Evie stood and I did the same. She walked to the door, turned to give me a high-wattage smile, and walked out the door.
Welcome to the Paranormal Talent Agency!
Episode Two
Reset to One
CHAPTER ONE
Today was my 29th birthday. Again. That’s the joke, right? At some point in the latter 20th century, women decided to stay 29. So, they celebrated turning 29 every year, and their friends laughed and everyone had a good time. Forever 29. Except that I really would be forever 29. After all, I was a vampire.
And where was I on my 92nd 29th birthday? At an acting workshop organized by my new agent, Catherine Rodham, of the Peterson Talent Agency, or as individuals of my persuasion had been calling it, the Paranormal Talent Agency. Aren’t we clever? In all seriousness, though, she’s pretty cool – open to the other-than-human set, dating a half-incubus, and earlier this year, even helping to catch a serial killer!
On this beautiful summer evening in Las Vegas, six of us sat on uncomfortable metal folding chairs in a circle, staring at each other. Sizing each other up. Checking our internal files to see if we’d met before at an audition or on set. Catherine had done a great job mixing the group: three men and three women, race and ethnicity across the spectrum, ages from twenty-something to fifty-something, and several different species. They said don’t judge a book by its cover, but after over one hundred years on the planet, I had pretty good “species” radar. Three humans, pixie, werewolf, and me. As my gaze followed the circle, I caught my breath when it landed on one of the humans. Well, now, who did we have here?
I watched his luscious full lips while he said his name. “Hi, everybody. I’m Ryan Walter.” I drank in his lithe frame in the seat, glimpsed muscles at the edges of his running shorts and marathon-finisher t-shirt. An athlete. Yum.
“I recently relocated here from Los Angeles. Smaller market, I know, but I can’t afford food and rent in LA.” Everyone around the circle chuckled in agreement and his smile revealed perfect white teeth. I noticed, however, the smile seemed forced.
“I also work as a paralegal. It’s fun and pays the bills.” For an actor, he didn’t hide his distress very well. But, it wasn’t my concern. The auburn glint in his hair mesmerized me. Was that dyed or natural?
“I’m happy to be here.” I doubted this, but nobody challenged the comment. He finished and the next person in the circle began speaking. I was definitely not listening. I noticed that Ryan’s hazel green eyes, with just a fleck of gold, seemed anxious.
Our eyes met (now didn’t that sound cliched) and he checked me out the way I had checked him out. I tried to see myself through his eyes. I was turned in the 1920s but gave up my preferred style for years. One of the benefits of Vegas, however, was that, much like New York City, anything went, so my eccentric style was nothing more than that. Eccentric. Short, 1920s curly blond bob over blue eyes, very pale skin, and dark red lipstick. I looked like someone called for a stereotypical 1920s flapper from Central Casting, in all honesty. At least I wore jeans with my Gatsby-inspired green tank shirt and black ankle boots. I smiled widely at Ryan, who responded by looking at the ground. Hmm, that didn’t usually happen.
I realized it was time for my introduction.
“Hi, I’m Evelyn Jones. Everyone calls me Evie.” Jones, of course, was my latest fake name. “I moved to Vegas from New York to get away from the cold.” Everybody chuckled and nobody caught that I didn’t include a time frame.
“I’ve been acting in independent projects for years.” Decades really, but who was counting? “I’m looking forward to working with all of you.” Despite my flippant attitude generally, I really was looking forward to working with them. I loved acting.
With introductions completed, the instructor, Anthony Gullo, explained the workshop plan. Without intending to, my gaze returned to Ryan, who kept checking his watch. I frowned. If he had somewhere else to be, why didn’t he just go?
Anthony asked Ryan a question. His head snapped up and he looked confused. “I’m sorry, I missed that.”
“Is everything okay? I notice you keep checking your watch.” Kudos to Anthony for calling Ryan out.
Ryan reddened in embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I’m distracted. Personal issue.”
“Anything we can do to help?” the pixie asked and her offer seemed genuine. I looked around at the others, who were nodding.
