Rage Factor

by Chris Rogers

  “Actually, the weather is the reason I was able to stop by,” Parker said. “These clouds are supposed to blow north. Hasn’t rained a drop in the bay, but the new owner postponed his maiden voyage for an hour to be certain.” He stroked a raindrop off her nose. “I think bringing Sarina, daughter of the famous Joanna Francis, will make us the talk of the party. Unless you want to keep her anonymous.”

  Dixie thought about it. “Anonymous would be good.” Provided Joanna approved of this off-the-list excursion.

  He handed Dixie a square envelope.

  “Here’s the slip location. The party starts around six, goes on until midnight. I offered to help with any last-minute errands, but you can show up anytime. There’ll be a skiff to ferry latecomers to the yacht.”

  Taking a small shopping bag from under his raincoat, he thrust it into Dixie’s hand, kissed her briefly on the mouth, and was gone. Inside the bag she found a red rose and a new pair of deck shoes in her size. Her sappy grin reappeared, until she realized she’d be clumping around the boat on a cast. Unless she got the doctor to take it off.

  And what the devil would she wear? If everyone dressed as snazzy as Parker, her jeans and sweatshirt would embarrass him. Now she almost wished she’d said no.

  But when she told Sarina about the party, the girl was surprisingly enthusiastic.

  “The cast and crew hang out and go to dinner together after a wrap. I hate that. Mother attracts only the ungifted people. A Texas yacht party sounds like having some fun for a change.”

  When the director finally decided to take a break, Sarina shouted, “Mother! Over here!”

  Joanna stamped toward them on heels every bit as high and skinny as the ones she’d worn that morning.

  “I can’t believe you have the nerve to show up here,” she raged at Dixie, her anger hot enough to turn the drizzle to steam. “I instructed Belle Richards to fire you. You are stupid and irresponsible, taking my daughter out of town without checking in. There are telephones—”

  “Mother, it wasn’t Dixie’s fault. Didn’t you get my message?”

  “Young lady, I’ll deal with you later. At least I can understand your taking off to that NASA thingy without checking in, but she’s old enough to know better. And I’m surprised I have to remind you we are not on vacation here. This is a working trip for me. How do you expect me to work if I’m worried sick about you?”

  NASA? Dixie looked at Sarina. Somebody had been ad-libbing.

  “It was on the list, Mother. If all I can look forward to this week is being imprisoned at the hotel and you ripping on me, I’d rather stay with Dad.”

  Joanna’s beautiful eyes widened as if she’d been slapped. Then her lips mashed together in a hard, straight line.

  “Of course you’re not a prisoner, Sarina.” She glared at Dixie. “That’s why I hired someone to keep you … company.”

  “Then let Dixie do her job. And stop worrying.”

  Dixie hadn’t missed the girl’s quick, furtive glance to see if her bodyguard would rat on her. Apparently, the conniving twerp had invented a NASA tour to cover her visit with Alroy Duncan. Dixie knew she should tell Joanna the truth … but, what the hell, she sympathized with Sarina’s determination to apprentice with one of her idols, and Joanna’s hostility hadn’t won any points. On the other hand, she couldn’t let the kid off too easy.

  “Why don’t you tell your mother what you saw on the NASA tour, Sarina?”

  “Ummm, well, I thought I’d tell her later.”

  “At least tell her the part you liked best.”

  “Okay, sure, soon as we get to the hotel. Hey—” She pointed desperately toward a row of trailers lined up along the street. “Mother, isn’t that the woman we met on the cruise last fall?”

  “Tori Pond? Yes, she showed up needing a job, and wardrobe had an opening.” Joanna’s eyes flashed one last angry spark at Dixie, then she tossed back her damp auburn hair with that famous shrug and began scanning the street. “Actually, Sarina, I am expecting someone. You remember Alan Kemp, don’t you?”

  “Alan from Brussels?” Sarina’s diversion had worked perfectly.

  Joanna smiled as if her anger of mere moments ago had never existed. “Oh, there he is—A/an!” She waved at a silver-haired man standing in a puddle of light, wearing a dark trench coat and black leather gloves. “Over here!”

