by Linda Palmer
As soon as I opened the door, Chet Thompson stepped inside and drew me into his arms. The box he carried pressed against my back.
His kiss was warm and deep, full of desire, but not a “let’s make love” kind of kiss. When we came up for air, I said, “You’re breaking our date tomorrow night because you’re going out of town.”
Chet stared at me in amazement. “You could tell that from how I kissed you?”
He handed me the box he’d brought up from the reception desk. A glance told me it was the old Jay Garwood tapes I’d asked Betty to send over to the apartment.
“I’m tempted to let you think I can read minds—or, rather, lips,” I said, “but the truth is when I opened the door I glimpsed a suitcase in the hall.”
He chuckled, but I saw lines of anxiety etched deep in his face.
“Nancy’s here,” I said. “Come into the kitchen and have coffee with us. Do you want something to eat?”
He shook his head. “No time. Cab’s waiting downstairs to take me to the airport. My father’s had a heart attack.”
“Oh, no!” I grasped Chet’s hand in sympathy.
“It’s serious. Dad’s in a hospital in El Mirage, Arizona. My mother’s with him, but I want to be there for anything I can do.”
“Of course. Will you call, and tell me how he is?”
“The minute I know anything. I’ll come back as soon as I can, but I’m not sure just when that’ll be.” In a teasing tone, he added, “You’re not going to run off and marry anybody while I’m gone, are you?”
“Not a chance.” That’s the only thing in my life I’m absolutely sure about. “I’ll pray for your dad,” I said. “Fly safely.” We kissed again, and said goodbye.
When I returned to the kitchen, I told Nancy what had happened.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I hope his dad’s going to be all right.” From the concerned expression on her face, I thought she might still be grieving the loss of her own beloved father several years ago.
Hoping to lift her spirits, I waved the box of tapes and said, “How about dinner and a movie?”
NANCY AND I watched Jay Garwood’s scenes from ten years earlier on the TV in the den, lounging in club chairs. Our feet were up on the big, shared ottoman, trays of Chinese takeout in our laps.
Magic nestled between us on the ottoman. He was watching the TV in his sphinx position: front paws curled under, facing the action on the screen. Soon as one scene was over, I used the remote to fast-forward to Garwood’s next appearance.
“He’s playing a nice guy here,” I said, “but I saw a flash of bad guy in the bar this afternoon. That’s a quality I can use. We need another troublemaker for the Cody-and-Amber storyline.”
Turning to Nancy, I realized she hadn’t been paying attention to me; she was still stewing about Arnold’s ex-wife.
“Veronica must have made at least one trip to the plastic surgeon,” Nancy said. “A nose like hers has never occurred in nature!”
Chapter 6
I WAS ABOUT to leave for the office when Chet called from Arizona. It was eight A.M. my time, two hours earlier for him.
“Dad made it through the night,” he said. “The doctor’s optimistic, but he warned Mom and me it’ll be awhile before we can be sure he’s going to be okay. I’m encouraged because Drake Memorial’s cardiac unit has the best reputation in the state.”
“Is there anything I can send you? Or your mother?”
“No, but thanks. You can keep the prayers coming.”
“You’ve got it,” I said.
“What’s going on in your nutty world?”
Chet laughed when I told him about discovering we had a character who lay down for a nap ten years earlier and vanished from the story. “Betty found the original actor, so we’re going to work him back in. And this morning Tommy and I are auditioning child actors.”
On his end of the line Chet groaned. “A couple years ago I had dinner with a woman I thought might be interesting. In the middle of the appetizer course she told me her profession was managing her six-year-old son’s career. That date lasted about twenty-five minutes before I sent her home in a cab.”
In the background, I heard a woman’s voice. Chet turned away from the phone for a moment. When he came back he said, “Honey, they’re going to let us visit Dad in the ICU. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
After we said goodbye, I thought about our conversation. His father, Richard Thompson, a decorated former P.O.W., was the man Chet admired most in the world.
