Bitter Retribution

by Rachel Sharpe

  I watched as Robin cowered. Fueled by her fear, Seth continued his tirade. The more he yelled, the more she recoiled until he began shaking his fists at her. Realizing the situation was escalating, I prepared to deflect him if he took another step. Before I could react, his fist was flying at her face and she screamed.

  Out of nowhere, another hand grabbed it, twisting Seth’s arm behind his back with one fluid motion. The Good Samaritan glanced back at me and grinned. I was shocked when I realized it was Jon. Wailing loudly, Seth doubled over.

  “I think you owe her an apology,” Jon said.

  Seth cursed at him as he tried to break free.

  Jon, standing six inches taller and weighing fifty pounds more than the master of props, twisted Seth’s arm back further. “Maybe you didn’t hear me. I said, you owe her an apology.”

  “Sorry!” Seth groaned, grinding his teeth in pain. “I’m sorry. Please let me go.”

  “Well, since you said, please.”

  As soon as Jon released him, Seth stumbled forward, rubbing his arm.

  “If I lose a single D&D game because of this, I’m suing you.” Studying Jon’s designer clothes, he added, “In fact, I’m suing you either way. I’ll bleed you dry, you son of a –”

  “Go ahead and try.” Jon glared down at him.

  “Oh, yeah? Why’s that?” Seth snorted. Jon stood there staring at him, but said nothing. Seth frowned as he cradled his arm and asked his crew, “Who is this guy?”

  “I think,” Tyler hesitated, swallowing the last bite of his protein bar. “I think he’s . . . an extra, right? He’s an extra.”

  “An extra?” Seth repeated, glancing at Jon as he rubbed his arm. Closing his eyes, he cursed again. Glancing at Tyler, he mumbled, “I’m done here. I’m gonna get my arm examined, then hit the bar. If anybody needs me . . . screw it. I’m gone.”

  “Wait,” I called. “I have more questions.”

  “Like I care,” Seth snapped.

  From where she sat, Robin was shaking even harder.

  “Are you okay?”

  Swallowing hard, she straightened her glasses and nodded.

  “I know you’re upset, but I need to know who borrowed those skis,” I said. “It’s very important.”

  “It,” she hesitated when she realized Seth had turned around and was watching her, a deep scowl on his round face. Looking down, she mumbled, “It was Zeke. Zeke borrowed the skis.”

  “Zeke!” Seth exclaimed, running toward us and flailing his arms in the air. “Zeke? You allowed Zeke near my props? No wonder Trip had an accident! This is your fault you worthless little . . . I am not going down for this!”

  Robin no longer tried to hide her despair as she buried her face in her hands and cried. Seth continued to berate her while the other members of the props department sat by mute. Jon shook his head. Around us, the other departments were looking on with curiosity. I realized I had to get control of the situation fast or I was going to blow not only my leads, but also the case itself.

  “That’s enough!” Robin’s sobs caught in her throat and Seth froze mid-sentence. I motioned for him to sit down. Crossing his arms, he glowered at me. Before I could respond further, Jon took a step closer and Seth grabbed his fallen chair and sat in it.

  “All right, this is getting out of hand,” I said. “It’s pretty obvious you people don’t communicate very well. That’s an issue, but not mine. My issue is Zeke. I need to know who he is, what he does, and where I can find him. Now.”

  “Zeke’s the P.A.,” Robin sniffed, wiping her eyes.

  “Okay,” I nodded. “And a P.A. is . . . ?”

  “Oh!” Her red eyes widened. “He’s the production assistant. He’s the Set P.A., actually. He’s an integral part of the crew. Without him, we’d have no show. He makes sure everything on set runs smoothly. Plus, he’s smart, thoughtful—”

  “And a narcissistic jackass,” Seth finished.

  “No,” she insisted, shaking her head. “He’s very sweet.”

  “No, he’s not,” Seth insisted, rolling his eyes. Glancing at me, he added, “Zeke Rivers is almost as big a jackass as Alson Andrews. He’s a worthless little weasel who only got the job because his dad is a bigwig at Ultimate. Robin’s the only idiot who thinks he’s nice. He isn’t. All he does is use her.”

