by JoAnn Ross
"Oh mi god." His eyes darted around the room like nervous birds trying to escape. "Your stalker's back. But now he's threatening to kill you!"
Hearing it out loud made it sound incredibly far-fetched. Like a new plot twist on River Road. She watched him press the fingertips of his right hand against his left wrist and suspected he was checking his pulse rate.
If you're not careful, you're going to become as neurotic as Warren.
Six months ago, while working on a story line about Amanda's fifth husband dying of a heart attack—which may or may not have been poison induced—he'd been rushed to the UCLA Medical Center with palpitations he'd been convinced was angina.
Then there was last year's subplot which conveniently did away with her fourth husband, Helmut Heinz, the Swiss ski instructor she'd rashly married on a whim after sharing three bottles of apres-ski champagne. Helmut had been blackmailing her, threatening to tell oil baron J.C. Honeycutt, husband number five, that she'd still been legally married when she'd walked down the aisle for the fifth time.
When Warren began writing the scenes giving the ski instructor blinding headaches and attacks of vertigo, leading up to a fatal embolism, he began to suffer his own symptoms.
"I just know it's a brain tumor," he'd fretted to Julia, who'd driven him to the hospital and kept him company during the CAT scan which revealed nothing wrong.
He was lucky she was leaving the show; if Amanda wasn't scheduled to die from the gunshot wound Vanessa had inflicted on her, there was an outside chance Amanda would go through with her pregnancy—despite one abortion and two miscarriages, not to mention that fake pregnancy she'd used to nab husband number three. And Warren would undoubtedly suffer sympathetic morning sickness.
She didn't even want to think how he'd survive a subsequent fictional labor and delivery.
"Someone must have been on the set today, Julia."
"A lot of people were on the set today, Warren."
Whenever the script called for Amanda to strip down to her underwear, every male on the crew seemed to find a reason to show up for the taping. One of them must have brought a camera.
After the show had first launched five years ago, making Amanda a household name, a supposedly nude photograph of her ended up on the Internet, ratings soared into the stratosphere and she'd won the dubious honor of actually passing Pamela Anderson and Tommy Lee as the most downloaded photograph by males eighteen to thirty-four. Which, her agent had assured her when she'd complained about the invasion of her privacy, was a good thing.
"Surely you don't think one of the River Road family is your stalker?"
"No, I can't believe that." She took a deep breath and made herself sound calm. "I'll admit the thought flashed through my mind when I first opened the envelope. But I get all sorts of weird viewer mail." just this week she'd received a half dozen proposals, three times as many propositions, and one warning, scrawled in the margin of a yellowed page torn from a bible, that God punished adulteresses.
"You only get your mail after it's been screened by all those people the network hired to answer it. When was the last time you got a viewer letter here at home?"
Good point, "It's probably just another stupid practical joke."
"If it is, it's not very funny."
"Practical jokes at the expense of others are never funny. I'm sure I haven't been threatened, Warren." The more she said it out loud, the more she began to believe it. "You have to promise me you won't say anything about this at dinner."
"But Julia—"
"Promise," she insisted. "It'll only stir things up unnecessarily and some waiter might overhear and call the Enquirer and it'll just give the tabloids more fodder." She hadn't been able to go into the grocery store for two weeks when the shower picture had shown up at supermarket checkout stands all over the country.
He nodded, but the worry in his eyes didn't give Julia a great deal of confidence.
Two hours later, in a private dining room in a trendy Melrose restaurant, Julia's concerns were justified.
"Someone sent Julia a death threat today," Warren announced.
The buzz of conversation up and down the table instantly went silent. Every eye turned toward her.
"I'm sure it was just a practical joke." Damn. They hadn't even gotten through the antipasto course. She explained about the photograph in as few words as possible, putting the most positive spin on it she could.
"If it is just a joke, it's sure not very funny," Shane responded to her theory.
"I hate to break this to you, Shane, but neither was Mr. Happy. And how about when you glued the silverware to the table at Margot's birthday party?"
