“I don’t care what he is! Thanks to him, that dirty little rat has something on me.”
“Zeke?” When she nodded, I asked, “What could he possibly—”
“He threatened to go to Nancy and tell her Jon destroyed studio property if I don’t agree to two things. First, I have to go out with him, which is . . . ugh! I’d rather drink antifreeze!”
I cringed. “What’s the second thing?”
“That’s even better!” she exclaimed with ultra-fake enthusiasm. “I have to let that worm look over any rewrites I make to any script from now on. This is beyond insane! I just got this stupid promotion and already it’s—”
“Hold on. Rewrites?” I interrupted. My heart raced almost as fast as the implications that formed in my mind. “He wants to know about changes to your scripts? Start over. What did he say exactly?”
“What?”
“You said Zeke wants to know whenever you make any revisions to scripts, right?” Sighing, she nodded. “Why would he need to know if you’re changing the script?”
“Well, he is the set production assistant.”
“Yeah, I get that part, but why does he want to know first? Didn’t that strike you as odd?”
“Everything about Zeke Rivers is odd.” Gritting her teeth, she added, “He’s an egotistical, obnoxious little—”
“Jackass?”
“Yeah,” she frowned, shivering. Suddenly, her cell phone began to ring. Shutting her eyes, she cursed as she pulled it out of her pocket. Looking at the screen, she muttered, “Not again. I swear this has to be the worst day ever . . . yes, this is Heather. What? Could you repeat that? Are you serious? Please . . . tell me you’re joking. No, of course I didn’t say . . . no! I didn’t . . . I’m sorry. Yes, I heard you. Okay, fine. I’m on my way.”
“What’s wrong?” I asked quietly, watching the high stress level my best friend was already exuding quadruple within seconds.
“We’ve got another emergency,” she muttered, cursing again as she shoved her phone back in her pocket.
“Is – is there anything I can do?”
“Just keep your non-boyfriend away from the crew, okay? I can’t handle anything else right now.”
“Heather, I’m sorry.”
“Jordan, I can’t. Not now. We’ll talk later.” She hurried across the deck and toward the lodge’s black tinted glass doors.
14
As I watched Heather walk away, the knot in my stomach tightened. I hated to see her this way—annoyed, frustrated, stressed. What made it worse was that instead of helping alleviate it, I was just adding to it. Shivering as a gust of frosty air assaulted me, I hurried up the steps to the lodge. Opening the double doors, I was instantly greeted by blazing warmth and the savory aroma of rich cinnamon and hot chocolate.
Blinking, my eyes slowly adjusted to the dim lighting. I found myself in a large, open area that resembled a cozy rustic cabin despite its immense size. The room, decorated with natural hues of burnt orange and sturdy, red oak logs, had two great, stone fireplaces over six feet in height on opposite sides of the lodge along with plush, dark leather couches near the fireplaces and red oak dining tables in the room’s center. Ceiling to floor windows provided guests with an unobstructed view of the breathtaking mountain vista in all its glory. Resort employees were in abundance, assuring that any guest’s needs would be accommodated promptly.
At that moment, it was easy to distinguish the television crew from the other guests because members of the crew were scrambling around frantically. It was a jarring juxtaposition to the tranquil scene for which the room had been created. I spotted Heather for a second before she disappeared inside an unmarked door. I considered following her, but thought better of it. Instead, I decided to ‘people watch’ to see if anyone was behaving suspiciously. After a few minutes of walking around aimlessly and eavesdropping, it was clear that everyone was aware of Trip’s accident, but no one knew about his death.
“Well, I heard it was props,” a short woman with thin, white-blonde hair whispered, taking a sip of hot chocolate. “They haven’t had it together since James left.”
“Well, naturally,” scoffed a guy with shoulder-length brown hair, rolling his eyes for added drama. Removing the Bluetooth device from his ear, he continued, “But, my dear, I heard it was Trip’s own fault. He had, ahem, a little too much . . . shall we say . . . fun . . . last night.”
“No!” the woman gasped, clutching her heart with fervor.
“Yes!”
“But isn’t he . . . ?”
“He is,” he nodded. Looking both ways, he loudly whispered, “Just released from rehab last month.”
“Rehab? I heard he had his wisdom teeth removed.”
“A lie, my dear, bald faced and quite flimsy, I might add—”
“I never would have guessed it!”
“Well, he is an actor.”
“Actor? I thought he was a stunt man.”
“I didn’t say he’s a good actor.”
“Miss, would you care for a cup of hot chocolate?”
It took me a minute to realize the resort employee, a man of forty with a shiny bald head, pencil-thin black goatee, small hoop earring, and horn-rim glasses, was talking to me. Caught off guard, I let out an audible mumble. Beside me, the two gossips exchanged an annoyed look as they walked away. Undeterred, the employee repeated his question.
“Would you care for some hot chocolate? We have the finest available. It’s imported from Switzerland and available in dairy free, non-fat, organic, original, or sugar free. It’s complimentary to all resort guests.”
“Well—”
“Don’t believe it,” a deep voice called from the couch behind me. “It’s all the same. It’s all crap.”
