Final cut, p.28
Final Cut, page 28
“So now he’s guilty of everything?” She felt a pang of frustration. “I hope they’re not just focusing on Stuart when there’s a company full of people who can’t stand Pray.”
“They’re only doing their job.” He turned his palms up. “I’m sure they’ll want to talk to you too, based on what you told the medic yesterday.”
Joey’s stomach did a nosedive at the thought of another interrogation with Blankenship. “I’ll bet you piped right up about that, didn’t you?”
“I’m not the only person who heard you say the Campbells knew about Marcus’s tree nut allergy, and I’m not going to apologize for telling the truth.” He lifted his chin defiantly. “It’s relevant information.”
“What is your problem, Eli?” She swallowed hard, still unnerved by his attitude. “I’m not the enemy.”
He looked at her for a long moment. “I know that,” he said gruffly, then turned and walked away.
Joey passed the rest of the day in a fog of distraction. She went on putting one foot in front of the other, but Stuart’s arrest together with the news about Courtney’s paternity test had her spinning again. She thought it was possible Stuart crossed a line to punish Pray, but she didn’t believe he was a homicidal maniac, as Eli implied, and she couldn’t see any reason he’d want to harm Courtney.
Unless it was a matter of wrong place, wrong time.
She’d had that thought about the murder early on: maybe Courtney saw something she wasn’t supposed to. What if she surprised someone in an act of sabotage? The idea didn’t seem so far-fetched, given the explosion that sent Bernard to the hospital, the crash on Broadway, and Pray’s near-fatal allergy attack, all in less than a week. Her mind snapped back to Pete O’Neill, the ugly look on his face when he bad-mouthed Courtney right after she died:
“Lotta people thought she was a bitch. The whole crew hated her.”
At the time, she thought he was probably blowing hot air, but what if she was wrong? This was a guy who had privileged access to Pray’s private trailer, ditto the picture cars and pretty much everything else on set by virtue of being in the transpo department. That gave him plenty of opportunity, and he worked directly for Pray, so it was a safe bet he had an ax to grind.
But she couldn’t forget about the long-haired mystery man. He was right at the heart of the action for the on-set crash, and he seemed more likely than ever to be Joey’s PCH follower. As far as she was concerned, that was enough to put him on the short list of suspects.
On the other hand, she wasn’t ready to let Pray off the hook for the murder simply because he’d been targeted himself. The two incidents weren’t mutually exclusive, and Joey could easily picture Pray killing Courtney in a fit of rage if she backed him into a corner over the paternity issue. She was sure he was capable of that kind of brutality.
Still, she only had Caleb’s word the paternity test even existed, and she just didn’t trust him. At this point she was less inclined to believe he was responsible for his sister’s death, but she couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t go to the police with the test results, if he had them. Maybe he was guilty of something else, dealing drugs perhaps; or maybe if Eli was right, one of his paranoid fantasies sent him running. Then again, maybe he’d killed her, after all.
Shooting resumed on Stage Five with Pray back in control of the set; the general mood of the company was curiously subdued. To Joey, it seemed they’d adopted a siege mentality, as if the police action of the morning was only a hashtag marking some weird new normal. Bill Nichols nailed it: they all knew it wasn’t if but when the next crisis would hit.
While she waited for her turn in the barrel with Blankenship, Joey stood within view of the monitor in video village and pretended to pay attention to the set, but her thoughts continued to swirl. She tried to shake off the tension she felt after her run-in with Eli; everybody was stressed out and short-tempered, herself included. You had to make allowances for that.
When she was finally called in for questioning, Blankenship surprised her. The detective only asked her to repeat the brief exchange she’d had with Sam about Pray’s tree nut allergy. That was the extent of the interview.
Joey expected to be put on the block and almost opened up about everything she couldn’t figure out on her own: the Pray/Courtney affair, her pregnancy and the paternity test, Pray’s relationship with Sofia, her supposed suicide, and the lack of available information about her death. If only Joey had a copy of the paternity test results or she could count on Caleb to back her up, she’d have gladly dumped it all in Blankenship’s lap.