  “Could you introduce me to him?” I asked Robin, mentally filing away Seth’s heartless assessment. “I have a few questions I’d like to ask him about the skis.”

  “He’s not in trouble, is he?” she fretted. “Anything that happened today is my fault. I let him use those skis. Don’t blame Zeke.”

  I stared at her, dumbfounded, and realized that I was beginning to understand why Seth treated her like a doormat. She acted like one. I thought about telling her Trip was dead to see if she would be as quick to take the blame for homicide as she was an insurance claim.

  13

  Robin was more than happy for any excuse to see Zeke Rivers. After speaking to Grace Shelley, a middle-aged woman she introduced as the floor manager, she led me past a short bunny trail that ended at the ski rental shop. While I would have preferred skiing down the small slope, neither Jon nor Robin had skis. Plus, I had left mine on set. Two of the snowmobiles the studio rented to transport the crew picked us up as we began our descent. Although I was grateful for the lift, Jon still had plenty of complaints.

  I tuned him out to focus on the scant details I had about this case. Robin said she had picked up the skis from the rental shop yesterday afternoon. The first scene shot this morning was the one where Alson’s character, Zack Davis, is enjoying himself on the slopes. It was going to be later added in with a montage of other clips of the show’s main characters enjoying Christmastime in the Rockies. Sometime between getting those skis and Trip being told to stand in, a crewmember named Zeke Rivers convinced Robin to loan him those same skis.

  “I can’t breathe,” Jon said, gasping as he clutched his chest. “There’s no oxygen up here. I have sharp, stabbing pains in my back! Do they have a set chiropractor? Oww! My back!”

  “The thinner air takes a little getting used to,” I muttered, coughing as we reached the mountain’s base and climbed off the snowmobiles. Three children skied past as we approached the shop, nearly knocking me over in their zeal. Regaining my balance, I saw Heather sitting on a snow-covered picnic table outside the main lodge. Suddenly, a woman bundled up in a light-gray parka walked up and they began to talk. At first, I thought it was Nancy. Blinking, I squinted harder and realized it was Rosalyn Grace.

  Heather was shaking her head then she looked away. Rosalyn stood there, still talking, until Heather buried her face in her gloved hands. Rosalyn sat beside her, nodding every few moments. When Heather finally lifted her face, I could tell she was crying. I wanted to rush across the clearing and give her a big hug. I wanted to tell her I was sorry she was going through such a difficult time. I wanted to tell her I would do anything I could to help her. But I didn’t. For some reason, Heather had opened up to “Dr. Rosie” instead of me.

  This realization stung worse than the searing pain I felt in my frozen toes. Surrounded by a sea of strangers, I suddenly felt very alone. Swallowing the lump that had formed in the back of my throat, I watched as Rosalyn continued to talk to Heather. After a few more moments, they stood up and Rosalyn gave Heather a hug.

  “Jordan! What’re you doing?”

  “Huh?”

  “I just called your name, like, a hundred times,” Jon said. “Didn’t you hear me? Are – are you . . . okay? You look, I don’t know, sick or something.”

  “It’s nothing,” I snapped, turning my back to the lodge. I didn’t want Heather to think I had been spying on her. Taking off my wool cap, I ran my fingers through my hair, which felt very cold in spite of the protective headgear. Pulling
the cap back on, I realized he was still staring at me, his green eyes clouded with doubt. “I’m fine. Let’s get going. We’re wasting time.”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  We jogged toward the rental shop, dodging skiers and snowboarders as they hurried to the lift line, and spotted Robin standing near the shop’s entrance, talking to a guy who resembled a young Tom Cruise. She was laughing loudly as he talked, winking at her every so often, which made her smile widen. Mid-laugh, she looked over. We made eye contact. At the sight of us, her smile dropped. Noticing an instant change in her demeanor, Tom’s doppelgänger turned.

