by Alex Ames
Contents
Title
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One - Oscar Night
Chapter Two - Cat, Waiting
Chapter Three - A Sparkling Predicament
Chapter Four - Roars
Chapter Five - An Unexpected Customer
Chapter Six - London Rain
Chapter Seven - Friday’s Fate
Chapter Eight - Getting Away With It
Chapter Nine - Bait Baited
Chapter Ten - Behind Bars
Chapter Eleven - Deal With The Devil
Chapter Twelve - Thirty Days
Chapter Thirteen - A Fight Among Friends
Chapter Fourteen - The Duality Of Dating
Chapter Fifteen - The Case
Chapter Sixteen - A.K.A.
Chapter Seventeen - Nic’s Knack
Chapter Eighteen - Swan
Chapter Nineteen - Pretty and Jeannie
Chapter Twenty - Alibi Mundy
Chapter Twenty-One - Rip On The Beach
Chapter Twenty-Two - Burglar’s Safe Burgled
Chapter Twenty-Three - Getting Drunk With Mundy
Chapter Twenty-Four - Explaining Henry
Chapter Twenty-Five - The Phil Grab Trap
Chapter Twenty-Six - Our First Date
Chapter Twenty-Seven - Follow That Cab
Chapter Twenty-Eight - Chasing Rip Delaware
Chapter Twenty-Nine - Mouse And Cat
Chapter Thirty - The Webber Job
Chapter Thirty-One - Fall-out
Chapter Thirty-Two - Trap Snap
Chapter Thirty-Three - Date Interrupted
Chapter Thirty-Four - Girl on a Mission
Chapter Thirty-Five - Diving Damsel Distressed
Chapter Thirty-Six - Henry’s Leap
Chapter Thirty-Seven - That Old Bag of Tricks
Chapter Thirty-Eight - A Subtle and Quiet Method
Chapter Thirty-Nine - Showtime
Chapter Forty - Rip Ripped
Chapter Forty-One - Crossing the Delaware
Chapter Forty-Two - Teeth, Claws, Blood and All
Chapter Forty-Three - Master and Apprentice
Chapter Forty-Four - Won’t be fooled again!
Chapter Forty-Five - Cat, Dog and Mouse
Chapter Forty-Six - Aftershow
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the author
Brilliant Actors
A Calendar Moonstone Novel
Alex Ames
Copyright © 2014 Alex Ames
1st Edition
Cover Graphic Elements: © Leysan - Fotolia.com
Chapter Diamond Cut: © nkuchumova - Fotolia.com
Contact: [email protected]
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/alexameswriting
Blog: http://alex-ames-writing.blogspot.com
Twitter: alexameswriting
Once more for the Princess
CHAPTER ONE
Oscar Night
What can be more exciting? I, Calendar Moonstone, acclaimed jewelry maker and occasional cat burglar, attended the movie awards ceremony and sat in the third row at the side of mega movie star Nicole Berg. I went to the coolest after-show party in Beverly Hills and shook hands with many more stars.
Could you possibly top that? What could be even more exciting? Well, take all of the above and spend the rest of the night in jail, girl!
It was an interesting twist of fate that allowed me to be part of a very special crowd of a very special event. Movie star Nicole Berg had been in a last minute ‘what-jewlery-do-I-wear’-situation, something I could fix for her from my current high end collection. Additionally she had run into a ‘my-arrogant-artist-boyfriend-ran-away-and-left-me-without-an-Oscar-Night-date’-situation, something I could also fix for her—as I had no other plans that night than to crash on my best friend’s Mundy’s couch and watch the Oscar’s on the tube. So I went to the Oscar’s with Nicole and then with her to the coolest after-show party. The event was hosted by none other than screen legend Swan Collins in her vast mansion in Beverly Hills. Up to now, the evening had been a dizzying rush of spotlights, red carpets, large limousines, and beautiful, famous people—and lots of very expensive jewelry, lots and lots and lots of it. Holy temptation! To score here, a cat burglar just wouldn’t cut it. A tiger burglar would be more appropriate—or a whole pack of them.