The former Diva of Daytime frowned at the memory. "That was decidedly in poor taste."
Somewhere between forty and forty-five, Margot Madison was fast approaching the age when actresses tended to disappear from television and movie screens. And on those occasions they did get roles, their characters certainly didn't have the hot sex scenes Margot had built her early career on.
"Maybe it wasn't meant as a threat," Shane suggested. "You could have a secret admirer on the crew."
"That's probably it." Julia was grateful to have a new theory. And it made sense. Just last season, the head cameraman had taken to leaving little chocolate hearts and tapes of country songs he'd written about her in her dressing room. He'd quit the show and moved to Nashville when John Michael Montgomery actually bought one of his twangy ballads about a cowboy who'd lost his wife and house to another man, his truck to the bank, but thank God he still had his drinking buddies, his horse, and his good ole one-eyed hound dog, Duke. He'd been very sweet and Julia still missed him. She'd never been filmed as flatteringly as she had during the six months of that country boy's crush.
"No doubt Warren's just bein' a big neurotic sook again," Randy said. "But there's no use taking unnecessary chances."
"You're too important to the show," Charles Kendall weighed in from his power seat at the end of the long table. "We certainly can't afford to lose you."
Fortune magazine had reported the. corporate vice president to be thirty-five years old, but his receding hairline made him appear older. His body, beneath the dark charcoal gray suit that stood out on Melrose Avenue like a blizzard in January, was pudgy and out of shape. His eyes tended to be a bit shifty and his manicured hands didn't look as if they'd ever done anything more physical than punch the buttons on his television remote.
When she'd first met him, Julia had been surprised such an unimpressive man had achieved so much power at such a relatively young age. Until Damien—who seemed to be tapped into every gossip line in Los Angeles—informed her Kendall was the son of the corporate founder's second wife by a previous marriage.
"I'm flattered. But I'm still leaving at the end of the season," Julia reminded him.
When she'd first announced her decision to quit the show, he'd assumed she was merely angling for more money, and had flown into town in his corporate jet, taken her out to dinner, and offered a fifty-percent increase per episode.
When she'd explained that her decision to leave wasn't based on income, but on a once-in-a-lifetime career opportunity, he'd doubled the first offer.
She'd politely but firmly turned that down, as well.
He'd tried reasoning. Cajoled. Then finally resorted to shouting, which certainly hadn't been any way to change her mind. Julia had remained resolute.
With visible reluctance, he'd finally accepted her decision and assured her that she was welcome to return to the show if things didn't work out on the big screen. Then, as they'd left the restaurant, he'd pinched her butt.
"You're still under contract until the end of the season," he now reminded her. "We're launching a breakthrough new drug during the Louisiana story segment. We need your high visibility to ensure strong initial sales."
"What is the story?"
"You'll all be given the scripts on a day-to-day basis, the night before each day's taping," Randy informed them
. "We'll be taping all four episodes over the next two weeks."
"That's two a week," Shane complained.
"Not only is he People Magazine's sexiest man of the year, he can count, too," Margot murmured.
Shane gave her an uncharacteristically annoyed look. "My point was that it's not a great deal of time for me to get a handle on my character's motivation."
"This isn't King Lear, darling," Margot drawled as the busboy cleared away the now-forgotten plates. "You're playing a sleazy Southern alcoholic opportunist who's led around by his wandering cock. Surely that's not such a stretch."
The smile she flashed him over the rim of her martini glass was laced with acid. She and Shane had been an item three years ago, when they both worked on the soap All My Tomorrows. She'd been a fixture on daytime. An icon. He'd been the brash newcomer who'd figured out that if he had an affair with the actress who got the most screen time, she'd undoubtedly push the writers for meatier parts for her lover. Which was exactly what happened.
A flush rose from the collar of his body-hugging black silk T-shirt. "If anyone's an alcoholic—"
"Now, now, mate," Randy jumped in to smooth feathers before they became irreparably ruffled. "I'm sure Margot didn't mean anything personal. Did you, love?"
