Keeper of the Moon (The Keepers: L.A.)

by Harley Jane Kozak

  “You still want to go?”

  “You said you could get us onto the set. Well, tick-tock.” She could feel his incredulity and said, “Honest, I’m fine. I drank a lot of coffee at work. So do you really know the producer, or was that just a pickup line?”

  He smiled. “Ask me nicely.”

  “Please.”

  “Could you put a little more sincerity into it?”

  “No. That’s my best performance.”

  “No wonder you’re waiting tables.”

  She laughed. “You can’t do it, can you? Admit it.”

  He picked up his cell phone and hit a speed-dial key. “Carolyn, call the production office of Technical Black,” he said. “See where they’re shooting tonight, and then get me Gary Kiel on the phone.”

  Two minutes later he got a return call, talked briefly and made a U-turn.

  “Okay, I’m impressed,” she said. “I could get used to that, having a staff at my beck and call, even at midnight. Also, your car is growing on me. I used to think only jerks drive supercars. How much did it set you back, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “I won it in a poker game. I’d never buy a car like this.”

  “How come?”

  “Only jerks drive supercars.”

  “Plus, it’s a gas guzzler,” she said. “You should trade it in for a Honda.”

  “I could trade it in for twenty-two Hondas. And I have a Honda. It’s in the shop.”

  Sailor studied his profile. He had a strong nose, one that looked as if it had been broken once. Obviously he could have fixed it. She liked that he’d kept it. “You were born wealthy, weren’t you?”

  He laughed shortly. “Where did you get that? Who’sDatingWhom dot.com?”

  “Really? Are you saying you grew up poor?”

  “On-the-streets poor.”

  She blinked. “What did your parents do?”

  “My mother was a hooker. I never met my father.”

  That wasn’t what she was expecting. Something stirred deep inside her, and the preconceptions she’d had about him began to shift and fall away.

  He turned to her. “And what about your own mother? I know your father well enough, but what’s the other half like?”

  “Hold on a sec,” she said. “I’m mentally revising ten years of looking at you as a privileged rich guy.”

  He laughed. “I am a privileged rich guy.”

  “But I thought you just said... Never mind.”

  “Come on. Tell me what you thought I was like. I can take it.”

  “Arrogant. Out of touch with the working class. All those stereotypes.” She felt him looking at her but didn’t look back at him. “And then I had this serious crush on you, and I didn’t like that I had this crush on you because I thought you were this arrogant, born-rich, out-of-touch stereotypical jerk. So I got in a big argument with myself every time I laid eyes on you.”

  “You had a crush on me?”

  “From the first time I snuck into the Snake Pit and the bartender carded me and then called you and you threw me out.”

  “I threw you out?”

  “Well, escorted me out. Told me to come back when I was of legal drinking age. You don’t remember any of this?”

  “Do you know how many people I’ve thrown—excuse me, escorted—out of my club in the past decade? No, I’m sorry to say I don’t remember. And you still had a crush on me?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Why?”

  She turned to him. “Have you ever looked in a mirror?”

  He smiled and turned his attention back to the road. “Well, I’m glad you took my advice and came back when you were legal.”

  “Oh, I came back before that. With a better fake ID. And a wig.”

  “You shock me, Ms. Gryffald.”

  “I doubt that, Mr. Wainwright.”

  They drove for a while in companionable silence. Then Sailor said, “My mother was Pamela Sailor, a concert violinist. My father saw her play one night at Royce Hall, fell head over heels in love with her and followed her around the country like some crazy deadhead until she married him and came back to L.A.”

  “Pamela Sailor. Hence your name.”

  “She loved that Dad was a visual effects supervisor, didn’t mind the crazy hours or his being gone on location, but she never liked his being a Keeper, the whole Otherworld thing. When I was born with the birthmark, she named me Sailor to remind me of the distaff side, my human lineage. She was determined that I would not inherit the Elven water phobia.”

  “And did you? Inherit it?”

  “Yes. I hate water, lakes, the ocean. Drove my mom mad, even though she wasn’t much for water herself. But anyhow, she encouraged me to ignore the destiny thing, fostered my love for theater, she wanted me to go away to college, be normal. For her sake, my father downplayed my Keeper education.”

