Dead By Dusk (5 page)

And if it was Grant?

She was a professional. And she was running this show. And she hadn't seen a single archeologist yet—there was no reason she should!

She cleared her throat. “I'm glad you're all here. Except that, we're still missing two of our group?” She looked at all of them.

Arturo, who had been sitting idly at the back table, spoke up, “Clay Barton is on his way now. His plane from Rome to Naples was delayed.”

“I see,” Stephanie murmured.
Perhaps he should have started traveling earlier, since he'd been due yesterday.
“What about Gema Harris?”

At first, no one spoke.

Then, uneasily, Lena said, “I went by her place to get her on my way in. I thought she'd left already because there was no answer.”

“Did you go in?” Doug asked.

“Of course I didn't go in!” Lena said. “I knocked and rang the little buzzer, and she didn't answer.”

“Was her door locked?” Drew asked.

“I don't know. I didn't try it,” Lena said.

“Might she have overslept?” Stephanie asked.

“I can go back,” Lena said.

“No, we're still missing Clay, too, but the four of you are here. We'll get started,” Stephanie said. “Arturo—would you mind sending someone to look for Gema?”

From the back of the café, he nodded and rose.

“She was talking about going to Rome,” Drew murmured. Stephanie stared at him sharply and he shrugged. “She . . . well, you haven't met her yet. She's apparently the type who likes a little more action than we have around here. Nice girl, really. I think. But she's . . . I don't know. She's in a hurry. She made some comment the other day about the fact that it was unlikely that Hollywood was going to discover her here.”

“So she would have just taken off without resigning?” Stephanie said.

Doug rubbed his chin. “I don't think so.”

“Well, Arturo will see if he can find her,” Stephanie said. “I was told that everyone had received our improv ‘bible.' Is that correct?” Her question was answered by nods, and the four went about, picking up their notebooks where they'd been left on tables around the room. Suzette pointed out the coffeepot and cups, and Stephanie helped herself before the group gathered around one of the café tables. “Let's just make sure we're all going in the same direction. There are seven loose outlines, allowing us to change the script around every day with one extra, since we're going to be black on Monday nights. The café becomes the World Traveler's Club—Suzette, you're the maid—”

“Great. With her background, she's a French maid,” Drew observed.

“No, we're going to go with some stereotypes and work with others. She's going to be the American maid,” Stephanie said.

“I can actually speak French, though,” Suzette said. “My dad's from Nice,” she explained.

“There's a terrific bit for your character,” Stephanie pointed out. “You can be the American maid who always tries to pretend that she's the French maid.”

“Cool,” Suzette agreed.

“But she's sexy and wears a short skirt, right?” Drew asked.

Stephanie smiled. “Well, we can play off that, too. She has a great skirt, but some really silly stockings. We'll all see the costumes soon. Drew—you're the want-to-be guy. You're president of the club, but most of your adventures are made up, and you can add to the outrageous lines of your stories at any time, okay?”

“I like it. Horn-rimmed glasses?”

“You bet. Coke-bottle lenses,” Stephanie assured him.

“Lena, you're Drew's cohort in the area of creativity—the only reason you're back in Southern Italy is a family connection, but you like to pretend that you've been to the farthest reaches of the earth. You're the one down on everyone else's antics, dying for a little more sex in your own life.”

“Wow! It's my real life story!” Lena said, and the others laughed. She might have been afraid that she was getting too much agreement and sympathy, because she quickly added, “Hey, my family is in the Milano area, and I'm not really down on fun, and my sex life has gone along just swimmingly, okay? And hey, be nice to me. I'm the only one in this crowd who does speak fluent Italian.”

“I'll be as nice as you can imagine! And you can ask me for help anytime you feel that the sex life is a disaster,” Doug offered.

“So I can feel that it's really hit rock bottom?” Lena teased.

“Ouch! I feel like . . . well, like my character,” he said, grinning at Stephanie dryly.