I whirled around to find Roch Turner sitting with his back to me, reading the Wall Street Journal on his tablet. I saw the resort employee’s face contort into an expression of embarrassment and indignation. Tilting his chin up, he turned on his heel and stormed away, his shiny black shoes clicking with each step. Although Roch’s eyes didn’t leave the tablet, it was obvious he knew the man had left.
“Told you it was crap,” he muttered, swiping his index finger across the screen to turn the page.
“Thanks, I guess,” I mumbled. “So . . . what are you doing?”
“Enjoying the ambiance,” he quipped, flipping the electronic page once more.
“Shouldn’t you, I don’t know, be learning the script?” I walked around the couch and sat on the one opposite his. Although I intended to engage him in conversation, I was also using him as a cover to listen to other nearby conversations.
“No need,” he muttered, squinting at the screen and frowning slightly. “Six and a half percent? That can’t be right.”
“I know shooting has been delayed because of the . . . accident, but still, shouldn’t you learn your lines? I heard—”
“What are you, my agent?” he frowned, glancing at me for a second. Staring at the screen again, he mumbled, “It is true. Great. That’s just . . . great. You’re still here? What do you want?”
“Huh?” I had been eavesdropping on the two gossips again and heard the guy mention something about Roch having an illegitimate love child. When Roch nodded at me, I shrugged. “Oh, uh, well, I . . . I don’t understand why you don’t think you need to learn the script.”
“It’s simple, bright eyes,” he smiled sarcastically, scratching his scruffy chin as he stood up. “This crap is always the same. Same cliché lines, same tired plots. Every cheesy family sitcom follows the same formula. Schooling Dad is no different. There’s no need to learn this crap because I already know it.”
“That’s not true,” I snapped, my brow furrowing defensively. “Heather is a great writer! Probably the best one to ever wri
te for this show! And this script is—”
“Oh, that’s right,” his brown eyes lit up with recognition as he stared down at me and laughed. “You’re the new head writer’s friend. I stand by what I said. These scripts are crap. Doesn’t matter who writes ‘em, they always end up the same.”
I stared up at a man I had watched on television and in movies my entire life. Roch Turner, a man whose fame was the result of his good looks, not his talent, was complaining about the show that was not only providing him with more money than I could ever imagine, but also with continued fame despite his lack of effort. Roch’s attitude annoyed me, but it was his flagrant disregard for all those behind the scenes, people like Heather who worked so hard to make him look good, that made me furious.
“Harsh words for someone who just won an Emmy because of this crap,” I remarked. “Sounds like you’re just bitter because you aren’t the star.”
“Bitter?” he repeated, his tanned and chiseled features contorting, revealing the age that make up and one too many Botox injections attempted to mask. I felt my heart sink as I watched his eyes narrow and feared the worst. I stumbled to come up with an apology that could calm down a diva of his caliber.
“Listen,” I stammered, swallowing hard. “What I just said, it was . . . I was out of line. Totally out of line. I’m sorry—”
“No, you’re not,” he retorted, clenching his jaw. Running his fingers through his hair, he shook his head and sat down again. “The pathetic part is you’re right. I am bitter. I’m bitter that my sleazy agent got me stuck in a contract for seven years playing second fiddle to a teenaged nightmare. I’m bitter that I’ve lost out on several Academy award-wining roles because this stupid show conflicted with the schedules. I’m bitter because I’m now being marketed for comedy instead of drama. You want to know what roles I’ve been offered this year? Sappy made-for-TV movies! Me! Roch Turner! I’m an action star!”
“I’m sorry,” I muttered. “I had no idea.”
“Hey, it’s all right, bright eyes,” he cooed, a strange smile creeping across his face. Still smiling, he sat beside me on the couch with his left arm resting on the cushion behind me. I stood up and he laughed. “You like to play hard to get, huh?”
“Try impossible.” I gagged back my repulsion. Thankfully, he was too self-absorbed to notice my disgust. He laughed again, which gave me a chance to scan the lodge for an excuse to leave. God must have heard my silent prayer because my eyes landed on Zeke Rivers, who rushed in the door with a frown on his face and a new Bluetooth device in his ear. “Listen, Mr. Turner—”
“Call me Roch.”
“I . . . no,” I mumbled, clenching my teeth to avoid saying something else I’d regret. As I turned to leave, I thought about saying it was nice talking to him but in truth, it hadn’t been and I never was one for lying. I hurried over to Zeke, surprised how grateful I was to see the jerk. He didn’t notice me until I was standing right in front of him. When he did, his frown deepened.
“Chris, gotta go. Yeah, do that. Bye.” He tapped the earpiece as he glared at me. “Where’s your henchman? Out harassing other very important people?”
“About that,” I began, taking a deep breath. “I’m sorry. Jon was completely out of line, it’s just—”
“Hold that thought. Talk to me,” he chirped, tapping the earpiece again. “What? Chris, no! Are you serious? Oh, my . . . this is not that complicated! I need you to—”
“. . . he thought it was really rude the way you kept interrupting our conversation with phone calls,” I continued, raising my voice. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s standard practice in Hollywood, but where I’m from—”
“No, I did not authorize that!”