  “And now you’re playing catch-up.”

  “Yes. I did have a lovely childhood, though. And I’m good at teleportation, by the way—always have been. Dad’s constant refrain was ‘Don’t teleport in front of your mother, it upsets her.’”

  “Are you still close to your mother?”

  “She died of cancer when I was seventeen.”

  He didn’t respond. She was grateful for that. Saved her from her automatic responses of “Oh, that’s okay” or “She lived a very full life” or “I had a wonderful family, they took very good care of me.” All of which were true, but not the deepest truth. That one she rarely said aloud: I had her for seventeen years, and it wasn’t nearly enough.

  Maybe it was the same for him.

  They drove through the night in silence, but a mile later he reached across and put his hand on hers. She wrapped her fingers around it and held on.

  * * *

  Production trucks, trailers and generators told them they were approaching a movie set. Security, too. Thanks to the murder, the general public was now obsessed with Technical Black, so guards—probably off-duty cops—were everywhere. Declan gave his name to one, and after a walkie-talkie exchange, a production assistant appeared.

  The PA led them across the set, and Declan watched Sailor work her charm on the kid, learning his name (Pete), old high school (Malibu High) and career aspirations (indie film director).

  “It must be hard on everyone, Gina’s death,” Sailor said. “Were you here when it happened, Pete?”

  “Yeah, but it wasn’t me that found her, it was transportation.” He sounded regretful about that. “And man, it’s crazy trying to replace her. Casting sent over every Gina look-alike in town. We’re using four. One has her hair, one’s got her body and another one’s got her exact profile. And we have a girl who can sound just like her, so we can loop the lookalikes in postproduction. Just two big action sequences to shoot and we can wrap. It’s like Game of Death after Bruce Lee died.”

  Pete delivered them to Gary Kiel, the producer, at the craft services truck. Declan watched Sailor give both Gary and the craft services guy the same attention she’d just given Pete, and after a round of cappuccinos were made and handed round, Gary led them toward a ranch house. “If we can get an audience curious about Gina’s last picture, we may break even,” he said in response to one of Sailor’s questions. “But the franchise is over. This isn’t James Bond, where you can recast the lead and keep on going, this was the Gina Santoro show.”

  “Was that common knowledge?” Sailor asked. “That without Gina, the franchise folds?”

  “What do you mean?” Gary asked.

  “Could some actress out there think, ‘If only Gina were dead, I could be Veronica Slick’?”

  “Yeah, if she’s bat-shit crazy. Which, you know actresses, could be the case. But the killer was a guy, right? That’s what the cops said.”

  “Well, maybe some guy’s thinking, ‘My girlfriend should be playing that part.’”

  “This isn’t Gone with the Wind,” Gary said. “It’s a big dumb movie with superb production values.”


  “Are Gina’s hair and makeup artists still working?” Sailor asked.

  “Twenty-four seven. They have to take her doubles and stand-ins, turn them into Gina.”

  “Can I talk to them?”

  “Why?”

  “I’m doing a human interest piece on the bond between actresses and their hair and makeup artists. A posthumous tribute to Gina would lend poignancy to it. I’d like to help you sell some tickets.”

  What an accomplished little liar, Declan thought.

  “You’re a writer?” Gary asked, eyes lighting up. “I took you for an actress, as beautiful as you are.”

  Down, boy. Declan had to stop himself from saying it aloud.

  “You’re a charmer, Gary,” Sailor replied.

  “C’mon, I’ll take you to the hair and makeup trailer,” he said. “And maybe later you can join me in my own trailer, I’ll show you some dailies.”

  “I’d love that,” she said.

  And down, girl, Declan added. He couldn’t believe how annoyed he was getting. It couldn’t be jealousy, because he didn’t get jealous. Did he?

  The hair and makeup trailer was a haven of warmth against the canyon air. The makeup artist was a woman named Melanie, perfectly made up but dressed for night shooting in jeans, hiking boots and a down jacket. She was putting a lip line on a girl no one bothered to introduce, but who looked eerily like Gina Santoro. The hairdresser was Hervé, a diminutive man with a goatee and hair an improbable shade of gold. Declan recognized that both Melanie and Hervé were vampires. Did Sailor?

