by Diana Orgain
The cast made excited little noises.
Harris pulled out a red envelope from his breast-side pocket and said, “The game will be played Jeopardy-style. I’ll give you answers and you tell me the questions.”
We all nodded our understanding.
“Nineteen twenty-four,” Harris called out.
We all looked at each other and then semi-expectantly at Ashley, the paranormal docent. Surely she would know the answer. After all, she worked at the castle as a tour guide.
She bit her lip and shrugged her shoulders.
“Maybe the castle was built that year,” Scott said to me.
“I need the answer in the form of a question,” Harris said.
“What year was the castle built?” Dr. Arch shouted out, flashing a “take that” look in Scott’s direction.
“Exactly!” Harris said, excitedly. “You and your partner have gained access to the basement downstairs, where some of the boys who attended the reform school had their dormitories!”
Karen clutched at Dr. Arch’s arm and batted her long false eyelashes at him. “You always come through!”
“Lanny McMillian,” Harris called out.
“Who is the best running back of all time?” Ashley asked.
I frowned at her.
She works at the castle. How can she not know the answer?
“Who is the most famous inmate of Golden Castle Reform School?” I guessed.
“Correct!” Harris said. “Georgia, you and Scott will now have access to the kitchen, where the body of Jane Reiner was discovered.”
Scott high-fived me, then all of a sudden, Bert started moaning. “My head, my head!” he screamed out, pressing his fingers to his forehead.
Bert grabbed at me. “Georgia, Georgia.”
“What is it?” I asked, my patience wearing thin.
“I see a black aura around you,”
“Black aura? What the heck does that mean?” Scott asked, clutching at my wrist and pulling me away from Bert.
“Extreme danger,” Bert announced. “You must call your father instantly.”
“My father?” Nervous energy shot through me, almost making me choke.
Cheryl called out “Cut!” to the crew, which flocked around us. “What are you saying?” she asked Bert.
“Gordon. I think Gordon’s in extreme danger,” he said.
Cheryl flashed me a look. “Everyone, take five minutes,” she said, then she pulled out her cell phone and dialed my father’s number.
Fourteen
When my father didn’t answer his phone, I tried to calm Cheryl down.
“Let’s try Becca,” I insisted. “They have to be together, or at least she may know where he is. Remember there’s a lot of areas of the farm that are out of range of his cell service.”
After several futile attempts, I asked, “Why are we getting all panicked? We don’t know anything for sure yet.”
She waved me off. “The psychic said Gordon’s in trouble. That’s enough for me.”
“Well what do you want to do?” I said.
“Let’s go to Cottonwood right away,” she said.
“But, it’s an hour’s drive,” I said. “What about your production schedule and all?”
Cheryl’s panic was beginning to rub off on me, but I was determined to fight for my sanity. After all, chances were Dad and Becca just couldn’t get to the phone at the moment. If we were patient and waited, the logical part of my brain told me, they would surface momentarily.
“It doesn’t matter. We’ll put production on hold.”
“On hold?” I asked, incredulous.
Cheryl suddenly looked like a doe caught in the headlights. “You’re right! I can’t put the thing on hold. Kyle!” she screamed.
He materialized next to us as if out of thin air.
“Yes, Broom Hilda?”
“Don’t call me that!” Cheryl said through gritted teeth. “I need you to keep filming while I’m gone. Get some confessionals and footage in my office.”
Kyle tilted his head in a coquettish fashion. “Am I in charge while you’re gone?” he asked.
Cheryl looked defeated momentarily, then squared her shoulders. “Okay, you can be in charge,” she pointed a finger in his face, “but no margarita machines!”
Kyle gave her a mock salute.
Cheryl shouted some instructions over to Adam. “Keep Kyle in line!”
We raced over to the parking lot where Cheryl’s Jeep was parked.
Scott ran up to us. “Not without me, you don’t,” he said, climbing in. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing really,” I said. “At least I hope not. We just can’t reach Dad or Becca.”
