The Trouble on Highway One

by Anne McClane

  Ambrose gave a low bark.

  “Okay, sorry, Bro,” Lacey said. “I know you’re your own dog, not mine.”

  Eli, silent, stared at her with his left eye.

  “What is going on?” she asked. “What made him do that?”

  “If you really want to know,” he answered, “go back there now. They are about to exit the room. You were looking for Kandace, weren’t you?”

  “What about Ambrose?” she asked. “I’m not bringing him back there.”

  “We’ll be outside when you’re done.”

  “I don’t want to leave him. Bringing him here was a bad idea all around.”

  “Leave him with me, Lacey. It will be okay.”

  Lacey was rooted to the floor in front of the utility closet. She wondered how long she could stay like that before she’d have to act.

  Lacey, be present. Quit playing through scenarios. Leave Ambrose with me. All will be well.

  Her eyes widened. I hate it when you do that!

  “Get over it, and go,” he said.

  Lacey leaned past Eli, trying to make contact with Ambrose again. He looked up at her, wagging his tail.

  “Fine,” she said. She turned on her heel.

  This is what I was waiting for with Eli? How is this helping me understand my gift any better?

  She slowed her pace as she approached Marco’s office, and took a few slow, deep breaths. Marco opened the door for Kandace, who came through followed by a man in a navy jacket and khaki slacks. He looked and smelled like high dollar. A subtle cologne, a musk with notes of bergamot, lingered. Lacey recognized the scent instantly—it was the same worn by her old boss. “A bespoke potion from a Paris parfumerie” was what Trip Carriere would say when asked about it.

  “There she is now,” Marco said, looking in Lacey’s direction. Lacey turned her head to look behind her. No one was there.

  “Yes, you,” Marco said, playing magnanimous director. “We were just telling Mr. Savin, here . . . ”

  “Please, call me Gus,” the man in the navy jacket interrupted. His accent was unmistakably New Orleanian.

  “Yes, of course,” Marco continued, “we were just saying how we had someone from New Orleans in our production crew.”

  Lacey stood and tried not to appear dumbfounded. She knew who he was, but had never met him in person. And had never seen his name associated with this production. Kandace wore a smug smile, obviously puffed up over being included in the meeting.

  “You certainly picked the right time of year to be away,” Gus Savin said. “The climate out here has been nothing less than breathtaking.

  “Gus Savin,” he said, holding out a well-manicured hand to Lacey. There was an antique ring on his pinky.

  Lacey attempted a genuine smile. “Lacey Becnel.”

  “Lacey Becnel,” he said, retrieving his hand and holding his chin. “Why do I know that name?”

  Lacey tried to come up with some response that would have nothing to do with Trip and her old job, to no avail.

  “You’re Trip Carriere’s associate! Or were, I guess I should say.”

  Lacey was surprised he didn’t say “Trip Carriere’s girl.”

  “Yes, I did work for Trip. I’m surprised you knew that,” she said before she could stop herself. She figured Trip Carriere’s associate would have been beneath his attention. “I’ve certainly spoken with several of your employees over the years.”

  “Her former employer is quite an antiques collector,” he said, addressing Marco and Kandace. “And quite the character, too, I might add.”

  There’s a euphemism if I ever heard one, Lacey thought.

  Gus Savin looked over his shoulder. “Enrique, are you ready?”

  Lacey noticed for the first time a young man in a seersucker suit, still in the meeting room. He was struggling with a ferret, trying to place him into a carrier.

  “You should never have worn seersucker out here, and especially not when you have to wrassle with Percival,” Gus Savin said.

  Lacey tried to process what she was seeing and hearing. The ferret might possibly explain Ambrose’s reaction. But why on earth would one of the wealthiest old-money men in New Orleans be meeting with the director of a grade-C television movie, much less bring along his assistant and a ferret named Percival?