  She did. After Gary had made the introductions, Sailor turned to Declan and said sweetly, “Maybe this would be a good time for you to discuss your business proposition with Gary?”

  “My what?”

  “You know,” she said, “the thing.”

  She looked right at him and let him read her thought: Get Gary out of here so I can talk to these two without their boss listening. He glanced at Gary, who was looking at him eagerly, probably having visions of getting his next film project fully funded.

  “’Scuse me, Mr. Kiel,” Pete said, sticking his head into the trailer. “You’re needed on set. And we’ll be using the Gina double.”

  Gary stood. “Back to work. Walk with me, Declan. We can talk.”

  “No, it’s a longer conversation than you have time for now,” Declan said, ignoring Sailor’s insistent looks. “We’ll have lunch next week.”

  “Sailor, here’s my card,” Gary said, pulling out his wallet from his back pocket. “Stick around if you can. We have dinner on set around 4:00 a.m. If you can’t stay, give me a call, I’d like to keep in touch.”

  I’m sure you would, Declan thought, watching Sailor tuck the card into the back pocket of her jeans.

  When Gary and the Gina double left the trailer, Sailor turned to Hervé and Melanie. “I know you guys are crazy busy, so I’ll be quick. I’m Sailor Gryffald, I’m the Canyon Keeper of the Elven, and I’m trying to figure out what happened to Gina and Charlotte Messenger, and the other two Elven women who died.”

  “You’re not a writer?” Hervé said, looking confused.

  “That was for Gary’s benefit, Hervé.” Melanie closed the trailer door, which a gust of wind had blown open. “Okay, you’re an Elven Keeper. Who’s this guy?”

  Hervé spoke up. “That’s Declan Wainwright.”

  “Oh, right,” Melanie said. “I thought you looked familiar. Shifter, right?”

  “Shifter Keeper,” he said.

  “I know you don’t know us,” Sailor said, “but I know Gina was close to you.”

  “I’m just a makeup artist,” Melanie said.

  Sailor sighed. “Oh, please. She trusted you with her face, and she had the face of the decade. She spent every workday of the past five years with you and Hervé, going back to Apples and Oranges. I checked credits. She wouldn’t work without you.”

  “So she trusted us,” Melanie said. “But why would we trust you? I’ve never heard of you.”

  “I’m new. My uncle is Piers Gryffald, recent Canyon Keeper of the vamps, and my godfather is Darius Simonides. Sorry to name-drop, but I don’t have many Keeper credentials of my own yet. I’m working on it.”

  Melanie nodded. Declan recognized the Hollywood veneer of politeness that hid a vast reservoir of ice, but at least she was thawing.

  “Darius Simonides?” Hervé repeated. “The magic words. Ask me anything.”

  “Have the cops talked to you?” Sailor asked.

  He sniffed. “Barely. We’re below the line, darling.” Meaning, Declan knew, that their pay grade was low and their status along with it. “It didn’t occur to them that we knew her better than anyone. Plus, we weren’t on set when it happened. We’d already gone home when Transpo found her body.”

  “When was that?” Sailor asked.

  “An hour after wrap. They went to turn off lights and power down the trailer, thinking she’d gone home.” A catch in his throat. “There she was. Ghastly.”

  Sailor glanced at Melanie, who had busied herself cleaning makeup brushes. “I bet you have theories about what happened,” she said.

  “Darling,” Hervé said, “we talk of nothing else.”

  Melanie shot him a look. “Gina never liked Keepers, especially Elven Keepers.”

  “Then forget I’m a Keeper,” Sailor said. “I’m an actress, so I know that you weren’t ‘below the line’ to Gina. You were shrink, friend, spiritual adviser.”

  “Yeah, were. We were all those things,” Hervé said. “Not anymore.”

  “Well, who did the cops talk to? The director? Producer? Was she even friends with the director?”

  “That moron?” Melanie asked. “She was sorry she ever approved him. He was a last-minute replacement.”