I am a designer of jewelry, so I can tell good from bad. And tonight’s event displayed the better pieces of my profession and around Nicole Berg’s neck the very best—mine. My works are admired by critics, rich people, and royalty around the world, tonight all rolled into one.
While I roamed the party grounds, I found myself constantly checking my reflection in every mirror I passed. Not that I had a complex about my face or body, but this dense collection of beautiful, perfect people made me nervous. My boobs were probably the smallest among the party crowd, when you don’t count in child actress Sarah Kapersky, who was 12 years old—and I tell you, she came close already. And my hairdo of combed-back shoulder-length blonde hair—the never-in-any-kind-of-poetry-blonde-hair—had the lowest price tag of all females at the party, way under 250 dollars. I wore my standard black Armani outfit with flat-soled shoes to make me look cuter in my five-foot-six, all-American surfer girl frame.
Stop checking yourself, Calendar girl, I chastised myself. Enjoy the evening!
I sipped my daiquiri and moved carefully through the crowd that packed the mansion in the hills overlooking LA—and what a mansion it was! The hall covered three levels and was crowned with a gigantic crystal chandelier that was so big that you could touch the crystal pieces by stretching your hand when you were at the top-level walkway. The rooms were too many to count, all designed with the best money could buy.
I was looking for my companion who had made it all possible for me, but I hadn’t seen Nicole for about an hour. This was perfectly possible because the house had a football field-sized garden, dozens of rooms, ten bathrooms, and probably one thousand guests.
It was already long past midnight, but the party showed no signs of tiring. Five of tonight’s Oscar winners were among the party guests, and each and every one of the stars had come with a large and loud pre-fueled entourage. The sound level was almost ear-splitting with roaring laughter, shouted conversations, and pumping rap music, as tonight’s Grand Slam had gone to Valley of Sound, the five-hundred-million dollar grossing—domestic only—LA rap ghetto drama. It won best movie, best direction, best male lead, and best original soundtrack.
Finally, I spotted my companion. Nicole was standing in the center of a small circle of people and was having an animated conversation with another well-known actress. You could identify the real stars of Hollywood just by looking for the magnetic fields in the room and the way the other people gravitated toward them. Nicole was no exception. She was one of the few Hollywood leading ladies who had hit the magic twenty-million dollars per movie mark and had proven in some very good films that she was worth every penny. The last two movies hadn’t been great choices, everyone agreed, but she still pulled an audience, and the next big sure-fire blockbuster was in production. Nicole wore Versace in liquid silver, exclusively cut by Donatella herself, and the dress underlined every ounce of stardom that radiated from her spirit and body. The shoes were Hummel’s, and her three-hundred-thousand-dollar beautiful diamond/gold combination necklace was crafted by yours truly, Calendar Moonstone design. One of my most beautiful pieces around the neck of one of the world’s most beautiful women. This was the way good jewelry should be worn. It wasn’t the
most expensive piece in the room, not by far, but it was the most beautiful—by far.
“A beautiful necklace, don’t you think?” murmured a male voice behind me as if to echo my thoughts. It was a husky, gentle voice. It was filled with a wondering awe that kept my eyes on Nicole’s neck as I tried to see it as he would. “A truly perfect accessory for a perfect lady,” the voice continued.
Without turning around and facing my new companion, I said, “Do you understand anything about jewelry?”
“I recognize beauty when I see it. Otherwise, unfortunately, no,” the unknown man said. “What about you?”
“I recognize a lame attempt when I see it, but I am drunk enough to endure it.”
Nicole seemed to be in the process of finishing her conversation, and she started nodding more often, her eyes already leaving her companion.
“Would you like an introduction to Nicole?” the voice asked me, still from behind.