“. . . people have manners,” I added a little too loudly. At this, Zeke glanced at me and frowned again. I wasn’t sure if my comment annoyed him, or if it was Chris, who is apparently the most inept assistant’s assistant on the face of the planet.
“Chris, gotta go. If you don’t get this right, I swear I’ll send you back to Iowa first thing tomorrow.” Sighing deeply, he looked at me. “All right, babe. Make it quick.”
“You borrowed some skis from the props department this morning, right?”
“Yeah, Robin loaned ‘em to me.”
“Did you adjust them at all?”
“No need. Alson and I are the same size.” Winking, he added, “I, however, am much better looking.”
“Why did you borrow those skis?” I pressed. “If you’ve been here setting up since Sunday, wouldn’t it have made sense to just rent a pair of your own?”
“Hold on there, babe,” he smiled, shaking his head. “The crew, the grunts, they’ve been here since Sunday. I flew in yesterday with Nancy and the cast. First class. This boy doesn’t fly coach.”
“If you can afford first class, why not rent your own skis?”
“What’s with the third degree?”
“I’m trying to understand why you borrowed prop skis an hour before filming,” I explained, biting my lip to keep from adding an insulting remark.
His eyes narrowed. “Hold on. Do you think I had something to do with Trip’s accident?”
“Did you?”
“Come on, babe, do you really have to ask that?” he asked, revealing an all-too-charming smile. When I refused to answer, the façade dropped. “No, I had nothing to do with Trip’s accident. Those skis were fine when I used ‘em and fine when I returned ‘em. Satisfied?”
“No,” I shook my head. “What did you do when you were finished with them?”
“I put them back,” he rolled his eyes.
“Where?”
“By that crappy makeshift props table they set up.”
“You didn’t return them to Robin or Seth?”
“Seth? I never talk to that piece of—”
“What did you do with the skis?” I interrupted.
“I told you. I put them back. Are we finished?”
“Not yet. Was anyone around when you put them back?”
“No . . . wait, yeah, actually. That woman was there.”
“Woman? What woman?”
“Hold on, babe,” he held up his left index finger and tapped his earpiece. “Talk to me. Chris? Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me! Can’t you do anything on your own, you worthless little . . . what? Repeat that. He died? If you’re joking, Chris, so help me . . . you’re serious? Where’d you hear that? No, no one’s told me anything . . . of course they’d tell me. I’m the P.A.!”
“What woman?” I repeated.
Zeke held up his finger again.
“Repeat that part about Alson.” Throwing his head back, he groaned. “Perfect! That’s perfect! This entire episode is a freaking nightmare! At this rate we’ll be at this crappy resort ‘til New Year’s . . . so no one knows where he is? He was last seen where? By who? What! I thought this was a closed set! How did the paps . . . figures. Yeah, I’ll be right there. Uh huh, uh huh. No, dummy, just . . . fine. Bye.”
“What was that?”
“I can’t believe this!” he exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air dramatically. “I don’t get paid nearly enough for this crap.”
“What happened? What woman?” I exclaimed as he rushed past me to the exit. He didn’t reply. Instead, he picked up his pace, nearly knocking over two teenaged skiers as he pushed the doors open and hurried out into the brisk morning air. Sighing, I frowned. “Great.”
“There you are. I need your help.”
I turned around and found Heather next to me, texting furiously on her cell phone. Although I was happy she still wanted my help after the Bluetooth fiasco, the expression on her face made me a little uneasy. It was a look I rarely saw in our twenty-plus-year friendship. Behind an eerily calm exterior, there was pure panic, a panic that could
be set off by almost anything and result in a meltdown of epic proportions.
“Hey, Heather,” I replied, smiling cautiously. “What’s up?”
“Alson’s missing. Again,” she muttered, still staring at her cell phone screen. When the phone beeped, she read a response text before groaning, “Perfect. Could this day get any worse?”
“What happened?”
“The paparazzi,” she frowned, texting again. “Somehow, they found out about Trip. Someone just posted on Hollywood Minute that Trip died and that Alson was the intended target. Plus, they’ve announced he’s missing. How do they get this stuff? We didn’t know Alson was gone until some random resort employee asked Charlotte because he read it online on his break!”
“I guess that’s what he was talking about,” I muttered to myself. “What’s Hollywood Minute?”
“One of those stupid celebrity websites that pay paps tons of money for details and pics of celebrities at their worst.” She sighed. “You know, cheating on spouses, drunk driving, huge meltdowns. It’s disgusting, but so many people read that garbage they have more sponsors than our show. I wish I knew who the leak was.”
“What can I do to help?”
“We need to find Alson before this gets any worse.” Glancing around, she whispered, “I don’t buy into gossip, but I think you’re right about that ski. I think someone wanted to hurt Alson. We need to find him fast. Do you have any leads on the case?”
“Well . . . no. I don’t have any leads yet, but I may be onto something.”
“What?” she demanded.
“Well, Zeke said when he returned the skis to props, some woman was there.”
Bitter Retribution (Jordan James, PI Series) Page 15