“I hope it’s nothing serious,” Cheryl said, putting the pedal to the metal.
She took the turn so hard that Scott slid from behind the passenger side to behind the driver side. “Maybe I should drive,” he said.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Cheryl said. “There’s nothing wrong with my driving. Just put your seat belt on and shut your mouth. I can’t stand backseat drivers.” Then, she took a turn that nearly careened us off the road into a ditch.
“Cheryl,” I said. “You’ve got to calm down. We don’t know anything yet!”
“You’re right. You’re right,” she said. She eased up on the gas a bit, and put us into the legal speeding zone. While Cheryl drove, Scott and I attempted to reach my father and Becca by phone again.
“It’s not unusual for them not to answer,” I said. “They’re busy with harvest. It’s not like they’re sitting around waiting for their phones to ring.”
Cheryl grunted. “Well, he always seems to answer the phone when I call.” When I didn’t respond, she added, “On the first ring. He usually answers on the first ring.”
I laughed. Cheryl and my father had a very cute budding romance, and it was probably true. Anytime he saw her phone number come across the screen, he dove for the phone.
“Well, they could be outside running the equipment. It’s noisy,” I justified, although the pit in my stomach was growing.
Why weren’t they answering their phones?
Could a psychic really be right about trouble for my dad?
Was Bert even psychic?
I envisioned different scenarios of how we’d find them. At the house maybe the phones were being charged while they were having lunch. Or . . . they were taking a nap . . . or a shower . . . or any number of possibilities, really.
There had to be a logical solution.
“Is there a local police station we can call?” Cheryl asked. “Somebody who’s closer to check in on them?”
I shook my head. “The county sheriff’s department is miles out. We’ll get there faster, but I can call the neighbors.” I dialed our neighbor Mrs. Wassermann and waited. Finally, her voice mail picked up. She had her full agenda on there. Today was the day that she played bridge with her friends, after which she was heading over to the Mucky Duck for dinner. So, needless to say, she wasn’t around to check on my dad.
After calling several of the other neighbors, I was finally able to reach Mr. Hornsby. He promised to drive over to the farm and see how my dad was.
INT. CHERYL’S OFFICE DAY
The office is empty. Kyle marches in followed by Dr. Arch.
KYLE
(smiles) Thank you for your cooperation, doctor. I’m sure you understand that this is all a matter of formality. (He riffles through Cheryl’s desk.) Now, where is it? That woman! She never files anything properly. (He pulls out his cell phone.) Ack. No service. (He pats Dr. Arch on the arm.) I’ll be right back. Don’t touch a thing. She’ll cook my goose if I fowl this up!
(Kyle leaves the office. Dr. Arch is alone. He looks down at the desk and sees a folder. Across the top of the file, in red block prin
t reads, CONFIDENTIAL: THE TRUTH ABOUT THE MURDER OF JANE REINER.)
(Dr. Arch drops the file as if stung, then after a moment, he glances out the window looking for Kyle. When he sees no imminent threat of interruption, he picks up the folder and opens it. His face pales and his jaw drops as he reads the first page.)
When we arrived at my father’s farmhouse, Mr. Hornsby was the only one we found. He was sitting in his pickup out front. I waved heartily to him. He got out of the pickup immediately and embraced me.
“Georgia, it’s been so long since I’ve seen you!” he said. “And now you’re a verifiable movie star.”
I laughed. “I don’t know about that,” I said.
“Sure you are! I saw you on TV, just last night! With my own two eyes!” He glanced down at my leg. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” I introduced him to Scott.
“Scott!” Mr. Hornsby said. “I’ve seen you on TV, too! You’re the thriller writer!”
Scott smiled.
“I still haven’t had a chance to pick up one of your books,” Mr. Hornsby said, scratching his head. “So busy around here.”
“What am I, chopped liver?” Cheryl said, under her breath.
