Haunt Water

by Leigh Selfman

  I can finally relax, I think as I go back into the living and plop down on the sofa. I’m happily imagining what it will be like when Buck reads my script. When he options it. Produces it!

  I jump up, panicked.

  The script!

  Not the script I'm planning to give Buck, but the one he gave to me. Where is it?

  I hurry over to my dining table. I'm looking all over the general vicinity, when I realize that Tabloid Tony isn't the only thing missing from my place - the shooting script for the Andrea Claire movie is gone too.

  It was sitting right there when I led Buck outside. But now...it's gone! I left Tony alone in the bungalow and it’s no longer there.

  I get up and search the rest of my apartment but the script is nowhere in sight.

  Darn him!

  No wonder Tony made himself scarce before I got back. He was busy committing grand larceny. Or at least baby-grand larceny

  The jerk!

  I grab my phone and call the number he gave me the other day. But of course he doesn't answer. So I leave him a nasty message, telling him that I want that script back ASAP. In fact I want it sooner than ASAP. I want it STASAP.

  But as I talk I notice something on the floor underneath the dining table. I bend down to pick it up and realize it's the Polaroid that I'd stuck in between pages of the stolen script – the one that I picked up that day when I was helping Mary retrieve her dropped photos. It must've fallen out when Tony committed his theft.

  I stick it in the pocket of my purse, figuring I’ll return it the next day when I go to the set.

  And I get another twinge of excitement when I think about giving Buck my script. But that good feeling is quickly replaced by a twinge of terror when I think of what will happen if anyone learns that Tabloid Tony got a copy of the Andrea Claire script from me. My career will be ruined before it even starts.

  Panicked, I send Tony another text telling him to give me back that script. And then I text him a few extra exclamation points to emphasize the seriousness of the matter.

  Then I tell myself not to be paranoid as I quickly print out the script I'm planning to give Buck. Then I go to sleep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  After making sure that my makeup looks good and that my hair is clean, shiny and bouncy, I leave for the set early in the morning. My plan is stop at the store on the way and pick up a new cell phone, and then get to the boat before they start filming. That way I can give my freshly-printed copy of "Giving up the Ghost" to Buck before he's too distracted by his current movie. Or so I hope.

  I check my purse again to make sure I have the script. It’s there, bound in a jaunty hot-pink cover. Next to it is the Polaroid that I plan to return to...someone. Maybe someone in the props department? Who knows? I’ll figure it out when I get there.

  Even though the photo is blurry and isn’t likely to do anyone much good, I still feel like I can’t just throw it away.

  But as I'm pulling out of my parking area, backing into the alley that borders it, I notice a kid standing right behind my car. I slam on my breaks and wait for him to move out of the way.

  But he's just standing there, oblivious. He’s holding an empty dog leash in his hands and looking around forlornly.

  "Hey, is everything okay?" I call out to him. He doesn't seem to hear me. Or if he does, he’s ignoring me.

  I turn off the engine and get out of the car and go over to him.

  "Is everything okay?" I say again.

  "Have you seen my dog?" he asks, looking around left and right. He has a flop of dark hair and big dark eyes. There’s something about him that’s familiar but I can’t figure out who he reminds me of.

  "No. I don’t think so,” I tell him. “What kind of dog is it?"

  "A big yellow lab."

  "Hmn...No. I haven't seen him but I'll keep my eye out. Did you look in front, up here?"

  He shrugs hopelessly as I walk up to the sidewalk area in front of the gate around my yard. I look around but don't see any dog.

  "Maybe you could put up some flyers," I say as I come back around into the alley. But the kid is gone. He must've walked out and down the other side of the alley.

  "Oh well," I say under my breath. I feel bad for him as I get back into the car and drive out. But I really have to get to the set soon. Today’s the big day, after all.

  After parking and grabbing my tote bag and my brand new cell phone, I head over to grab a bottle of water at the craft service table. Then I walk over to the ramp to board the Andrea Claire.

