by Leslie Kelly
Caro nodded. She’d been holding half-hour meetings with all sixteen of the starting cast members for Killing Time in a Small Town since yesterday. During one of those sessions, she’d told the killer—who was from now on to be called the Derryville Demon—about being chosen.
“How do you feel about the choice for the Demon?” Jacey wasn’t the type to nose around for information—she just seemed interested in knowing how Caro felt about it. That made sense. Jacey would want to know things were going in the right direction, even though she and the rest of the crew would know nothing about the identity of the killer until at least the final round.
“I was surprised at first when I finally found out yesterday. But when I looked over the test scores, and the personality profile, it did make sense.”
Jacey nodded. “Good.” Then she grinned. “Don’t suppose you’d want to give me a hint about who it is?”
“Nope. The studio wants to retain that fresh, unexpected feel. That means no advance notice to the crew. Sorry.”
“I thought not. But it was worth a shot,” Jacey replied, her voice still laced with good humor.
“So you’re all ready?”
“You bet,” Jacey said. “We’ve got dedicated crews for the four teams going out today.”
Caro nodded, pleased that Jacey, at least, was living up to her reputation for professionalism. It would make things easier if she didn’t have to supervise every little piece of this production.
She thought again of today’s schedule. The sixteen contestants on Killing Time would be divided into four teams after a group lunch at the diner and an introductory “walk through Derryville.” Each team would receive different clues that would lead them throughout the town, as if they were on a treasure hunt. They’d actually be on a clue hunt. Eventually, if they figured everything out just right, they’d make their way to the crime scene. There they’d find the first set of victims.
The last team to make it to the scene became the first whose heads would go on the block. Three of those four people would be gone by tomorrow. Leaving the cast members to the perfect total of thirteen.
“They weren’t too thrilled to find out you were undercover during that limo ride, were they?” Caro asked, remembering with amusement the looks Jacey had gotten from some of the players when they’d arrived at the Little Bohemie Inn. Jacey had instantly gone for a camera and they’d watched, mouths hanging open.
“Nope. Though it didn’t seem to phase one or two of them.”
Caro heard a different note in the young woman’s voice, as if she were standing here, but her thoughts were a million miles away. But before she could ask her about it, Jacey changed the subject. “So, who’s Mick Winchester?”
Shocked, Caro could only stare. “What?”
Jacey pointed to a piece of paper on the small, cramped desk in the RV, which Caro had been using during her meetings with the cast members this morning. Following the girl’s stare, Caro saw the piece of paper, on which she’d been scribbling “I hate Mick Winchester” over and over and over again.
“Nobody.”
“Somebody,” Jacey said. “As in some body. I met him this morning.”
“So why’d you ask who he was?”
“I wanted to see your ears turn red.”
The cheeky response was good-natured, and Caro realized Jacey was teasing her. “He’s off-limits in conversation.”
And in real life.
Jacey shrugged and promptly said goodbye, leaving Caro alone in the trailer.
Mick was definitely off limits. Nonexistent. An invisible person who accidentally shared her airspace in his house—the one she’d be vacating the very second she found someplace else to go. At this point, suffocating at Sophie’s place by inhaling cat dander seemed preferable to having to face Mick again.
She couldn’t get over what he’d done to her two nights ago. Without apology, without regret, without a backward glance, he’d toyed with her, aroused her to insanity, then walked out.
Isn’t that what you intended to do to him?
She told her inner voice to shut up. Having him wake up to a porn movie was not the same thing as physical contact. Not anywhere near the same thing.
And oh, that physical contact. She shook just thinking about it. His hands, those glorious hands, and his mouth…what incredible things he could do with them. As well as with other things.
That was the thought that had kept her from going after him the night before with a meat cleaver or a fireplace poker. She hadn’t been the only one affected by their interlude. His interest had been noticeable. Very noticeable, God help her, since she’d been sitting on his lap.
He’d definitely had a lapful.
Yet he’d gotten up and walked away when he was in just as aroused a condition as she. Mick had never been that strong a man. Which meant he must really, really have bad feelings toward her. He had brought them both to the edge of the cliff, then had walked away without letting either of them go over.
He hates me.
“Well, good. Because I hate him too.”
“You hate who?” a male voice intruded.
She jerked around. “Charlie,” she said with a shaky smile. “Good morning. You doing okay?”
The older man nodded. “Got the sound check done in the diner and in the library. But we got a problem. I just talked to Jacey about it and she’s going over to check for herself.”
Caro began to shake her head. “No problems, please.”
“Sorry. The staircase leading up to the apartment where the bodies are supposed to be discovered is too narrow for a full pan. Jacey’s team can do tight shots from the bedroom as the cast comes in. But nothing going up or down the stairs.”
Damn. Renauld was going to have a fit. “Anything else?”
Charlie gave her an apologetic shrug. “Yeah, uh, the guy who lives there?”
“Yes?”
“He did some redecorating.”
“Oh, God.”
“I think he likes the color green.”
“How green?”
“Think two tons of strained peas sprayed on four walls. It ain’t pretty.”