"I damn well did." The waiter had returned with the entrees. The older woman tapped the rim of her empty glass with a long fingernail, ordering her third drink of the evening.
"Can we stop the lovers quarrel and get back to Julia's problem?" Warren asked peevishly. "I'm beginning to get a migraine." He paled. "Or perhaps this time I really do have a brain tumor."
"I'm sure that's not the case," Julia assured him. "It hasn't been that long since your CAT scan. And I really can't believe this is a serious threat."
"Nevertheless, there's no point in taking unnecessary chances," Charles Kendall said. "Perhaps we should notify the authorities."
That was the last thing Julia wanted. "Surely that's not necessary." Since police reports were public documents, there'd be no way she could keep the disturbing photograph out of the news, which could inspire copycat threats.
"You don't want to call the cops." Randy immediately supported her case, and Julia could have kissed him. "Call them and the story will hit like a shower of shit, and the next thing you know, we'll be overrun by those supermarket jurnos. Why don't we just close the set and hire additional security?"
"Security costs money," Kendall muttered. As if realizing he'd made it sound as if money was more important than Julia's life, he added, "But a little extra expense shouldn't enter into the equation." He reached beneath the pink tablecloth and patted her thigh. "The important thing is to keep our star safe."
Julia was tempted to jab her fork into the soft hand that lingered on her leg. She didn't buy his concerned act for a moment; Charles Kendall would make Scrooge look downright generous.
He was constantly complaining about expenses, seeming unable or unwilling to understand that River Road's glamorous style was a great part of the show's success. People might claim to be interested in simpler things these days, but if ratings were any indication, they continued to be fascinated by wealth. Particularly when those rich characters were behaving as badly as River Road 's inhabitants did. And Amanda was definitely the worst of the lot.
Outargued and outvoted, she ended up spending the next two days with a former cop turned private detective and bodyguard. Julia suspected he probably didn't spend all that much time detecting; it would be a little difficult for a man with the girth of a sperm whale who'd adopted the 1980s Miami Vice pastel look to pull off surveillance without being noticed.
"There's no way he's coming to Louisiana with us," she informed Randy the night before the flight. "I doubt there's a seat on the plane wide enough for him, and that aftershave he bathes in is killing my sinuses." Apparently no one had informed him that not every woman was wild about an Aqua Velva man.
Realizing she wasn't going to budge on this point, Randy called Charles at his suite at the Beverly Hills Hotel. During a hastily called summit meeting, the powers-that-be of River Road unanimously agreed to leave the Hulk behind in Los Angeles.
That was the good news.
The bad news was that Julia was still going to be stuck with a bodyguard.
Chapter 6
Finn felt like a guy who'd been shipwrecked on a desert island. When the bass boat that had been roaring up the channel cut its engine and began drifting toward the camp, he had to restrain himself from jumping into the water and pulling it the rest of the way into the dock. Bond Girl Pussy Galore, stripped down to suntan oil and a smile, could not have been more welcome than Nate.
"It's about time you got around to paying your big brother a visit." He put down the well-worn copy of From Russia With Love he'd first read in the eighth grade. 007 and the beautiful, Garbo-look-alike Russian corporal who'd been employed to seduce him had just boarded the Orient Express.
"It's only been three days." Nate tied up the boat.
"You and I must be living in different time zones, because it feels like I've been stuck out here for a month."
"Time flies when you're having fun," Nate said agreeably. The sun was setting into the water in a blaze of red. "How's the fishing goin' ?"
"Lousy." Finn hated fishing.
"You could always try shooting them out of the water."
"That's against the law."
Nate shook his head. "Christ, you can be literal. Well, no matter, because I brought dinner." He lifted some bags from the bottom of the boat, "I've got us some red beans, rice, a nice fat chicken, and some of the Cajun Market's spiciest boudin."
"Since when did you learn to cook?"