  Alan waggled a knobby cane in response. Then, staving off the rain with a huge umbrella and leaning on the cane, he threaded his way past the production crew busily repositioning cameras and lights. Joanna hooked an outstretched hand around his bicep and pulled him under the awning.

  “Ten years since I’ve seen this gorgeous man. He drops by the set today for lunch as if it’s an everyday event.”

  “Young lady,” Kemp told Sarina, “you were scarcely as tall as my walking stick when I last saw you. You’ve turned out quite as pretty as your mother.” Up close, he appeared to be in his early forties, distinguished mane prematurely silver, voice smooth and rounded. No accent. Stage actor, Dixie figured. If not, he ought to be, with that voice.

  “Alan’s a syndicated reporter,” Sarina told Dixie. “We’ve been E-mail buddies since I got my first computer.” Then, turning back to Kemp, “Mother didn’t tell me you’d be in town.”

  “She didn’t know. I only arrived in the States yesterday, on business. When I read in the newspaper last night that Joanna would be shooting a film here, I couldn’t let the opportunity pass without seeing the both of you. I hoped we’d all dine together this evening….” He raised an eyebrow quizzically at Dixie.

  “Oh!” Joanna exclaimed. “This is Dixie Flannigan, a … friend of … a friend. She’s … showing Sarina around while I work. This is Alan Kemp, my cousin.”

  His grip was firm in the leather glove, and he held Dixie’s hand a fraction longer than customary, soft, curious eyes gazing into hers.

  “When I was a lad,” Kemp said, “my guides were unfailingly quite old and crotchety.”

  He didn’t buy the “friend of a friend” story, Dixie was certain, but he was too excruciatingly polite to question it aloud. She slid her hand free of his glove.

  “A decent guide would suggest a drier place for you folks to chat. There’s a good restaurant up the street. I can find a taxi—”

  “No, Tori’s expecting me.” Joanna flapped a hand at the young woman watching from the wardrobe trailer. “After this last scene, we’ll all go someplace exciting—”

  “Mother, Dixie invited me to a party. On a yacht.”

  “A yacht?” Joanna was intrigued.

  Hearing the whir of a camera’s motor drive, Dixie glanced around to see Casey James sitting in her Camry, head thrust through the car’s open window, Nikon busily clicking off frames. The reporter flashed her bold grin, then continued shooting just in time to catch Joanna linking an arm with Alan Kemp. The star’s dazzling smile wasn’t at all cousin-like. When Casey beckoned insistently, Dixie cast a wary eye at Sarina, decided she was safe under Mom’s wing for the moment, and excused herself, to amble over.

  “What’s up?” Casey’s tone held an unmistakable note of accusation. “Thought we were buddies, and now you’re letting Kemp scoop me?”

  “You know him?”

  “You’re kidding me, right? Osgood, Kuralt, Harvey, Kemp—don’t tell me you’ve never heard his show, ‘Starstruck.’”

  Dixie vaguely recalled the name. Basically a radio gossip show about the world’s rich and eccentric. But she’d never seen Kemp’s face. He was strictly radio.

  “How did you recognize him?”

  “Eight or nine years ago, before I decided to destroy my reputation as a journalist and go for the dough, Alan Kemp and I covered the same Hollywood beat. I was hard news, he was flash. Truth, honey, Kemp had that sexy silver hair way back then.” A wistful expression slid over the reporter’s chubby features.

  Dixie glanced back at Kemp, whose posture suggested more than a cousinly interest in Joanna Francis, and wo
ndered if Casey had nurtured a crush on the man all these years.

  “Kemp is Joanna’s cousin,” Dixie said softly. “You, Kemp—that woman has cousins like a dog has fleas.”

  “He seemed surprised to find Joanna filming here.”

  “Don’t bet on it. That man can tell you what color panties Demi Moore is wearing on any given day. You think he doesn’t keep up with who’s shooting where with whom? Take off your blinders, honey. Their meeting is no accident.”

  As Dixie strolled back to the trio under the awning, she heard Casey’s motor drive whir into action. Joanna couldn’t have missed it. Apparently, the TV queen didn’t mind having the press around as long as they were catching her looking beautiful between scenes. At Dixie’s approach, she tossed her auburn hair and smiled up at her cousin.

