Fame

by Karen Kingsbury

He searched her eyes. His voice was a whisper, his breath warm against her face. “Afraid of what?”

  “Afraid that you wouldn’t look at me like . . .”

  “Like what?” He moved closer still.

  She felt her heart swell within her. “Like you’re looking at me right now.”

  Tad had kissed her then, kissed her until the tow truck arrived fifteen minutes later. After that there was no turning back. She’d often thought that if she and Tad ever found love together, they’d never break up. Because their friendship was already stronger than anything either of them knew.

  Sure enough. By their second year of college they weren’t only talking about getting through college and landing parts in movies one day—they were talking about marriage. The best time, they figured, would be the summer after they graduated. But they started going to auditions for films in their junior year, and that spring Tad got the break most actors only dream of.

  It was a supporting role opposite a man who was not only very well-known but very wild. The movie would be shot overseas on an island.

  Katy was concerned from the moment she heard the news. “Be yourself, Tad. Remember who you are.”

  He laughed at her. “Nothing could change me. I know who I am, Katy. You’re worrying about nothing.”

  But during the six weeks on location with the film crew, his phone calls came less and less often. On one call, Katy was sure she could hear girls laughing in the background. When she asked him about it, he accused her of being jealous. Tensions built between them, and Katy spent every night praying for him to guard his heart.

  When Tad came home, there were two weeks of shooting in Los Angeles, and by then he’d missed an entire semester of school. Also by then, she’d won the part in the series pilot, a TV movie that would film a few weeks later in downtown Chicago and neighboring communities. Tad was thrilled for her, and the night Katy’s movie wrapped, he told her he’d celebrate on her behalf.

  Something in his tone left her feeling cold and lonely. His film wrapped six days later, and that night the leading actor asked Tad to stick around for another film.

  “They love me, Katy. Isn’t that great?”

  She had done everything she could to smile and cheer him on, but she wasn’t happy. Something didn’t seem right about him. When he would call, his words would come a little too quickly, and his throat would sound a little too dry. Word on the street was that the actor he was chumming around with had been arrested with cocaine before.

  Finally Katy came out and asked him. “Just tell me, Tad. Are you using the stuff? I mean, everyone you’re with these days is into the night scene, so what about you?”

  It was the first time he ever got angry at her. He accused her of being a wet rag, a killjoy, someone who couldn’t be happy for him in his season of success. She denied that and eventually she began crying. Only then did he settle down and find a voice of reason once more.

  She could still remember the last thing he had said to her. “Katy, I’m sorry. I know things are a little strange right now, but they won’t always be this way. I’ll come home, and we’ll go back to being the way we were. I promise.”

  “It’s hard being so far away.” Her voice was a choked whisper. “I love you, Tad. I miss you.”

  “I love you too.”

  They hung up, and that was the last time she ever talked to him. He went out the next night with the movie crew from his second film, and over the course of the evening he ingested a ridiculous amount of cocaine. Sometime around ten o’clock he was returning to his table from the dance floor when he collapsed.

  Several of the people with him tried CPR, but nothing revived him. He was pronounced dead of cardiac arrest at the hospital. Another casualty of the underworld of drugs.

  Katy had wept and grieved and tried to make sense of Tad’s death. The thing that troubled her most was that he hadn’t told her the truth. If he would’ve been honest, she could’ve flown out to him, found him the help he needed. She talked to one of the other actors from the film, and he told her that Tad was always the life of the party, that he went from politely telling the crew no, he didn’t do drugs to taking more than anyone else.

  When the shock of losing him began to wear off, Katy did what she’d always done. She went to auditions. On her third one, she witnessed two casting directors whispering about something in the back of a studio soundstage. She asked the leading female actress about it.

  The girl just laughed. “It’s a drug buy. Happens all the time.”

  That was the end of it for Katy. She looked at the two men again; then she walked over to the one who had invited her to the audition. “Take my name off the list.” She pointed to his clipboard. “I’m not interested.”

  She walked out before he had a chance to say anything. A few months later she stumbled upon Christian Kids Theater in her area, eventually moving to Bloomington, and never went on another audition again.

  Not until Mitch Henry’s call.

  The memory lingered in her mind a few more minutes before dissolving on the gentle stirs of the nighttime breeze. She never liked to think of Tad dying in an LA nightclub. Rather she believed he had died shortly after he told her good-bye and boarded a plane for the island.

  Because the entertainment industry had killed him.

  At least that’s what she’d always told herself, her way of making peace with what had happened to him.

  But now . . . now that she was facing an even bigger break than the one that sucked him into the industry, she finally realized how wrong she was. The entertainment industry hadn’t killed Tad. Not that or Hollywood or fame or any other such thing.

  His own choices killed him.

  He had made the choice to take drugs, to throw everything he knew to be good and true and right out the window and to become someone totally different from the guy he’d been raised to be.

  All of it was his choice.

  A sense of peace came over Katy, and she felt torn between sadness and the freedom this new understanding brought. Because if it was Tad’s choice, then there was no reason to avoid taking a part in a movie simply because of what happened to him.