“Mr. Hornsby, this is Cheryl Dennison. She’s the executive producer of our TV show.”
Mr. Hornsby’s smile grew wide and he stuck a calloused hand at her. “Well, well, this is certainly a pleasure. You know, love, if you ever want to film a show on almond farming, I’m your man.”
Cheryl smiled tightly. “That’s an interesting idea.”
Mr. Hornsby ran a hand over his graying hair and said, “I can clean up nicely if I have to. We could do a couple episodes down at—”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Cheryl wiggle her fingers at me to get me to move the conversation along.
“Mr. Hornsby,” I interrupted. “Any idea where my dad could be?”
He blinked at me, a little startled to be pulled out of his farming reality TV fantasy. “Well, it’s a little bit of a mystery,” he said. “Gordon was here this morning and your friend Becca, too. I saw them driving the bank out wagon around ten thirty this morning, and then I haven’t seen them since. But they should have been back by now.”
“They should be at the harvester then,” I said, ignoring the giant-size pit in my belly that seemed to grow every minute I didn’t hear from my dad.
Mr. Hornsby nodded. “That’s what I reckoned, too, but I wanted to wait for you here.”
“I appreciate that,” I said, patting him on the shoulder. “We can take it from here. I’ll have my dad call you when he’s home, so you know everything’s all right.”
Mr. Hornsby agreed, then climbed back into his pickup.
I directed Cheryl over to the harvester, and when we arrived Mr. Johnson claimed my father had never gotten there. My stomach felt more unsettled than ever.
“He should have been here by now,” I said. “He should have been here at eleven this morning.”
Mr. Johnson shrugged. “No, I haven’t spoken to him today. We’d talked last night and he told me he’d be in and I was beginning to wonder, but anything’s possible. He could have stopped over to the Mucky Duck for lunch and got delayed.”
“Dad would never stop for lunch with a full bank out wagon,” I insisted.
Mr. Johnson adjusted his bifocals. “I know that,” he said, shrugging. “I just don’t know what else to think.”
It didn’t feel right. None of it. It wasn’t like my father to flit off. With a full bank out wagon, he and Becca would have come directly here. Unless, they’d had engine troubles or a tire blew or something unusual had happened. We hadn’t seen any accidents on the road over to the harvester.
“Maybe they’ve been towed to a garage?” I said.
Mr. Johnson nodded. “Let me call over to Gary’s, see if he’s heard anything.” Mr. Johnson walked over to the service desk and picked up the phone.
“Gary Dubuque owns the local garage,” I said to Scott and Cheryl.
Scott squeezed my hand. “Don’t worry, everything’s going to be okay.”
Cheryl began to bite her manicured nails, and her bun had completely come undone. Truth be told, she looked like a nervous wreck.
With my free hand, I smacked her fingers away from her mouth, then held on to her hand. “We’re going to find him. Everything’s going to be fine.”
Cheryl clutched my hand. “The psychic, the psychic, he knew!” she cried, her voice getting shrill. “Gordon’s in danger.”
Mr. Johnson looked up from his phone call and shot Cheryl a confused look.
“Never mind her,” I said. “Any luck?”
Mr. Johnson walked back over to us. “No. Gary hasn’t gotten any roadside service calls at all today.”
I sighed, a feeling of gloom descending on me. If anything happened to my dad and Becca, I’d be lost.
Fifteen
INT. CHERYL’S OFFICE DAY
The office is empty. Kyle marches in followed by Ashley.
KYLE
Thank you for putting up with me, darling. I think I’d lose my head if it wasn’t attached to me. (He riffles through a duffel bag near Cheryl’s desk.)
ASHLEY
(smiles) That’s okay. I wish you were my stylist all the time. The girl with the tattoos—
KYLE
Lorelei?
ASHLEY
Yeah, that’s her. She’s okay, but she doesn’t have nearly the talent you do.
