Smoke and Mirrors (2 page)

Jacket draped across his hands and held out like he was delivering an organ for transplant, Tony raced across the entrance hall, out the air-lock entry—its stained glass covered with black fabric to keep out the daylight—sped across the wide porch, and pounded down the half dozen broad stone steps to the flagstone path that led through the overgrown gardens and eventually to the narrow drive.
Time is money
was one of the three big truisms of the television industry. No one seemed to be able to agree on just what exactly number two was, but Tony suspected that number three involved the ease with which production assistants could be replaced.

The wardrobe makeup trailer had been parked just behind the craft services truck which had, in turn, been snugged up tight against the generator.

Brenda, who'd been sitting on the steps having a coffee, stood as Tony approached, dumping an indignant black cat off her lap. “What happened?”

“There's paint on Lee's jacket.”

“Paint?” She hurried out to meet him, hands outstretched. “How did that happen?”

“Lee doesn't know.” Given that Tony believed Lee, Mason's theory didn't bear repeating. Handing the jacket over, he followed her up into the trailer. The cat snorted at her or him or both of them and stalked away.

“Was he in the second-floor bathroom?”

“No.” It was a common theory apparently.

“Weird.” Her hand in the sleeve, she held the paint out for inspection. “It looks like someone stroked it on with a fingertip.”

It did. The white was oval at the top and darker—fading down to a smudge of gray at the bottom of the four-inch streak.

“Probably just someone being an asshole.”

“Mason?” she wondered, picking up a spray bottle and bending over the sleeve.

Tony stared at her back in disbelief. There was no way Mason would do anything to make Lee the center of attention. Not generally, and especially not now, not when at last count Lee's fan mail had risen to equal that of the older actor. And Mason'd always been particularly sensitive to anything he perceived as a threat to his position as the star of
Darkest Night
. That wasn't an opinion Tony'd actually express out loud, however—not to Brenda. The wardrobe assistant was one of those rare people in the business who, in spite of exposure, continued to buy into the celebrity thing. For most, the “Oh, my God, it's . . .” faded after a couple of artistic hissy fits extended the workday past the fifteen-hour mark.

Also, she was a bit of a suck-up, and the last thing he wanted was her currying favor by telling Mason what he thought. Well, maybe not the last thing he wanted—a repeat of the homicidal shadow experience currently topped his never again list, but having Mason Reed pissed off at him was definitely in the top ten since Mason Reed sufficiently pissed off meant Tony Foster unemployed.

Realizing she was still waiting for an answer, he said, “No, I don't think it was Mason.”

“Of course not.”

Hey, you brought it up.
He picked up a scrap of trim . . .

“Don't touch that.”

. . . and put it back down again. “Sorry.”

“Are you taking the jacket back or is Lee coming out to get it? Or I could take it back and make sure it looks all right under the lights.”

“You could, but since I'm here . . .”

“And as it happens, so am I.”

They turned together, pulled around by an unmistakable rough velvet voice to see Lee coming into the trailer.

“There's another mark on the pants.” He turned as he spoke.

It looked as if someone had pressed a finger against the bottom of Lee's right cheek and stroked up. Tony thought very hard about cold showers, police holding cells, and Homer Simpson.

Lee continued around until he faced them again, toed off the black patent leather shoes, and unzipped his fly. “I swear it wasn't there earlier.”

“The jacket would have covered most of it,” Brenda reminded him in a breathy tone Tony found extremely annoying. He held on to that annoyance—it was a handy shield against a potentially embarrassing reaction to Lee stepping out of his pants and passing them over.

Clad from the waist down in gray boxer briefs and black socks, Lee wandered over to the empty makeup chair and sat. The chair squealed a protest. “I have no idea how it happened. I swear I wasn't anywhere near wet paint.”

“Of course you weren't,” Brenda purred. Lifting the jacket off the ironing board she handed it to Tony, her heated gaze never leaving Lee's face until she had to lay out the pants. She made up for the loss of eye contact by taking her time caressing the fabric smooth.

Rumor insisted that Brenda and Lee had recently shared a heated moment on the floor of the wardrobe department while Alison Larkin—the head of wardrobe—was off rummaging through charity sales for costumes her budget would cover. Given the intimate way Brenda spread her hand and pressed it down next to the paint to hold the fabric still, Tony had to admit it looked like gossip had gotten it right. Standing there, while she spritzed and then rubbed slow circles over the ass of Lee's pants, he felt like a voyeur.

And he was definitely odd man out.

“Listen, Tony, as long as Lee's here, there's no need for you to stay.” Apparently, Brenda thought so, too.

“Yeah, I should go.”

“Yes, you should.”
Because the moment you're out the door and we're finally alone, I'm going to show that man what a real woman can give him.

He had to admire the amount of bad fifties subtext she could layer under three words.

“I'll tell Peter you'll be back when Brenda's finished with you,” he said handing Lee the jacket. The expression on the actor's face was interesting—and a little desperate. Desperate for him to leave? Desperate about him leaving? Desperately seeking Susan? What? Tony was getting nothing.

“Are you still here?”
What part of we want to be alone don't you understand?

Well, nothing from Lee. Plenty from Brenda.

“Tony!”
Adam's voice rose out of the background noise.
“The minute that paint's . . .”
A couple of words got lost in static.
“. . . get Lee back here. We've got a shitload of stuff to cover today.”

He dropped his mouth toward the microphone clipped to his collar. “Roger that, Adam.”

