Bitter Retribution

by Rachel Sharpe

  “What are you doing?”

  “Trying to disappear.”

  “You’re giving up?”

  “No. Giving up would imply I had something I could quit. I’m just going to hide until my flight home so I don’t cause Heather anymore trouble.”

  “And what if Dr. Nosy offs Roch?” Jon pressed. “You don’t care anymore?”

  “Jon, I screwed up!” I shook my head. “I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

  “Well, you’re not going to figure it out by hiding!” Nodding back at the crew, he added, “You’ve got a solid lead. You just took the wrong approach. The absolute worst approach ever—”

  “And this is helping me how?”

  “We need to figure out what she’s planning. Can’t be that hard.”

  “If I could figure it out, I would have already!”

  “Think!”

  “I am!”

  “Think harder.” He pointed at the cast and crew, barely visible between the trees. “I know it was Dr. Nosy. I can’t prove it yet, but I know it. My gut has told me since I met her that she was up to something. Your gut’s told you the same. We may not be cops, but our instincts are rarely off on these things, especially when we’re in agreement. We just gotta figure out what she’s planning before she, I don’t know, poisons him or something.”

  “Poison,” I gasped as I rushed out into the clearing. Frantic, I searched the crowd until I found Roch. He and his television daughters were at the top of the mountain, securing their skis and talking. In Roch’s hands was a silver thermos.

  “What?” Jon demanded, grabbing my arm. “What is it? What’d you see?”

  “I know what she’s planning.” I swallowed hard, my eyes trained on Roch as a crewmember secured a portable microphone to his bright-blue parka. Looking annoyed, he took a sip from his silver thermos. “At least, I think I do.”

  “All right, people, quiet on the set!” the assistant director called out as he jogged up the steep incline to the top of the short trail known as Serenity. At that simple command, everything became silent. Everyone hurried to their assigned locations and began working. I looked up at Roch. He and the girls were now wearing their skis and had their poles in hand. He took another sip from the thermos before tossing it to his assistant, a guy in his early twenties with bleached blond hair named Chad.

  A crewmember wearing a headset similar to the one I ‘almost destroyed’ held a large, boom microphone above them as another cameraman prepared to begin filming their close ups. The sun had almost set, but you couldn’t tell thanks to the bright, studio lights set up around the perimeter. While people rushed around, I continued to study Roch. He no longer appeared bored. He yawned and glanced around the set, offering a strange smile. A young female crewmember dressed in a black parka and ski pants handed him a bottled water. He grabbed the bottle and finished it in one gulp. Letting it fall to the ground, he grinned as he turned back to Amber and Emma, who were laughing at something.

  “So you want to share your theory with the rest of the class?”

  “Jon, shut it. This is serious. Give me a minute. I need to think.” I watched as Roch’s assistant handled him the thermos again and he took another sip. Still grinning, he followed the girls out of the camera’s view as the cameraman finished setting up.

  “Quiet on the set!” the assistant director repeated. Before I could blink, he yelled, “Action!” Emma skied several feet, the camera following her, before falling to the ground, losing her left ski in the process. Visually frustrated, she threw her poles and leaning forward, began crying into her pink gloves. At that moment, Roch skied into the scene while Amber stood just outside the shot.

  “It’s no good, Dad.” Emma sobbed, shaking her head. “I’m no good. I have zero coordination. No wonder I didn’t make track. I suck!”

  “Hey, hey, hey,” Roch said, stabbing his ski poles into the thick powder and kneeling down beside her. Putting his hand on her right shoulder, he lifted it again and patted her head, giggling. “You don’t suck. Things like this take time. Did I ever tell you about my first football experience?”

  “You mean the time you were the third string freshman quarterback called in during the last few seconds of the game and won it with the ‘old Hail Mary’? Yeah, only heard that one about a billion times. Way to make me feel better.” Roch stared past her, smiling. Emma stared at him, waiting. Finally, she said, “Um, Dad?”

  “Huh?”

