Killer Beach Reads

by Gemma Halliday Publishing

  Born and raised a true southern belle, Kerri holds many useful secrets: how to bake a killer peach cobbler, how to charm suspects with proper batting of the eyelashes, and how to turn your parasol into a handy weapon.

  Kerri is an active member of both Sisters in Crime and International Thriller Writers, and as a mentor to other authors, Kerri has successfully developed her popular Book Factory Method and assisted dozens of authors achieve publication via pitches crafted in her Pitchworthy class.

  She also edits professionally through her freelance editorial service, Deep Cover Edits, and as a staff editor for two small presses. Her latest writing adventure is the new #1 Bestselling Cozy Mystery series "The Working Stiff Mysteries" now available wherever books are sold.

  To learn more about Kerri Nelson, visit her online at:

  http://www.kerrinelson.com

  BOOKS BY KERRI NELSON

  Working Stiff Mysteries:

  Remote Consequences

  Worked to Death

  Ornamental Danger (holiday short story)

  Other works:

  Cross Check My Heart

  Vegan Moon

  Making the Ghost of It

  Double Take

  Kissing the Bull

  Falsify

  MR. MONTANA

  by

  Ellyn Oaksmith

  * * * * *

  Her father was right. Again. How annoying. Never work for an actress, he'd said last year. You can't trust them as far as you can throw them. Of course Becca had reminded him that most Hollywood actresses weighed as much as your average twelve-year-old and could, in fact, be thrown very far, but he'd plowed right on, telling her that he'd seen things in his years as an entertainment attorney that would, and did, make grown men cry. Then she'd tuned him out. She had taken the job. Which had turned out to be a colossal mistake.

  Now Becca was running through Celia's Beverly Hills French Chateau-inspired (Celia's designer's words) mansion gathering up the kids clothes as she spoke to her father, who'd told her when she finally reached him that he was due to meet Tom at the Ivy in ten minutes so she'd better make it snappy. Cruise of course. "Do not quit baby. You didn't listen to your old man but I'm not a bitter man nor am I one to say I told you so." He paused long enough for her to acknowledge that this was exactly what he was saying. "Furthermore, I did not raise a coward. You fly up there and face Celia and give her two weeks' notice face-to-face like a professional."

  "Oh, like what she did was professional?" Becca made sure to walk carefully upstairs. Last month a maid had landed in the ER after slipping on the marble staircase.

  There was a pause while her father gave agitated directions to his driver, a man who'd driven her father to the Ivy thousands of times. "I raised my kid to do the right thing. Look at me. I always do the right thing."

  "You always do the right thing? What about cheating on mom?" And you are a Hollywood attorney, Dad. There's that.

  She was in Brooklyn's bedroom looking for the $500 boots Celia had bought her in New York last month. Because, of course, in Montana a thirteen-year-old needed Rag & Bone boots to operate a horse. And go glamping, which, Becca now knew from the Oasis Ranch website, was basically moving a Hollywood living room into a meadow, erecting a tent that cost more than most people's homes, and calling it camping.

  Like many celebrities, Celia vacationed for free. The Oasis Ranch had been trying to land Celia for three years, ever since she started her lifestyle website. Last week, when Celia's latest romance had soured, she demanded that Becca get her into the Oasis, which was booked a solid year in advance. Some poor, non-famous family was bumped, and voila, Celia was on her way by private jet, leaving Becca, as usual, to deal with the crap.

  Becca searched the walk-in closet that couldn't really be called a closet. It was an entire room with an illuminated shoe cupboard, a curved settee upholstered in French toile, and a pale blue dressing table that Celia's decorator found in Paris. After being raised in the thick of this privileged world with her own horse, private schools, and car service to grade school (post-divorce), Becca still wasn't used to the obscene excess. This closet, for instance, made her slightly nauseated

  Isabelle had been shocked when she found out her only child wanted to be an actress. Thank God, she'd said. I thought you wanted to do something disgusting and dirty like work for Greenpeace.

