Beach Town (13 page)

“Good thinking,” CeeJay drawled. “I'll bet you can get a good look at him from there.”

The girl was staring out the window again.

“Oh my God!” She sat the coffeepot down on the table and covered her mouth with both hands. “There he is!”

CeeJay and Greer followed her gaze. A gleaming black stretch Hummer zoomed past the restaurant, followed by two black Escalades.

“That's Kregg!” the girl said. “In the Hummer. I mean, the windows were tinted and all, but I'd know him anywhere. I swear, that was him.”

“Yeah, I heard he usually travels incognito like that,” Greer said.

The walkie-talkie she'd laid on the tabletop squawked. “Greer?” It was Zena, her assistant location manager.

“I'm here, Zena.”

“We've got an issue. There's like a giant dead shark washed up down here on the beach.”

“I'm on my way. In the meantime, get a couple of the grips to haul it off on one of the carts.”

“Haul it off where? Just down the beach?”

“No! It'll just wash back up on the set. Tell them to take it over to the seawall on the bayside, near that old oyster cannery. Got it? Not the beach. The bay.”

“Got it. Golf cart. Seawall. Cannery. Not the beach.”

“I'll be there in five,” Greer added.

CeeJay sighed and pushed her breakfast berries away. “Guess we better get back to work, huh?”

*   *   *

The off-duty cop waved their golf cart past the aluminum traffic barriers blocking access to the motel. A crowd had gathered there too, teenage girls, mostly, standing in knots, chattering and feverishly texting on their cell phones.

“I guess good old Aunt Cindy must have let everybody in town know we'd start shooting Kregg's scenes today,” Greer said, scowling.

“Well, that and the newspaper.” CeeJay held up the discarded copy of the
Cypress Key Citizen
they'd picked up from a table at the caf
é
. “Hmm. ‘According to informed sources, Kregg was delayed by a week because he was in the studio working on his new album,'” CeeJay said, reading aloud. “‘But
Beach Town
producer/director Bryce Levy was happy to work around his young star's schedule.'”

“Happy? I wonder if that reporter has any idea how much money Kregg's little rehab spa week just cost the production company.”

“Yeah, I don't know how these unit publicists look themselves in the mirror every morning, with all the bullshit they have to shovel every day,” CeeJay said.

“What else does the paper say?” Greer asked, steering the cart past the trucks and crew vans parked in the Silver Sand's parking lot. Thick black cables snaked over the pavement, and generators were already humming.

“Here's where it gets interesting,” CeeJay said. “‘Unnamed local officials say a special called meeting of the City Commission is scheduled for tonight, because Vanessa Littrell, president of Littrell Properties, which owns the Cypress Key Pier and Casino buildings, has filed a petition asking the council to overrule Mayor Eben Thibadeaux's decision not to allow filming at the casino.'”

“Re-heally!” Greer allowed herself a smug smile, which CeeJay didn't miss.

“Your idea, right? Going over the mayor's head and directly to the council?”

Greer shrugged. “Oh, I don't know. Vanessa Littrell is a pretty savvy negotiator. She probably would have come up with the idea sooner or later on her own. I just maybe nudged her along because we're running out of time. If we can get permission to use the casino, the construction guys are still going to have a ton of work to do to get it stabilized before the set dressers can even get started.”

“At least we've finally got our star in the same zip code,” CeeJay said. “I swear, last week, Bryce was this close to flying to New Mexico and personally abducting Kregg from that clinic.”

Greer pulled the cart in front of the Silver Sands office, into a slot she'd cordoned off with orange traffic cones and pink surveyor's tape. Suddenly, they heard a roar of high-pitched squeals, screams, and excited voices, followed by applause. A moment later, the black stretch Hummer rolled past.

“Speak of the devil. I think Kregg is officially in the house.”

*   *   *

One of the P.A.s handed her a clipboard of the day's shot schedule. No surprises here. Crews were already setting up on the beach for the scene where Kregg's character, Nick, would first meet Danielle, his love interest and the film's leading lady.

Casting was definitely not her department, but Greer always had opinions, and this time around Greer thought Bryce had cast exactly the right actress to play Danielle.