In the end, she chickened out. Again. Without a hard copy of the test or a reliable witness to confirm her story, Joey still wasn’t prepared to risk everything by putting herself in the crosshairs of the investigation.
Maybe the detective sensed her internal conflict because when Joey got up to leave, Blankenship held out a business card. “If anything occurs to you, Ms. Jessop, please don’t hesitate to call me.” She nodded her encouragement, and Joey reached for the card. “My cell number is in the bottom right corner. Any time,” she added.
“Thank you,” Joey said faintly, and walked out, free to get on with her day.
But she couldn’t move past the chatter in her brain. At work, she was used to tackling problems head on, certain she’d make the best decision possible, given the information at hand. Now she found herself in alien territory, and the consequences of a poor decision were far grimmer than choosing the wrong fabric for a movie star’s costume. Most painful of all was the haunting thought that the worst was still to come.
Dahlia texted her repeatedly about the Bond gig, but Joey responded with a brief Will call when I can and left it at that. When she went for her daily check-in at Hammer and Tongs, Damir took her aside.
“What’s with you today?” He tapped her forehead with his finger. “And don’t tell me you just have a lot on your mind, because I can see the committee’s in session up there and the consensus is bleak.”
Her eyes filled with tears, surprising them both. “Have you ever felt like you suddenly dropped into some alternate reality where everything you took for granted was the opposite of what you thought?”
“That is both vague and disturbingly specific.”
“Don’t mind me.” She dashed at her tears impatiently. “It’s been a hard week for everybody, and I think I’m cracking under the strain.”
“You’re human.” He smiled. “And a pretty good specimen, at that. Why don’t you cut yourself a break and play hooky for the rest of the day? Have a margarita, go home, and walk on the beach.”
“I wish.” She leaned up to give him a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for listening; I feel better already.”
“Liar,” he said fondly.
“Cross my heart.”
In the parking lot at Hammer and Tongs, she checked the crew list for Sam Campbell’s cell number and placed the call she’d been hesitant to make. When voice mail picked up after the first ring, she left a message. “Sam, this is Joey Jessop. I hope your father’s okay, but I’m mostly worried about you. Please call me when you get this. I promise not to ask a lot of questions, I just want to hear from you.”
She pocketed her phone, feeling as if she needed to do something more, though she couldn’t think what that might be. Playing hooky wouldn’t cure what ailed her. With everything in a constant state of upheaval, it seemed smart to stick close to the set. Lacking direction or a better idea, she headed over to LCC to spend the afternoon updating the made-to-order bible.
The costume office was unusually quiet. Malo and Bill worked on the budget in silence, communicating by some form of telepathy, or so it seemed to Joey. Everyone else on the costume crew was at the studio with the shooting company or out in the field doing errands.
But the stillness only served as a vacuum, sealing her in with the questions she had no way to answer. Forget about compiling the details of costume construction, she couldn’t concentrate on her work.
“They’ve wrapped for the day.”
Joey looked up from the fabric samples spread across her desk. Bill was on his way out the door, a computer bag slung over his shoulder.
“Shoot.” She ran a hand through her hair, irritated she’d lost track of the time. “I meant to go back to the studio to help the costumers wrap.”
He waved his hand in a let it go gesture. “They only had three actors to watch.”
“But it’s been an awful day for everybody, Bill. I don’t want them to feel abandoned.”
“They’re adults, Joey, and professionals.” He took a closer look at her. “Are you all right?”
“Of course.” She glanced at her desk with a frown. “But I didn’t do half what I’d hoped with the extra time I had this afternoon.”
“It’ll still be there tomorrow.” He motioned to her. “Let’s get out of here.”
Malo appeared next to Bill in the doorway. “Cage is locked up in back.”
“Then we’re all set. I hope you’re hungry.” Bill looked back at Joey. “I’m taking Malo out to dinner to thank him for the extra work he’s been putting in with the budget. We’d both be happy for your company.”