“That's right. Poor Doug is to be known as Poindexter. A brilliant scholar, but a nerd in the worst degree. The others can't imagine that you even got into the club. They're jealous as well, though, because your exploits are all real. When Gema shows up, she's the vamp. She really has been everywhere, and what she misses is a real home. Her efforts for an actual love life have basically sucked, and the rest of you try to help her retain dignity. Literally, at times, pulling her away from the guys in the audience she uses for her little schticks.”

She stopped speaking, looking up as Arturo returned to the back of the café. She arched a brow to him.

He shook his head.

“Well, so far, Gema is a no-show,” she murmured.

“And Clay,” Drew reminded her, frowning.

“He'll be here soon—we know that,” Stephanie said. “Let's go ahead and read through the outlines, see how they sound, bounce ideas back and forth with one another.”

The four were a good group; Stephanie acted as both still-missing Gema and just-not-present Clay, and she was more pleased as the minutes ticked by. Her cast appeared to be excellent natural comedians, quick to see how to milk any idea. She reminded them several times that they were to play with their audience, and, as they moved into the fifth scenario, they reminded her.

“So,” Drew said when they had finished with the next to the last scene, “Clay Barton gets to have all the real fun, huh?”

“Yes, and no,” Stephanie agreed, idly drawing a line with her pencil and smiling as she answered him. “He's the swaggerer. He has been around, but he hasn't really got any money, and when his conquests don't work out, he tries to pretend that they have.”

“So . . . he is supposed to be the good-looking one, huh?” Doug said with a sigh.

“Hopefully, a team like this works so well that after we get going, we'll switch roles around as well as scenarios,” Stephanie told him. “No one gets stale, and anyone can fill in for anyone else. Normally, we'd have a few more cast members, but since we're just starting out with this, we're forming the company. Of course, it would help if we had the full group.” Arturo had been sitting at the back of the café. She looked over, and didn't see him. Maybe he'd gone in search of Gema again.

As she stared toward the table, the outside door opened.

There was a man there. For a moment, he seemed to block out the sun. Despite herself, Stephanie felt a sense of unease streak down her spine. It was as if he were there, a presence that all but swept away daylight. Then, he might have been a shadow, a trick of the light.

She blinked, and he was walking through the aisle of tables to reach them.

He was, beyond a doubt, a striking individual. Tall—six-three, maybe—a shade shorter than Drew. His hair was very dark, and, as he drew closer, she saw that he had very unusual eyes—maybe brown, or hazel, but a strange shade of such colors, seeming both yellow and red. His features were strong and classical. He definitely had a continental look, smooth and sleek, and wore jeans and a polo shirt as if he were in a tux. He smiled as he reached the table, swinging a leather backpack around and setting it on the table, ready to reach in for his copy of the “bible” and notes. “I'm really sorry. Transportation takes some doing these days. I'm Clay Barton.”

They all just stared at him.

His smiled deepened. “Clay Barton. I'm expected. I was bounced off a plane yesterday. I'm really sorry—I can see that you've been working.”

Lena looked across the table at Stephanie. “Type-casting, or what?”

“I hope not,” Clay said, grinning ever more deeply as he pulled up a chair. “My character is supposed to be something of a braggart and a jerk.”

Stephanie reached out a hand to him at last. The touch of his fingers caused a jerk in her own. She tried to hide the feeling. “Stephanie Cahill, and hi, I'm your director. The rest of the cast . . . Drew Cunningham, our very tall redhead, Doug Wharton is there . . .”

Clay leaned forward, shaking hands around the table.

“Doug Wharton, not a redhead, and not quite so tall,” Doug introduced himself with a grin.

“Suzette Croix,” Suzette said, still staring.

“And this is Lena Miro,” Stephanie finished out.

“Hi to all of you, and it's a pleasure, and once again, I'm sorry,” Clay said.

“It's all right—we've been settling in, playing with ideas, and apparently, you had no choice,” Stephanie said. “But we start on Friday night. We were working our last outline, so we'll go forward, and you can hop in when we work with the room and blocking once we've finished with the read-throughs.”