Although it seemed to me that his statement suggested he didn’t want to talk about whatever was bothering him, he opened up after that single question. I felt for the guy, I really did, but honestly, was this the time and place for his therapy?
Ryan spoke haltingly. “My best friend, Jim, was arrested. For murder.” Several small gasps were heard. “I know he didn’t do it and I don’t know what to do.” His gaze moved around the circle, as though looking for an answer. Silence greeted him. Until he reached me.
I shrugged. “Not to be mean, but how do you know he didn’t do it?”
“Excuse me?”
“How do you know he didn’t do it?” I repeated.
He frowned. “Of course, he didn’t do it.”
“I understand you believe that,” I tried again. “But how do you know that?”
Anthony jumped in. I suspected he regretted opening this can of worms. “Maybe we’ll shelve this conversation until the break? Ryan, if you need to leave to help your friend, we’d understand.”
Ryan shook his head. “I’d rather stay. There’s nothing I can do until he’s released on bail. Which should be sometime tonight.” He checked his watch again. “I could use the distraction. Thanks.”
We resumed the workshop, which went well. We all had new scenes that we worked. As we were wrapping up, I noticed in my peripheral vision Ryan was approaching. Uh-oh. I hoped I didn’t upset him earlier. I sometimes had that effect on people, even when I wasn’t trying.
“Evie, right?”
“Yep. Ryan?” Like we didn’t both know each other’s names. Such a convoluted dance humans did.
“Yes.” He hesitated. “I wanted to ask you what you meant by your comments earlier.”
“I didn’t mean anything by them.” I could see the pain on his face and I didn’t want to add to it. “I was just playing devil’s advocate.”
“Devil’s advocate? This is my friend’s life.” He lowered his voice. “Sorry.”
“No need to apologize. I can imagine how hard this is.” Certainly, in my 100+ years, I’ve had friends jailed. Of course, they were guilty.
“Thank you.” He stopped but didn’t leave. He shifted from foot to foot.
“Was there something else?”
Our eyes met again, and damned if I didn’t feel something. If only he wasn’t so caught up in his friend’s drama. He could be fun. Oh well. His phone beeped.
“It’s Jim.” The color drained from his face. His reaction perplexed me. He believed Jim was innocent. Wouldn’t he be happy Jim got bailed out? Although, it equally baffled me that he couldn’t entertain the possibility his friend was a killer. This fascinated me.
“I need to order a Lyft,” he muttered to himself and turned away, fiddling with his phone.
“Do you need a ride to pick him up?” Both of us looked shocked by my offer.
“I do. Are you sure?”
“Definitely. Let me make up for what I said.” That wasn’t really why I offered, I realized. I wanted to know more. I wanted to understand how he could be so sure of someone else’s behavior.
His dazzling smile returned. “Thank you. I appreciate it.” We exited the building together.
“Hmm,” I started, as we stood next to my dark green Fiat convertible. “How tall is your friend?”
Ryan laughed, a deep unexpected rumbling that caused me to laugh in response. “He’s average, I suppose. He’ll fit fine.”
We drove in companionable silence to the detention center to retrieve Jim. The red brick building looked like
a prison and I shuddered when we entered the parking lot.
“Do you know where we need to go to get him?”
“He said he’d be waiting out front.”
Big brown letters across a tan semi-circle announced we had reached our destination. Sure enough, a guy stood in front, off to the side, scuffing the toe of his shoe on the ground. He looked like a stereotypical surfer, with his bleached blond hair and lean, wiry appearance. I couldn’t see his eyes from the car. My guess was blue.
“That’s Jim,” Ryan confirmed my unspoken assumption and I directed the car to the curb. I watched out the window while Ryan embraced his friend. They talked for a second before Jim followed Ryan to the car.
I twisted in my seat to say hello to Jim, now ensconced in the back seat, chuckling internally because I was right. His eyes were blue. Then I felt bad for my internal chuckle. Poor man. His eyes had that lost look. His face somehow already seemed wan, like he’d been in jail for months, not just long enough to be bailed out. He managed a slight smile.