“That’d be awesome.” Malo nodded enthusiastically.
She was touched by the invitation, but she’d never be able to make polite conversation over dinner. “Can I have a rain check?” She tried to smile. “I’d like to, but I’m not fit company this evening.”
“Okay, but let’s make it soon.” Bill adjusted the bag on his shoulder. “Don’t stay too long. The shooting company’s done for the day, and we should be too. It’s not going to get easier anytime soon.”
He and Malo waved their goodbyes, leaving Joey alone in the silent office. She stared dispiritedly at the small mounds of fabric on her desk. These were her tools, as familiar and useful as her own hands. When she worked with them, it was almost as if they spoke to her, a dialogue that helped guide her through the creative process, from concept to image to clothing as the designs took shape. But tonight they were just piles of lifeless scraps with nothing to say.
When her cell phone buzzed with an incoming text, she closed her eyes and sighed. Probably Dahlia again. Maybe this was the time to bite the bullet and finish the conversation about the Bond movie once and for all. She pulled up the message with half an eye on the stack of fabric swatches she needed to organize for Neptune Girl.
Vengeance is mine and retribution. For the day of their calamity is near and the impending things are hastening upon them.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Joey wanted to throw her phone against the wall, or better yet, flush it down the toilet. Just her luck to pick up a cyberbully who browbeat her with sanctimonious sound bites. This time she blocked the number, even though the action felt pointless. But the text was the last straw for the day; she left her book work open on the desk, picked up her bag, and headed for home.
The long drive to the west side through the teeth of rush hour not only trapped her behind the wheel for the next two hours, it plunged her back into a death spiral of obsessive thinking. A pall of gloom enveloped her. Even with the bits and pieces of information she’d spent so much energy collecting, she was still floundering when it came to putting them together to make sense of the nightmare her world had become. But a new feeling of dread was building that sickened her to consider. By the time she got home, she felt a migraine brewing.
The sun was down, but the moon was out; a ghostly halo of light bled through feathery clouds floating across its pale face. She bypassed her house and headed straight for the beach.
At the water’s edge she took a deep, cleansing breath, inhaling the sharp nighttime scent of the ocean, so different from the sun-warmed fragrance of the day. The onshore breeze was brisk, but she didn’t mind the chill, even when a sturdy wave splashed over her feet. The sting of the cold water revived her, but tonight she couldn’t tap into the comfort she usually found in the natural world.
When her phone began to ring, she was feeling so depressed and confused, she almost burst into tears. She pulled the device from her pocket, checked CallerID, then did her best to collect herself before she answered.
“Hi, I was about to call you,” she lied.
“Didn’t you see my last text?” Dahlia complained.
“When did you send it?” she asked to buy time while she checked her inbox.
She’d stopped looking at Dahlia’s messages after receiving more than a dozen variations of We need to talk and Call me when you can.
“About ten minutes ago, when I managed to peel myself off the ceiling,” Dahlia sputtered. “They gave Bond to some Brit with a BAFTA.”
Joey closed her eyes and groped for something to say that wouldn’t betray her complete lack of interest in the topic.
Dahlia saved her by rushing on. “They promised me the job, and then I find out this evening they’ve signed some dinosaur who belongs in a museum. On Twitter, mind you, not even a peep from my agent.”
“That’s terrible; I’m sorry, Dahlia,” she recited.
“Yes, well, I hope you haven’t given your notice,” the designer said sullenly. “That would really put us in a pickle.”
“No, I haven’t.” Joey didn’t see any need to tell her the idea never crossed her mind. “I thought it best to wait until we spoke again.”
“That’s something, anyway,” Dahlia said. “One less knot to unravel. Now I have to find a way to smooth things over with Marcus.”
“Did you tell him you were leaving?”
“No, but he’s got some ruffled feathers I need to tend,” Dahlia grumbled.
“I’m sure you’ll work it out.” She hoped the designer had someone else she could call to pour out her heart to.
