at RADA, he could learn that you helped me get into the school."

  Winfield made an airy gesture. "Nonsense. It was your audition that got you admitted. I merely pointed you in the right direction and dropped a word in the ear of the principal." He gave the evil smile he'd used when playing Macbeth. "And if he tracks me down, I shall delight in sending him off in all the wrong directions."

  Kenzie smiled. "Don't get too creative--Stone isn't stupid."

  "Don't worry, I shall have only a small amount of sport. If you wish, I can also speak with the surviving members of the old circle. Not that any would reveal secrets to a low-bred reporter, but forewarned is best."

  "Thank you. I'd appreciate that, especially since the production will leave London in another couple of days."

  "Ah, yes, The Centurion. The novel was a favorite of mine. I'm glad that it's finally being made into a movie. I suppose it couldn't have been done properly before now." He cocked his head. "I hear the tea tray coming."

  "They continue to take good care of you?"

  "Yes, and well they should, given the absurd amount of money you pay them to look after this decaying carcass of mine."

  "It's a small return for all you did for me." Charles had been quite successful in his day, but he'd lived lavishly, and working in the theater was less lucrative than television or feature films. One of th
e pleasures of money was being able to help friends, and Kenzie owed Charles his career.

  Despite Kenzie's passionate love of movies and the theater, he'd never dreamed it was possible to become an actor himself. Seeing his interest, Charles had drawn him out, then become his tutor when he recognized Kenzie's talent. Next to Trevor Scott-Wallace, the professor who'd taught Kenzie reading, manners, and the ways of society, Charles had been the greatest influence on Kenzie's life.

  "Here you are, gentlemen." The young attendant set the tea tray down on the circular cast-iron garden table between the two men. After a lingering glance at Kenzie, she withdrew.

  "You'd best pour, my boy," Charles said. "With my vision, I'd probably drown the cucumber sandwiches. Do tell me the latest gossip, and what it's like to be directed by that frightfully talented demi-wife of yours."

  Kenzie had saved Hollywood and actor tidbits he knew Charles would enjoy. As he poured their tea, he thought how pleasant it was to be with the one man in the world from whom he had nothing to hide.

  Charles tired easily these days, so it wasn't long before Kenzie left. As he walked toward Kensington High Street to look for a taxi, he realized he was passing the flat of one of his old RADA girlfriends, Jenny Lyme. On impulse he went to the door of the building and rang the bell, not really expecting to find her in.

  He was turning to leave when the intercom came to life. "I don't know who this is," she said tartly, "but it's been a vile day, so unless you're prepared to buy me a frightfully expensive dinner, go away."

  Jenny was in good form. "It's a deal," he said. "Where shall I take you?"

  "Kenzie, is that you? You beast! Come up instantly."

  She buzzed him into the building and kissed him with enthusiasm when he entered her second-floor flat. Tall, lush, and dark-haired, she had a thriving career as a television actress. "You're divorced now, aren't you? Have you come to seduce me with champagne and Belgian chocolates? Please?"

  He had a swift memory of his night with Rainey. Gently he disentangled himself. "Tempting, but the divorce isn't final yet, so technically I'm still a married man."

  Her extravagant manner fell away. "Ah, it's like that. Fair enough." She hooked an arm through his and drew him down beside her on the brocade sofa. "What about that dinner?"

  "Your choice. Anywhere we can get into on short notice."

  "There's a magnificently trendy and insanely dear bistro in Chelsea. I'll give them a call." She looked up the number and called, using his name for the reservation.

  "Success," she reported after hanging up. "They usually have a two-week waiting list, but for Kenzie Scott, they can find a table in an hour. So handy to have old classmates who've become wildly successful."

  "You haven't done badly yourself."

  She made a face. "After you, I'm probably the most successful from our RADA year. I think half the class has given up acting altogether, and the others are working sporadically at best. It's a terrible business, Kenzie. Why do we do it?"

  "Because we're too odd to be employable anywhere else?"

  "There is that." She curled up in the sofa corner and studied his face. "We have some time before we need to leave for Cachet. What's wrong, Kenzie? The divorce?"

  Jenny had always been wickedly perceptive. They'd been friends and sometimes lovers through the RADA years, and kept in touch ever since. "Nigel Stone of the Inquirer is enlisting the British public in a full-fledged campaign to uncover my past. He's bound to investigate my time at RADA, so you might be hearing from him."

  "I can't tell things about you that I don't know. You made the average oyster look like a blabbermouth." She looked hopeful. "Shall I make something up?"

  There was something to be said for laying a false trail, and Jenny was less likely to go overboard than Charles. "What did you have in mind?"

  "How about if I say that I'm not at all sure, because you were a very private person, but based on occasional bits and pieces, I deduced that you were born in England, then taken to Africa as a small child when your parents emigrated." Her mobile face transformed into a woman being forthright to an interviewer. "I'm not sure where--perhaps Zimbabwe when it was Rhodesia, or maybe South Africa. Your parents were massacred during the political unrest, so poor orphaned you returned to England, and entered RADA shortly thereafter. The subject of your family was so painful that you wouldn't ever discuss it. Dreadfully sad."