  It was very simple, really. The wild life in Hollywood or New York or anywhere was a choice. And there wasn’t a chance in the world that Katy would choose any of it. That’s the reason she would be safe filming a movie with Dayne Matthews. It was the reason she would be safe no matter how many movies she might make. And it was the reason she was going to call him one day very soon and tell him she’d done the thing he was dying for her to do.

  Sign the contract.

  Dayne was anxious for a night to himself.

  He’d spent the last part of the week with Mitch Henry at the studio going over the Dream On cast list and discussing a handful of key scenes. They met with the main director, who shared his vision for the music and camera angles and emotions they needed to get from Dayne to make the film a hit.

  Analyzing a script was the part of acting Dayne liked least of all. He’d rather memorize a script and shoot from the hip. Most of the time his knack for understanding people paid off, and he didn’t need much coaching. But this was a big film, and his deal with the studio was long term. His agent had told him he needed to have as many conversations with the directors as they wanted.

  While he worked through conversations and debates and informational meetings, Dayne’s cell phone never left his side, but Katy still hadn’t called. Whenever his phone rang he checked, hoping to see her name, knowing he would see it. Dayne wasn’t worried; she would call.

  But Mitch was practically beside himself. “What’s she waiting for?” He had been in the middle of breaking down a scene, and he suddenly paused and shouted out the question. “I mean, what on earth is she waiting for, Matthews? We gave her a great offer.” He shook his head. “You know why she hasn’t called?”

  “Yes.” Dayne used his most pious expression. “She’s praying about her decision.”

  “Grea
t.” He tossed his hands in the air. “I’m telling you, she won’t take it. I have a feeling. Especially if prayer is involved.”

  Dayne laughed. He knew a thing or two about prayer. His parents had been missionaries after all. Praying about something didn’t mean you’d wind up pulling yourself out of the world. “Of course she’ll take it.” He patted the casting director on the back and grinned at him. “She’ll take it.”

  “What makes you so sure?” His face was a mass of lines and worry. “There’s a lot of money riding on this film, Matthews. We need a female lead.”

  “Relax. I saw the look in her eyes that day in my trailer. She wants the part, Mitch.” Dayne smiled to help ease the situation. “If she needs to pray, then fine. When she’s finished talking to God, she’ll call. When she does, I guarantee she’ll take it.”

  “I’d like that in writing.”

  “It will be.”

  Mitch had brought it up a few other times after that, and now that it was Friday night, Dayne was exhausted. In his younger days he would’ve called a group of friends and hit the town. After a week like this one, it was fun to swap war stories—who was getting which part, and what studio was handling the moviemaking process better than the others.

  But that night he couldn’t care less what his colleagues were doing.

  He drove home, stopped at his familiar drugstore, and picked up the latest gossip magazines. He used to pick them up once in a while, but lately he’d been getting them every week. He couldn’t bear conceding his interest and getting a subscription, so he still bought them when he was out.

  As long as the drugstore wasn’t busy.

  The same old man who had been there most of the other times was working. He recognized Dayne now, but not because of his celebrity status. Rather because Dayne was a valued customer.

  “Dodgers let us down last week.” The man shook his head while he rang up Dayne’s sale. “You’re a fan, right? Isn’t that what you said?”

  A fan? The term struck Dayne and made him feel whole somehow. Fans were always on the other side of his world. But in this context, yes, he was a fan. A big fan. He smiled at the man. “Yes, I am. And you’re right. The Dodgers laid a big egg last week.” He paid for his magazines and a few packs of gum and thanked the guy. “I bet they turn it around soon.”

  Again, photographers snapped pictures of him as he left the store, but the old man didn’t notice. Dayne drove the rest of the way home with a smile on his face. His peers liked to complain that they couldn’t go anywhere, couldn’t have a single normal moment without it being interrupted by autograph seekers or paparazzi. But Dayne couldn’t complain. At least he had the drugstore.

  He was making stir-fry tonight. His housekeeper had been given a shopping list, and when he got home he found the groceries right where he wanted them. He sautéed the onion and garlic first, then added slivered bamboo shoots, shiitake mushrooms, snow peas, water chestnuts, and broccoli.

  Out on his patio he started his grill and placed four fresh, seasoned chicken breasts on it. The fog was creeping back in along the coast, and even though it wasn’t quite seven o’clock, the sky was dusky.

  Dayne turned on a country music station and felt himself unwind as it filtered through his house. This was the part he loved—being home, making dinner, pretending for a while that he was maybe a lifeguard taking a break from his job down on the beach or a health-club trainer. Someone regular and normal, without the crazy life that came so easily for a guy in his position.

  He was flipping the chicken when the phone rang. It wouldn’t be Katy Hart. He’d given her his cell phone number, not the home phone. He went into the kitchen, grabbed the cordless receiver, and pushed the On button. “Hello?” His tone sounded lighter than it had been since Katy left.

  “Mr. Matthews?” The man at the other end was all business.

  “Yes?”

  “This is Sergeant Halley from the police department. We’ve contacted you a few times before.”

  Dayne rolled his eyes and leaned against the bar that separated his dining area from his kitchen. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “How can I help you?”