  Gus Savin re-entered the office to supervise Enrique’s efforts. Marco and Kandace acted like ferrets and moneymen were business-as-usual for them. Kandace stood, quiet, and Marco examined the door to his office.

  “How long have you been here?” Marco asked.

  Lacey turned, but wasn’t sure if he was addressing her. “Excuse me?”

  “Have you been in the hallway long?” he asked.

  “Oh. I was here a few moments ago. I was trying to find Kandace. I just came back,” she said.

  Marco looked more closely at the door to his office. He ran his fingers along two fresh scratches in the door.

  Oh, fuck, Lacey thought when she noticed what Marco was doing.

  “Did you see anything?” he asked. “We heard a loud noise toward the end of our meeting, like someone banging against the door.”

  How to play this?

  “Oh gosh, I’m sorry, that was probably me. I was carrying a box of files, wasn’t watching where I going. I stumbled against the door. I’m so sorry.”

  Marco glared at her. “You shouldn’t be lugging heavy things around,” he said in a low voice. Lacey swallowed hard. “You, of all people, should know what a nightmare workers comp is,” he said.

  “That’s on me, Marco,” Kandace said, her voice bright. “I’d asked Lacey to bring a set of reports to my office. I hadn’t realized there’d be so many of them.”

  Lacey turned to Kandace, nonplussed.

  Kandace actually smiled and touched Lacey on the elbow. “She’s always trying to do too much.”

  “That’s what I’d always heard from Trip Carriere,” Gus Savin said, now back in the doorway. Enrique stood next to him, his suit lapels coated with ferret fur and a long lank of his black hair hanging in his face. He clutched the carrier containing a restless Percival.

  “I can tell you’re running a tight ship, here, Marco,” he said, holding out his hand. Lacey could see the insignia on his pinky ring for the first time. An “S” set in a fountain.

  “Thank you,” Marco said. “I hire good people.” He shot a laser-eyed glare at Kandace. “I’ll see you to your car. I’ll get you the details on that restaurant.”

  Something in the way he said “restaurant” made Lacey think he wasn’t really referring to a restaurant. The way Marco and Savin spoke to each other gave her the creeps.

  They disappeared down the corridor; beleaguered Enrique followed with the ferret. Lacey and Kandace stood alone. Lacey was ready for Kandace to do an about-face, but still wanted to recognize the charitable moment.

  “Kandace, thank you,” Lacey said.

  “For what?” she said. She had a sly smile on her face Lacey had never seen before. “Marco is going to give me shit for my over-reliance on paper, but that’s nothing new.”

  Lacey wasn’t sure how to respond. She didn’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth.

  “Sorry for that,” Lacey said. “I just wanted to see if you needed me for anything. I’m getting ready to head out.”

  “No, go ahead. Have a nice night.”

  “What time tomorrow?” Lacey asked.

  “Eight thirty should be fine,” she said as she headed toward her office.

  “Okay,” Lacey said to Kandace’s back.

  Lacey turned in a trance. On the way to retrieve her purse before meeting Eli and Ambrose, she pondered everything that had transpired over the last twelve hours. Nothing had happened as she expected. She wasn’t sure what she had expected, but she was sure she had not anticipated
anything as surreal as her encounter with Savin. Or Kandace covering for her.

  11

  On the way into work the next morning, this time without Ambrose, Lacey tried to remember everything she knew about Gus Savin.

  She knew he was her old boss’s adversary, an uptown socialite who had deprived Trip Carriere of his chance to be the youngest-ever King of Carnival (according to his telling). She also knew he was the premiere antiques dealer in New Orleans—and that he had a revolving door for employees. It was rare that she ever spoke to the same person twice, when his storefront would call Trip’s office with rare book finds. Early on, years ago, there had been one man who called consistently—what was his name?—but he had left. Every recent dealing Lacey could recall, it was always someone different. Usually someone young.

