The Fan Letter

by Nancy Temple Rodrigue

  The double-drawer on the left contained her rejection letters from agents, a list of potential agencies, sample letters she had typed, outlines of the two finished novels, sample pages from each book, and the two spiral-bound copies she had printed for herself.

  Wayne glanced at her clock. Time was rapidly passing. He wanted to read both books and look over the rewrite that was waiting under the sofa. He just didn't have time right now. He had to send off his first report to Sarah that afternoon.

  He heard the clicking of heels on the sidewalk that wound through the complex. The person walking had hesitated at the turn to these particular apartments but then continued towards the manager's office. Hurrying to the living room, he barely moved her lace curtains aside to peek out. It was Leslie heading for the mailboxes. So that was why she hadn't taken a lunch that morning. She must have the afternoon off. Crap!

  Wayne's mind started rapidly going over his options. He had approximately two minutes before she returned from the mailbox. Back in the bedroom, he quickly looked around. He hurriedly closed the desk drawers. The closet door…. Had it been open or closed? Open, he decided. Grabbing up his gym bag by her entry door, he quietly opened the door and turned the lock. Now he had to get back to his apartment.

  Hearing her heels again as the sound echoed through the quiet complex, he knew he would be seen coming down the stairs and going into his rooms. As her door clicked shut, he pulled out his notebook and a pen and quickly flipped past the notes he had made inside her rooms. Head down, he started writing.

  Leslie's mind was on her current chapter in her rewrite and had given the mail an uninterested glance. She stopped abruptly at the base of the stairs. There was a man standing at her door writing something in a small pad. Taking a step back, she looked around. Two empty apartments and the rest were quiet. Wondering if she should just go back to her car, she again looked up at the man who appeared to be dressed to play tennis. “Can I help you?” she called up in a voice that sounded calm.

  The man turned as if surprised by the sound of her voice. “Oh, there you are. Hi, again. It's just me,” Wayne replied easily as he bounded down the steps. He noticed Leslie had taken another step backwards. She didn't recognize him. “Wayne,” he pointed to his door. “Your new neighbor?”

  “Oh, right,” she answered, looking visibly relieved. “I guess I didn't recognize you. Again,” she added with an apologetic grin.

  As she didn't say anything else, Wayne indicated his notebook that she had looked at with narrowed eyes. “I was just leaving you a note to see if we could have dinner tonight. Or tomorrow. I didn't think you would be home until later.”

  Leslie momentarily looked down at her feet and ignored the invitation. “I usually only work half day on Thursdays,” she told him and gave a small smile as she headed to the stairs.

  “What about dinner, then?”

  “Well, I am pretty busy with a project. Maybe some other time.”

  Halfway up the stairs, he called up to her, “Then, how about Saturday? Hey, you have to eat sometime!” he reasoned with a friendly grin.

  “Ask me Saturday,” was the noncommittal response.

  “Okay, I will. Remember, I know where you live,” he said with a laugh and unlocked his own door.

  That last remark, meant in a humorous manner, caused a nervous shiver to travel up Leslie's arms. And she didn't know why. Rubbing her arms as if cold, she knew she had made that crack herself to friends who had borrowed something. But, this man wasn't a friend. He was trying to be friendly. That much was obvious. He had never been anything but pleasant. So, why the strange reaction? she asked herself. Not being able to explain, she set down her purse and the mail and rubbed her arms again.

  After kicking off her shoes, she made a sandwich and wandered back to the sofa to eat it. Her wandering glance fell upon her shadowbox and the sandwich froze halfway up to her mouth. Something was different. The box didn't look right.

  Leslie knew this wasn't her imagination at work—vivid as it was. No, an old boyfriend had played a game with her each time he would come over. He always, half jokingly, called her a perfectionist. To prove his point that she wouldn't tolerate something out of place, he would rearrange or hide one of her little knickknacks whenever she momentarily left the room. She would always notice, usually immediately, and find or rearrange the item to its proper place. He had always laughed at her and declared he was right. She gave a small grin as she thought about him. He had ended up unhappily married to a woman who worked full time and never touched a vacuum or dust cloth in her life.