Adelyn Davis was only twenty-five, looked eighteen, but was already a seasoned screen veteran—she'd won her first television role as a four-year-old. In the years since her acting debut, she'd aced increasingly challenging roles, starred in her last two movies, and had even taken time off from acting to graduate from the Yale School of Drama.

Addie had reported to work the previous week, her lines memorized. She was annoyed, but unfazed, by her costar's absence.

She stood in the open doorway of her trailer now, made up, with hot rollers in her long, blond hair, a pink bathrobe thrown over her costume, daintily sipping from a mug of tea, watching the hubbub surrounding Kregg's arrival on set.

A heavyset young black man with a headful of dreadlocks clambered down from the driver's side of the Hummer, hitched up his sagging jeans, and sauntered around to the passenger side.

Craig White, aka Kregg, stepped out into the already blinding Florida sunlight, lowered his sunglasses, and blinked. Heavy-lidded pale blue eyes gazed around the crowded mini-village that had been erected overnight in the motel parking lot.

He was taller than Greer had expected, probably six five, and whip thin. The skin on the spaghetti-like arms hanging from the short-sleeved black T-shirt was the color of nonfat milk, so pale it was almost blue, and his dark hair fell limply around a narrow, angular face dotted crimson with what looked like a raging case of acne. He wore tight jeans and metal-studded black knee-high boots.

“Oh Jesus,” CeeJay said. “I'm supposed to make this guy look like a Navy SEAL?”

The back doors of the Hummer and the two Escalades were flung open, and the rest of the star's black-clad entourage tumbled out, eight in all.

Bryce Levy pushed his way through the crowd with his arms extended. “Kregg!” he exclaimed. “Welcome to
Beach Town.
”

Kregg took a hasty step backwards. “Cool,” he mumbled, eluding the director's embrace. “Very cool.”

*   *   *

Greer looked down at her watch. It would take a good two hours to get Kregg through hair, makeup, and costume. She was assessing the possibility of a nap, when her assistant materialized at her side.

Zena was a stunner, in her early twenties, tall and lithe, with huge dark eyes, olive skin, and long dark hair that hung nearly to her waist. They'd worked together a couple years previously on a short-lived reality show. Zena wasn't terribly good with independent thinking, but she was pleasant and good with details. Most importantly, she always showed up on time. Always. That made her golden in Greer's world.

“All good?” she asked her assistant. “No more Jaws?”

“The shark is history,” Zena assured her.

“How's it looking down on the beach?”

“The shrimp boats you hired are anchored out near the sandbar. They look awesome.”

“They should, for what I had to pay. How about Nick's boat? Has it been delivered yet?”

“Got here about thirty minutes ago.”

“How's it look? Did they paint it the right shade of red? Has Alex seen it?”

“Alex says the red looks fine, but he's having the painters stripe the front of the boat. What's that called?”

“The bow. Does the boat actually run?”

“Yeah. The stunt driver checked it out. It runs fine. And the boats for the camera crews are here too.”

Greer yawned again. “Okay. Can you take over for an hour or so? I'm dead on my feet.”

“Yeah, wow, you look kinda washed out,” Zena said. “Go ahead. I got this.”

Greer unlocked the door to her motel room. It was depressingly hot. She turned the dial on the air conditioner down to Eskimo level, inspected the room for renegade cockroaches, and yanked the venetian blind cord. It came away in her hand.

“Shit.” She found a bath towel and draped it over the window. Finally, with the room dark and somewhat cool, she tumbled into the bed.

Two hours or two days later, the walkie-talkie on her nightstand squawked. “Greer?”

She struggled to an upright position and groped blindly in the dark for the radio.

“I'm here, Zena. What is it?”

“Sorry to bother you. Hey, the caterers just radioed me from base camp. Something's wrong with the generator, and they don't have power.”

“God. What time is it?”

“Eleven thirty. They're going apeshit because lunch break is in thirty minutes and they've got seventy-five people to feed.”

“So tell them to fix peanut butter and jelly.”

“Really?”

