by JC Grey
Blaze brooded some more, taking out her mood on a piece of dough that was to be her first attempt at homemade bread, from a recipe in one of Gram’s vintage cookbooks. By the time she set it aside to rise, she was in a feistier mood. The media might have had their say, but that didn’t mean she had to sit here and take it without response, even though it might be more dignified to ignore it. There was someone who might listen to her side, as long as she made it worth printing.
Replaying her phone message from the Inside Hollywood reporter, she went into the study and made a few notes, before calling the number he’d left on her voice mail.
‘Cal,’ she said when Marsden answered. ‘It’s Blaze Gillespie. I appreciate your call the other day, and the offer to hear my side. If the offer’s still open, you have my word that this will be an exclusive. I won’t be making any other comments about the matter.’
The silence that followed lasted longer than the usual trans-Pacific delay.
‘Good Lord!’ Cal’s shocked voice finally said. ‘This has to be a first. A movie star who returns her phone calls personally.’
‘So are you interested?’ Blaze pressed.
‘Is the Pope a Catholic?’ came the murmured response at the other end. ‘Yes, yes. Thank you. When do you want to do this?’
‘How about now?’ She heard the rustle of paper and imagined he was hunting for a notebook or a list of questions. ‘You can always get back to me if there’s anything else you need later.’
‘And what about your PR’s approval?’
Blaze expelled a breath. ‘I don’t have one. I was dropped by my publicity agent, Monica Tesoriero, after the Rick Beatty thing and the festival shooting. She was nice about it, but she handles some big names, so I can understand she was worried that the stain on my reputation might transfer to them. But you’ve always been fair in the past, so no approval necessary.’
‘Well, thanks.’ The reporter’s dry tone reminded Blaze why she’d taken to Cal Marsden more than some supposedly more respectable journalists. ‘Okay, let’s get this thing moving. Can I ask you where you’re calling from? Jaxon said you were . . . having some time out.’
‘Very diplomatic and, yes, it’s true. I’m back home in Australia for a while, but I’d prefer to keep my precise location private. I was struggling after Mitch’s death and the movie festival tragedy, plus all the speculation and scandal surrounding what I may or may not have done during the shooting of Bad & Co. I needed to escape to get my head straight, and . . . to grieve.’
‘To grieve . . . for Mitch?’
‘Yes.’ Blaze’s voice was husky. ‘For Mitch. And for Bethany, the young woman at the film festival. We spoke for a moment, and in that short time she came across as very genuine, perceptive and kind.’
‘What did Mitch mean to you?’
‘He was my friend. Probably my best friend in the business.’
‘Were you lovers?’
Blaze had been expecting the question.
‘No. Our relationship was platonic.’
‘You were seen together a lot,’ he prompted.
‘Yes, we enjoyed each other’s company, and had fun together. We made each other laugh.’
‘Your body language suggested something more.’
‘Deliberately. If the media was busy speculating about us, they probably weren’t speculating about our relationships with other people.’
‘Did you kill him?’ The question, one even the police hadn’t asked directly – yet – came like a short, sharp jab. She still wasn’t ready for it.
‘No, I . . . no.’
‘You’d been with him the evening he died.’
‘Yes. I’d had a heavy day of press interviews for Bad & Co., and went over to his place for dinner. He cooked, and we watched the DVD of Chicago, one of his favourites. I left before eleven because I had more media the following day.’
‘Who do you think killed him, and why?’
Blaze closed her eyes. ‘I don’t know. I just . . . keep thinking back. Was there something going on that I missed, something he tried to tell me and couldn’t? But everything just seemed normal; I got no sense that he was feeling under threat. That night, he was singing along to the movie, dragging me off the couch to dance. My last memory is of Mitch just being Mitch, funny and exuberant as he almost always was.’
‘Are you a suspect?’
‘I think so. The police didn’t tell me directly. But as I was – as far as I know – the last person to see him alive, they would be derelict in their duty not to consider me a suspect.’
‘The last person to see him alive would have been his killer,’ Cal said.