  Blocking my path, however is a PA with a walkie talkie. When he sees me approach, he puts his finger to his lips and whispers, "They're shooting."

  So we stand there looking at one another for several long minutes. Then, finally, a squawking voice comes over his walkie talkie, giving him the all clear. He motions me on board.

  "Is Buck in there shooting?" I ask as I walk past.

  “No,” the guy tells me. "He's not coming until later today. His call time was moved back. They're filming some scenes with the sister and her friend right now."

  "Oh," I say, disappointed. I tell myself, it’s not a total loss. At least he’ll be there later. Then I head inside, thinking that at least I can return this Polaroid once and for all.

  So I head down the yacht’s main hallway and pass a small stateroom - which is where they're filming.

  Both the room and hallway outside it, are crowded with people and I realize that I'm just in the way here. I turn to go, but before I do, I quietly ask one of the women standing around, where the prop-master is.

  "William? Um…" She looks around. "He's right there."

  She motions to a guy walking down the hallway, heading in the direction I just came from. So I quickly chase after him.

  "William? Hi. Are you William?"

  “Yeah,” he says, stopping, but he looks impatient.

  "I think this is yours," I say as I pull out the Polaroid and hand it to him.

  He lifts the photo to his face and studies it for a moment, the silver skull bracelets on his wrist jangling as his arm moves. "Nope. It's not ours. Maybe it's Mary's. The script supervisor's." He hands it back to me and starts walking again.

  "It’s not hers,” I say, hurrying behind him. “You’re sure it's not yours?"

  He stops and takes the photo and looks at it again. "Yeah. I'm sure. But you could try the costume department. It sorta looks like it's a photo of some kind of fabric, doesn't it?”

  "Yeah,” I say, looking at it with him. “It sort of does. Like blue fabric with some orange dots on it.”

  He holds it even closer and studies it. "Yup, looks that way. You can ask Petra in costumes if it's hers. But actually..." He turns the photo over in his hand and frowns at it. "This photo looks pretty old to me. Like really old."

  "How can you tell?"

  "Look at the back. Ours don't look like that." He reaches down and unhooks a big round keyring from his belt loop. But instead of keys dangling from the ring, there are hundreds of polaroid photos. "Look. See. This is what ours look like."

  He fans through the Polaroids and shows me their backs. They definitely do look different. Then he frowns. "You know, these numbers on the back might mean something. Maybe you could look 'em up online and find out."

  "That’s a great idea. Thanks. I'll do that."

  He nods and in a flash he's off, walking down the boat's corridor and talking on his walkie talkie.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  I head off the boat and back onto dry ground, taking a seat at the long picnic tables that are set up outside. Then I pull out my brand new phone and search around online to find a website that can help me with my Polaroid question.

  Luckily, I have no problem finding such a site -- which explains the whole history of Polaroids and tells me everything I ever wanted to know about them. And then some.

  It turns out the numbers on the back of the photos correlate to when the film was produced. And though they can’t tell y
ou exactly when the photo was taken, they can tell you how old the film itself is.

  So I type in the numbers from the photo I found and when I get the results, I blink in disbelief. According to the website, the film for this Polaroid was produced sometime between 1970-1985.

  Which is a total shock.

  Of course the picture itself might have been taken later, but on the other hand, it might actually be really old. Like really, really, really old. It could even be one of the photos from that taken by young Wendy Baker on that ill-fated cruise.

  I study the front of the photo again, now viewing with different eyes. The props guy, William, said that it looked like an image of fabric – and as I study it more closely, I have to agree it does. Like blue fabric with little orange marks on it. Which reminds of something I just heard recently…but what?

  The answer hits me with a jolt.

  Anabella - Wendy's friend. When I was talking to her at the chocolate café, she said she had a very clear memory of Duke coming down the hall, holding the knife, wearing that same shirt he always wore – the blue one with the orange diamonds on it.

  I stare at the photo and squint my eyes, imagining the orange marks in the photo as tiny diamonds on pale blue fabric. And yes– I think that could definitely be it.