  It was the tin sheriff's badge that Leslie had bought years before in Tombstone, Arizona. She had described it as a prop in her Western novel. Now it was leaning over and about to fall off its shelf. As she righted the badge she also noticed one of the music boxes didn't match the dust pattern under it.

  Heart pounding, she quickly looked around the living room and then went into the bedroom, her forgotten sandwich still in her left hand. Her desk. The bottom drawer wasn't closed all the way. It was just a fraction off, but…. She pulled it open to look. It was its usual cluttered mess. Slowly closing the drawer, still looking around, she could see nothing else disturbed.

  With a look of confusion on her face, she went back to the sofa. Within moments, Leslie upbraided herself for being ridiculous. “Burt was right. One little thing out of place and I fall apart. Hmph. I probably just slammed the door too hard when I left this morning and the badge fell over.”

  Thus dismissing the matter from her mind, lunch was finished and she changed out of her work dress and into comfortable jeans and a polo shirt. Pulling her lap desk out from under the sofa, she reread what she had written so far and delved back into her own little world of Rex and Jane.

  Wayne took the earpiece out of his right ear. It had been wirelessly connected to a listening device in inside Leslie's apartment. He heard her go suddenly into her bedroom and then open a desk drawer. He wondered what he had overlooked in his hasty retreat. He relaxed when he heard the sofa creak and figured she was writing again. Turning off the small receiver, he realized she apparently was no longer worried, so neither was he.

  After briefly referring to his latest notes, he began his first report to Sarah:

  “Mrs. Beck,

  As according to our agreement, I have met the third party in question and have had two occasions to briefly examine the residence of said party. A more thorough search cannot be conducted before Monday.

  Regarding said third party: I have seen two separate personalities indicated. I am attempting to form a more personal contact to get a clearer picture, but this takes time.

  Regarding the residence: A comfortable, homey, feminine atmosphere. I have found letters to and from your second party. There is also some question in my mind about the origin of some photographs of the second party. It will require further investigation.

  As the third party is employed locally and busy with another ‘project,’ there is no cause for concern at this time.

  I will continue my reports and the surveillance.

  Have a nice day.

  W.F.”

  CHAPTER 5

  At the airport, Phillip Beck just stood there on the curb next to the black limo. The driver was unloading a mountain of bags and directing the porter. Sarah had just kissed him good-bye setting off a wave of flashbulbs from the media circus that followed her every move. Davey had been distracted from his tearful hug by a whispered promise from Marty to look for a model airplane like the one they would be boarding. Davey tottered off holding “Uncle Marty's” hand and had forgotten to turn and wave one last time to his daddy. The flock of hovering, ready photographers had pushed by Phillip as Sarah regally strode into the terminal. He had been officially forgotten.

  He stood by the car until his wife's blond hair was swallowed up by the vast airport. The driver quietly reminded him that they were parked in an unloading zone and would Mr. Beck like him to return after the plane had depa
rted?

  “The plane already left,” he murmured as he retook his seat in the back. As the door clicked shut, it was eerily quiet without Davey's excited prattle.

  Since the limo had been Marty's idea, the driver took Phillip straight home and deposited him on the front walk of his house.

  Pausing in the tiled entryway, he listened to the quiet of the house. The tall grandfather clock could be heard ticking down the long hall. There were no other sounds. No maids, no house cleaners, and no gardeners could be heard since they all came on other days.

  Phillip looked around the massive house with narrowed, critical eyes. Everything was white. Tile, walls, draperies, furniture, even the bricks of the fireplace were painted white. Touches of color came from a few accent pillows and the oil paintings. Even the chandeliers in the entryway and the formal dining room seemed so stark and sterile to him right then.