“Nice to meet you, Evie. Thanks for the ride.”
“No problem. Where to now?”
Silence greeted my question. I’d have thought Jim wanted to go home, given the late hour, but since nobody said anything, I went with my gut. “You guys up for a late-night snack?”
Jim looked so grateful for the suggestion that I actually felt guilty for a nanosecond, given my ulterior motive. For some reason, it bothered me that Jim was hoodwinking his friend. I was determined to show Ryan he was wrong and that I was right. People couldn’t be trusted. It didn’t matter how close they were to us.
Ryan suggested a Denny’s midway between here and Jim’s home in Southern Highlands and I started in that direction.
“How are you doing?” Ryan tried for nonchalance, like we hadn’t just picked Jim up at the jail.
The silence stretched for a few blocks and I wondered if Jim was going to answer. And then he did.
“I’m not sure,” he admitted. “I feel like I’m underwater. Ever since I was arrested. My lawyer hadn’t been certain I’d get bail. Even without a criminal record. Because I was arrested for a felony.” Jim fell silent.
Nobody said anything the rest of the way to the diner. I had so many questions, my mouth wanted to blurt them out. I refrained, figuring that maybe food would loosen Jim’s tongue. After all, how could I find the holes in his story if I didn’t know his story?
CHAPTER TWO
Ryan and Jim must have been trying to communicate telepathically, based on the meaningful glances they kept sharing. I, on the other hand, not possessing such skills, was bored. We’d been sitting in the diner booth for pushing fifteen minutes with no chatter. Nada. Zip. The cheerful waitress brought us waters and took our orders, egg biscuits and French fries for the guys, and nothing for me. They didn’t know I couldn’t eat regular food, so I said I wasn’t hungry.
“I…”
Yes! Jim was starting to speak.
“I didn’t kill Monica.” He looked exhausted, like uttering that phrase sapped all of his strength.
“Of course, you didn’t,” Ryan immediately agreed. I naturally had no idea who Monica was, but Ryan seemed to.
“My wife.” Jim directed this at me, as if he read my mind, though likely I had a quizzical look on my face.
“I don’t know what happened,” he admitted, dropping his gaze to his lap, hands locked in nervous fidgeting.
“What do you know?” I asked the question gently. I felt bad for him; he seemed genuinely saddened and scared. Still, I was on a mission.
“What happened?” Ryan added this question. Silence followed. Jim appeared to be considering what to say in response.
The waitress returned with their food, sparing Jim from having to respond. She placed the dishes, told the men to enjoy, and departed. Jim sighed deeply.
“We had gone to the theater, the one in Chinatown,” he explained. “It was a longer show, so it was already after 10 when we left. Nothing seemed wrong when we got home. No lights were on in the house. No strange vehicles were parked nearby. I pulled into the garage and closed the door. All like I normally did. We entered the house from the garage and that’s when we noticed something off.”
“Off? What do you mean?”
“As weird as this is, Ryan, there was a smell.”
“A smell?”
“Yeah. It smelled woody.”
“Like the woods?”
“Not exactly. Just woody,” he said, face pinched. He closed his eyes briefly. “I joked with Monica about her sneaking a guy into the house and she laughed. We assumed.” He stopped. “I don’t know what we assumed, to be honest. It simply never occurred to us that someone could be in the house. Like I said, no lights were on, no cars were outside, we didn’t hear any sounds.” I wondered if was trying to convince himself almost as much as he was trying to convince us.
“We were laughing, joking about the show. I locked the door behind us and we went to the kitchen, turning lights on and off while we made our way there. Monica tossed her purse onto the counter and I grabbed a bottle of red wine to pour a couple of glasses.” His recitation had the familiar feel of a story oft repeated; how many times had he already told it to the police?