  “You’re Heather’s friend, right?” he grinned, jogging across the packed powder. He was wearing a sleek black jacket, dark blue jeans, designer boots, and a Bluetooth earpiece in his left ear. As I accepted his extended hand, we shook. “Name’s Zeke Rivers. I’m the Set P.A.”

  “My name is Jordan—”

  “Hold that thought, babe,” he winked, tapping on the earpiece. “Talk to me. Uh huh. Uh-huh. Yeah . . . no, no that’s not what I said . . . I would never say . . . no, Chris! It’s a simple . . . yeah, call me back. Bye. Sorry about that. I swear, sometimes I don’t think these people would know to breathe if I didn’t tell them to.” He smiled. “Anyway, where were we? Oh, yeah. I’m Zeke and I’m the production assistant. Robin here said you had some questions for me.”

  “That’s right.” I nodded. Looking me up and down, his smirk widened. I didn’t return the smile, but that did nothing to diminish his jovial spirits. “Could you tell me—”

  “How about we continue this somewhere more comfortable? Maybe it’s the L.A. boy in me, but I’m not loving this weather,” he interrupted, nodding toward the lodge. Beside him, Robin let out an all-too-eager laugh. He glanced at her before turning back to me. “What do you say, babe? Ask the right questions and I may even buy you a drink.”

  “I say, no.” At this, his smile drooped, but only for a second.

  “No?” Winking, he nudged me. “Are you sure? This dry weather is terrible for the skin. I’d sure hate to see you damage that pretty little face of yours. You know, you have an amazing look. I mean, it’s so . . . classic, but in a trendy way. Have you ever considered modeling? My dad—”

  “No,” I shook my head. “No, thank you. I’d really just like to ask you about—”

  “One sec, babe,” he winked again, tapping the earpiece. “Talk to me. Uh huh. Right . . . no, we can’t . . . no, no, no, no! I don’t care about the rewrites. We have a schedule, Chris . . . are you even listening to me? Do I have to do everything? Yeah, fix it. Now! Bye. Sorry again. Now where were we? Ah, yes. I was gonna buy you that drink.”

  “No, you weren’t,” I snapped. The manic megalomaniac’s antics were the final straw. All of my anxieties, concerns and frustrations of the past few weeks had finally hit me full force and balling up my fists, I screamed, “I just want some freaking answers! Is that too much to ask? Dry weather? Classic, trendy looks? What’s wrong with you? Don’t realize what’s happened? Trip’s de –”

  “Doing so poor he’s in critical condition,” Jon interrupted, pulling me back from the edge.

  “Uh, yeah, right,” I nodded, my face flushing with embarrassment at the close call. “Trip’s in critical condition because of an accident this morning where one of the skis—”

  “Uh huh, accident, skis, right. Hold on, babe,” Zeke tapped on the earpiece again. Before he had a chance to say, “Talk to me” for the third time, Jon ripped the device from his ear and threw it across the clearing. It landed sixty yards away and was immediately run over by a passing snowboarder. Zeke’s mouth dropped as he sputtered, “Are you kidding me? You, you little . . . do you have any idea what you’ve done? Do you have any idea who I am? Who my father is?”

  “Do you have any idea how little I care?” Jon replied. This, clearly, was not the response Zeke Rivers had hoped for.

  Suddenly, the charming, smooth-talking P.A. morphed into the angry and arrogant “narcissistic jackass” Seth the props master had described earlier. His tan face became bright red and the veins in his neck pulsated and he screamed at Jon. The entire episode had drawn the attention of everyone within a three-mile radius and I turned to Robin, hoping she could help me defuse this egomaniac’s tantrum, only to discover she had disappeared. It was a warbled rap song that began playing from somewhere inside his pants that snapped Zeke back to reality.

  “Talk to me,” he exclaimed, cell phone suddenly in hand. Shooting Jon a dirty look, he pointed his finger and hissed, “This isn’t over, you little . . . what? Yeah, yeah, I’m listening. Wait, say that again. No! No, that’s not what you were supposed to do, for God’s sake!”

