They both nod, and I shrug. “I should probably get down there and meet everyone and see if they actually need more help before I start mentally rearranging my schedule.” We laugh, and then I yawn.
Because that’s the kind of socially inept imbecile I am.
Parker snorts. “Big day, huh? We’ll let you get finished up here and head home. Hey—where are you staying? I never even thought of that. Do they put you up in apartments in town, or something?”
“Come on,” Sam jeers before I can answer. “There aren’t that many short-term rentals in town. When they build the college campus, they’re putting in a ton of housing, too.”
“We’re not staying in town,” I interrupt. “JU assigns each show a block of rooms at a couple of the resorts for the duration of the show, since there’s not a lot of options out here. If we want alternative housing, we have to find and pay for it ourselves. I’m at the Shire Hamlet.” The resort is really pretty cool. It’s been designed to resemble a quaint English country village—only on a pretty big scale.
“Lucky you’re not at the Tiki,” Parker says, and he and Sam exchange glances. Ooh, gossip.
“Why?” I ask in a hushed tone.
Sam leans closer. “Murder,” he says, tone equally hushed. Then he grimaces. “It’s not a secret. The local and national news were both broadcasting about it earlier. But policy is not to talk about shit like that.”
“I’m pretty sure the news would tell me more than you just did,” I tell him. Murder? Wow.
“Probably,” Parker agrees. “It’s not like we know anything, anyway. The resort staff might know more, but Derek would have locked them down. No way will any of them spill anything and risk pissing him off. So all we know is what the police told the media—some woman ‘allegedly’”—he makes air quotes—“murdered her husband by chopping him up, and the housekeeper found him.”
I know my eyes widen, because I can feel the strain. But… wow. “That poor housekeeper!” Also, Derek? Golden Boy’s been dealing with a murder today? Huh, I kind of feel bad for him now. Maybe I should try harder to be nice. Not that I’ll ever see him again.
“Yeah, that’s gotta be rough. She won’t be sleeping well for a while,” Sam commiserates. “Anyway, are you taking the shuttle back with the guests, or do you want a lift?”
Ah… I hadn’t actually thought about that. This morning Dimi had us picked up, but how are Kev and I supposed to get here tomorrow? We need to be at the park before opening, and the shuttles obviously don’t run then.
“A lift would be great,” I tell him. Then another thought occurs to me. “Um, how far is it to Joyville? Is it… walking distance?” I’m pretty sure that’s a pipe dream, and the incredulous looks on two faces prove me right.
“It depends on what you consider walking distance,” Parker says. “And whether you like walking on the shoulder of the highway.”
Well, fuck. “It might be a problem for me to consult, then.” My tone is genuinely regretful. “I don’t have a car.” I live in New York, for pete’s sake. What would I need a car for in the city? And here at Joy Universe there are shuttles everywhere. Guests park their cars when they arrive and basically don’t even look at them again until they leave. I didn’t think I’d be leaving the complex, because it has pretty much everything—and Joyville, the only place around for miles, is reputedly not that interesting.
“That could be a problem,” Sam admits. “But let’s not borrow trouble. Maybe we’ll think of a solution.”
“Trav?” Someone calls me from across the room, and I turn. Pete’s looking for me, and I wave to get his attention, then turn back to the guys.
“I’ll be back. If I’m more than ten minutes, just go without me, and I’ll get a shuttle.” I get affirmative responses, and cross to see what Pete wants.
“Are you ready to go? There’s a car waiting for you,” he tells me. “I’m supposed to tell you it will pick you up tomorrow morning, as well. Talk to the driver about the time, but you need to be here by eight.”
Okay, that’s one problem solved. “Thanks, Pete. I’ll just tell Parker and Sam I’m going.” I’ve half turned away when he catches my arm.
“Trav, you did a great job today. Was everything okay from your end?”
I smile at him. Sure, I’m doing him and his bosses a favor, but it’s still always nice to be praised. “Yeah, this is a lot more fun than I expected. I thought today was great.”