  “Dad,” she repeated, staring at him. “You said you were going to tell me about your first football experience.”

  “Oh, right.” He giggled again. Scratching his hair, he stammered, “I . . . uh . . . yeah, what was I saying?”

  “Was it about that Hail Mary play?” Emma ad-libbed. “If so, that’s really not gonna help me right now, dad. Not saying I need a Hallmark moment or something, but another tale about your great successes won’t help me now.”

  “Nah, wasn’t that. It was something else,” he shook his head so violently he had to grab hold of the ski poles to steady himself. Leaning against them, he laughed. “Whoa. No, I . . . uh . . . damn. Line?”

  “CUT!!!”

  I glanced over at the director, a middle-aged man with a pencil-thin, salt-and-pepper goatee, whose tan face was now a bright shade of crimson. Grabbing a megaphone from the hands of his terrified, young female assistant, he took a deep breath before asking, “Hey, uh, Roch? You all right up there?”

  “Never better, Milt,” Roch called down, offering two thumbs-up and his famous, award-winning smile.

  “All right, good.” Milt looked over at Nancy. She appeared less than amused by Roch’s unexpected giddiness. “You, uh, you ready to try this again or do you need to take five and look over the script?”

  “Nope, I got this, I got this,” he insisted, leaning against the ski poles. Nodding, he smiled.

  “Uh huh . . . right,” Milt replied reluctantly before handing the megaphone back to his assistant and nodding at the assistant director.

  “Quiet on the set!” the man exclaimed as Emma and Roch hurried out of the shot and a crewmember helped her reattach her ski. Roch took the thermos from his assistant and took another long swig while the make-up artist powdered his nose again. The new stunt coordinator went over the scene again.

  “Oh, crap,” I gasped. “It’s that thermos.”

  “What?” Jon asked, glancing around the set. “What are you talking about?”

  “That silver thermos Roch’s holding. That’s gotta be it. It looks just like the one Rosalyn had on the ski lift . . . and look around. There are no other thermoses like that here.”

  “Hold on . . . a thermos? You think her diabolical plan is to what, give him lukewarm coffee?” Jon frowned. “How do you know that one’s hers anyway?”

  “I just tackled her, remember? She didn’t have a thermos. She had a ski,” I argued. “Her thermos was gone. I’m telling you, that’s gotta be hers. Poison. The tranquilizers . . . it all makes sense now. She drugged the cocoa! I’d bet you anything that’s cocoa in that thermos and that it’s drugged. I bet that’s what she did to the writers earlier, too. Why else would everybody be acting so weird? Why else would they care so much about a stupid script hours after Trip died?”

  “I don’t know . . . maybe he’s just in a good mood.”

  “Have you ever seen Roch Turner in a good mood?”

  “You’re right. He’s on drugs.” Jon scanned the trail’s dimensions. “I got nothing. What are you thinking?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know what she gave him.” I shook my head, my heart pounding in my ears as one thousand possible deadly scenarios flooded my mind. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

  “How should I know?” We watched the stunt coordinator go over the shot with the actors once more, p
robably hoping to avoid another wasted shot, using his hands with exaggerated animation as he mimicked skiing. Roch stood there, bored. He took a sip from the thermos. “I mean . . . I guess it all depends on the dosage, the drugs, and the person.”

  “Gee, that’s helpful.”

  Pursing his lips together, Jon stared up at the mountain. “All right, so what do you wanna do?”

  “I . . . I don’t know.” My gaze shifted from the mountaintop to its base where my best friend stood beside her boss and coworkers, trying to hide the anxiety welling up within her. “I can’t do anything stupid. I can’t screw up again and make things worse for Heather.”

  “Hey, I’m no expert, but it’ll probably be a lot worse if we do nothing and her show’s star drops dead on film.”

  He meant to lighten my mood, but it didn’t work. In fact, it did the opposite. I found panic setting in as I realized if my theory was correct, Roch Turner may be living through the last few moments of his life. As usual, Jon sensed my distress.