"Actually, anything 'sides burgers, grilled sausage or take-out pizza is a stretch," Nate admitted with a quick flash of his trademark grin. "But I figured you might like making one of Dad's old recipes while I spin you a tale. And make you an offer you won't be able to refuse."
Finn didn't trust his brother's off handed tone. Years of dealing with criminals had him listening more to what Nate wasn't saying than his actual words. He was holding something back, which was totally out of character for his normally forthright brother.
Finn wondered all through supper what Nate was up to, but figuring that his brother would spill the beans when he was ready, he enjoyed the stories of small town life which sounded like an alien planet when compared to the world he'd been living in.
Three hours later, as the moon rose in the dark purple sky, Finn finally got his answer.
"You want to deputize me?" he asked incredulously.
"Just for a few days."
"I already have a job."
"Which you're currently on leave from."
"I'm going back." Finn was damned if he was going to let SAC Jansen banish him to the FBI's version of Siberia.
"Of course you are. But you've still got three and a half weeks in exile. I'm only asking for two of those weeks. Besides, you've already told me you're getting antsy out here."
Actually, he was on the verge of going stark raving mad. Still, Nate's offer wasn't any more appealing than drowning worms.
"I got stuck with one of those celebrity baby-sitting jobs years ago when I worked for the Manhattan office, and hated it. I swore I'd never do another one."
The Supermodel had been the daughter of the dictator of some obscure Carribean island. The guy had received death threats from a band of rebels, and rumors in the intelligence community said they might try to kidnap the daughter as a bargaining tool. So the local cops brought in the FBI as a CYA maneuver.
She'd run him ragged. It was bad enough that she'd insisted on going to seemingly every store and nightclub in the city; she'd also pulled every feminine trick in the book to seduce him. She'd only been in the city for five nights, but it had seemed like a year.
"Yeah, I remember. And I still doubt many guys would think spending twenty-four hours a day with a woman built for sin was much of a hardship," Nate sai
d. "But this'll be different."
"Sure it will. And the Sox'll win the Series next year."
"Christ, you're a cynic." Nate shook his sun-streaked head. "Look, Jack's friend, this Hogan guy who's directed the movies made from his books, plans to shoot every day and into the evening. Since Blue Bayou doesn't have any nightlife to speak of, there'll be no reason for Julia Summers to leave the inn during her off hours. Besides, it pays damn well. Jack's not kidding when he says those Hollywood people throw money around like confetti."
"I've got all the money I need." Most of it tied up in stocks and bonds that continued to yield a nice little profit, making Finn glad he hadn't jumped on the tech and Internet bandwagon.
"Okay, let me put it this way." Nate ran a finger down the condensation on the neck of his Voodoo beer bottle. "I'm in a bind here. This isn't exactly the big city. Until I can find someone to replace Jimbo Lott as sheriff, the town's entire police force is down to two deputies, one who's pushing seventy and belongs on school crossing duty, the other who's fresh out of the police academy." He paused. "I don't suppose you'd consider taking the job."
Finn narrowed his eyes in what he'd been told was an intimidating glare. "Don't even think about it."
His brother shrugged. "That's what I figured you'd say. So, the thing is, the budget doesn't allow for me to hire extra private guys from out of town, but if I don't supply a bodyguard for Julia Summers, they'll have to take their dog and pony show somewhere else. And believe me, Finn, even if you don't need some of those bucks they'll be spending, Blue Bayou could sure as hell use them. If we don't get some additional funding, we may have to close down the after-school program at the Boys and Girls Club.
"Then there was last month's tropical storm, which turned the baseball diamonds at Heron Park back to bayou, so we've had to apply to the federal government for a loan to relocate them. Plus the prenatal nurse visitation program sure isn't cheap to run, and—"
"I get the picture." Having grown up in the remote bayou town, Finn knew how it had never entirely recovered after the oil bust. Jobs had been lost, people whose roots went back to the first Acadians had been forced to take jobs in the cities, and those who'd stayed had seen their income drop considerably. If Lorelei was right about them hiring local folks as extras, that could provide another much needed economic boost.