  The fact that I might be holding a photo of the actual killer, makes me surprisingly nervous. I feel like I need to tell someone about it. Or to turn it in to the police or something.

  But then again... they'd probably think I was nuts. After all, how did an ancient photo wind up in the stateroom where I found it the other day?

  It doesn't make any sense.

  It couldn't have been sitting out in the bedroom for all those years, even if it was stuck behind that piece of wall molding behind the nightstand. The murders occurred over a decade ago -- if it were there all that time, it surely would've been found before now, even if only by the film crew.

  I stare over at the Andrea Claire and can’t help but wonder…Could the ghost have somehow put it there for me to see?

  I have no idea. The only thing I know for certain is that I have to go back there. Alone. When everyone's gone.

  It's the last thing I want to do...but I'm starting to think maybe the ghost really does want to tell me something.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  I sit all alone at one of the long tables, nibbling on tuna salad with crackers from the craft service table. I’m staring distractedly at the photo, when Buck Ames comes up in front of me.

  "Arden. Hey, how you doing?"

  I look up with a jolt and quickly run my tongue across my teeth to make sure I don't have any stray bits of food stuck there. "Oh, hi Buck. I'm good. How're you?" I give him a big, food-free (I hope) smile.

  "Ah...a little tired," he says as he takes a seat across the table from me. He nods to the photo in front of me. "What's that?"

  "It's an old Polaroid.” I pause. “I think it might be a photo of the killer."

  "Wow. Really?"

  I nod and push it towards him. He picks it up and stares at the photo, then he moves it even closer to his face, squinting his beautiful blue eyes. "So...I don't get it. What is it, exactly?" He turns the photo this way and that, trying to make out what it could be.

  "I think it's his shirt. Duke's, I mean. The shirt he was wearing on the day of the murders. Anabella Klee said she remembers him wearing a shirt like it that day – a blue shirt with orange diamonds on it."

  "Huh. Really." Buck nods, frowning at the photo. "Yeah - It sure looks like it could be that. Where'd you find it exactly?"

  "In one of the cabins.” I say, leaning forward. “I assumed it belonged to someone on the film crew, but now...I don’t know. It sounds nuts, but I think the ghost put it there for me to find."

  "Huh." Buck continues to stare at the photo. "Man, I wish I knew about that before. About the shirt I mean - I'd have made sure to wear a shirt just like it for my scenes."

  I nod, as if to say, “of course,” but I’m slightly amused at how concerned he is about the authenticity of his wardrobe. But then again, maybe that sort of detail is just the kind of thing to help him truly embody his character. Who knows?

  In any case, he looks at the photo once more, then looks around the tent. Spotting the director over near the coffee urn he whistles and calls out, "Devon!"

  "What's up?" Devon says, walking over with a cardboard cup of steaming coffee in his hand.

  Buck holds out the photo and Devon takes it, looking at it without expression. "What's this?"

  "It's a photo of the killer. Could even have been taken the day of the murder," Buck volunteers.

  "Yeah? Where'd it come from?" Devon takes another look at it then hands it over to Phil who is just walking over to join us.

  "I found it on the boat," I tell the group. "I think the ghost put it there. I'm not sure, but I think he's trying to tell us something."

  Devon looks skeptical. "So...you think the ghost took a photo of the killer and kept it for 17 years?"

  "No...not exactly.” I say. “I think it was somewhere on the boat. And the ghost moved it. So that I'd find it."

  Phil and Devon exchange a look.

  "Why? What do you think he's trying to say?" Devon asks.

  "I honestly have no clue," I shrug. "But I'll come back and snoop around later, after you guys are done for the day - if that's okay?”

  "Sure," Devon says. "If you want to. But we're going to be done shooting pretty late, since we have a lot of pages to get..."

  Before he can finish his sentence, my new phone rings. The caller ID screen says 'dentist,' which causes my heart to drop to my stomach.