Magic sauntered into the room with that “it’s time to pet me” look in his big green eyes. He rubbed the top of his head and his shoulder against my ankle. I picked him up and cuddled him. When he was finally satisfied, I set him down.
Glancing at the clock, I calculated the amount of time Chet would have been allowed to stay in the ICU, and called Chet on his cell phone. He answered on the second ring, and sounded pleased when he heard my voice.
“Chet, would you like me to come to El Mirage for a couple of days, to keep you company at the hospital?”
“Of course I would!” His enthusiasm erased any concern that I might not be welcome. “I’ve wanted you to meet my folks. Can you really get away?” I heard his self-deprecating chuckle. “I must sound demented.”
“No more than usual,” I joked. “If it’s convenient, I can be there late this afternoon, your time.”
“That would be great!”
“Don’t think about meeting me. I’ll get the first cab out of the airport.”
Chet gave me the address of Drake Memorial Hospital. As soon as we said goodbye, I dialed Nancy’s number.
“I’m going to El Mirage, Arizona, for a couple of days, to be with Chet, while he’s waiting to find out about his father’s condition.”
“That’s good,” she said. “I remember when he flew all the way from The Hague to make sure you were safe, and how he rushed to Las Vegas when you were missing.”
“Can you do me a favor? Penny’s so busy getting ready for the taping of her first TV show I don’t want to ask her to take Magic. Would you keep him for me until I come back on Saturday?”
“I have a better idea. I’ll stay at your place. That way the little prince doesn’t have to be in a strange environment. And it’ll do Arnold good to wonder where I am.”
WHAT WITH PACKING a carry-on duffel bag with clothes and other items I’d need for the trip to Arizona, writing out instructions about Magic’s care—including the name and number of his veterinarian—calling Betty and asking her to have the company’s travel agent book my round-trip airline reservations, saying goodbye to my four-legged room-mate, and leaving my spare key at the reception desk for Nancy, I didn’t get to the office until nearly ten o’clock.
Carrying my duffel and a tote bag, I got off the elevator on the twenty-sixth floor to face an unusual sight: a double row of folding chairs on which sat the twelve little girls that the casting people had called in to be interviewed by Tommy and me. With each of them was an adult woman, presumably the mother. Some of the children and adults were whispering to each other, creating a soft rustle that sounded like the tide stroking a shoreline. Several women were fussing with the little girls’ hair and clothes.
As I made my way around the chairs, the whisperers fell silent. I sensed the group watching me. They were probably wondering who I was, if I was somebody important.
I turned to smile at the children and their chaperones, and greeted Betty Kraft at her desk outside the office I shared with Tommy. “Your ticket confirmations are just coming through from the travel agent,” she said. “Where are you going to stay in Arizona?”
“At whatever hotel or motel is closest to the hospital in El Mirage. When I get there, I’ll let you know. If you need me, I have my cell.”
Betty handed me a sealed envelope. “I drew five hundred dollars cash for you.”
“Oh, Betty, thank you! I forgot about cash.”
“Figured you would,” she said with
a smile. “I’ve arranged for a car to take you to the airport and pick you up when you come back.”
“Thank you, again!”
Easing the airline ticket information out of the printer, she asked, “Do you have credit cards with you?”
I patted my tote. “Right here. Oh, I almost forgot. Sometime this morning Jay Garwood is coming—”
“He got here at nine o’clock. I introduced him around,” she said.
“What was your impression of him?”
She hesitated for a moment before answering. “He’s hungry,” she said. “Company manners. Too early to tell what he’s really like.”
On his side of our partners’ desk, Tommy was nervously eating an apple fritter from a donut box in front of him. He offered the box to me, but I shook my head. “No thanks. I had breakfast.”
“So did I, but we’ve got to talk to children, so I need fortification.” Tommy swallowed a few bites as I sat down and stowed my duffel and tote under the desk. He finished the fritter and put the box in a deep drawer. The act reminded me of one of those old movies where the private eye keeps a bottle of whiskey in his desk.
