Hollywood Scream Play (23 page)

I luck out when it drops onto the tracks. I reach down to grab it—

But Sebastian shoves me down.

As I fall onto the track, my foot gets caught under one of the rails.

Sebastian holds up the script triumphantly in one hand.

The other hand holds my gun.

He’s only a few feet away, and I’m a sitting duck.

He aims the gun at my head.

I brace myself with both hands on the rail and hold my breath in anticipation—

Of the thirty-foot wall of water about to wash over us.

He doesn’t see it coming.

But he sees the fear in my eyes.

By the time he turns around, it’s too late.

As the wave crashes down upon us, I hold my breath, and hold on for dear life.

I try not to think of what is taking place around me, above me, or below me. I am slammed from all sides—not just by the water, but all things that take flight in the wake of unexpected storms: branches, flower pots, garbage, even bicycles. I envision the rumbling in my ears to be a train headed our way, but I know that’s impossible because the trains would have been cancelled in a storm of this magnitude.

So then, why is the track shaking violently?

I force my eyes open, only to find that while I’ve been clinging to the track, it is hanging practically in thin air, suspended on tall spindly metal pylons.

The rest of the seawall has been washed out to sea.

So has Sebastian. I see him on his back. His dead man’s float is the real thing.

The plastic bag holding the script stays afloat, too—a white spec ebbing toward a gunmetal gray horizon.

A moment later, both dip beneath the waves.

I crawl, crablike, over the tracks and thin air, until I reach the roadway that used to hug the seawall.

I pray Jack made it back to the children in one piece.

If he did and I’m not there, he’ll be worried out of his mind.

I run back to our cottage, as fast as the wind will allow.

Suddenly, I miss Hilldale.

Chapter 15

Apocalypse Now

“What do you call it when the assassins accuse the assassin? A lie. A lie, and we have to be merciful.”

—Marlon Brando, as “Kurtz”

You can certainly glean a few great beauty tips by hanging around the make-up trailer on a movie set. Here are a few that will make you look younger, perkier, and (dare I say it?) even more beautiful than you already are:

Tip #1: There are around twenty basic makeup foundations, which come in both oil and water bases. The key is finding the shade that best matches your skin tone, or the hue that works best to transform you into the character. Mix two shades if necessary.

However, if you end up with one that is too dark, you’re the Creature from the Black Lagoon. Too light, and you’re Lily Munster. Bottom line: Experiment until you get it right.

Tip #2: Use a make-up mirror with light settings that will emulate the lighting used on the set, be it sunlight, fluorescent, or incandescent. This avoids making you look like a monster—too green, like Frankenstein, or in partial shadow, like a vampire.

Tip #3: Always outline the lips with a pencil or a liner before filling in with a lipstick. However, never use a lipstick with a blue hue, unless you want to come off like the living dead.

Do you see a pattern here? The goal is to stay away from anything that will make others balk, gag, or run when they see you—

Unless the script calls for it.

If it does, change agents, because obviously, this one doesn’t see you as you see yourself.

“Uh oh!” Jeff looks up from his iPad, where he’s surfing the industry trades between reading the latest uploaded scripts in 
The Black List
.

My way of trying to forget the fact that the one thing that might have bought us diplomatic immunity with the British Government is now a soggy block of pulp at the bottom of the English Channel is to braid Trisha’s unruly hair. But any under-the-breath exclamation by a child containing my genetic make-up gives me cause to pause. “Why do you say that?”

He shrugs. “The rumors are flying, both on the set and off.” He clicks on the tablet’s toolbar and his screen changes to the 
Deadline Hollywood
 banner. One of the banner sliders reads, 
Housewife Assassin Slays Screenwriter
.

Oh, heck.

I snatch the device out of his hand and scan the article.

Yes, it’s me.

And yes, the film footage was apparently shot during my altercation with Sebastian—at the exact moment he fell to his death.

Who the hell took it, and why?

Did the same person send it to the media?

The caption accompanying it reads, “This video clip, sent to 
Deadline Hollywood
 by an unnamed source, shows an anonymous woman with Gillingham when he drowned. What is not clear in the video is who she is, and why they chose to rehearse this action scene during the biggest storm to hit the English Coast in forty years. However, the footage clearly shows some fancy footwork on the mystery woman’s part, at least up until the time when Gillingham realizes he’s caused her to fall. Tragically, as he reaches to help her up with the prop gun, he is washed out to sea. Considering the Royal Family’s zeal for 
Bloomsbury
, it is no wonder the argument for posthumous knighthoods has been revived.”

I thank God the camera was too far away to show my face. Not that Carl scans Tinseltown industry trade rags, but if he did, this headline, coupled with the photo and his knowledge of Sebastian’s whereabouts, might make him curious enough to have his tech team blow up the photo so that he can see my face more clearly.