“Yeah, I got that.” Most of it, anyway.

Adam had obviously heard the rumor, too, although his choice of euphemism was interesting. Rogered?

“Jacket's done, pants are . . .” Tony glanced over at Brenda and shrugged apologetically when she glared. “. . . pants are finished now. Lee's dressing . . .” The pants slid quickly up over long, muscular, tanned legs. Feet shoved into shoes and Lee was at the door, mouthing
Sorry, gotta run
back toward the wardrobe assistant. “And we're moving.”

“Moving!”

They were almost to the path before Lee spoke. “Yes, we did.”

Tony shrugged. “I didn't ask.”

“And it was a stupid thing to do.”

“I didn't say.” Brenda was standing in the doorway watching them leave. He knew it without turning. Feeling the impact of metaphorical scissors between his shoulder blades, he increased the space between them to the maximum the path would allow.

“It was just . . . I mean, we were both . . . And she was . . .”

“Hey.” Tony raised a hand before details started emerging. “Two consenting adults. Not my business.”

“Right.” As the path finally lined up with the front door, Lee stopped. “It's a great house, isn't it?”

“Yeah, it's cool.” Tony had been ready for the change of subject—guys, especially guys who weren't exactly friends, had a low level of TMI. Actually, since Lee wasn't the kind of guy to brag about his conquests, Tony was a little surprised he'd even brought it up.

“I asked Mr. Brummel if he thought the owners might sell.”

“What did he say?”

“This isn't your average house, boy. You don't own a house like this. It owns you.”

Lee's impression of the caretaker's weirdly rhythmic delivery was bang on. Tony snickered. A middle-aged man in rumpled clothes, scuffed work boots, and an obvious comb over, Mr. Brummel—no first name offered—had taken the caretaker clichés to heart, embracing them with all the fervor of someone about to shout, “And I'd have gotten away with it, too, if not for you meddling kids.”

But he was right; Caulfield House was anything but average.

Built around the turn of the last century by Creighton Caulfield, who'd made a fortune in both mining and timber, the house rested on huge blocks of pale granite with massive beams of western red cedar holding up the porch roof. Three stories high with eight bedrooms, a ballroom, a conservatory, and servants' quarters on the third floor, it sat tucked away in Deer Lake Park at the end of a long rutted path too overgrown to be called a road. Matt, the freelance location finder CB Productions generally employed, had driven down Deer Lake Drive to have a look at Edgar House—which turned out to be far too small to accommodate the script. Following what he called a hunch, although Tony suspected he'd gotten lost—it wouldn't be the first time—he spotted a set of ruts and followed them. Chester Bane, the CB of CB Productions, had taken one look at the digital images Matt had shot of the house he'd stumbled on at the end of the ruts, and decided it was perfect for
Darkest Night.

Although well within the boundaries of the park, Caulfield House remained privately owned and all but forgotten. Tony had no idea how CB had gotten permission to use the building, but shouting had figured prominently—shouting into the phone, shouting behind the closed door of his office, shouting into his cell as he crossed the parking lot ignoring the cars pulling out and causing two fender benders as his staff tried to avoid hitting him. Evidence suggested that CB felt volume could succeed when reason failed, and his track record seemed to support his belief.

But the house
was
perfect in spite of the profanely expressed opinions of the drivers who'd had to maneuver the generator, the craft services truck, two equipment trucks, the wardrobe/makeup trailer, and the honey wagon down the rutted road close enough to be of any use. Fortunately, as CB had rented the entire house for the week, he had no compunction about having dressing rooms set up in a couple of the bedrooms. He'd only brought in the honey wagon when Mr. Brummel had informed him what it would cost to replace the elderly septic system if it broke down under the additional input.

The huge second-floor bathroom had therefore been painted but was off-limits as far as actually using it. The painters had left the window open to help clear the fumes and Tony glanced up to see the bottom third of the sheer white curtain blowing out over the sill.

He frowned. “Did you see that?”

“The curtain?”

“No, beyond the curtain, in the room. I thought I saw someone looking down at us.”

Lee snorted and started walking again, stepping over a sprawling mass of plants that had spilled out of the garden onto the path. “Probably Mason sneaking a smoke by the window. He likely figures the smell of the paint'll cover the stink.”

It made sense, except . . .

“Mason's in black,” Tony argued, hurrying to catch up. “Whoever this was, they were wearing something light.”

“Maybe he took the jacket off so he wouldn't get paint on it. Maybe that's where he went for his earlier smoke and maybe he did a little finger painting on my ass when he got back.” One foot raised above the top step, Lee paused and shook his head. “No, I'm pretty sure I'd remember that.” Half turning, he grinned down at Tony on the step below. “It seems I have a secret admirer.”

Before Tony could decide if he was supposed to read more into that than could possibly be there, Lee was inside and Adam's voice was telling him to
“. . . get your ass in gefffst, Tony. We don't have all fisssssking day.”

Fisssssking had enough static involved it almost hurt. Fiddling with the frequency on his walkie-talkie as he followed Lee into the house, Tony had a feeling that the communication difficulties were going to get old fast.

“He peeped you. Not the actor, the other one.”

“Don't be ridiculous, Stephen.”

“Well, he looked like he saw you.”

“He saw the curtain blowing out the window, that's all. I'm very good at staying out of sight.” Her tone sharpened. “
I'm
not the one that people keep spotting, am I?”