‘Yes, yes of course. Apart from . . . them.’ Blaze closed her eyes, willing herself not to think about Mitch’s last moments.
‘The assumption is that the police suspect you had a fight over the Bad & Co. scandal, and it turned violent and then fatal.’
‘I can’t really comment on what the police suspect, but it would seem an obvious avenue for investigators to explore.’
‘What is the truth about the group-sex scandal on the set, and this tape that’s just emerged?’
‘It’s not true. There was no such incident on set so there can be no tape. Not of me.’
‘Why would Rick Beatty lie?’
‘Sometimes people become confused between image and reality. I think Rick Beatty may have believed I was the available, easy woman I played in that movie and in other films. When he learnt differently, he felt humiliated and he retaliated. I’m sure he regrets it, and probably is struggling to find a way out.’
‘You’re saying it’s just payback because he propositioned you and you gave him the cold shoulder?’
Feeling antsy, Blaze went to stand by the window. The vast outback spread as far as the eye could see, and she immediately felt calmer. ‘If he felt I gave him the cold shoulder, I’m sorry. My recollection is that I just said no.’
In truth, she’d barely registered Beatty’s interest, beyond feeling a moment of pity for his Australian girlfriend, Emily or Emmaline something, whom she’d met briefly at the wrap party when filming finished.
From the way the poor girl had been clinging to Rick, she’d clearly been desperately infatuated. But he hadn’t had eyes for anyone but Blaze, to the extent that it had been a little embarrassing and Blaze had quickly excused herself. She’d wanted to tell the girl that Beatty was a creep, but it just hadn’t been the time or place for that kind of conversation – if there ever was one – and later in the powder room, the woman had just brushed past Blaze without a word.
‘What about the other men involved in the alleged incident?’ Cal was asking. ‘One has apparently backed Beatty up. The others haven’t commented.’
‘I don’t know. To be honest none of them were people I regularly came into contact with on set, but there were no problems, so I’m not sure how they became involved.’
‘Beatty said you seemed high. Couldn’t get enough of them.’
Blaze struggled to stay calm. ‘Yes, I know. But it just didn’t happen.’
‘You had ample opportunity to refute Beatty’s allegations earlier,’ Marsden pointed out.
‘That’s true, but both the producers of Bad & Co. and I felt that addressing the matter would give it credibility and longer life. The media I spoke to at the time had to agree to ask questions only about the movie.’
‘And the tape? Beatty says it’s you. People who’ve seen it say it looks like you.’
‘I don’t need to see it to know it isn’t me.’
‘Will you sue?’
Did she want to take on a legal fight as well as everything else? ‘No. I don’t think so.’
‘Why?’
‘It won’t undo the damage. And in any case, it’s Beatty’s word against mine. I can only hope that at some point he feels able to set the record straight, and I appreciate that it would take an enormous amount of courage to do so at this stage.’
‘What about the im
pact on your career?’
‘What career?’ Blaze dredged up a laugh from somewhere. ‘The good thing is that I have to trawl through far fewer scripts these days! I don’t know. In time, I hope producers and casting agents will look past recent events and consider what I can bring to a role. But at the moment I’m not even thinking about work. I’m just trying to get through each day and not miss Mitch too much.’
‘Buzz is starting to build for your performance in Bad & Co. from the people who’ve seen the rough cut.’
‘All publicity is good publicity in the movie business.’
‘I’ve seen a couple of scenes and, for what it’s worth, I think you handled the balance between comedy and pathos extremely well,’ Cal said.
‘Thanks.’
‘The premiere is coming up. Will you be attending?’
‘I . . . I’m really not sure.’
‘Rumour has it you were being considered for Siren, but that it’s gone to Natalie Portman.’
‘I had heard the first part but not the second. Thanks.’
‘Sorry.’ Cal sounded genuinely regretful to be delivering bad news. ‘If it’s any consolation, I think you would have been great in that role. I hear it’s a terrific script.’
‘I’m sure Natalie will do a wonderful job.’