Double damn. Before Caro could go on a rant about how the man had signed a contract agreeing not to make any principal changes to his home before the shoot, Charlie continued, “And, there’s these…things everywhere.”
“Things?”
“Yeah. Little ceramic stuff. I guess maybe his mother or girlfriend makes it. There’s all this crap on every surface in the place, complete with price tags and the logo for a local store that sells them.”
This time, the four-letter word that spilled out of her mouth didn’t start with the letter “d.”
CHAPTER NINE
MICK TRIED HARD to ignore the throng of people as he headed downtown to mail a package at the post office Saturday morning. The crowd was gathered on Decatur Street, listening to some guy with a megaphone calling out instructions. He’d just about made it past the insanity when he felt someone grab his arm. “This! This is what I want!”
He gave the guy who grabbed him a “hands off, buddy” stare.
The man was dressed straight off the pages of GQ, and had a balding head which probably reached Mick’s chin. He still ignored Mick’s frown. “You see? Appropriate look for a man on the street, in the daytime, in the fall.” He shot Mick a look. “But go put on a jacket. It’s supposed to be October.”
Mick shook his head. “You got the wrong guy, mister.”
“I am not a mere mister,” the man replied with an offended sniff. “I’m Renauld Watson, the director of this production. If you want to double your twenty dollars extra pay, help me get these sheep back in their pens to remove their spring wool.”
Sheep. Spring wool. Mick looked around, confused as hell by this man who talked a mile a minute and sniffed in a peculiar watery way every third word. “Like I said. You got the wrong guy. I’m just going to the post office.”
“You’re not an extr
a?”
Mick shook his head.
“Then what are you doing on my set?”
“I believe this is called a public street.”
Mr. Watson crossed his arms. “And I own it for the day.”
Before Mick could reply, he heard Police Chief Daniel Fletcher. “Uh, you bought the right to close the street to automobile traffic, Mr. Watson. This is a living, breathing town. You’ve got no say about who walks on the sidewalk.”
Watson looked ready to argue, but before he could do so, something on the corner crossed his eye. “No, no, no! No advertisements in the store windows.” He stalked off to deal with some poor merchant who’d apparently tried to capitalize on the TV crew by putting up a huge banner with the name and address of his store.
“This is a madhouse,” Mick said, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Yeah, definitely. Sophie’s loving it.”
Mick exchanged an amused look with his future brother-in-law. He wasn’t surprised Sophie would enjoy this. Since his little sister had begun to emerge from her cocoon, she was turning into one bloodthirsty little butterfly.
“You look like shit,” Daniel said in a matter-of-fact manner.
“Oh, thanks.”
It was true. Probably because he felt like shit, and had been sleeping like shit. Ever since Thursday night when he’d walked out on Caroline, he’d been restless and uptight, stressed and confused.
He’d done the right thing. Dammit, she would have hated his guts even more the next morning if he’d taken what she was offering. At least, he thought she would. He hadn’t intended to set her up like that, or to punish her or anything. After all, he’d certainly been punished, too. They’d just gotten carried away, fallen into something neither of them had been ready for and both would have regretted.
His parting shot had been meant to turn her from melting seductress to furious virago. It’d obviously worked. She hadn’t even looked in his direction since then.
Before Daniel could say anything more, Mick saw the very person he’d been thinking about. He knew it was Caroline—the sun caught the highlights in her dark brown hair so that even from here he wanted to sink his hands in it.
She looked weary and frustrated as she talked with a couple of techie-looking guys. Mick couldn’t help stiffening when one of them put a familiar hand on her shoulder.
“God, man, have you got a case.”
He looked at Fletcher. “What are you talking about?”
Daniel merely laughed.
Not wanting to hear any more b.s. about Caroline, Mick quickly changed the subject. “I saw the chipmunks on my way over here.” He was referring to the two young deputies, cousins who were often mistaken for twins. “Chip and Dale.”
“Skip and Chuck,” Daniel corrected him with a distinct roll of the eyes.
“Whatever.”
Looking almost afraid to ask, Daniel said, “Were they still directing traffic at the corner of Young and Vine?”
Mick shook his head, enjoying the moment.
“Tell me.”
“I think they wanna star in a remake of Lethal Weapon.”
“Tell me they haven’t shot anybody.”
Mick merely smiled. “Not yet. But I think they were about to handcuff the mayor’s wife because she’s insisting on driving her Cadillac down Decatur so all the envious people out in TV land can see her shiny new car. They told her they’d shoot out the tires if she tried to go around the roadblock.”
Daniel visibly shuddered, shook his head and hurried away. As he did so, Mick heard him mutter, “This department doesn’t need a chief, it needs a damn baby-sitter.”
Standing alone in the middle of the crowd, Mick couldn’t stop his gaze from returning to Caroline. Suddenly, she glanced up and met his stare. Even from several yards away, he saw the way she stiffened and her face grew slightly pink.
Still pissed. No doubt about it.
If only she knew he’d hurt himself far more than he’d hurt her the other night. Yeah, he’d left her high and dry—that is, he remembered with a pleasurable smile, high and wet. But he’d also left himself hard and dry. Rock hard, hungry and insane with need to finish what he’d so stupidly started. With her.