  A good story that would explain the lack of school records before his time at RADA. "Clever. If you can convince Stone I grew up abroad, he could waste a lot of time searching the former British Empire for evidence of my existence."

  "He'll believe me. I'm an actress; I can make anyone believe anything." She stood. "I'd better go change. I'm not going to Cachet in anything less than my glittering best." Halfway across the room, she hesitated. "If Stone is a big enough sneak, he might be able to get your records from RADA. Is there anything in your original application that might reveal more than you want him to know?"

  "The application was as vague as I could make it--privately educated, no next of kin, and not much more." Charles Winfield's friendship with the RADA principal had helped with that. Old-boy networks were useful.

  "One of the things I always liked about you, darling, was how very unobvious you are. Are you ever going to tell me the real story of your working-class past?"

  He concealed the jolt of surprise. "What makes you say that?"

  "You hadn't quite perfected that aristocratic accent when you started at RADA." Jenny drifted into her bedroom, dropping into the role she'd play if interviewed. "I've always had quite a good ear for accents. I do believe I detected a trace of South Africa in your voice when we first met."

  She'd tie knots in Nigel Stone.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 17

  Knowing she should monitor the Inquirer, Rainey reluctantly reached for a copy to skim during her breakfast. The photograph splashed on the front page of the tabloid almost caused her to lose her eggs and British bacon. "Kenzie Steps Out" the headline screamed over a picture of him and a gorgeous brunette whose figure and cleavage could raise the dead.

  Queasily she read the caption. The woman was Jenny Lyme, and she and Kenzie had dined at Cachet, an ultra-fashionable restaurant. Rainey studied the photo, recognizing Kenzie's protective posture toward his date, the surprise on both their faces as the photographer caught their picture. If they'd wanted anonymity, they should have gone to a less trendy eatery.

  Jenny Lyme was a RADA classmate and longtime friend of Kenzie's, and Rainey suspected they'd been lovers, though Kenzie had never said that. So what were they now--friends or lovers?

  Not that it was any of Rainey's business--she was just Kenzie's director. He had every right to boff old girlfriends as long as it didn't interfere with his work on The Centurion. If she could only convince her stomach of that...

  She closed her eyes and breathed deeply until her nerves settled down. It was fortunate that today would be spent preparing an old train barn for the biggest, most complicated scenes of the movie. She would buzz around monitoring details such as lighting, set dressing, and the crowd of extras, but she wouldn't have to really concentrate until they started shooting, which wouldn't be until after dark.

  She flipped to the entertainment section, and saw that Stone had done an article on Kenzie's early BBC work, with quotes from people who'd known him then. It looked as if the reporter was digging for negative statements, but had trouble finding anyone willing to knock Kenzie. About the harshest words were, "He was real quiet like." At least the tabloid wasn't fabricating nastiness.

  Yet.

  Pulse racing, Rainey surveyed the vast train barn from her perch on a crane that held a camera and crew. Two hundred extras in period dress were being herded into position, while outside the barn a steam train rumbled expectantly.

  They were about to do her "money shot"--the big, complicated, expensive scene that would eat up a huge chunk of her budget. She'd be glad to have this sh
ot in the can before Marcus could have more doubts about the cost.

  Her radio crackled to life with the voice of her first assistant director, who was responsible for setting up the crowd scene. "Picture's up in five minutes, Raine."

  "The second camera crew is in position?"

  "Yep."

  "Good. Five minutes, then." She lowered the radio, her gaze sweeping the set again. The location manager had done well to find this long-unused train barn. Hard work and too much money had transformed it into a mock Victorian railway station. While the electricians had spent all day lighting the echoing space, set dressers worked feverishly on the period details like lampposts and railings that made the set look convincing.

  Greg Marino was personally operating the main camera beside her, and he gave a thumb's-up when he saw her glance. She smiled, trying to look confident, then adjusted the belt that secured her in the seat, trying to reduce the pressure of the whalebone corset on her ribs. Damn Jane Stackpole for slighting her obligations. Since Rainey would be in several shots later, she had to wear full costume and makeup. Directing was much easier in jeans.

  The radio crackled. "We're ready, Raine."

  One last look, knowing that the weight of cast, crew, extras, and equipment all rested on her shoulders. Taking a deep breath, she said, "Roll 'em!"

  The camera started to whir as Greg focused on the dark entrance to the train barn. Since modern London was directly outside, the shoot had to be done at night to avoid glimpses of a twenty-first-century city.

  A beam of light slashed through the darkness, followed by the menacing bulk of the locomotive. Pistons churned, wheels whirled, and smoke poured from the stack as it rumbled to a halt with bone-vibrating power.

  The camera was set low to emphasize the mass and power of the locomotive, so different from the sand and horses of the desolate land where John Randall had been imprisoned. Inside the cars, dimly visible moving figures prepared to alight.