  But what did it matter, and why did she care? Because it was all so odd. Alternate universe weird. Eli had offered her very little—big shock there—when she retrieved Ambrose from him the night prior. He said something about animals sensing what humans can’t, which was hardly revelatory to Lacey. And added that she didn’t need to bring Ambrose to the set the next day.

  He had turned on his heel and disappeared into the night.

  Goodnight, Eli.

  Now, Lacey was dog-tired behind the wheel. She had dreamt of Nathan and the death of his father-in-law all night. It was dreadful, witnessing the life ebb out of Lawrence LaSalle over and over again. She had not had the dream since Trevor entered the picture. She blamed Gus Savin for the intrusion of old society New Orleans back into her subconscious.

  Trevor is a lot easier to think about, she thought. Think of Trevor instead.

  That didn’t help much. She longed to see him again, and was wildly frustrated that she didn’t know when it might happen. If she straight up asked to see him again, would that be too much expectation? She didn’t want to talk to Jimmy about it. Being involved with his bandmate was fraught enough. Plus, the logistics were problematic. Trevor was staying three hours away, in Los Angeles, and she couldn’t easily just pick up and leave her job to spend time with him if she felt like it.

  She could tell Jimmy about Gus Savin, though. That would help. She would try to reach him today.

  John Villere! That was the name of the person who would call for Gus Savin, way back when she first started working for Trip. How could she forget? He would always say his full name, “John Villere,” when he called. And he always had an awkward joke, usually something about how he was no relation to the now long-gone New Orleans grocery store chain, Canal Villere.

  Edmund Villere. The man who kidnapped her, killed Nathan’s father-in-law, and was currently in jail, awaiting trial. How had she not drawn the connection until now?

  Because there is no connection. Villere is a common name in southern Louisiana, she thought.

  One was a very distant work acquaintance from years ago, to whom she only ever spoke over the phone. The other was a drug-addicted felon who would have killed her if he’d had the chance. Still, it seemed a weird coincidence.

  She parked her car, waved at Horatio, and headed inside.

  Lacey checked her calendar when she got to her desk. Kandace had scheduled a meeting at 9:00 a.m., which was in forty minutes, for just the two of them, in her office. She had booked an hour time slot for it.

  Lacey panicked. This had to be it. Kandace would come down on her for the dog, for lurking outside the meeting room, for not being the good little toady she wanted her to be. Could she get fired? Could Kandace fire her? She didn’t think she could. But Marco could. And Marco would give the task to Kandace.

  Calm down, she told herself. There’s nothing to feel guilty about. And Kandace will smell the fear.

  She grabbed some hot tea from the empty break room. When she got back to her desk, she noticed the soundstage was eerily empty, too. It wasn’t so unusual for the studio to be so empty this early, especially if the shoot was scheduled for the afternoon. But she would have preferred to have some distraction. She checked the schedule, and saw Kevin Horner was off today. But the other principals were scheduled for 1:00 p.m.

  She smelled Diet Dr. Pepper. She turned around and saw Kandace with her mug and wobbly straw.

  “Can you meet earlier than nine?” she asked.

  Might as well get this over with.

  “Sure,” Lacey said. “Do I need to bring anything?”

  “Just your brain,” Kandace replied.

  Lacey saw Kandace’s laptop set up at the small conference table behind her desk, with two chairs side-by-side.

  Doesn’t look like a firing.

  “It will go a long way with Marco,” Kandace said, “if I show I’m really attempting to cut down on my paper use. He really is a rabid environmentalist. I had thought it was kind of an act.”

  Lacey suppressed a smile. She was certain everything with Marco was an act, but Kandace’s olive branch felt very real. And she was relieved she was apparently going to keep her job.

  “Is there something I can help you with?” Lacey asked.

  “Yes, that’s why I set this up. It’s quiet this morning, and you seem like you’re a good teacher. I was hoping you could walk me through some of the Movie Marvel reports.”

  Wow. Be nice, Lacey. Build a bridge.