  “And the cops interviewed him, but they didn’t interview you two?” Idiots, her tone of voice suggested.

  Hervé sniffed. “Werewolves, both of them.”

  “Figures.” Sailor paused, then asked, “Was Gina seeing someone?”

  Melanie shook her head. “Nope. She broke up with Feral Jones, the rapper, just three weeks ago.”

  “I thought she was seeing Alexander Cavendish,” Sailor said.

  Hervé held up a hand. “We do not speak that name in this trailer. Not since Christmas. And after Feral she went into an ‘I’m swearing off men’ phase. Romantic detox. Could barely kiss her idiot costar on camera.”

  “Cops interviewed him, of course,” Melanie said. “Waste of time. Gina didn’t like half the people on this set.”

  Hervé shuddered. “Certainly not to sleep with. No one here is in her league. If she had sex that night, then some maniac forced himself on her. And security was tight, so it wouldn’t be someone off the street. It had to be an insider.”

  “That could be fifty people,” Sailor asked.

  “Fewer,” Melanie said. “Most everyone had wrapped before second meal.”

  Meal breaks, Declan knew, happened every six hours on a film set, so “second meal” signaled a long—and expensive—shooting day.

  “Unless he snuck into her trailer early in the day and stayed hidden. Transpo was supposed to keep it locked, but—” Hervé shuddered with distaste. “Teamsters.”

  “Was she in good health?” Sailor asked.

  “Darling,” Hervé said, “she was at the absolute top of her game.”

  “Enemies?”

  Melanie said, “Jealous actresses. Jealous ex-girlfriends of her current boyfriends. Nothing abnormal.”

  “She drank champagne, right?”

  Hervé looked as if he might weep. “Cristal.”

  Sailor looked at Declan. “Can you think of anything else?”

  He was surprised she asked. She seemed to have forgotten his presence. “Did she know Charlotte Messenger?” he asked.

  “Socially, yeah,” Melanie answered. “Not enough to go the funeral.”

  “How about the agent?” Sailor asked. “From GAA? Did Gina know her?”
>
  “Kelly Ellory,” Hervé said. “Yes. Gina was a GAA client. Kelly visited the set. Lovely woman. Excellent hair. I trimmed her bangs for her.”

  “And the student from Cal Arts, the other woman who died?”

  “We’d never heard of her.” Henry grabbed a box of tissues and pulled out several, blotting his eyes. “You probably don’t cry, do you, Miss Elven Keeper?”

  “Not much.”

  “Lucky. I’m so tired of crying, I could throw up.”

  “Anything else you can think of that might help us?” Sailor asked.

  Melanie looked at her. “I’ll tell you something I heard from an old vamp actor. This disease they say they died from? It isn’t new. It’s been around for centuries.”

  Sailor glanced at Declan. “But we’ve interviewed doctors—Others—and they never mentioned anything like that.”

  “Well, they’re not going to find it in their medical journals,” Melanie said. “Maybe you should just interview someone really old.”

  Pete came in to say, “Hair and Makeup wanted on set,” and they all walked out together, Melanie and Hervé toward an array of huge lights, Declan and Sailor toward the parking area.

  The canyon was close to freezing, and Declan put his jacket around Sailor’s shoulders. While doing so, he used a little sleight of hand to extract his friend Gary’s card from the back pocket of her jeans.

  * * *

  “You didn’t tell them about the attack on you,” Declan said, driving back down the road. “That you have the disease.”

  “Why would I?” Sailor asked.

  “Because they’ll hear about it,” he said. “Better to have heard it from you.”

  “Does it matter?”

  He shrugged. “It’s just being straight with people. You got information from them, but you didn’t give them anything, even just something to make them feel like insiders. Once they realize that, they’ll feel used.”

  “I didn’t want to get into it. I’m feeling pretty healthy right now anyway.”

  He glanced at her. “If the killings continue, the Elven will take action. You talked about finding the killer and cutting his heart out of his body. That’s not just a myth. Your Elven will literally do that. The most civilized among them can turn primal when threatened. I’ve seen it. Things are going to get ugly between the species, and now there are two vampires who have less reason to trust the Elven or their Keepers tonight than when they woke this morning.”