  When Isabelle was informed that Becca wouldn't allow her to donate to their friend's charities in a nonverbal but tacit agreement that Becca would have a small role in their next film, Isabelle had been furious. Honey, I don't doubt your talent or your drop-dead beauty. (Becca looked just like her mother, who had been an actress, long ago.) But this town runs on nepotism. Deal with it.

  Finally, Becca located the boot under Brooklyn's canopied bed. A closet like that, and she's still a slob.

  Her dad was cursing at his driver for parking too far from the curb. She heard him say hello to someone as he presumably climbed out of the car. "The right thing? Oh please, your mother's alimony is the right thing times twenty million. I love your mother, God help me, but you're going to ruin my appetite if you drag up all that."

  Becca went downstairs to the all-white living room with the wildly colorful abstract art lining the walls and the two-story limestone fireplace. "Dad, I want revenge. What she did to me is unforgivable."

  "Hang on, Max," her dad said to someone. "Baby, baby. You are right. That was a low blow, even for a snake like Celia. But you know the saying revenge is a dish best served cold?"

  "I know what you're going to say. You're going to say that this is a small town, and Celia is a big fish, and if I ever want to be an actress I have to make nice with Celia, no matter what she did."

  "God no. Screw that bitch. Revenge is a dish best served hot. With lots of malice. You go up to Montana and you figure out how to get Celia back without her ever knowing that it was you. But be careful kid, you're only twenty-three. Celia was eating producers for breakfast at that age. What time does your plane leave?"

  "Two hours." Celia, of course, had hitched a ride on a private jet from some friends headed to Aspen. Brooklyn and her younger brother Dex had never flown commercial in their lives. Celia required Becca, and all her BloomingLife.com employees, to fly coach. Becca wasn't even sure if she had to rent a car or if someone was meeting her in Bozeman. Celia was doing a "technology cleanse." Becca was supposed to document everything: Celia's squeaky-clean diet, bonding with her two children in sunny meadows, smiling at the camera holding a bottle of water before she screamed at Becca to get her another friggin' Diet Coke before she friggin' died.

  In theory, Becca's job was social media coordinator for BloomingLife.com. BloomingLife's lovely VP, Raven, had promised Becca that this was an ideal job for a young actress eager to meet the industry elite. An actress needs life exposure. Celia loves mentoring people. She knows you'll move on, but life is all about transition. Celia knows that. Two months later, Celia had fired Raven and all her ilk, except for Becca, who had a powerful father. Now Becca was digging through a ten-year-old's crusty laundry looking for his lucky Dodgers T-shirt.

  "Two hours, baby. Shit," said her dad. "I'll send my car."

  Becca thanked her dad and got off the phone to go locate Celia's fat jeans, which were a size four.

  Maybe she'd get lucky and Celia would be eaten by a bear.

  She wouldn't make much of a meal.

  * * *

  The Bozeman airport was the smallest airport Becca had ever seen, more like a lodge that happened to have a runway. Becca had been trying to call the Oasis Ranch for hours: from LAX, from the air, and now, repeatedly, as the hour grew later and the sun dipped behind the nearby mountains. All she'd gotten was a recording. Becca shivered as she paced outside the airport, looking for a car or van that said Oasis Ranch, but the other passengers from her flight had left hours ago. The airport looked ready to close. Through the windows Becca could see a stuffed grizzly that seemed to be looking at her through the
windows, still furious it had been shot and looking for retribution.

  "I know how you feel, pal," thought Becca. It still stung, fresh as a new wound, when she pictured Zac Nalan staring at his shoes.

  "Becca, I don't know how to say this," he'd stammered.

  Zac Nalan had gone to Choate Prep in Connecticut with Becca. They'd seen each other in the hallways and flirted a little, but when they'd discovered that they both were from Beverly Hills they'd switched gears and bonded, as friends. Now Zac was the hottest video director in town with a bankroll from his Uncle Steven, whose last name was Spielberg, for his first feature. He also happened to be wildly talented and had decided to shoot in town, quick and dirty and low budget.

  So Becca got an audition.

  And killed it.