  “We received another of those letters, the ones we told you about before. This one’s signed by an Anna Madden. First time the person’s left a name.” He paused. “Is that familiar to you?”

  “Nope.” Dayne grabbed a tray and headed back outside, the phone still to his ear. “Probably just an obsessed fan.”

  “Probably.” The sergeant didn’t sound convinced. “The problem is, she’s threatening worse actions with every letter. This one is the most severe.”

  Dayne didn’t want to ask, but his hesitation gave the sergeant a reason to continue.

  “She tells us she’s your wife and that she’s tired of waiting for you to take your place by her side.”

  “Oh, brother.” Dayne muttered the words under his breath as he moved the chicken to the tray.

  “Right, but then she says if any other woman tries to get in her way, she’ll have no choice but to kill her.”

  For a heartbeat, the threat sounded suddenly real. A quick burst of adrenaline flooded his veins and wound up as a small knot in his stomach. Dayne swallowed as he carried the chicken inside and to the kitchen counter. “That’s all we’ve got to go on? Anna Madden thinks she’s my wife, wants to kill the competition?” He forced a confident chuckle. “I appreciate the call, Sergeant, but I’m not worried. A lot of fans aren’t dealing with a full deck.”

  “We do have one additional piece of information.” The sound of rustling papers sounded over the phone line. “We have a report from someone at DreamFilms Studio, just came in yesterday. Apparently they’ve seen a woman in a yellow Honda Civic watching the place for quite some time. Figured it was paparazzi, but lately the studio thinks it’s some sort of stalker.”

  A yellow Honda Civic? Dayne squeezed his eyes shut. Where had he heard that before? He drummed his fingers on the countertop, and then it hit him. He opened his eyes. “Kelly Parker saw a yellow Honda Civic outside her home not too long ago.”

  The sergeant hesitated. “Have the two of you been seeing each other?”

  Dayne was used to being asked these questions by reporters and fans, and he could always be evasive. But this was serious. “Off and on. We’ve spent some time together at her house recently.”

  “That’s a concern.”

  The pieces were coming together. If the weird fan was threatening harm to any woman who would get in her way, then maybe she saw Kelly Parker as the competition. “So . . .” Dayne hated this. The phone call was ruining the atmosphere of the evening, changing it into a scene from some sort of horror flick. “You think this is the real thing?”

  “We do.” The sergeant’s voice had been serious throughout the conversation. Now it was even more so. “Her language, the frequency of the notes, the idea of this yellow Honda . . . we don’t want to take any chances.” He paused. “Did Ms. Parker have any other details, a description of the driver, maybe?”

  Dayne sighed and raked his fingers through his hair. “It was a woman and she . . .” Suddenly he could hear Kelly telling him the details. He felt his stomach fall to his knees. “Kelly thought the woman had a knife.”

  “We’ll need to contact Ms. Parker and get a report on that, just so we have the information in the file.” There was another sound of papers rustling. “It sounds like this woman’s a threat, Mr. Matthews.”

  “Great.” Dayne turned off the fire beneath his stir-fry. No point keeping it warm; he wasn’t hungry anymore. “What am I supposed to do, sit here and wait for this crazy woman to show up?”

  “Well, we’ll have surveillance on your home and when you’re at the studio. We’ll also have an unmarked car follow you as you come and go from the studio.”

  Dayne paced to the refrigerator and back to the stove. “How long will you do that?”

  “At least a few weeks. Until we catch her. If she’s delusional—and it sounds lik
e she is—then she won’t be too worried about being caught. She’ll think she has a right to stalk you. And a right to harm whoever gets in the way.”

  “Anything else?” Dayne’s stomach was in knots now.

  “Yeah.” Worry colored the sergeant’s warning. “Look out for a yellow Honda Civic.”

  Dayne willed himself to let the warning go.

  The sergeant was smart to contact him, keep him on his toes. And extra security couldn’t hurt. But how often did a fan actually hurt someone? He thought the question over. There had been a young woman in a sitcom once who was shot by a stalker when she opened her door; that one was hard to forget. And a few other big names who’d had close calls with obsessed fans. But otherwise, police must get letters from crazy people all the time. That didn’t mean they’d climb through his window or hunt down his friends and try to kill them.

  The muscles at the base of his neck started to relax. He took one of the chicken breasts, cut it into little cubes, and tossed it into the pan with the stir-fried vegetables. Then he turned the heat back on and covered the pan. Two minutes later it was hot enough to dish onto his plate.

  He grabbed the magazines he’d bought and took them and his dinner to the dining room table, the small one that sat just inside his patio door. The sun was setting, and another bank of fog was moving in. Fog was typical for this time of year, especially on the coast. At least it had been burning off during the day.

  The magazines were still in the bag. He took one of them out and stared at the cover. On the lower corner was something he hadn’t noticed before. A small snapshot of Kelly Parker and him, their faces close together. The caption beneath it read “Back together again?”

  Dayne groaned. He flipped to the inside cover, scanned the index, and turned to the story. The two-page spread was almost entirely photos—one of the photos showed the two of them sitting in his car talking; another showed them in a full lip-lock; a third had the two of them heading through the darkness into her house; and a final shot showed him slipping out through her back door the next morning.