KYLE
(laughs) That’s so kind of you to say. Now, where is it? (He riffles through the duffel bag again, then checks the files on Cheryl’s desk.)
ASHLEY
No, seriously. Can you be my permanent stylist? Assign Lorelei to Georgia. She doesn’t appreciate you.
KYLE
Oh, she does. She just has a funny way of showing it. Let me give Cheryl a jingle, see where she put my magical curling iron. (He pulls out his cell phone.) Oh, poop! No service. (He pats Ashley on the arm.) I’ll be right back. Don’t touch a thing. Cheryl can smell when things get reshuffled!
(Kyle leaves the office. Ashley is alone. She riffles through the duffel bag herself, pulls out a bag of cosmetics and examines several tubes of lipstick, mascara, and liner. When she gets bored with the makeup, she looks down at the desk and sees a folder. Across the top of the file, in red block print are the words CONFIDENTIAL: THE TRUTH ABOUT THE MURDER OF JANE REINER.)
ASHLEY
(gasps) OMG. What do we have here? (She barely hesitates and rushes to open and read the folder. As she scans the first page, she lets out a little yelp and stomps her foot angrily, then storms out of the office.)
Scott, Cheryl, and I carefully combed the roads back to my father’s farmhouse. Fortunately for us, I knew where Dad kept his hide-a-key. I went around the back porch and felt under the third stair.
Cheryl was beside me and she marveled at the grand house. It was painted white with blue trim and in pristine condition. Dad was as meticulous with the house as he was with his farming. Surrounding the porch were large orange poppies and fragrant blooming jasmine.
Cheryl looked out over our orchids. “You grew up here, Georgia,” she breathed.
“Yup,” I said. “Beautiful, right?”
“Breathtaking,” she said.
“A little different than L.A.,” I agreed. I popped the key out of its hiding place and climbed the porch. “Where’s Scott?” I asked.
Cheryl shaded her eyes from the sun as she watched me up on the porch, her feet still planted on the soil. “He’s in front. You two okay?”
I shrugged. “Why do you ask?”
“You seem angry with him,” she said.
Angry? I was trying to be patient, give him his space but was it coming off as anger? I jammed the key into the lock, almost breaking it, realizing too la
te that I probably did have quite a bit of anger regarding the whole issue.
But who wouldn’t be angry?
I’d cared for him throughout his recovery and loved him more ferociously because of it, knowing how fragile life was and how lucky I was to have such a wonderful man by my side. Through it all, Scott had been strong and funny and brave . . . and now . . . he wasn’t sure how he felt about me?
Sure, I was angry!
And to make matters worse, my best friend and my dad were missing! It was a wonder I could see straight. I turned the key in the lock as I wiped tears from my eyes, just in time for Scott to round the corner of the house.
“Oh, good, you found the key,” he said, simply.
Cheryl and Scott joined me through the back door into the kitchen.
“Wow,” Cheryl breathed. “It’s lovely.”
Dad had remodeled the kitchen himself recently. There were granite countertops and handmade cabinets that he and Mr. Hornsby had spent all winter crafting in the garage.
“I’ll try them again on the phone,” Scott said, alternately dialing my dad then Becca.
I filled up the kettle that perpetually sat on the stove and heated some water.
“I think we should call the police now,” Scott said. “They could be injured on the side of the road and we wouldn’t even know.” His expression was grave and I knew he was thinking about his accident in Spain.
Cheryl paled. “Let’s hope not! But I agree, call the police.”
I picked up the house phone and dialed Sheriff Bentley. He said he’d be over right away to take our statements. Technically, even though a person had to be missing twenty-four hours, we lived in a small town and Sheriff Bentley knew my father well. He put out an APB right away.
“Maybe we should call Bert again,” Cheryl suggested. “Maybe he’s had another vision about where Gordon might be.”
As ludicrous as it sounded to me, I was willing to try anything and agreed. We called Kyle back at the castle and asked him to get Bert on the line.