  Rarely did she know when she'd gotten it right, but this time something just clicked. Zac almost had tears in his eyes. Except when he called her over, he had a very hard time spitting out what he had to say. In fact, no one could meet her eyes, so Zac took her into a back room and delivered the bomb.

  "I didn't tell Uncle Steven any of this, because he's really not afraid of anyone, but I'm just too young to cop an attitude like that."

  When Becca asked what he was talking about he stared at the ground and finally said, "Celia loves working with you. I mean, your posts are very artsy and hip, and you know, you make Celia look relevant and young." Celia was forty-two, a very tough age for actresses, but Celia took it further. She spent hours with her personal trainer, chased the latest in skin therapy, had work done here and there, and lied about all of it. She wanted to make it look effortless.

  "So?" Becca had said, really not getting it.

  Zac looked at the door like he wanted to be anywhere but trapped in a little room with Becca delivering bad news. "She's said you're not ready to act. You need life experience."

  "What the hell?"

  "Everyone knows it's code for 'hire Becca Haynes, and I'll never work with you again.'"

  Her whole body had gone cold. Then hot. "What?"

  "I mean, she never exactly said it, so your dad can't go after her, but Celia is box office gold. Platinum really and—"

  "That is why I haven't gotten one role in a year?" She had gotten several callbacks, but maybe they just did it so they didn't look like chickens. Or so that she never caught on.

  Zac had nodded miserably. "Please don't tell anyone I told you." He'd collapsed into a chair, running his hands through his thick, wavy hair. "I feel like shit. I'm so sorry."

  Becca didn't remember leaving the studio or driving home. She'd sat in front of her television, drank an entire bottle of wine, and woken up with a miserable hangover. Her phone was ringing. It was Celia.

  * * *

  A beat-up, old pickup truck pulled up a few yards from her. It was the only vehicle in sight, other than a few meandering headlights in the tiny town across the tracks. The driver wore a battered, straw cowboy hat. Becca thought she'd never seen someone get out of a truck quite like this man. It was a process, almost performance art. Surely this guy would laugh his head off if he knew what she was thinking. Without a word, he planted himself on the dark sidewalk, studying her. The night was so big, the stars so bright. Somewhere a train whistled. Becca felt like she was in a movie.

  "Hi." Great first line, she thought. Yeah, you should totally be an actress. You sure know how to make an entrance.

  He walked toward her, moving remarkably fast for someone not running. "You're late." She was going to protest that it hadn't been her fault, but something about him made her shut up. "I'll get your bag."

  "Are you from the Oasis Ranch?" She must look horrible. Her blonde hair was dirty, yanked back in a limp clump. Her skinny jeans sagged. Her Levi's jean jacket was from high school. There was nothing LA-actress-y about her, except maybe her clichéd prerequisites: tall, slender, and finely boned. Her mother might be a neurotic mess, but she had good genes.

  The driver looked up from the brim of his pale cowboy hat, and her heart just about stopped. He was young and just that crazy kind of handsome. The kind that makes a girl's brain fade out as her body salivates. No flawed hero here. He was all that and a bag of chips. "Yep."

  Mr. Montana threw Becca's suitcase into the back of the truck. She tried not to stare at him, but the comparison to a young Paul Newman was startling, with a little bit of Robert Redford thrown in (shoulders, earnest seriousness) circa Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. He had those cornflower blue eyes that make girls trot after a boy like he's the ice cream truck, and they've just gotten their allowance.

  He caught her looking and seemed annoyed, so Becca studied the beat-up Chevy truck. "Um, how do I know you're from the ranch?"

  He opened the door for Becca, drumming his fingers on the window. "Because I said so."

  She went for flirtatious, tilting her head with calculated adorableness. "What if you're a serial killer?"

  He stared back, not amused. "Now that's a new one."

  "Well, are you?"

  He rolled his eyes. "Do you think a bona fide serial killer would honestly answer that question?"

  "Good point," Becca said, climbing into the cab, thinking that this trip suddenly got more interesting.

  "I'm Mack," said the cowboy as the Chevy roared to life. Becca loved being high up off the ground, watching millions of stars twinkling through the dirty windshield. "I got roped into airport duty because we're short-staffed tonight." He didn't have to say he wasn't happy about it. He oozed irritation.