He smiles back and lets go of my arm, and I go to say good night to my new friends.
Boy, will I have a lot to tell my sister when I call her this week.
Chapter Six
Derek
BY MIDAFTERNOON on Tuesday, I’m beginning to believe the crisis is over. There’s still a lot of fallout to deal with—not least of which is one of the security staff at Tiki apparently taking bribes from guests to sneak them into the “forbidden area” around the “murder cabin”—but the major calamities seem to have ended. I’m no longer getting phone calls every five minutes from people on the verge of meltdown. Dimi actually had time to sit and drink his coffee while going through emails, instead of sipping while zooming around the complex. It seems like everything is going to be fine.
Don’t get me wrong. We’re still dealing with more than the usual crap. We have over a hundred people out on sick leave, and although the temp dancers have arrived and are currently being trained up by Pete, with the watchful, if not useful, supervision of Mandy from entertainment, they’re not my regular people, they’re not familiar with working at Planet Joy, and they’re not going to deliver up to the standard I usually demand. It’s a blow to me that the guests who will be here this week won’t get the usual Planet Joy experience.
Yeah, I know. I need to get over myself. Chances are, nobody will know the difference.
I also still have an active crime scene at one of my resorts, and I had a meeting this morning with the detective in charge, Jeff from legal, and Kim to try and sort out what the hell we’re going to do. All Detective Gooding would say is that they’ll try to wrap up the scene as soon as they can, and that things are proceeding.
That’s super helpful, right?
I followed that meeting up with a discussion with Dimi and Link about whether we need to demo the bungalow. At the moment we’re undecided, but I think it’s probably going to happen. There’s too much morbid interest in the site. If Tiki was a small independent hotel, we could play up the murder to attract clientele who actually want to stay in a room where someone was gruesomely murdered, but that’s not what the JU experience is about.
At some point today I need to squeeze in a follow-up call to security. When I got the phone call at three this morning from Tiki’s night manager, I honestly didn’t know what to expect—in that hazy just-woken state, I actually feared the ghost of Peter Rutherford was wreaking havoc. Hearing that a security guard was charging guests ten bucks each to sneak them into my no-go zone, and in the case of one particularly intrepid couple, past the police tape and into the bungalow, woke me all the way up—and sent my blood pressure through the roof.
“I don’t know if I need to call the police or not,” my night manager said. “I thought it might be best to run it past you first.”
I’d assured him it was, then called the head of security on his cell and woke him the fuck up while I put on pants.
By the time that was dealt with, a new security officer brought on shift, and the trespassing guests sternly but politely told to keep to the public areas of the resort, and advised (not by me, because I didn’t have a freaking clue) that criminal charges can be laid for interfering with a crime scene, which includes entering one without permission, I was so wide awake there was no way I’d get back to sleep.
So I didn’t bother. Instead I went to my office and cleared out my inbox. When Dimi arrived at seven (seriously, he got there a full hour before his required start time), I was caught up on everything I’d had to overlook yesterday and ready to tackle the day.
The pot and a half of coffee helped.
As a result, today wasn’t the clusterfuck it could have been. Sure, I’m dragging a bit now, but I won’t be scrambling to catch up for the rest of the week. Right now, Dimi and I are going through every single element of our two crises: what happened, what actions we’ve taken, the results, and what still needs to be done. Mostly now we just need to keep on top of other people, make sure they’re doing their jobs. It’s a big relief, because it means making phone calls rather than having to take on mammoth tasks ourselves.
Although we do have a meeting scheduled with accounting for tomorrow. We’ve authorized a lot of unexpected large expenditures in the last two days, and although I know we can cover it, the bean counters always freak out and demand a meeting to recheck the budget when… well, I was going to say “when stuff like this happens,” but nothing like this has ever happened in the history of JU, so let’s just make it “when we spend up big without consulting them.”