  “Alan,” she cooed, “wouldn’t a yacht party be the perfect escape from this miserable day?” Her eyes rounded at Dixie. “You don’t mind, do you, if we tag along?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “No problem.” Parker sounded pleased when Dixie called to beg two more invitations for Joanna and her cousin. His clients promised not to broadcast to their other guests that the star would be there, but Dixie had little faith they’d keep the secret.

  She felt the risk factor escalating. Nevertheless, a private boat in the bay with a few dozen people aboard was still better than a crowded public restaurant with no control at all.

  When Joanna insisted Sarina needed appropriate clothes for the occasion and pressed a credit card into her daughter’s hand, Dixie started to protest. Busy department stores presented the same risk as busy restaurants. Then she recalled a quiet boutique that Belle claimed was Houston’s best-kept secret. Located in River Oaks, an upscale area near downtown, the store was small, exclusive, and anyone entering would be highly visible. Besides, Dixie also needed some party duds. She hoped to find the perfect yacht bash attire to make Parker’s eyes light up when he saw her.

  While Sarina scuffed along, halfheartedly rummaging the clothing racks for something her mother would approve of, Dixie found a few items for herself. She scrutinized a short red wool blazer with creamy white pants and matching blouse. She couldn’t recall ever owning a red blazer. Brown, yes, and bright blue, exactly the color blue Joanna had been wearing with her spike heels, running from a make-believe killer.

  “Was it my imagination,” Dixie asked Sarina, “or was that director coming down harder than necessary on your mother today?”

  “Old Bubble Butt Barton? He has the hots for her, but she told him to lose a hundred pounds, she wasn’t into dating hippos.”

  “So he gets even by making her shoot a scene over and over in freezing rain? Why does she put up with that?”

  “He’s an unwiped ass, but a talented unwiped ass.”

  “Sarina!”

  “Uh-oh. Now you’re the language police as well as the fashion warden.”

  Dixie made a mental note to have Belle find out if any other actresses had received threats while working on one of Barton’s films.

  “Does your mother receive a lot of fan mail?”

  “Tons.”

  “And she keeps it all?”

  “No way.” Sarina zeroed in on a black dress barely long enough to cover her crotch.

  Dixie took it out of her hands and found a longer version in kelly green. “What does she do with it?”

  “Her mail? Marty’s secretary sends every fan a signed glossy and a letter mentioning Mother’s latest film.”

  “What about the anonymous letters?”

  “Oh. Mother keeps those, if they’re obviously from men.”

  “She gets love notes from women?”

  “Duh!” Sarina gave her a look. “This is the nineties.”

  Of course it is. “Why does she keep anonymous notes from men?”

  “She thinks Dad sends them.” When Dixie continued staring, she added, “Mother thinks Dad’s still in love with her.”

  “Is he?”

  Sarina shoved the green dress savagely back on the rack. “You think he’d tell me? I don’t even know why they divorced in the first place.”

  “How long have they been divorced?”

  “Officially, eight months.”

  Dixie wondered what “officially” meant, but after those three bitter words, Sarina’s face had closed down. Dixie decided to drop it for now. She could always find out more from Belle about John Page.

  “How would this look for a yacht party?” she asked Sarina, modeling the red blazer and cream slacks in front of a mirror.

  “What’s wrong with your jeans and sweatshirt? Isn’t that your, you know, uniform?”

  Probably seemed that way. After she stopped having to dress for court, Dixie saw no reason to wear clothes that required panty hose, dry cleaning, and dignified posture.

  “A bodyguard needs to blend. In jeans, I’d stand out like spinach on a smile.”

  “Oh.” Sarina scowled at the racks of clothing. “Well, none of this stuff works for me. I’m fine in what I have on.”

  Not according to her mother. “I like what you have on,” Dixie said, truthfully. She thought the kid looked like any teenager. Rebellious. “Only, why should I be the only one who has to gussy up for this event?”

  “You’re the blending bodyguard.”

  “The bodyguard who didn’t squeal to Mom about your deal with Alroy Duncan. Yet”

  “Sounds like blackmail.”