  We watched Zeke speed walk as he hurried up the steep, wooden steps that led to the lodge. Even from a distance, I could tell he was yelling again, but, thankfully, it wasn’t about his broken earpiece. As soon as he was out of sight, I whirled around to face Jon. He had a big smile on his face. Frowning, I punched him in the shoulder.

  “Ow!” he wailed, rubbing his arm. “You hit me on the bone. My arm is covered in muscles. How did you manage to find the bone? Dammit, that really hurts! What’s your problem?”

  “What’s your problem?” I demanded, throwing my hands up. “First, you assault the props manager—”

  “Master,” he corrected.

  “Whatever! And then, you break studio property! I could get sued for that, Jon! Sued! Or worse! Heather could lose her job –”

  “Cry me a river,” he rolled his eyes. “It was a cheap, generic Bluetooth earpiece. I didn’t break a dolly or a camera lens. Who cares? And as for the props master . . . look, I’m minding my own business, taking pics like you asked, and I see some fat geek rushing you and that weird, mousey girl. I was trying to protect you. You’re welcome, by the way.”

  “I didn’t need protecting!”

  “Oh, really?” He lifted his Gucci sunglasses and raised an eyebrow. “Sure didn’t look that way to me.”

  “Jon, back off! You’re my partner, not my boyfriend!” As soon as the words escaped my lips, I knew I made a mistake. “Look, Jon, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “No, you’re right.” Putting on his sunglasses again, he shrugged. “I’m not your boyfriend. We’re friends. That’s all we’ll ever be . . . right?”

  Avoiding his mirrored lenses, I nodded.

  “Right.” Scratching the back of his neck, he stared down at the ground for several moments in silence. “Listen, I’ve got some . . . stuff. I’ll catch you later, okay?”

  “What about the case?”

  “You don’t need me,” he snapped. “I mean, you know, you said—”

  “Uh, yeah,” I interrupted, nodding. “That’s fine.”

  “Good.” The awkwardness was almost suffocating. He must have sensed it, too. “So . . . later.”

  “Wait . . . Jon?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Uh,” I hesitated, trying to think of something else to say that might lighten the mood. “Those pictures you took . . . on your phone?”

  “Oh, yeah,” he frowned. “I’ll text ‘em to you.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  “Was there anything else?”

  “No,” I shook my head. “Just . . . keep in touch, okay? I may need your help later.”

  “Sure,” he mumbled.

  Shoving his hands in his pockets, he walked away. The knot in my stomach tightened. I sat down on the rental shop’s steps, splintered and warped from countless hard winters, and replayed our discussion over and over again in my head. What he did was wrong. But his intentions were good. All he was trying to do was help me. That was all he had ever tried to do.

  Thinking back over our tumultuous two years in business together, it dawned on me that no matter what happened, no matter where I was
, Jon Riché was the one person who was always there for me. He literally risked his life for me – Jon, one of the most abrasive, self-absorbed people I had ever known. He always did whatever he could to help me.

  I sat there, blinded by the sun’s radiant beams, and for the first time, found myself questioning the choices I had made. My moment of reflection was halted when a shadowy figure stood before me, blocking out the sun and my train of thought. Blinking, I realized it was Heather. A closer look told me she wasn’t happy.

  “Hey,” I said, climbing to my feet to brush the dirty, wet snow off my ski pants.

  “When I asked for your help, I didn’t mean I wanted to deal with all the crazy crap that comes along with your usual cases!”

  “Whoa . . . what?” I hurried to catch up to her as she stormed off, ignoring my swollen feet as their pain-induced screams reverberated throughout my nervous system. When I finally caught up to her on the lodge’s wooden deck, replete with two-dozen red, snow-covered picnic tables, I grabbed her arm. “Heather, wait. What are you talking about?”

  “I just ran into Zeke.” Pointing her right index finger at me, she added, “He told me about your boyfriend’s little stunt.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend!”

  “I don’t care what he is! Thanks to him, that dirty little rat has something on me.”

  “Zeke?” When she nodded, I asked, “What could he possibly—”