‘What do you say to the people who figure that, guilty or not, you’ve brought much of this on your own head because of the image you promote?’
‘I’d have to take some responsibility there,’ Blaze said quietly. ‘All I can say is it wasn’t deliberate. I was young and it seemed to be an easy way to carve out a career for myself in a tough town. But the path of least resistance isn’t necessarily the right one. Having said that, we have to remember that two people are dead, and others were injured at the film festival. Someone else picked up the knife that killed Mitch and the gun that shot Bethany. I hope their killers are brought to justice.’ Her voice began to wobble and she shut up.
‘All right, that’s great,’ Cal said. ‘We can wrap it up there. I’m sorry I put you through the wringer with some of those questions.’
‘People want answers. I know that, and I wish I had them all.’
‘My editor will want to run this in the next edition, which goes to press in two days,’ Cal told her.
‘You’ll have to use old imagery, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t use anything that would make things worse for Bethany’s family. Or Mitch’s.’
‘Got it. I’ll send an advance copy to Jaxon.’
‘I’ll let him know we’ve spoken. And listen, I appreciate that you tried to give me the heads-up about the tape.’
‘No worries. Isn’t that what you Aussies say?’
They said goodbye and Blaze ended the call. Feeling wrung out but strangely lighter having got the facts, if not the emotional toll, off her chest, Blaze phoned Jax, but got his voice mail. Privately, she was grateful not to have to deal with his dramatics when she was feeling a little fragile. She left a message telling him about the interview with Cal Marsden, then apologised for lying low for so long and for losing the Siren role, and thanked him for caring.
She was keenly aware that she’d never said thanks to Mitch for being her friend, and now she’d never get the chance. Still, he’d always known he could trust her and call her if he needed a shoulder. Perhaps words weren’t always necessary.
Chapter Five
The phone was still in Blaze’s hand when it rang again, startling her into almost dropping the thing. Usually, she screened her calls, but caught by surprise – having just ended her call to Cal Marsden – she answered it and immediately wished she hadn’t. Goose bumps rose on her arms, and that only happened with one person.
‘It’s Mac,’ her neighbour said in his unmistakeable low growl. ‘You sure as hell do like to talk.’
Blaze’s heart picked up a beat. ‘Hello, cowboy. I was laying some ghosts to rest.’
‘Okay, well, I’ve got a name for you.’
‘A name?’
‘You want a carpenter, right?’
‘Yes, yes I did. I mean, I do.’ She felt like an idiot. How come she could handle a gruelling interview spanning homicide, sex and celebrity and she couldn’t answer a simple question from this man?
‘Got a pen?’
She rummaged in the desk drawer, found a pencil. ‘Yes.’
‘Name’s Rowdy Parsons.’
‘Is his name a fair reflection of his nature?’
‘Actually, he’s a pretty quiet kind of guy.’
Blaze frowned. ‘I sense a “but”.’
‘Yeah. Look, the truth is, Rowdy never met a bottle of grog he didn’t like, which is why he’s available. None of the bigger projects around here will touch him.’
‘You’re doing a great job selling him to me.’
‘I’m not selling anything,’ Mac retorted. ‘I’m giving you a name. Your decision, your risk. When he’s off the booze, he’s a good worker, but he’s unreliable if he’s put one on the previous night. That’s all. Still want his address?’
‘Maybe I should phone him first.’
‘Rowdy doesn’t usually answer the phone. He may not even have one.’
‘All right, his address, then.’
He gave her directions, too, which she scribbled down and hoped would still make sense when she needed to use them.
‘About yesterday —’ Mac said.
‘Yes, look, I’m sorry about Paddy. I’m trying to train him.’
‘I didn’t mean . . . look, if you do hire Rowdy, tell him to fix that front door first up. I don’t like you being out there with an unsecured house and guys like Pete Woodall on the loose.’
‘I thought you didn’t like me full stop, cowboy.’ She was on firmer ground playing the tease.
He laughed. ‘Feisty little thing aren’t you, Hollywood?’