  “Let’s call it insurance.” Dixie slid into the red blazer, smoothed it over her hips, and decided it fit okay. Her cast, which the doctor had adamantly refused to remove, even when Dixie threatened to take a hacksaw to it herself, didn’t look quite as obtrusive with the white, full-legged pants over it. She tossed Sarina a similar jacket in pearl gray. “Cooperate on the small stuff, kid, and maybe I won’t rat on you about Duncan. At least until the week’s out. What’s more important to you, a fashion statement or your future as a special-effects wizard?”

  “Okay, okay! I get it.” Sarina tried on the gray jacket and two others, and in minutes had an outfit even her mother should approve of

  But Dixie wasn’t as sure about her own clothes.

  “What do you think?” She turned in front of the mirror. The pants fit snugly around her hips, then fell in a soft line to a half inch off the floor, covering the plaster almost completely. The blouse had long sleeves and a low V-shaped neck. The tailored blazer curved just right over her bust, nipped in at the waist, and sported brass buttons, epaulets, and a fancy gold crest on the left breast pocket.

  “You’ll blend,” Sarina said. “Once you put on makeup.”

  Dixie studied her appearance and had to agree. The dressy outfit made her face look unfinished. She hated worrying with colored creams and powders, had barely accomplished Lipstick 101, but the sales attendant assured her they could do a complete makeover with time to spare.

  Half an hour later, Dixie peered in the mirror at a stranger.

  “Perfect,” Sarina said. “You look totally unexceptional. Not at all like a bodyguard. Ordinary.”

  Ordinary? After spending a wad on clothes and all that time getting painted and fluffed, Dixie had hoped at the very least for smashing.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Berinson yacht would’ve been hard to miss, since it was the biggest boat in the harbor. White with black trim, it sparkled like a diamond, lights glittering, music pulsing. The party was well under way when Dixie and Sarina shuttled out. They could hear a live band playing country rock.

  Sarina laughed. “Seafaring shitkickers. Is that not un-credibly cool?”

  She’d directed her question to the young man driving the shuttle, yelling to be heard over the music and the roar of the outboard motor. The man had a lean, tan face, strong hands, and a yearning in his eyes that said he’d just found the un-credibly coolest thing on the water and it wasn’t a boat.

  “If you think the music’s hicksville, wait’ll you see the food,” he teased, grinn
ing back at her. “Barbecued hog jowls, mustard greens, corn fritters …”

  Sarina moved closer to him, said something Dixie didn’t hear, and by that time the skiff had arrived at the ship. Waiting for Sarina to board ahead of her, Dixie appraised the girl’s new appearance. In a charcoal gray blazer with gray and black striped pants and a black turtleneck sweater, she looked more mature than her sixteen years. Along with the clothing, she’d magically donned an air of sophistication. She was acting, Dixie realized, playing the “dazzling young sophisticate.” Her Hollywood upbringing had kicked in. No wonder the shuttle driver was salivating.

  Dixie only wished her own movements could be as graceful. Even in her new duds, she felt awkward. Sarina had talked her into carrying a brass-headed cane they’d found in the accessories department.

  “You’ll look eccentric rather than crippled,” she’d said.

  Dixie hadn’t felt crippled. But recalling Alan Kemp’s elegance as he waved his cane, she’d decided to buy one.

  Spotting Parker at the ship’s bow, she stood admiring him a moment. He looked as glamorous as a riverboat gambler.

  “That’s your guy?” Sarina asked.

  “Yeah, sort of.”

  “Then who’s the blonde cutting in on your time?”

  Dixie hadn’t noticed who Parker was talking to. Now she saw the woman—tall and fortyish, with the sort of healthy good looks Dixie associated with orange juice and aerobics. Parker appeared to be explaining the boat’s layout.

  “Probably a client.” Dixie looked away, not wanting anyone else to catch her staring.

  When a couple approached—the woman horse-faced and thin as a needle, the man stooped, bald, and beaming as if he’d won the lottery—Dixie guessed they were the Berinsons even before they introduced themselves. Holding hands the entire time, they gushed over Sarina, saying how glad they were that she and her mother had decided to come. Joanna was still coming, wasn’t she?