“There’s one thing I need you to do for me, though.” Dahlia shifted back into command mode. “For tomorrow.”
“Sure, if I can.”
“I left some fabric samples at the office. That batch from your kit, the silks and voiles from Europe?”
Joey racked her brain; it was hard for her to focus on the everyday details of the movie. “The Hopkins collection?”
There was a brother-sister team in England that manufactured the most exquisite reproduction antique fabrics, and they had them in long yardage runs that made them viable for film. The samples were part of Joey’s regular kit of supplies, research books, and equipment that she brought along on every job. Dahlia had fallen in love with the beautiful vintage look-alikes and was determined to find someplace to use them, even on a superhero movie.
“I think so,” Dahlia said. “Anyway, they’re right beside my desk. I need them first thing tomorrow morning. Can you stop by our office and pick them up on your way to set?”
Call waiting beeped through on Joey’s phone, and she checked the screen. Sam Campbell. Hallelujah.
“Dahlia, I’ve got to take this other call,” she said hastily. “I’ll bring the samples to set tomorrow.” She clicked the keypad to switch lines. “Hey, I’m glad it’s you. How are you doing?”
“Okay, I guess.” Sam sounded shaky, which was no surprise. But there was no resentment in her tone, and Joey was happy about that.
“How’s your dad doing?” she asked.
“I’m not sure.” Sam hesitated. “I need your advice.”
“About Stuart’s situation?”
“Partly.” The one-word response was freighted with doubt.
“I can refer you to a good lawyer if that’s what you need,” Joey said. “He doesn’t do criminal law, but he’ll be able to recommend somebody very capable.”
“It’s nothing like that.” Sam took a sharp breath. “I don’t think I can talk about this on the phone.”
Joey’s caretaker instincts kicked in. “Do you want to meet someplace?”
“Would you mind coming over here? I hate to ask, but …”
“No, it’s fine,” she said, relieved to have something useful to do and somebody else’s problems to think about. “Where do you live?”
“We’re renting a house on Clybourn Avenue in North Hollywood.”
Joey was in the kitchen now, dishing out dinner for Bigfoot. She glanced at the clock: nine thirty PM. North Hollywood was easily an hour’s drive, even at this time of night.
“I’ll get on the road as soon as we hang up, but it’ll take me a while to get there,” she said. “Will you be okay in the meantime?”
“Yes.” Sam still sounded anxious.
“We can stay on the phone if you want,” Joey suggested. “We can talk while I’m driving.”
“No, I’ll be fine as long as I know you’re coming.”
“Hang in there, Sam. Whatever it is, we can figure it out.”
Joey hoped she could keep that promise. If legal representation wasn’t the issue, what else might be so urgent? But she’d given her word to lend support, and she’d do the best she could.
Away from the coastline, light pollution from the urban sprawl overpowered the gentler glow of the moon and stars. Traffic on the 405 heading into the Valley moved at a good clip, but there was still plenty of it. Driving along with dozens of other vehicles left Joey feeling isolated in the bubble of her car, a reflection of the city’s inherent duality. Strange how a person could feel so separate and apart, alone in the midst of millions.
The block on Clybourn where the Campbells lived was lined with modest World War II–vintage bungalows surrounded by postage stamp–sized yards. But given the location and attendant skyrocketing real estate values, the tiny two-bedroom houses would doubtless fetch north of $700,000 apiece in the current market. It was only a matter of time before some developer bought up the block to raze it and build three or four McMansions in place of the dozen houses that stood there now.
The address Sam had given Joey belonged to a gray stucco cottage that could have used a fresh coat of paint but looked otherwise neat and in good repair. It sat back from the street at the end of a narrow brick walkway.
Nearly eleven o’clock and the heat of the day hadn’t loosened its grip on the Valley. The warm night wrapped itself around Joey when she stepped from the car. As soon as she started up the walk, Sam appeared at the front door, looking pale in the dim light that spilled from the bungalow’s interior.