“That’s the best you have to offer? An introduction to Nicole Berg?” Before I was able to turn around to face my invisible gentleman-caller, Nicole spotted me. Her eyes started to sparkle, and she made a beeline for me, the crowd mysteriously parting as she glided, with another woman in tow.
“Calendar Moonstone, please meet Sandra Mueller. I bet you know her.” Well, not personally, but from about eight seasons of Kitchen Party on Wednesday night prime time, sure. Sandra Mueller crowded in on me, and we exchanged hellos. She marveled about Nicole’s necklace and asked if I could make her one, too—not the same but similar, maybe a little bit more spectacular, and of course more expensive. Nicole had brought me potential customers twice already this evening, and my client base for jewelry in the six-figure range had been increased dramatically with tonight’s recommendations.
After Sandra had let go of me, Nicole gave me a conspiratorial wink and vanished again in the crowd. The remaining onlookers dispersed quickly due to the lack of stardom gravity, and I found myself alone again. Well, not completely.
“So, you do know something about jewelry,” my product’s admirer said from behind my back.
I quickly turned around and found myself looking at a very handsome young man in his late twenties, black curly hair, killer bronze complexion that spelled “actor,” and an impeccable, trendy, dark gray Italian suit. The biggest surprise of all wasn’t the fact that he was so good-looking, that he was a fan of my jewelry, or that he was flirting with me—no, the strange coincidence was that this guy was working in the dial-a-pizza opposite my store.
CHAPTER TWO
Cat, Waiting
The lights of the party festivities were glowing bright into the night, a combination of tasteful stringed decorations in the garden, disco party strobes, and the moving spotlights of the yellow-press media hounds running around with sound technicians and camera men to capture content for their dailies, weeklies, blogs, and YouTube channels.
Like an anthill of creative superpower, he mused. Fowler Wynn had been sitting in the same position for about two hours now, not even shifting. A man at ease with the situation, a man used to waiting, a man used to preying and stalking. He was a large, thin man with a pencil mustache that had gone out of fashion ages ago, but somehow Fowler felt out of fashion. And out of water, a feeling he always had when he was out of England and a feeling he especially had when he was in Los Angeles.
“You know the original song behind this rap-line? Englishman in New York?” Fowler asked without moving his eyes from the party estate. “Story of my life.”
“I guess. You drink coffee, I drink tea, my dear, or something?” His companion, Peter Jamison, said from the driver seat of the unmarked, unobtrusive SUV parked close to the Swan Collins estate. Peter stretched again, probably for the four-hundredth time. He was an African-American and radiated the strength of an eager sportsman but was held back by temporary immovability. “Eighties, isn’t it? Why do you ask? Want some tea?”
“No, thank you.” Fowler didn’t offer any explanation for his strange question and continued to watch, but Peter wasn’t offended, at least not anymore. After a week of working with Fowler Wynn, he had seen his share of strange behavior in the man. And the sudden questions, usually leading nowhere, were probably the most harmless behavior so far. Jamison’s boss had made one thing unmistakably clear: Fowler Wynn was “the man”! Drive him around; do everything he says. He is always right; he can’t do wrong. His hunches are worth millions, and you don’t risk millions.
Suddenly some headlights lit the car from behind, moving toward the entry of the Swan Collins estate. There were about ten cars, some unmarked, some LAPD patrol cars without lights or sirens, and two small transporters. They simply turned at the entry to the estate, and the last car pulled over and effectively blocked the entryway; two cops got out and took position. One officer faced outward toward the street—and toward the surprised, non-invited media people. They let no one in. The other officer stayed on his side of the car and guarded the interior. He let no one out.
Peter Jamison had enough mojo and poker experience not to make an ass of himself by asking Fowler the obvious question.
“Showtime,” he bluffed instead.
And sure enough, this remark earned him a raised eyebrow and a one-second glance from Fowler.
“Showtime, indeed,” Fowler concurred, a small smile around his mouth.