  He hadn't wanted his house to look like this. He had admired the great manor houses of the English countryside when he had been on location there and had far preferred that kind of look. This house had been selected primarily because of its vaulted ceilings, sweeping staircase, and huge fireplaces. This house had the potential to recreate that warm, inviting, livable atmosphere of those grand mansions.

  However, Martin Thomas had introduced Sarah to Didi Goshen at a party one evening shortly after they moved in and Sarah's career was busy skyrocketing. Didi was THE interior decorator. All the celebrities and all the right people had Didi do their houses. The phrase “Land of Goshen” now referred to Didi's work. And Didi said white was in.

  The only room where Phillip had his way was his study in the back of the house. This room was home to a large dark walnut desk, burgundy leather sofa, overstuffed tartan chairs, a floor-to-ceiling walnut bookcase, prints of hounds and the English hunt matted in dark green and burgundy, and a large brass hunter's horn arranged with dried wild flowers.

  It was in this room that Phillip could retreat, a place where he could really relax. Davey would bring in his plastic horses and play while Phillip read over his mail or a script. It was to this room that Phillip now headed, his footsteps echoing loudly on the white Italian tile floor. But Davey wouldn't be bringing in his toys to play on the thick brown carpet. Davey was gone. For a month. At least a month, Sarah had added in the limo on the way to the airport, just before the door flung open to the photographers Marty had arranged to be there. There was a possibility of another major shoot, she had told him. She'd let him know, as she gave him a kiss and the cameras obediently began shooting.

  He took out the script for the Zenith picture “Mutiny of Love at Sea.” He hated the title. He hated his role as the captain. He hated his perfunctory lines. He hated…. No, he retracted, he hated Martin for his involvement.

  Phillip stretched out on his eight-foot sofa to go over his lines once more. He had already memorized them by the second reading, but felt he should review both the words and the action. He was still a professional and would still do the best he could with the material—such as it was.

  “Have you invited the Duchess to dine with me tonight? Good.”

  “Here, here! Stop this fight! You're officers. Now shake hands and remember you're also gentlemen.”

  “You dance well, Madam.”

  “What do you mean we are out of caviar?! That's impossible. Get me….”

  The script dropped onto his chest. Drivel. Silly drivel. Where were the interesting roles? Where was that Western he had read…when? Ten months ago? A year? Oh, yes, now he remembered. A riverboat gambler, a saloon girl, an archrival named…Jack. “The Time Police.” That was it. Now, what had happened to that script? It was different than anything they had done yet.

  He turned his head toward his desk. Bunny. He hadn't heard from her in months and wondered how her writing was coming along.

  He thought back to when his agent Bill had handed him her first letter and a very small script that was only about sixty pages long. This had now been Bunny's third attempt and it, too, centered on his Professor character. Bill had read both the letter and the story before passing them along to Phillip as was the policy for handling celebrity mail. Bill was, at first, a little concerned when he learned Phillip had personally contacted this writer, but, he too liked her short story. He could see the possible potential in a well-written, longer version. Bill had thought, as had Sarah, that a script would be more advantageous to Phillip's career than a book.

  Phillip shook his head and sighed. Didn't anyone trust his professional judgment? Bunny wasn't ready to write a script. She needed more experience. Extending her short stories into novel length and working with an agent to get them published was an excellent way for her to gain that experience. Was he the only one who realized this?

  Bunny had offered to send him a copy of her first novel to familiarize him with her new character and show how Jane arrived in “The Time Police” squad. It was then he recalled how he had dissuaded her. He told her he was overwhelmed with his own books and scripts.

  He picked up the script of “Mutiny of Love at Sea” from off his chest and dropped it to the floor. He knew over on the bookcase next to his desk were the scripts for “Senator Steve Goes to War,” “The Slasher's Guide to Love,” “The Nile—River That Time Forgot,” “Moonshine Madness,” and the ever-popular serial, “DMV—Part VI—The Senior's Revenge.” There were also a few costume dramas, two silly slapsticks that he didn't quite understand, and a science-fiction thriller. A three-hour Revolutionary War epic had been interesting, but Bill had only offered him the role of the officer who takes the first bullet.