‘Don’t call me that.’
‘You going to stop me?’ His low rumble edged even lower, and Blaze felt a warmth engulf her body that had nothing to do with the outside temperature.
She didn’t know how to answer that, so she didn’t reply.
‘I know you heard me. I can hear you breathing. It’s incredibly sexy.’
Blaze felt herself blush – and she never blushed. ‘And all this time I thought it was about getting oxygen to the brain,’ she said to cover her reaction to him.
He laughed again, a deep husky laugh that made the fine hairs on her neck stand up on end. ‘I take it you’re not a romantic, Hollywood.’
About that, he was right, Blaze thought. ‘I definitely prefer honesty to sugar-coated lies, and you’ve been pretty up-front that you think I’m big trouble.’
‘That may be true.’ His voice was just a vibration down the line that echoed in her veins. ‘But I think I could discover a taste for trouble.’
‘Don’t,’ she whispered, feeling shaky. ‘Don’t go there. I don’t want any more complications in my life.’
‘Who said it had to be complicated? You said you preferred honesty. Well, we knew, pretty much the moment we saw each other, that there was something between us. At least I did, and I think you did, too.’
Blaze squeezed her eyes shut – and her legs. After today’s headlines she was never going to have sex again. Ever. ‘No . . . that’s not true.’
He gave that low, sexy laugh again and Blaze felt her nipples harden and her thighs go to water.
‘You go right on believing that, Hollywood, if it makes you feel better.’
Calling on the last of her composure, she said, ‘If this is about you thinking I’m . . . available because of what the papers have been saying . . .’
In an instant, the warmth conjured by their banter dropped ten degrees. ‘If you think that then perhaps we’ve both made a mistake,’ he said in a cool voice.
‘I . . .’ she began, but the line was dead.
The flight to Australia was packed with American tourists escaping the gloom of the northern winter for a few weeks to poa
ch themselves in the balmy waters of the Whitsundays, explore the wonders of the Great Barrier Reef or head further north to the lush rainforests of Cape Tribulation. A few even wore shorts and loud shirts in anticipation of the temperatures they’d find on arrival. But not everyone was happy.
‘Thirty-one degrees?’ exclaimed one man sitting in the front row. ‘I could’ve done better than that back home in Seattle!’
‘Honeeey,’ said his baby-doll wife. ‘It’s different over there. Thirty is, like, eighty degrees Fahrenheit. Didn’t you read the book?’
‘I didn’t pay eight thousand dollars for a honeymoon so I could sit around reading damn books! Jeez, there’s hardly enough leg room for a dwarf in these seats. For what we paid . . .’
The complaints droned on, the kids bawled, the flight attendants delivered third-rate food and fake smiles. Few people gave the slight figure in window seat 19J much mind, even with the face mask. A few other passengers wore them, too, even though the panics over bird and swine flus were mostly done and dusted. Wearing the cheap headphones and closing your eyes said to all: do not disturb. And no one did pay any notice. Unless you looked like Blaze Gillespie, no one ever did.
Every day brought subtle or significant reminders of the chasm that lay between them. Today, it was the fact of flying cattle class that brought the rage bubbling to the surface. Blaze Gillespie had no doubt enjoyed all the luxuries of first class, if not a private jet, when she’d made this same trip recently.
The little whore had received every advantage in life, and what had she done with all her privileges? She’d slutted her way through Hollywood, spread herself across countless casting couches, pouted on magazine covers and thought she had it made. But if she thought she could hide out in secret until the scandal blew over, she was mistaken.
One way or another, she would pay and the price was rising all the time. A shooting star was on a course to oblivion.
If Rowdy Parsons’ single-level home was intended to showcase his expertise as a builder, it was an unmitigated disaster. Blaze hadn’t thought disrepair and decay could get much worse than Sweet Springs, but she was wrong. Here, defeat was in every missing roof tile, the weed-engulfed front yard and cracked concrete driveway, the sorry collection of empty beer bottles huddled on the porch.