CHAPTER THREE
A Sparkling Predicament
I stared at my local pizza baker for about twenty seconds, still computing the illogical situation—from pizza baker to Hollywood star in twelve hours—and couldn’t find anything to say. He finally helped me out by breaking into a large, dazzling grin as he took me by the arm. “It is time we refill your daiquiri so we can exchange our ‘from Redondo to Hollywood in a day’ stories. I never made your store for a celebrity hang-out.” He steered me toward the nearest bar, somewhere four rooms to the right.
“Well, same goes for me regarding your pizza dough qualifications,” I said, still slightly confused.
With drinks in our hands, we found a less occupied and less noisy part of the house and settled down on a comfortable sofa. “So, how is the dough business coming along?” I asked, opening the conversation.
He looked playfully offended. “Oh, cut me some slack. I am an actor, but I have to make a living somehow. The pizza job buys the bread, excuse the lame pun, in order to survive LA until I land my next role.”
“But what a coincidence that my shop assistant ordered pizza a mere twelve hours ago, hand delivered by yourself … and here we meet again at Swan Collins’ after-show party.” I shook my head, smiling at him.
“How impolite. I know your name, but you wouldn’t know mine.”
“How would you know my name?”
“It is printed on your store in big letters: Moonstone.”
“Doh,” I said.
“My name is Rip. Rip Delaware.”
I rolled my eyes. “That must be about the worst stage name ever invented. Your seventy-year-old agent propose that one?”
Rip looked offended. “That is my real name. It’s even on my driver’s license. Delaware is a perfectly normal American name, same as Rip. But I agree, it sounds like a stage name. Story of my actor’s life.”
“Who are you with?” I asked him, sparing a secret glance at his ring finger to see if he’d pass the level two test.
“Jeannie Anthony, the TV actress?” Rip said, and I nodded in recognition. “I had a walk-on part in last season’s finale. We somehow hit it off, and she invited me for the party.” I raised a mocking eyebrow at him, and he was quick to add, “We are friends, just friends, you know?” We both had to smile at such a lame excuse.
Suddenly, all music stopped at once. After a second of aural adaptation, all conversation died, too, and the silence felt like a big bang. It couldn’t be an outage; the lights were still working. Subdued murmurs broke out among the groups; everyone was looking over others’ heads to check out what was wrong. The two of us shrugged at ea
ch other and craned our necks, imitating the rest of the party guests.
A few moments later, there came a noise from the music PA system, a male throat clearing. “Ahem, this on now? Okay. Ladies and gentlemen, excuse me. May I have your full attention, please? My name is Lieutenant Lucas Graves from the Beverly Hills Police Department. This is not a test nor a movie nor a hoax. Together with the DEA, we are conducting a raid on this party. We were informed that there are drugs on this premise, and we were forced to act. I know this comes as an inconvenience…,” boos and shrill whistles from the party guests underlined that fact, “…but we ask you all to come down to the large catering tent in the garden where you had dinner. We will ID you, take a blood sample, and conduct a quick search. No need to panic. There’s no way out, as we surrounded the whole estate. No need to run to the nearest toilet to flush away incriminating evidence; all the restrooms are already covered by DEA personnel. Should you have excessive need to use a facility, an officer will accompany you. Thank you for your cooperation.” Lieutenant Graves tried a brave, final, soothing remark that bombed badly: “Non-alcoholic refreshments will be served.”
My new party companion and I looked at each other. “You don’t happen to have an ounce of coke stored in your purse, do you?” he asked, eying my purse.
“What is that white residue under you left nostril?” I challenged him, and Rip actually looked unsure for a second and started rubbing his nose with his arm. We started to laugh and made our way to the terrace, around the big pool and toward the tent, where we’d had dinner earlier on.
“A raid, wow! Half of last year’s box office blockbuster actors are here. Imagine being involved in a drug raid! The entertainment industry will have a new legend. Did you notice any ‘excessive’ drug consumption?”