  “Sure, I’d be happy to,” Lacey said.

  They spent the better part of forty-five minutes scrolling through Kandace’s screen. Lacey did a good job of silencing her internal dialogue and answering Kandace’s questions respectfully. She couldn’t tell if Kandace was really understanding what she was saying, but she asked questions like she was trying to.

  When it was clear Kandace had reached her limit, she rolled her chair back from the small table.

  “Are you up for spending more time on this, maybe in another couple of days?” she asked.

  “Absolutely,” Lacey said. “I’ll even start writing down some shortcuts as I think of them, so we can make you a cheat sheet.”

  Kandace gave her the same sly smile she gave her last night. Had Lacey misjudged her from the beginning?

  Kandace’s phone flashed on the table. All Lacey saw was the name Marco before Kandace jumped up from her chair, sourpuss face returned. She glared at Lacey and motioned her to the door with a nod of her head.

  It was nice while it lasted, Lacey thought.

  She wasted no time returning to her desk.

  Lacey entertained herself watching the afternoon shoot. The second male lead, Liam’s best friend, seemed like he might actually be improving. Was Kevin Horner’s influence upping the game of his fellow performers, after only a few days?

  The guy practiced fencing in between takes.

  Is there supposed to be a sword fight? She knew there was a new script just circulated, she hadn’t thought the story could change so much to incorporate a whole new scene. She searched the server for the latest version of the script.

  She stopped herself mid-way through. Meaningless script changes; endless delays; long, boring days; a colleague/boss she didn’t enjoy working with. She didn’t really care about any of it. The only reason she wanted to be in this place was for what she could learn from Eli.

  How long can I do this?

  She had worried that morning that Kandace might fire her. Would that be such a bad thing? The work was definitely an improvement over Carriere & Associates—she was rarely alone, for one, and she liked being part of a big project. But it was a project she didn’t care about, and she still felt underutilized.

  Underutilized.

  What about her traiteur ability? With Eli a no-show for so long, how much time had she wasted? And she felt like their encounters this week hadn’t advanced her understanding at all.

  How did X-Men make a living? Was there money in the hero gig? Who pays them? If she could figure out how to harness whatever it is she has going for
her, could she charge for it?

  Absolutely not.

  She knew, from what little she had read about the traiteur tradition, that traiteurs never asked for payment. And regardless of tradition, the idea wasn’t even worth entertaining. Sure, I’ll fix up that gunshot wound, but it’s gonna cost ya.

  No. There’s no sense to that, and absolutely no honor.

  She was going to have to figure out something to do to make a living wage, something that she didn’t find horribly boring, that would at least keep her thoughts from straying all over the place. With Eli’s apparent telepathic abilities, why was he working in movies in special effects? Would he even tell her if she asked?

  An ideal job for her, she thought, would be something engaging, that kept her busy, and that might put her in the way of people needing healing.

  She refrained from looking up, she was so sure a real light bulb popped above her head.

  How had I not thought of this before?

  A paramedic.

  Maybe because I only just found out about my mutant power about, oh, sixty days ago.

  She looked at the script she had opened on her screen. It was the most recent one, and she was perusing it for changes, but couldn’t see a thing. She wanted to start researching paramedic training straight away.

  Focus, she thought.

  She tried to finish the task at hand. She found a scene near the end: Liam and his best friend have a sword fight with a centaur.

  How on earth does that fit into the plot? And where did the centaur come from?

  She closed the file and the folder she found it in. She made sure she didn’t have any messages waiting from Kandace or anyone else, then started digging into what training she’d need to be a paramedic. In New Orleans.

  A few hours later, she had begun a list of pros and cons. Was she too old? Could she trust her partner if she healed someone within sight of him or her? Perhaps most importantly, could she really heal people, and if so, what were her limits?

  She minimized the window on her screen when she felt eyes behind her. There was no tell-tale scent of Diet Dr. Pepper, though.