“Anything else?” I ask Dimi, who’s tapping away in the app, checking items off on his list and making notes. He looks up.
“Yes, but it’s not work-related.”
My stomach sinks. Fuck, he’s going to leave. I knew it was coming, but I thought I’d have another position ready for him, so I could at least keep him here at JU.
Wait… wouldn’t his resignation be work-related?
Maybe I’m jumping the gun.
“Sure, what’s up?” I make an effort to sound casual and encouraging. Let me be your mentor and friend. Don’t even think of leaving.
“You know how I’m part of Joyville Amateur Theater?”
I grin. “Of course. I come to every show you guys put on. You do an amazing job.” It’s completely true. For an amateur group in a tiny town in the middle of nowhere, they’re beyond exceptional.
“Thanks.” There’s a slight flush of pink on Dimi’s cheeks. “Um, you know how a bunch of the performers from here at JU usually lend a hand with planning?”
“Yeah, you’ve menti— Oh hell, is this food poisoning going to hold up your rehearsals?” That would really not be good, although I’m not sure there’s anything I could actually do to help with that. I know quite a bit about theater, but only from the audience perspective.
“No, no, nothing like that. Or if it is, we don’t know it yet,” he added, a hint of wry humor in his tone. “It’s just that Parker, one of our consultants, called me this morning to say he’s found someone else to help out—for the short term, at least.”
It’s not like Dimi to dance around the point like this. His efficiency has always been one of his best traits. I’m not sure what he’s leading toward, but hopefully it will all come clear soon.
“Oh?” I venture, mostly in an attempt to prompt him onward.
He sighs. “I’m sorry, I’m doing this all wrong. The person Parker found is Trav Jones, the performer who was kind of rude to you yesterday.”
Oh. “Oh.” Am I beginning to sound like a broken record? Wait, didn’t I already know this? “Now that you mention it, Parker—well, I think it was Parker. Dark hair, brown eyes, tall?” I have a lot of people—literally tens of thousands—working in my district, and the ones in the parks rotate. I try to get to know as many as possible but memorizing all their names and faces is beyond me. Dimi nods, though, so if it wasn’t Parker, it was someone who looked like him. “Yeah, Parker actually told me last night when I checked in with Pete at the park. From what I’ve heard, Trav is a very talented performer. This is a good thing, right?” I’m still not clear on what Dimi wants. Does he dislike Trav? That’s not the impression I got—he was a bit surprised, sure, but Dimi’s generally a fair and even-tempered guy.
Like me.
“Yeah, it’s good,” Dimi assures me. “Uh, after the—issue we had yesterday morning with Trav, I looked him up. Just in case. He’s a great performer, and he knows the business. He’ll be a huge help. So you’re not still annoyed at him?”
The sudden change in direction gives me whiplash. “N-no. No, I’m not still annoyed. He’s entitled to not want to be my best friend.” As annoying as that is. “And I spoke to him briefly last night too.” More briefly than I would have liked, to be honest. The guy has a habit of slipping away when I want to talk to him—although exactly what I was going to say, I’m not sure. Even though I’m super curious about his career history, it’s not like I could’ve just asked him about it out of the blue.
Dimi looks relieved. “Good. Have you sold your car yet?”
Okay, if I had whiplash before, I don’t know what I’ve got now. “My car?” Even I can hear the confusion in my voice. I bought a new car last month, and that left me with a perfectly good five-year-old, immaculately kept car to sell. The dealer offered a trade-in, of course, but I wasn’t happy with the terms so I decided to sell it privately. I keep meaning to take some photos and advertise it online, but… well, my schedule is kind of brutal, and every time I remember I have to do it, I’m in the middle of something else. “Um, not yet.”
“That’s what I thought. Can Trav rent it from you?”
I blink. “Come again?” Did he just ask if Trav could rent my old car?