“No, Zena. I'm kidding. Get one of the P.A.s to check to make sure there's gas in the generator, and that somebody didn't accidentally unplug one of the cables. I'll be over there in five minutes, but go ahead and give them the number of the pizza place for takeout, just in case.”

*   *   *

Greer used one hand to clamp the bill of her baseball cap and keep it from flying away in the wind while, with the other, she trained the binoculars toward the beach as the wooden skiff bobbed at anchor in the surf.

The actors were standing in ankle-deep water. Kregg was stripped to the waist, and it looked like CeeJay had used a gallon of self-tanner to dispel his pasty complexion. She'd also shaved off most of his hair. Addie wore a gauzy white dress, which was plastered to her damp body. They were surrounded by cameramen and boom mikes and half a dozen crew members. Bryce Levy was seated on the end of a boom, just out of camera angle, waving his arms and screaming something Greer couldn't make out.

She glanced behind her and saw the source of the director's agitation. Bearing directly down on them was a yellow speedboat, loaded down with half a dozen bikini-clad teenage girls. Following it were two more boats.

The boat sped closer and closer to shore, and then slowed. Greer could hear their high-pitched squeals. “Kregg! Kregg! Hey, Kregg! Hey, Addie!”

Greer reached for her radio and sighed. “Officer Jackson? Yellow boat at four o'clock. Two more following. Can you intercept?”

The radio squawked. “We got it.”

A moment later she saw a black and tan craft with a local law enforcement insignia, in pursuit, with a loud, blaring siren mounted to the bow. Within twenty minutes the boats had been dispersed, but the damage had already been done.

It was almost four o'clock. Filming had already been disrupted twice by similar intrusions from enthusiastic fans zooming in and out of camera range. Each time the off-duty cops had chased them off, but each incident had cost valuable time.

Now, dark clouds were looming on the horizon. Overcast skies were actually better for lighting, but these clouds had an ominous look to them. Suddenly, a streak of lightning danced in the distance and a hard rain began to pelt the water's surface.

Bryce was waving his arms again. The actors hurried out of the surf, and assistants scurried to move the equipment out of the rain. The shoot was over, nearly as soon as it had begun.

“Let's get out of here,” Greer told her assistant. Zena nodded and reached over and yanked the starter cord.

 

15

Greer wanted a shower. And air conditioning. And a very cold glass of wine. And dinner. Because the bowl of grits she'd inhaled hours earlier had been her only food all day, and she was hot and salt soaked and exhausted. She was on her way back to her room after the last production meeting of the day when her cell phone pinged.

The text message was from Vanessa Littrell.

SEE YOU AT THE COUNCIL MEETING IN 15 MINUTES. YES?

“No,” Greer moaned. “No, no, no, no.”

Before she could respond to the text, Bryce clamped a hand over her sunburned shoulder. “Good work today.”

She winced and turned around to speak to her producer/director.

In contrast to her own grubby appearance, Bryce's hair was still wet from a recent shower, his clothes were pristine, and he smelled of aftershave.

“I'm glad you thought so,” Greer said. “Tomorrow, I promise we'll get a better handle on all the gawkers and rubberneckers. I've already arranged for a couple more off-duty cops with boats.”

“Fantastic. Look, one of the publicists … what's her name? Um, yeah, Meg, the one with the red hair? She just left me word that there's a city council meeting tonight.…”

“Right,” Greer said cautiously.

“Something about a problem with permits to use the casino as a location? Meg says it's sort of a command performance. Goodwill in the community and all. The thing is, I really don't have time tonight for a dog and pony show. I've got a conference call to the coast, and then CeeJay and I are having dinner with Kregg and his people. So I was thinking, you should go.”

Greer's heart sank. “Me?”

“Absolutely! You're the face of
Beach Town
with these people anyway. They'll love it. Right?”

“But the meeting starts in fifteen minutes.” She took a step backwards, gesturing at her navy tank top, salt-crusted capris, and red Keds. “I've been on a boat all afternoon. Look at me, Bryce. I'm sweaty and stinky. I can't represent the film looking like this.”

“You look fabulous, babe. Just do what you do.” He leaned over, planted a kiss on her cheek. “We'll catch up in the morning.”