Jim stopped again, the silence stretching so long that I was unsure if he would start again without a prompt. His eyes closed. Ryan and I exchanged glances. We remained quiet. Jim ate a French fry, took a sip of water. He was clearly delaying.
“You know what our kitchen looks like?” This was directed at Ryan, who nodded. “I was at the counter near the side window, pouring the glasses, when Monica screamed. I dropped the glass, it shattered. As I was turning around, I sensed movement by my head, I was overwhelmed by that woody smell. And then nothing.”
He sipped more water, the glass shaking in his hand.
I tried to pay attention to Jim’s physical changes, looking for the tell to suggest which parts he was lying about…or maybe just omitting. Except I found myself distracted by Ryan. His beautiful hazel eyes, so expressive, clouded over. I saw the pain in them, not only for his friend, but for his friend’s wife, the murder victim.
“Nothing?” Ryan asked this quietly.
“Based on when we got home, I was unconscious for an hour. I woke up with a throbbing headache, a huge lump on the side of my head, and my wife,” he stopped short. His voice hitched and tears filled his eyes. “My wife was dead beside me. Every time I close my eyes, I see her lifeless ones. And there was so much blood.” Tears slid down his face, slowly at first, and then a torrent. He lowered his head to his hands, tented on the table. Was he trying to hide from us? Was it grief? Or guilt?
Ryan and I waited for him to compose himself. Jim lifted his head, eyes reddened. “I checked for a pulse and breathing, of course. It was too late. I called the police.” His voice cleared, became sharp.
“I was holding her when they arrived. They arrested me for her murder. Do you want to know why?” We nodded, not daring to speak. “Because there were two bloody objects in the kitchen. That small vase on the ledge between the kitchen and the living room.” This was directed at Ryan, who nodded his familiarity with the vase. “And a small frying pan. Their theory is that we got into an argument, grabbed the nearest objects, and hit each other. Because I’m stronger, I did more damage. According to my lawyer, they consider it a heat-of-the-moment killing, which is why I was charged with second degree murder.”
“What about intent? What could you have been arguing about that would lead to this?” I was curious about both his answer and the police logic.
“I have no idea. My lawyer thinks they’ve jumped the gun. And since we weren’t arguing, I don’t know what they plan to say.”
“Who do you think did it then?”
“I have absolutely no idea, Ryan!” Jim shouted. “The only thing out of the ordinary was the smell. And I don’t know what significance that has. If any.”
While Jim’s distress was real enough according to his accelerated heartbeat and breathing, he had nothing. Only an alleged woody scent to suggest the presence of anybody else. It seemed as likely that Jim was the killer as it was some unknown person in the house. Not robbing it, apparently. And without a getaway car. Too many details didn’t make sense in his story. My poker face must have been slipping because both Ryan and Jim were staring at me. Ryan looked angry and Jim worried.
“I know you just met me, Evie, but I swear I’m innocent,” Jim insisted.
I shrugged and Ryan’s eyes narrowed.
“Of course, you are, Jim. Let’s get you home.” Ryan threw more than enough money on the table to cover their bill, and stood. Jim and I scrambled to join him.
An uncomfortable silence filled the car while I drove Jim home. Once we arrived, he did not invite us in. He hesitated before opening the front door. We stayed in the driveway until the porch light went off. Jim had not looked back. Ryan twisted in his seat to face me.
“What is wrong with you?” He wasn’t yelling but was clearly angry.
“What?” I asked innocently, though I knew what upset him.
“He lost his wife.”
“He might have killed his wife.”
“Are you always this thoughtless? Or heartless?”
That hurt. “Neither,” I insisted. “I’m pragmatic.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“No.” I kept my voice steady though his irritation was starting to get to me.
“How could you tell a grieving man he killed his wife?”
“Wait a minute. I said no such thing,” I argued.
“You may as well, the way you were looking at him.” Ryan faced forward, staring out the front window, hands gripping his thighs, as though trying to literally get a grip on his emotions.
“I’m sorry if I upset either of you,” I finally allowed. Ryan said nothing. “I have an idea.”
“What?”
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