  "Celia will do that to people." They both bounced as the pickup pulled out of the airport parking lot over a train track. Becca thought she saw a tiny hint of a smile. "Cowboy Mack."

  He scowled. "No. Not a cowboy."

  "Well then, what are you?"

  He didn't look at her as he drove the car onto the freeway on-ramp. There was nothing but miles of darkness and black craggy hills as Bozeman peeled off behind them. "Just a guy with a summer job."

  She wanted to talk more, but Mack turned on the radio, settling into the drive. "We'll be there in forty-five minutes."

  "Okeydokey," she said, wincing at how stupid she sounded.

  "Okeydokey," Mack repeated, almost whispering. It was too dark to see if he was smiling.

  Probably not.

  * * *

  "I'm really sorry about this. We're a little—" said Mari Jessup, the co-owner, with her husband, of the Oasis Ranch.

  "Overbooked," Becca finished the sentence.

  Mari nodded gratefully by the light of the softly glowing LCD lantern she was holding. They were standing at a tiny cabin in a clearing with several other identical cabins near the stables. The smell of manure hung in the air. During the day, dust would be kicked up from the riding arena. Mari had been falling all over herself explaining, in a diplomatic way, that Celia's diva-like landing had thrown the delicate balance of their ranch into chaos.

  Turbulence that Celia would never feel, Becca thought as Mari unlocked the creaky old cabin. It smelled of mice and dust. Celia was the Zen center of a tornado of scurrying, polishing, waxing, and tending with one object: making sure everything on Planet Celia flowed. And here I am, thought Becca, as she sat on the thin, lumpy ticking mattress and gazed around her after Mari, still apologizing, left. In the servants' quarters.

  * * *

  "Look what the cat dragged home," Becca heard when she stepped outside the next morning looking for a cup of coffee, a shower, and something to take the sticky coating off her tongue.

  It was Mr. Montana looking like he'd stepped off a package of gorgeousness, in his Levi's, chaps, cowboy hat, and blinding smile. He was hefting a huge leather saddle on one shoulder as if it were a bag of feathers. Chaps. Yes, that's what they were called, right? Male strippers wore them. Shit, Becca. Get a freakin' grip.

  "What time is it?" Becca asked, pulling her Chanel sunglasses over her eyes. Her phone had died.

  "Seven o'clock." Mack smirked.

  "I bet you've been u
p for hours," said Becca, wondering exactly how awful she looked.

  Mack's smirk deepened. "Since the cock crowed." He winked. "Go get some coffee."

  He was in the stables before Becca could completely recover. Did he really just say that?

  * * *

  The food in the lodge dining room was delicious but Becca could hardly eat because Brooklyn was detailing her many complaints about the ranch: the spotty cell phone coverage (what happened to the technology fast?), the fact that her mother actually expected her to go into the woods, where there were actual real live bears, the fact that the food was "un-eatable," and Celia (her new thing, calling her mother Celia to annoy her) had a hidden stash of Toblerone that she denied existed. "I can smell it in the air. Seriously. It has this smell, like honey and—"

  "Chocolate," Becca stopped Brooklyn short. What if the world could see how Celia's life really ran? How her kids were just like everyone else's: fun and sweet sometimes and annoying and irritating the rest. That Celia didn't eat clean at all really. Ranch Doritos happened. In-N-Out Burgers made frequent cameos. Pot was smoked. Rivers of Napa wine played a starring role. These vacations, which according to the photos Becca snapped and posted, using Celia's login on BloomingLifeBlog, Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram were really just a carefully executed lifestyle branding campaign, part of which was shamelessly pimping her "perfect" children.

  What if the world found out that it wasn't all sunshine and eating lobster in Gucci bathing suits? That it was Celia berating her staff, guzzling Jack Daniels and Diet Coke for dinner, and chasing men who wanted the Celia of the past. The Celia from the iconic paparazzi image: dancing on Valentino's yacht, wearing nothing but a crisp white man's shirt. She'd been perfect then.