Wiping his hands on a paper napkin, Tommy said, “The casting people canvassed the kid actor agencies and preinterviewed about fifty little girls until they narrowed the list down to those outside.”
I buzzed Betty and asked her to send the girls in one at a time. “Alone, please—no adults. We want the child to be as natural as possible, without the stress of a parent hovering or coaching.”
As each child came into our office, we had her sit in the visitor’s chair Tommy had positioned so that it faced both of us.
The first eight girls we saw resembled the actor who played Gareth enough so that they might possibly be his daughter. To get an idea of their personalities, we chatted with them, and then had them read a few lines from the script. Some talented performers did poorly at cold readings, but then came alive in front of a camera. We had them read mainly to see how they handled the challenge, because in addition to connecting with the camera, we need performers who can listen and take direction.
The moment the ninth child came into the office we could see that her coloring was wrong for the part. She had an interesting, offbeat quality—which is how she must have survived the screening process—but I didn’t think the audience would believe that she was the daughter of actor Parker Nolan, who played Gareth.
I could tell by the glance Tommy shot at me that he felt the same way.
“Your name is Monica?” I asked, looking at the list in my hand.
“Yes.” Her voice was little more than a whisper. She handed me her photograph with her few professional credits fixed to the back.
“I’m afraid this isn’t going to be the right role for you, Monica,” I said gently. I hate this part of the job! Please, dear God, don’t let her cry. “We’ll keep your picture, and call you when another part comes up.”
Monica’s head bobbed up and down, bravely accepting rejection.
As soon as she left, I told Tommy, “I feel like a monster.”
“Me, too, and I didn’t even have to tell her,” he said.
Betty rushed in. Her face was white.
“Monica’s mother just slapped her across the face, right in front of me, because she wasn’t in here as long as the other girls were!”
I felt as though I’d been slapped, and my reaction was rage. I jumped up and yanked the door open. Betty followed me. Typically, Tommy, who hated confrontations, stayed behind.
We caught up with Monica and her mother at the elevator. A red mark still burned on the little girl’s cheek.
Forcing myself to smile, I looked down at Monica. “Sweetie, I know I told you that this part isn’t right for you, but you impressed us so much we just thought of another role you can play. Betty, would you take Monica over to Craft Services and get her some juice, or milk—whatever she wants.”
Betty took Monica by the hand and led the girl away.
Monica’s mother was practically giddy with delight. “How exciting! What kind of a part are you giving—”
No longer able to conceal my fury, I backed Monica’s mother against the wall between the elevators. I kept my voice low, but my tone was icy. “I know hundreds of people in this business,” I hissed. “If you ever lay a hand on that child again I promise you I’ll hear about it. I’ll turn you in to child protective services, and you’ll lose your little captive meal ticket.”
She began to sputter and defend herself, but I cut her off. “There is no excuse for what you did, and I swear to God I’ll make sure you never do it again.” Of course, I was bluffing, but I could see I’d frightened her so I pressed the advantage. “I have your address. To make sure you don’t hurt that child again, I’m going to have you monitored.”
That was a real whopper of a lie, but she was shaking, too cowed to realize that I didn’t have any such power. Time to change tactics, before she recovered her wits. I took a step back, and in a more pleasant manner, I said, “Go to our studio cafe down on the tenth floor and have a cup of coffee. My assistant will bring Monica down in a little while. Order lunch for the two of you, and sign my name to the check.”
Of the final three girls we saw, number eleven was the one Tommy and I immediately agreed would be perfect to play Gareth’s daughter. We interviewed the final girl out of courtesy, but made sure she stayed with us as long as had the others. Later today, Tommy would tell our head of casting to call the selected child’s agency and make the deal to hire her.
Betty stuck her head in the door. “Security is on the line. Didi Rose and her mother are at the desk downstairs. Didi said you invited her to come to the studio.”
Not a message I wanted to hear. “I said she could visit the show sometime.”