  “Hey, chill. I was kidding. Look, if you say the psycho head doc drugged the grumpy old action star’s Swiss Miss, I believe you. Just tell me what to do and I’ll do it. I have total faith in you, Jordan. Always have. But, none of it matters if you don’t have faith in yourself. You used to. I don’t know . . . seems you kinda lost that. You can’t always make the logical choice. Sometimes . . . sometimes you have to take a chance in life. So tell me, what are your instincts saying?”

  My instincts told me Jon wasn’t just talking about the case, but I had no intention of addressing that, especially right now. Standing beside a tall, stately aspen, I stared up at Roch Turner, thinking. To me, he appeared to be nothing more than a bitter, chauvinistic, thoughtless old man, resentful that both Hollywood and time had turned against him. Such a man invoked pity more than contempt in my eyes, but at that moment, my eyes and perspective were not relevant.

  During my brief interlude of self-effacing despair, Rosalyn had moved from her position beside the props department to the center of the clearing near Nancy and Heather. They were talking to the cameraman as he set up for the second take. Rosalyn smiled eerily as she watched them go over the scene with him, glancing up every so often at the mountaintop where the actors stood with the look of a hawk-eyed crow watching its prey. As I let Jon’s words sink in, I realized that my gut, my instinct, was telling me I was right. I couldn’t explain why I felt so strongly about it, but inside, I knew that Rosalyn Grace Leigh was responsible for all that had happened over the past twelve hours and that at the heart of it all, was Roch Turner.

  “It’s her.” I kept my attention trained on her. “I just don’t know what to do.”

  24

  “All right, people, quiet on the set!”

  I watched the crewmember holding the boom microphone position himself to the left of the cameraman as Emma prepared to begin. As soon as “Action!” was called, she skied into the scene again, fell over, and tossed her poles with frustration as she began to cry. I had to give her credit. She could cry on cue. I mean, seriously. She was good.

  No one else appeared as impressed by her abilities because they were all staring at Roch, who stood beside the boom mic operator, sipping from his thermos and stretching. The director waited almost a full minute for Roch to make his entrance, but he didn’t. At this point, I couldn’t tell who was angrier – Milt the director or Nancy. Gritting his teeth, Milt grabbed the megaphone and screamed, “CUT!!!”

  “Hey, why’d you cut?” Roch called down, shoving the thermos into his assistant’s hands.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Milt seethed, gripping the megaphone so tightly I could tell that his knuckles were snow white. “Maybe . . . because you missed your cue?”

  “No, I didn’t.” Although I had only had two conversations with Roch Turner, both of which left me disgusted by his attitude, neither of them left me thinking he was unprofessional. His current behavior, however, screamed it. While I was certain he was drugged, no one else knew my theory, and glancing around the set, I realized the entire cast and crew was staring at him in stunned silence.

  “Oh, really?” the director challenged. “All right, Roch, when exactly is your cue?”

  “When Emma says, ‘It’s no good, dad.’”

  “Hmm, yeah, I guess that could be your cue.” Milt gritted his teeth. “But then all the audience is going to see is a crazy teenaged girl talking to an invisible man!”

  At this, Roch burst out laughing. His deep voice echoed down the mountain. The crew was growing as uneasy as the director’s face was red. The only person whose smile mirrored Roch’s was Rosalyn, but everyone was too preoccupied to notice. The director, obviously accustomed to the unusual antics of overpaid thespians, somehow managed to refrain from screaming at Roch.

  “Roch, this . . . this is our fault,” he seethed, grinding his teeth so hard I was surprised they weren’t gummy stumps. “We weren’t clear about your entrance. So let’s try again, okay?”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  “But this time, your cue is Emma’s fall,” Milt clarified, enunciating each word as if he were speaking to someone unfamiliar with the English language. “As soon as she goes down—”

  “Got it.” Roch let out a loud yawn and stretched.

  “Are you ready?” Milt stood there patiently, awaiting Roch’s answer, which never came. Narrowing his eyes, he pressed the button again on the megaphone and repeated, “Roch? Are you ready?”