We might be arrested at any moment.

I turn to my aunt. “Did you have anything to do with this?”

She looks up from her knitting. “Honey, you know very well my paparazzi days are over.”

“That’s only because Willow’s assistant, Augusta, tossed your cell phone in the toilet, and you were told you’d be banned from the set. Tell me the truth, Aunt Phyllis—did you take this video with one of my children’s phones?”

The half-knitted sweater in her lap falls to the floor as she springs to her feet. “I’m not even going to justify that remark with another answer, since I’ve just given you one. Take it or leave it!”

She stalks off with tears in her eyes.

“Mommy, why are you being so mean to Aunt Phyllis?” Trisha glares at me as she runs after her.

I should apologize and calm them both down, but right now, every second counts, so instead I head for the door, iPad in hand.

“Mom…what’s wrong?” Jeff frowns. “Where are you going with that? Addison expects coverage on at least three scripts by dinner time!”

“Ask Mary if you can borrow her iPad.”

“Only if he promises not to leave cookie crumbs all over it, like last time,” Mary mutters from the couch. She’s still in her pajamas, and has a blanket over her head. The way she’s mourning Rachel’s death has me worried about my eldest.

“Please, Jeff, just take care of your sisters. Don’t answer the door, unless it’s either your father or me.”

I’ve got to find Jack. If we can’t do damage control on this, it may be time to hit the road again.

I can’t find Jack anywhere. I text Abu to see if they’re together, but get back, 
Nope, haven’t seen him
.

Maybe he’s with Emma or Arnie.

I seek out Arnie first. I find him with the rest of the special effects crew and Chad, the second unit director, assessing the damage the storm has done to the railroad tracks, where the next scene is to be shot. I’ve arrived just in time to hear Chad exclaim, “It’ll take the British government months to rebuild it! Either we have to find another location, and pronto, or we’ll have to scrap the scene altogether.”

Arnie is upset about something. It’s written all over his face. Finally, he notices that I’m trying to wave him over and he heads towards me.

“Arnie, we’re in very big trouble! Someone took a video of Sebastian attacking me on the tracks before he was hit by the wave that took him out to sea. The person then sent it to 
Deadline Hollywood
! If Carl sees it and recognizes it as me, the Feds will come for us. I can’t find Jack anywhere, to warn him. Have you seen him?”

All the color drains out of Arnie’s face. He shakes his head slowly. “No, I haven’t seen him all morning, but” —he stares down at his feet, as if they hold the words that are alluding him—“I was the one who took the film footage.”

“What? …But why?”

“I guess I was trying to impress Chad. With the velocity of the storm due our way, I felt we could take advantage of having some truly spectacular waterworks on the tracks to use as cutaway footage for the train scene. So, I set up a digital camera with a telephoto lens on the summit of the hill, pointed it at the spot I knew he’d want—where the track is closest to the sea wall—and let it run all afternoon, when the storm rolled in. A few hours later, I came back to retrieve the camera, but it was gone! I thought it had blown away or something.”

“Obviously not. Now we have to find out who stole it, reviewed the footage, and sent it out to the media.”

“Donna, if I’d known you’d end up there with Sebastian—”

I put my hand on his shoulder. I realize he’s upset with Emma’s infatuation with Reed and has been trying to keep himself busy so that he doesn’t have to think about it. “I don’t blame you, Arnie. At the time, none of us knew Sebastian’s true allegiances. The camera just happened to be at the right place at the wrong time. Right now, I need to find Jack so that he can assess the damage. If we split up, maybe one of us will run into him. I’m on my way to the make-up trailer to see if Emma has seen him.”

“I’ll see if he’s with Addison, or maybe Whitford.” He’s off, heading toward the soundstage.

Every second counts. We both know it.

I tap on the door of the make-up trailer. No one answers, but I heard angry voices just a moment before.

It’s all the reason I need to bang on the door until someone opens it.

Emma’s head pops out. Her eyes are red and puffy. “Donna! What are you doing here?”

Has she been crying? It’s been a while since we’ve talked one-on-one. I need to learn to be a better friend—certainly before I end up in a prison cell. Note to self: stock up on cartons of cigs for your new besties, so that you have something to trade for shivs. “Emma, sorry to interrupt, but I’m looking for Jack. Have you seen him?”

She looks back anxiously. When she faces me again, she shakes her head.

Something isn’t right.

“We need to talk.” Before she knows it, I’ve pushed past her, into the trailer. “Somehow the tabloids got ahold of—”

It’s not Jack, but Reed, standing on the far side of the room. His arms are crossed at his chest and he’s scowling.

I turn back around to Emma. “I’m sorry to intrude. Is…is everything okay?”

Emma bursts into tears.

I guess I have my answer.

He tries to push past me as he heads for the door, but I step out in front of him. “What the hell did you do to her?”