“Great,” he said, but then frowned. “Thought it was a cast of six.”

“It is. We have a missing member,” Doug explained.

“You are perfect!” Lena breathed, speaking at last.

“A perfect jerk?” he inquired, eyes sparkling. “I'll try not to be.” He turned to Stephanie. “What do you mean, missing?”

“I mean, she hasn't shown up. I haven't met her, so I'm not sure whether to worry or not,” Stephanie told him.

Doug snorted. “Worry about whether she's broken her contract or not. Seriously, while it's still early in the game, we ought to get Arturo to check out her place. See if she's gone—hook, line, and sinker.”

Lena flashed a grimace at Stephanie. “Well, I don't like to say it, but . . . she wasn't impressed once she arrived.”

“We can all take a walk over to meet her,” Clay suggested.

“We'll finish the last outline,” Stephanie said, looking quickly at her clipboard. Strange, as soon as he spoke, she'd felt oddly compelled to do whatever he said, no matter how simple. She was the director. She might have lost a cast member, but she wasn't losing control so quickly.

“This is good—we have Clay now, and I just have to fill in for Gema. Let's give it a go.”

An hour later, they'd read through the outlines, and in just the afternoon, it seemed, the little group had bonded nicely, feeding one another with ad-libs and suggestions, and they were very good. For the first time since her arrival, Stephanie thought that the enterprise could really work.

Clay Barton had turned out to be wonderful. He could put a swagger into his voice, just as he could sound a little bit desperate, making explanations for boasts he'd made and been caught on. Stephanie was pleased to see that they made her laugh, and she knew the scenarios better than anyone else.

“Great! A great afternoon's work,” she applauded them, closing her notebook at the end. Arturo, having taken his seat at the back of the café again, applauded.

“Bravo, bravo!” he called, rising and striding toward them.

“Thank you, Arturo. You met Clay when he came in?” Stephanie said.

“But of course!” Arturo said. He, too, looked at the newcomer with a bit of wonder. There was something very unusual about the man. Actually, with his looks and talent, Stephanie thought, it was amazing that he was here. The road to fame and fortune via Hollywood and the movies might be difficult, but this guy could probably have been raking in the bucks just doing underwear commercials.

“But no Gema?” Clay said.

Stephanie rose before he could make suggestions or commands. “Arturo, we're going to have to get a pass key and check her place,” she said.

“
Sì, sì,
” Arturo said with a sigh. Then he looked worried. “You don't think she is hurt? That she slipped in her shower?”

“No, no, we're afraid she's just flown the coop,” Doug said.

“
Scusi
? I'm sorry,” Arturo said, arching a brow.

“He's afraid she's just walked out on us,” Stephanie explained.

“Why would she?” Arturo asked, truly baffled. He apparently loved the town, the village, the surroundings.

“She's a different breed, Arturo, a different breed. Hey, maybe she's just sleeping off a hell of a hangover?” Doug offered.

“Well, I'll go check on her right now,” Arturo said.

“I'll come with you,” Stephanie told him.

“Hey, we'll all go,” Clay said.

Stephanie looked at him.

“We're a team, right?” Doug said.

“If anything did happen . . .” Drew murmured.

“Let's go, then.”

Arturo nodded. He led the way through the side door to the café from the resort area, through the pleasant, airy, and spacious white marble lobby to the rear doors from the main building. There were a few people seated in the chairs in the center of the lobby, and they all looked up from their newspapers or conversations, watching as they walked through.

Out back, to the right of the area where Stephanie's cottage stood, there was a staggered row of such dwellings, but most of them smaller than Stephanie's, some of them single-story bungalows.

They went through the pine-tree-bordered paths and reached one of the two-storied buildings. Arturo knocked firmly, and hit the little buzzer.

They all waited.

Nothing.

“I think we need to open it and go in,” Stephanie said.

“ Yes . . . yes.”

Arturo looked very unhappy.

He rummaged in his pockets for his passkeys, then opened the door. He stuck his head in and called out, “Gema! Gema, are you there?”