  “Yeah.” Glancing over at the boom mic operator, Roch slapped the one hundred thirty pound man on the back with such force he flew forward, landing face first in the thick, white powder. Somehow during his fall, he managed to contort his right arm at an unnatural angle to prevent the microphone from suffering the same fate as his face. Laughing, Roch nodded at the crewmember. “He’s not ready.”

  “For the love of God, don’t break the equipment, you dried-up has-been.” Milt shoved the megaphone back into the hands of his assistant. Opening his eyes again, he nodded at the assistant director.

  “Quiet on the set! This is a take!”

  Five seconds later, “Action!” was called, again. Emma skied into the shot, fell over, and threw her ski poles, this time with more force, probably caused by genuine aggravation. Leaning forward, she began crying into her pink gloves. For the third time. I couldn’t help but wonder, if they had to shoot the scene again, would she run out of tears? I mean, humans are made up mostly of water, but this was getting ridiculous. After nearly a minute of crying, Roch finally skied into the shot.

  “It’s no good, Dad,” she wailed, sniffing as she stared up into the big brown eyes of her screen father. “I’m no good. I have zero coordination. No wonder I didn’t make track. I suck!”

  “Hey, hey, hey,” Roch replied, kneeling down and patting her head. “Hey, hey . . . hey. Hey. That’s a weird word.”

  “Let’s see where he’s going with this.” Milt held up his hand and stared up at the scene with growing apprehension when his assistant timidly offered him the megaphone.

  “That doesn’t help me, Dad,” Emma ad-libbed. Slamming her fists against her knees, she groaned. “I hate this! I want to go home! I never want to see another pair of skis again!”

  Somehow, I wondered if that last sentiment might have come from the actress’s own feelings rather than the character’s. I glanced around the set. The light-hearted atmosphere I first witnessed that morning, prior to Trip’s tragic accident, was gone. While it was understandable, considering all that happened and the lateness of the hour the day before a holiday that people would not be in the best of moods, it appeared Emma’s remark expressed everyone’s agitation, especially with their show’s star, who was screwing up an easy scene that should have taken a professional, seasoned actor like him one simple take.

  “Nonsense,” Roch scoffed, smiling. “Look,
kiddo, things like this take . . . time. You don’t suck. You’re just not used to it yet. Did I ever tell you—”

  “Tell me what, Dad?” she asked after another long pause. “Dad?”

  “Yeah, I was just thinking . . . what does football have to do with skiing?” He furrowed his brow as he stared past the bright studio lights and into the darkness. “There’s nothing similar between the two sports at all.”

  “I . . . I don’t know, Dad,” Emma replied, desperate to get through the scene.

  From behind the camera, her screen sister had ordered a crewmember to get her a chair. She began playing on her cell phone, clearly bored.

  “I’m sure there’s a point to your story,” Emma went on. “I mean, you’re my dad, but you can’t be that lame. You must have some words of wisdom for me, right? Oh, but if you try to tell me about the time you were the third string quarterback who won the big game during its last seconds with the ‘old Hail Mary,’ don’t bother.”

  “Didn’t plan on it,” Roch yawned.

  “Cut!”

  This time, the direction did not come from Milt, the irate director, who was so angry by this point that he was almost foaming at the mouth. This time, it came from Nancy. Despite maintaining a calm exterior, it was clear by the terrified reaction of the rest of the cast and crew and the steely look in her eyes, her silence was far worse than the director’s yelling. Even as an unconnected outsider, I realized I was holding my breath as I awaited her next move.

  “We’re moving on,” she announced into the megaphone, glancing around the set without meeting anyone in particular’s gaze. Taking a deep breath, she began to pace. “Today . . . people, I know that today has been very difficult on us all, apparently harder on some than others. But we have three days left to come up with some form of episode here. Three days! I know this was supposed to be hiatus week and that tomorrow is Thanksgiving, but we’re here and we’re working. You want Thanksgiving? Be thankful you have a job. Anyone has a problem with that, realize you can be replaced.”