His own hand hadn’t done a thing to help, not in the long run. Nor, he knew, would another woman. It was Caroline or nothing. Just like it had been when they’d met.
It was darn near impossible to do much of anything with a 24/7 hard-on, as he’d discovered. There was only one way it was going away. And that didn’t look to happen anytime soon because the only woman he wanted had been ignoring him while mumbling, “I hate you Mick Winchester” under her breath for thirty-six hours.
That woman finally seemed to make up her mind about something. Mick was shocked to see her stride toward him, her steps purposeful and her expression stern.
Here it comes. He braced himself to hear, “I hate you Mick Winchester.”
“I need you, Mick.”
Well, praise the Lord and pass the ammunition. “Finally realized that, did you?”
She shot him a glare. “I mean, I need to talk to you. Walk with me.”
She stepped away, in long, even strides that ate up the sidewalk and dared him to keep up.
He hurried to do so. “Are we talking again? I thought you were just going to keep giving me those ‘stay back, peasant’ looks until you moved out.”
“I can’t imagine what you’re talking about.”
Before he could reply, he noticed Caroline had stopped moving and was staring ahead, a wary look on her face. He followed her glance, and realized why.
“Hi, Louise,” he said.
The woman gave them both a nervous, apologetic smile. “Hi there.”
“Are you armed?” Caroline asked, taking a tiny step back.
Louise shook her head. “I’m awful sorry about that. I’ve realized how stupid I was that day. My pastor’s been helping me find better ways to direct my need to help people,” she said with a self-deprecating smile.
Mick chuckled softly. “Forgiven.”
“Thanks, Mick.” Louise gave him a look of gratitude and he was pleased to notice she didn’t look all worshipful as she had the last time he’d seen her. Good. Hopefully she’d come to her senses. Pastor Bob was a nice guy, in spite of his mean-spirited sister, and he’d probably be very helpful to Louise.
“Well, I have to go,” Louise said. “I’m an extra.” She rolled her eyes. “And so are my brothers. I have to make sure they’re not up to any…mischief.”
Knowing her brothers, they’d probably already tied up the camera crew and taken the production trailer for a joyride.
“Have fun,” Caroline mumbled. Then she added, low and under her breath so only Mick could hear, “Try not to kill anyone for real on the set.”
Louise nodded. “Thanks. Bye!”
The other woman walked away, leaving Caroline staring at him, looking bemused. “You just let her get away with it and that’s that?”
“Uh-huh.”
“In other places what she did might be called assault with a deadly weapon.”
He shrugged. “This is Derryville.”
As if that explained everything—and really, it did—she nodded in understanding. Then she started walking again, the purposeful, busy executive. Her cell phone, which was clipped to her purse strap, began to ring. She glanced down at it, frowned when she read the number, then proceeded to ignore it.
As he walked along with her, he could see Caroline looked frazzled and frenzied. He didn’t like the look. What she needed was to be kidnapped for a day of fun and relaxation. Not that she’d appreciate it. Not that she’d probably ever be alone with him in private again after what he’d done to her Thursday night.
He was about to mention it, to try to apologize somehow without really saying he was sorry—because that would be a lie, since he wasn’t so much sorry as he was regretful—when they were interrupted. One of the girls who usually waited on him at the bank a
pproached from the other direction. She gave Caro a quick, dismissive glance, then Mick a much more friendly one. “Hi, Mick. When you going to come make your next deposit?”
He gave her a noncommittal smile, nodded hello and continued walking.
Caro had grown a few degrees cooler.
“She works at my bank,” he explained.
“Isn’t the bank closed on Saturday?”
Cooler? That was pure ice. That voice could put Frigidaire out of business. “You wanted to talk to me?”
But before she could say another word, Diane, who cut his hair for him, stepped up onto the sidewalk in front of them. “Hiya, Mick. Aren’t you due to visit me soon?” She reached up and playfully tugged his hair, which was almost brushing the collar of his shirt. “You need me, honey.”
He would have groaned, wondering what Caroline made of this. “Sure, I’ll call.”
“Be sure you do,” she said with a wave as she sauntered away, her swing a little more exaggerated than usual.
No, he’d never asked her out. No, he’d never even been tempted. And maybe he had a chance of making Caroline believe that. Maybe he’d also have a chance of hitching a ride with the fat guy in the red suit come Christmas, too.
“Caroline?”
God, if her spine were any stiffer, her neck would break. “Forget it.”
He wasn’t forgetting anything. “You said you needed to talk.”
This time, they were interrupted by one of his second cousins, Maureen, who’d bought a house from him a few days ago. “Hey, Mick. I’m so glad I ran into you. I need you to come over to my house and check out my pipes.”
This time, he was pretty sure he heard the temperature drop even more. They’d passed the ice stage and moved right on to frozen carbon dioxide.
“Okay, I’ll call you Monday,” Mick replied.
“Gotta run, I’m going to be an extra!”
As Maureen walked away, Caroline swung around and stuck her index finger in his face. “If one more woman stops to talk to you, I’m pushing you in front of the next tractor-trailer.”
Without missing a beat, he replied, “The street’s closed to traffic.”