  At least his sea captain film began rehearsal in a few days and would be over—for him—within two weeks. Then he would play the Professor again. That would take two and a half weeks. Then…nothing. Unless he agreed to take one of the repugnant offerings waiting on his bookcase.

  “Sorry, Bunny,” he muttered as his eyes closed. “I'm just too overwhelmed.”

  The phone rang in Sarah Beck's suite at the Tokyo Imperial Hotel.

  “Miss Beck's room. This is Mr. Thomas. Can I help you?”

  A static-filled voice replied, “This is Phillip. Can I talk to my wife, please?”

  “Who is this?” Marty demanded with a smug grin. “I can hardly hear you. Bad connection.”

  “Phillip here,” he shouted. “Let me talk to Sarah.”

  “Phillip? She can't come to the phone,” Martin yelled back, scratching the mouthpiece with his fingernail.

  Phillip had to hold the phone away from his ear. He could hear Martin just fine. “Where is she?”

  “In the shower,” came back the clear response.

  “Let me talk to Davey, then,” Phillip requested.

  Martin scratched the phone again. “No can do. He's not here.”

  “What? Where is he? You're supposed to be watching him!”

  Martin smiled to himself. “Don't throw a shoe, old man. He's with a sitter. We're going out tonight.” After a long enough pause, he added, “With her boss. They're throwing a party in her honor at the Fire Dragon.”

  “Will you tell her I called? Again?” The bitterness in his voice was heard through the fake static supplied by Martin. This was the third attempt to talk to his family and he had always gotten Martin.

  “Yeah, sure, old man. I'll go tell her right away. Sayonara,” Marty laughed and hung up.

  Marty was still laughing as he went to answer the knock on the door to the suite. He bowed his greeting to Mr. and Mrs. Matsui as they arrived to escort Sarah and him to their party. A limo would be waiting outside. He excused himself and quickly went to get Sarah.

  She was not in the shower as he had said, but was putting on the finishing touches to her outfit. She was pulling on gold heels to match the golden silk backless dress she was wearing. It was a stunning effect with her blond hair.

  Marty put his hands over his heart. “You take my breath away,” he declared and then told her their hosts had arrived.

  �
��Did I hear the phone? Where's my wrap, Marty?” she inquired as she hunted for a shimmering stole.

  “Wrong number,” was the smooth reply as the missing garment was located in her monstrous closet and they left for the gala event.

  The photo sessions and the television commercials were going extremely well. The country loved this lovely lady and her well-behaved, respectful child. The advertisements were released sooner than planned because of the popularity of the sample ads. A car company and a cosmetics firm had put in offers for Sarah's representation. The car company even requested Davey for ads aimed at the family.

  Sarah was recognized as the trio went sightseeing and were stopped many times for autographs by polite, almost apologetic fans. The people were delighted when she would ask questions or compliment the beauty of their country in their own language. Davey had quickly picked up a lot of the dialect as only the absorbing mind of a youth can do.

  Sarah's stay in Japan turned from a one month stay into what now looked like would be two months. Marty arranged a lot of off-time excursions to keep Davey excited and Sarah preoccupied. They cruised the harbor amongst the colorful fishing boats and attended the Kabuki Theater. There were trips to the mountains, the beach, entertainment areas, and beautifully sculpted gardens with intimate tea ceremonies. The shopping was extraordinary. Davey was enthralled by all the new electronic toys that he had never even seen back home. Marty even bought him a small personal computer designed for the young mind.

  By now Davey had quit asking when they were going home. The questions about “Daddy” slowed to a trickle and finally stopped. To him it seemed as if his big, tall, strong daddy just wasn't around any longer and what was once concern had now turned into acceptance.