  Not because it's my dentist - it's not. Because in a super-spy-inspired moment, I typed the word 'dentist' into my phone as a code name for Tabloid Tony. Which means that the script-stealer is finally calling me back. Now. Now– at the very moment I’m surrounded by the enemy. Well…his enemy anyway.

  It keeps ringing, but I tell myself to be cool -- after all they can't read my phone's mind. But just to be safe, I reach out to press the 'decline call' button.

  Unfortunately though, something is wrong with my new phone - or more likely with me - because instead of rejecting the call...I somehow wind up answering it!

  I fumble with the phone, trying to hang it up but instead I wind up putting Tony on speaker, causing his loud voice to bellow out to the entire group. "Arden, baby! You'll never guess what I found out about someone who's working on your mov..."

  "Ah...stop! Wait!" I call out. "Just a sec!" I’m really just hoping Tony’ll take the hint and stop talking, but of course he doesn’t. So I talk even louder in an attempt to drown him out. "Hold on! I'll take you off speaker! You’re on speaker! Haha!"

  I'm pressing every button on the phone trying to hang up or to at least lower the volume of his ridiculously loud voice. But in my urgency I become even more clumsy and the phone slips from my hands onto the table.

  At that point Buck, kindly, picks it up, presses a button and hands it back to me.

  It is now off speaker and as I hold it to my ear, I see that Tony has not even stopped talking for a moment. And due to the loudness of his voice, I can’t help but wonder if those seated next to me at the table can still hear him through the earpiece.

  "...Arden? Can you hear me? Did you hear what I said? You'll never guess who's working on that film you're working on."

  "Tony! Doctor Tony…Now's really not a good time!" I say loudly as I look around at everyone, giving them an apologetic smile. "So, yes, that’s right, Doctor. I'll come into the office tomorrow and we can talk about my teeth there.”

  "Your teeth? Why would I want to talk about your teeth?" Tony bellows.

  "Right! My gums, I mean! My receding gums – I know that’s what you called to talk about but I really can't talk about it right now. Doctor." As I talk, I can’t help but notice that everyone at the table is now staring with interest at my mouth.

  Great.

  In
stead of getting the hint, Tony just keeps barreling ahead. "Listen Arden you need to meet me at the building on 78th street and Toledo, the one with the big blue sign out front. I'll give you the script back then. And I tell you what, it's just a good thing I read it, because it totally helped me find the angle for our article. You won’t believe what I found out."

  Enraged as I am at Tony, I can’t say anything about it right now. Because not only do I need the script back, I also can't just start cursing at my 'dentist' without looking pretty suspicious.

  "Okay, that'll be fine, Doctor," I say, trying to salvage my cover. "I'll meet you there." Then, before giving him a chance to respond again, I click off.

  "Boy, your dentist is pretty pushy, huh?" Phil frowns at me.

  I look around and see that they’re all looking at me strangely.

  "Yes. Well...he cares very deeply. About teeth."

  They all seem to accept this explanation, and no one seems the wiser as Phil checks the time on his phone. "Well, sorry to interrupt but I have to go. I'm going to meet my agent for lunch.”

  We all say goodbye to him as he walks off, looking a little dejected. I just can't help but feel that with every new clue I find, poor Phil grows more and more upset and worried about his script.

  "Well I'll catch y'all later. I’m going to go nap in my trailer," Buck says as he stands up and stretches. Then he puts on his shades on.

  "Yeah. Yeah, that’s good,” Devon says distractedly. "Go and rest up. We have big scene to film after lunch. Speaking of which," he checks his watch. "I gotta go talk to that completion bond guy."

  As Devon walks away, I look over to see Buck tossing his water bottle into a nearby garbage. Before he walks off, I pipe up nervously, "Um, Buck? I brought that script of mine, if you still want to read it."

  He seems amenable, so I reach into my purse and pull out the script I wrote about my last ghost. I hand it to Buck.

  "Oh, yeah. Right. Thanks. Looking forward to it." He looks at it, gives me a cute wink and walks off.