2 Death Makes the Cut (11 page)

“I’m the director,” he said at last. When I didn’t respond, he added, “This is my movie.”

He apparently wanted something, although I couldn’t imagine what. “Ah,” I said, nodding to show I could hear him.

He frowned at me. “You’ve heard all about it, I’m sure.”

“Nope. Not a word.”

His eyes widened in shock. “But … but we’re shooting here. Right here. Here at your school,” he stressed as though I didn’t get it. “I assume you work here—I saw you on the tennis courts.”

“True,” I agreed.

“And no one has told you we’re making a movie?” He was incredulous.

“No,” I said cheerfully, then relented a bit at his stricken expression. “They don’t tell us much. I’m sure there’ll be an announcement tomorrow. Or the day after.”

He reached up and gripped his shiny ponytail with one hand as though he wanted to pull it out by the roots. “But this is a big deal. This is a real movie, you know. Not one of those low budget indies. The working title is
Teenage Fangst
. Universal Studios is backing us. ILM is doing our F/X. For God’s sakes, I’m Michael Dupre!”

Carl returned wearing a puke green T-shirt with only about six holes and the slogan “No Fat Chicks” scrawled across the chest. He took one final enthusiastic drag on his cigarette, the tip flaring to bright orange, paper visibly shrinking. With a flourish in my direction, he tossed it to the dirt and ground it under one foot, then opened the door to my car.

I hadn’t been a teacher for six years for nothing. “Exhale
before
you get in,” I ordered.

He looked at me guiltily, like a kid caught with a can of spray paint. Reluctantly he exhaled an impressively large cloud, then slid behind the wheel, muttering under his breath. He started the engine and rolled the car forward six inches. Then he cranked the wheel hard left and reversed about eight inches. Wheel yanked hard right, roll forward. Repeat.

I turned back to Michael Dupre. “So what’s your movie about? Teen vampires?”

His jaws snapped together with an audible click, and a small muscle by his right eye gave a convulsive twitch. “You know, that’s just the kind of reverse snobbishness I’d expect from one of you pseudointellectual, straitjacketed, backward, Texas cowboy fucks.”

I lifted my eyebrows. “Whoa, that really stings. Most of us backward Texas cowboy fucks like to think we’ve advanced beyond pseudointellectualism and have entered the realm of pseudophilistinism.”

In front of us Carl continued to inch my car forward and backward, the nose of the small Honda gradually turning to the right … or rightish. Beside me Michael Dupre, director, processed my words for a good sixty seconds, and then to my surprise, gave a startled whoop of laughter.

The Honda’s brakes flashed red for an instant and from the set heads turned, all eyes on the boss. With a collective shrug, they all went back to work as Michael continued to laugh.

“You know,” he said, wiping his eyes with the back of a hand, “you’re all right. What’s your name, anyway?”

“Jocelyn Shore.”

“Tennis coach?”

“Temporary. Temporary tennis coach.”

“Teacher?”

“Yup.”

He grinned at me. “Well, Jocelyn Shore, teacher and temporary tennis coach, how would you and your team like to be extras? Paid, of course.”

Now it was my turn to be surprised. I considered for a few seconds, then answered, “Tentatively, yes.”

“Tentatively?” This seemed to amuse him still further.

“Well, we’d have to ask the kids. And you still haven’t told me what your movie is about.”

Carl had finally freed the Honda. He emerged, red-faced and pop-eyed from the strain, and tossed the keys with unnecessary force to Michael.

Michael caught them easily and dropped them into my hand.

“Werewolves,” he said. “It’s about werewolves. Vampires are completely passé.”

And laughing, he strolled back to the set. As I got into my car, he turned and shouted, “See you tomorrow evening.”

Marveling at the change, I drove away. On my way out I passed Roland Wilding, who threw me a startled glance as he hurried toward the movie set at a half trot. He must have just realized the film crew had arrived and was rushing to do what he did best, which was sucking up. I wondered what kind of a reception he would get.

*   *   *

I hurried home, showered, and then found the card Detective Gallagher had given me. I dialed the handwritten number on the back. While I waited for it to ring, I went into the kitchen and scooped food into a bowl while Belle spun in small circles and yapped. The minute the dish hit the floor, she rushed forward to push her nose deep into the food. Not to eat, of course. At least not right away. She liked to scoop the kibble out of the bowl onto the floor, then eat them one at a time from there. I sighed as she scattered the bits on the clean tile. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” I told her.