“Trav doesn’t have a car,” he explains. “He’s from New York. He didn’t bother to rent one here, because the performers are bussed between the village and their resorts for rehearsals and performances, and we have shuttles throughout the complex for pretty much everything else. But if he’s going to help with the theater—”
“He’s going to need to be able to get to Joyville,” I finish, finally understanding. “Sure, he can use my car, no problem. He doesn’t need to rent it, either, as long as he takes care of it and pays for gas.” Am I being too trusting? Hang on…. “He does have a driver’s license, right?” A lot of New Yorkers don’t bother—the only reason I got one is because my dad isn’t a native New Yorker, and he insisted.
Dimi looks stumped. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I never thought to ask. I’m not sure if Parker did, either. I’ll find out,” he promises. “Thank you, Derek. I’ve already talked to a bunch of the others from the theater, and we’re all excited about the help Trav will be able to give us. It would be a real pain if we had to set up a schedule to pick him up and drop him off all the time.”
“Not a problem,” I assure him. “The car’s just sitting there. Maybe I’ll stick a For Sale sign in the back window and someone will see it while Trav is driving around.”
Dimi thanks me again and then hurries out, leaving me to contemplate the secret I’ve been deliberately ignoring all afternoon.
Last night, I wanted to talk to Trav, and I don’t know exactly why. There’s something about him that draws me. Sure, part of it is that he’s pretty much my exact physical type. And yeah, I’m honest enough with myself to admit that my ego is also contributing—as a rule, people like me, and it bugs me that he instantly did not.
But there’s more to it than that. I saw him on stage last night. Okay, it wasn’t for long and the role wasn’t exactly the kind that earns a Tony nomination, but his performance was electric. After seeing him, I totally understand what Toby meant when he called him one of the backbones of Broadway. He was compelling, and if he could be compelling as the sidekick to a space pirate in the abridged stage-show version of an animated movie aimed at six-to-twelve-year-olds, I can only imagine what he would be like in a role with substance.
So why doesn’t he want one? Sure, he’s had some great parts, but with his experience, he should be in starring roles by now—and according to that article, the only thing holding him back is him. Why would a professional performer who worked like a dog to get through the ranks on Broadway turn down leading roles?
He’s an enigma, and he fascinates me. I’ve only spoken to him twice, and neither of those conversations were exactly deep and meaningful (nor hinted at a deeper connection), but for some reason, I’ve spent more time thinking about him in the past thirty hours than I really had to spa
re.
Which is why I got myself a ticket to Trav’s show tonight.
I want to see him perform again, but more, I want to see him again. It’s not uncommon for me to go backstage after a show. The AD in charge of the village doesn’t actually like theater—philistine—and never attends any of the shows, whereas I go pretty often. I consider myself an ambassador of sorts for JU—it’s not always fun for people who are used to night life to come out to the middle of nowhere, and I like to thank the performers, sometimes hand out some park passes or discount vouchers for the restaurants. Nobody will think it’s odd for me to be there tonight. It’s entirely ordinary.
Even if it’s not.
And now I have an excuse to talk to him: the car. We have to sort out details, right? At the very least, I should ask if he has a valid driver’s license.
WHEN THE curtain comes down for the final time, I stay in my seat for a few moments as the people around me gather their things and begin the process of inching their way out of the auditorium.
It was a great show. Not one of my favorites, but definitely one I liked and will recommend. Solid plot, interesting characters. A little bit funny, a little bit solemn.
But hell, Trav is brilliant. I thought so last night after Space Reivers but seeing him in a decent role just hammers it home. Why doesn’t he want a leading part?
Sighing, I get up and make my way toward the stage. There’s a discreet door on the left side that leads back to the dressing rooms. It’s manned by a security guard, of course, but she recognizes me and opens the door to let me in.
“Evening, Derek,” she says, smiling.
“Hi,” I reply. “How’s your week so far?” I don’t know her personally, but security staff rotate through all the parks and resorts the same way the performers do, so she’ll have worked for me at some stage.
“Good,” she tells me cheerfully. “Better than yours, I’ll bet.”
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