“Well, she’s here now,” Betty said.
Chapter 7
FOR NANCY’S SAKE, to help make things pleasant with the daughter of the man she loved, I put on my “welcome” expression and met Didi and the former Mrs. Rose at the elevator.
Mother and daughter were the same height, about five feet three, but Didi’s build was slim and strong; her mother’s body was more delicate. I couldn’t picture Veronica Rose doing anything more athletic than shopping.
Didi rushed up as soon as she saw me. “Will I meet Cody? Is he here today?”
“You’re in luck.” I glanced at the wall clock. “He’ll be taping a scene in a little while. You can watch, if you want to.”
“Oh, I do!” She was practically jumping up and down with excitement. “This is so cool!”
With her glossy chocolate brown hair, big brown eyes, and heart-shaped face, twelve-year-old Didi Rose was showing unmistakable signs of the grown-up beauty she would become.
Politely, I extended my hand to her mother, who was watching me with a calculating expression in her eyes.
“I’m Morgan Tyler. Mrs. Rose?”
“Call me Veronica.” She spoke so softly I had to lean forward to hear her. “It was so nice of you to invite us to your studio.”
“I’m delighted to have you here,” I lied. “Didi impressed me with her comments about the show.”
“I knew Cody’s last girlfriend was a phony,” Didi said proudly.
“Don’t brag, darling.”
Didi’s voice was natural and enthusiastic; her inflections ran all up and down the tonal scale. In sharp contrast, her mother’s voice was almost a whisper. I imagined Veronica practicing that breathy, little-girl quality, for the seductive effect it had on some men.
Arnold’s ex-wife flashed a smile that revealed two rows of sparkling white teeth, but not a hint of warmth. “You must be busy, doing … what you do. If you’ll just have someone show Didi what she wants to see, we won’t have to trouble you.”
I introduced our guests to Betty, and asked her to give them a tour of the studio.
“Didi especially wants to meet Link,” I said, referring to actor Link Ramsey who played Cody. “When Link�
�s taping, they can watch from the control room.”
Betty led Arnold’s daughter and his ex-wife toward Studio 36, where Link would be blocking the scene he’d tape later.
Our office was empty, but I saw Tommy had stuck a note to my monitor. “Gone for a massage. Don’t forget to come back from Arizona,” it said. I was glad to have the privacy. There was a lot of work to be done in reintroducing Evan Duran to the audience.
Privacy lasted for ten minutes. There was a knock on the door, followed immediately by the entrance of Veronica Rose. Alone.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you—Morgan, isn’t it?”
As if she didn’t know. “Yes, it’s Morgan. I am very busy, but what can I do for you?”
Uninvited, Veronica perched on the edge of the visitor’s chair closest to my desk and said, “I want to do something for you, or rather, for someone else. Didi says you’re friends with that tall girl who works in my husband’s office.”
I kept a grip on my temper. “You’re referring to Nancy Cummings? She’s a highly regarded corporate attorney.”
She dismissed that with a wave of one perfectly manicured hand. With a jab of apprehension, I noticed that Veronica wore a diamond engagement and wedding ring combination on the third finger of her left hand.
“I’m afraid Nancy’s going to be terribly hurt,” she said. “Perhaps, for her own good, you could have a little talk with her.”
I didn’t say anything, but Veronica didn’t need encouragement to go on.
“Your friend seems to have a serious crush on Arnold. It’s happened to quite a few girls who’ve worked in the office. Arnold enjoys the attention. He’s only human, after all. But now I’ve moved back to New York.”
“Aren’t you two divorced?”
“I left Arnold. He’s never really gotten over me. I’m unfinished business, you see. And we have a child we both adore. That’s a bond between us that no other woman will ever break.”
“You shouldn’t be talking to me about this.”
Having planted her little bomb, Veronica got up. “I’m merely trying to save your friend some pain. Arnold has led vulnerable young women on before.” She flashed a smile with those unnaturally white teeth and glided out of the office.