The call went to voice mail. I hesitated, then said, “This is Jocelyn Shore. It’s probably nothing, but I had a run-in with a parent today that I thought you should know about.” I said, feeling a little foolish. “I’m going to dinner, now, but I’ll try to reach you again tomorrow.”

I hung up, feeling frustrated, and wishing I hadn’t bothered. Now that I was away from the stress of my encounter with Eric’s father, it seemed absurd to think that he could have killed Fred anyway. Completely ridiculous. Mostly. Probably. On the other hand, I could not shake the vision of the way he’d almost struck his own son, or about the way he had tried to intimidate me. To be honest, he’d done a pretty good job. I was proud of the way I’d handled myself, but there was no denying that I would not want to run into him if no one else was around. As much as it angered me to admit it, something about the man gave me the cold shivers.

I was only about ten minutes late getting to Artz Rib House, and to my surprise Kyla was already there, sitting at a large round table in a nook with another woman and three men. At the sight of the group, I halted. I’d thought I was having dinner with Kyla alone. Trying to decide whether I was really up for a party or whether I should just slip out while the slipping was good, I hesitated just an instant too long. Kyla saw me and waved. Too late to back out now. I pasted a smile on my face and stepped forward for introductions.

Artz is just one two-step above a dive, a tiny building with a rusting tin roof on South Lamar that has become a favorite haven of music lovers and rib lovers alike. Inside, the long narrow dining area looks like it has been transported to the future from 1950s small-town Texas—flimsy tables covered in red-checked oil cloth, lazily spinning ceiling fans, a chalkboard with the day’s specials written in a barely legible scrawl. Almost every night of the week and all weekend long, a variety of musicians jammed at reasonable hours, beginning as early as seven o’clock during the week. Tonight was the Texas Old Time Fiddlers Jam, and in the back of the restaurant, a group of men and a couple of women were busily tuning a variety of fiddles, banjos, and basses. The rich odor of smoked brisket, sausage, and beer filled the air, making Artz a little slice of heaven. Or it would have been anyway if I’d been able to sit in peace in a dim corner with Kyla and tell her about Mr. Richards and the film crew. But there wasn’t going to be a chance for any of that.

Kyla rattled off the names of her companions in one long stream. “Matt, Veronica, Jim, and Sherman.” At this last name she gave me a rueful glance, and I wondered if she’d planned this dinner as a way to get me to meet Sherman from the beginning. A waitress appeared with a round of drinks for the table, and after she passed them out, I ordered a Shiner Bock and sat beside Kyla.

“I was telling everyone how great it is here, and they all decided they had to see for themselves,” she said, as though reading my mind. “Completely spontaneous.”

She had been right about one thing, I thought. Sherman was extremely cute and probably was exactly the kind of guy I’d be eyeing if I wasn’t still interested in Alan. Which I was, God help me. And it was a little too much that Kyla was already trying to set me up with someone else before Alan and I had called it quits. I hoped it wasn’t going to be awkward and that she hadn’t said anything to Sherman about me. However, closer inspection revealed that Veronica was practically sitting in Sherman’s lap, and he must have dropped his keys down her cleavage because he didn’t seem able to look anywhere else. I gave Kyla a smile and settled back in my chair, relaxed and ready to enjoy the music. She grinned back, relieved that I wasn’t annoyed.

We’d just started eating and were listening to an enthusiastic rendition of “General Longstreet’s Reel,” when I realized the pair of dark pants at my elbow did not belong to the waitress. I glanced up to see Detective Gallagher watching me with a faint smile playing about his lips.

He pulled a chair from a neighboring table, inserted it backwards between Kyla and me, and straddled it, leaning his arms on the top rail. Even though he had loosened his tie and hidden his badge, he stood out in that sea of blue jeans and T-shirts.

“What are you doing here? How did you find me?” I asked, completely at a loss.

At the same time, Kyla leaned forward and said, “Good to see you! Detective Gallagher, right? Will you join us for dinner?”

“Colin,” he answered. “And thanks. That would be great.”

The waitress appeared with a menu and a set of flatware rolled in a napkin. He took the flatware, but waved away the menu. “Dos Equis Amber and the rib plate,” he said.

“You got it,” she nodded, not bothering to write it down.

“Seriously.” I pulled at his sleeve. “How did you find me? Are you watching me?”

“Oooh, are you?” asked Kyla. “That’s so cool. Is she a suspect?”

“That is not cool!” I glared at her across Colin’s chest. A broad chest, I might add.

He held up his hands. “The answer is no to both. I’m not following you, and you’re not a suspect … unless you know something I don’t?” He added with a grin to Kyla.

She laughed.

“Still not amused here,” I said.

“I am a detective, you know. I got your message. I knew you were going to dinner.”

“I didn’t tell you where. What, you’ve been checking every restaurant in the city?”

“I’m a detective,” he repeated. “It’s my job to find people. Anyway, what was it you wanted to tell me?”

I folded my arms across my chest and stared at him in stony silence.

Kyla said, “I know that look. You’ll have to tell us how you found her if you want her to talk. Besides, I’m dying to know.”

The waitress returned with his beer. He used it as an excuse not to answer, then took another look at me. He considered, then finally shrugged.

“It was a lucky guess based on my knowledge of the parties in question. You said you were going to dinner. I checked Facebook. Didn’t find you, but I found your cousin. Her status said she was here.”

Kyla looked pleased. “Wow, that thing actually works. And I tagged you, so he knew you were coming.”

“Wait, what? You tagged me? What do you mean?”

She held up her iPhone. “Facebook Places.” At my look of incomprehension, she continued, “Say you go somewhere, and you want your friends to know where you’ll be. You check in to a location, and you can tag whoever is with you, so all your friends know what kind of party is going on. Pretty neat, huh?”

“Yeah, if you’re a frickin’ stalker. Why? Why would you do that?”

“It’s fun.”

“Well, don’t. And don’t include my name again. Ever.”

She looked sulky. “You are so paranoid. Anyway, if you don’t like it, you can block it. Although I don’t know why you even bother to have a Facebook account if you’re not going to use it.”

Colin interrupted. “Anyway, back to the point. What did you want to tell me?”

I glanced around the table, but by this time the others had finished their meals and had pushed their chairs back so they could watch the musicians. Besides, what I had to say wasn’t exactly a secret anyway. Kyla, of course, leaned closer to hear everything, her long hair almost brushing Colin’s shoulder. He didn’t seem to mind.

I recounted the confrontation with Mr. Richards, glossing over the bit about the anthill. I ended by saying, “It’s probably not anything, and I’m overreacting. But he seemed very…” I groped for the word. “… menacing.”

Colin pulled a slim notebook out of his pocket and scanned through a few pages. “Gary Richards. Yeah, I looked him up. He doesn’t have any kind of a real record, other than a complaint by a neighbor.”

“Complaint?”

“He said that Gary had threatened him.”

“See? Violent.”

“Threatening to hit someone and doing it are two different things, but I take your point.”

I couldn’t tell what he thought about Mr. Richards and wondered if I’d been foolish to make such a big deal of it.

Kyla spoke up. “This guy sounds like a first-class asshole, but I guess you can’t arrest people for that. You really think he killed that guy, that tennis coach?”

They both looked at me, Colin with increased attention.

“I don’t know,” I said at last. “I don’t have any reason to think that, except that he gave me a really bad feeling, and I know he’d been fighting with Fred. It crossed my mind that he could have hit Fred in a moment of anger. I’m not saying he would have wanted to kill him,” I added hastily, “but he seems out of control. He might have done it almost by accident.”

“I’ll look into it,” Colin said. He closed his notebook and slipped it back into his pocket, then pushed back from the table. “I can get my food wrapped to go,” he said.

“You’re not leaving, are you?” asked Kyla. “Why don’t you stay and finish your beer? You can’t still be on duty.”

I could see the way she was looking at him, and I couldn’t blame her. He was a nice-looking guy.

“Yes, stay,” I urged, pushing back myself. “You might as well eat here. I need to get home, though. Papers to grade,” I added by way of explanation, hoping they wouldn’t notice that I hadn’t eaten yet either.

He looked from me to Kyla and back again, then settled into his chair. “I’ll call you as soon as I learn anything,” he said.