2 Death Makes the Cut (15 page)

I considered this. In a way he had a point. Drama students would certainly have seemed a logical choice when casting extras, but on the other hand, extras by the very nature of their parts did not usually have to have any particular acting talent. And anyone would think it was fun to be in a movie.

“My kids are interested. They’re really excited.”

“I’m sure everyone would understand if you withdrew and let the drama department have those roles.”

“Um, the only people who would ‘understand’ would be you, Roland. There’s no way we’re withdrawing. Why don’t you talk with their casting people? They could probably use other extras.”

“I did talk with them. They said their needs are met.”

“Well, there you go. I’m sorry, but…”

“You don’t even want to do this!” he burst out. His words were those of a petulant child. “You don’t care.”

He obviously did. His blue eyes glittered with suppressed rage, and he’d forgotten to hold his casual, underwear-model pose.

“I might not care all that much, but the kids do,” I pointed out.

“You planned it! You waited around so you’d be the first one to see the crew arrive and then you swooped in to steal those parts from us. You did it out of spite, didn’t you? You have some vendetta against the drama department. I heard what you said to Nancy, trying to keep us from practicing, trying to keep us from doing well. You’d love to see us fail, wouldn’t you?”

He was so mad, he was spitting, and I took a step back to remove myself from the spray zone. It was too bad I’d had maintenance spread all that ant poison the day before. Where was a really good anthill when you needed one?

“Go away, Roland.”

“You…”

“I mean it. Go away. I’ve got practice, you’ve got rehearsal. And this conversation is over.”

I walked away without a backward glance, although turning my back on him me feel oddly uneasy, and not just because it was rude. I moved around the courts slowly, watching the kids, giving the occasional tip. I’d been viewing a lot of tennis training videos lately and was entering into that phase of having just enough knowledge to be a nuisance to anyone who really knew what they were doing. It made me feel like a pro. When at last I turned around, Roland was nowhere in sight. I permitted myself a sigh of relief.

Chapter 9

FILMING AND FEARS

Belatedly remembering my promise to Kyla, I told the kids I’d be right back and returned to the school to find the room she’d been assigned. Right now, between classes, the halls were deserted and the silence broken only by a low hum of muted voices coming from behind the closed classroom doors. I peered through the window in the door, and somewhat to my astonishment saw a group of girls shouting with laughter, focusing rapt attention on my cousin. She stood in the front of the room and was talking fast, making broad gestures with her hands. I watched for a moment, but I couldn’t make out what she was saying. Somehow, I doubted it was a technology story. Kyla caught sight of me, and gave me a huge thumbs up. I grinned back at her, glad she needed no assistance.

The staccato tapping of heels made me look around to see Laura Esperanza stepping down the hall at her usual brisk pace. Today her long hair was braided into a glossy rope as thick as my arm, its beribboned end swinging level with her hips. The shoes she wore added a wobbly four inches to her height, which brought her head level with my chin and somehow made her look like a preteen playing dress up.

Catching sight of me, she called, “Hey,
queso pasa, mi amigo?
”

I laughed. “Cheese to you, too, man.”

“What?”

“
Queso pasa
. That’s good.”

She looked puzzled, but then shook it off. “What’s up?”

I spared a fleeting feeling of pity for her Spanish students.

I indicated the window just as another burst of laughter spilled from the room. “Oh, just checking on Kyla. Looks like she’s doing great with her class. I’m not convinced she’s staying on topic, but there you go. Hey, you’ll never guess what happened with Nancy Wales.”

Laura’s eyes lit up. “You had a run-in with that bitch? I hate her. I hate the air she breathes. I hate the food she chews. What did she do now?”

I told her about the confrontation we’d had, and ended by saying, “My only regret is that I’m not going to be able to quiz Roland about Coach Fred. His panties are all in a twist about the tennis team getting roles as extras in that movie.”

“He’ll get over it. It wasn’t like you planned it.”

“No, but he thinks I did. What a twerp.”

“If I have a chance, I’ll ask him about Fred,” she offered. “I have to go talk with one of them about getting the stage for the FLS again, and it might be easier to tackle him anyway. Assuming he’s halfway human about it, what did you want to know?”

“Mostly if he’d noticed anyone else in the school who shouldn’t have been there. Maybe a parent.” I was thinking of Gary Richards. “Look, don’t bother. I’m sure the police have already asked the same questions, and it’s not like Roland ever looks much beyond the nearest mirror anyway.”

She shrugged. “It won’t hurt to ask. Hey, what’s this I hear about Fred keeping pot in the tennis shed?”

I looked at her, appalled. “Where did you hear that?”

“I don’t know. It’s going around. Some of the teachers were talking about it in the lounge. I don’t know where they got it. Is it true?”

I thought about pulling my hair and gnashing my teeth, but instead I asked, “Do you think it’s true?”

She considered this. “I wouldn’t have thought so,” she said at last, “but then again, I didn’t really know Fred. He always seemed like a good guy.”

“He was a good guy. It’s true the police found pot in his desk, but he must have confiscated it from some kid. I know it wasn’t his. I just hate it that this is getting around. You’d think there’d be a law against spreading rumors or discussing crime scenes. That stupid cop.” I thought about what I’d like to do to Detective Colin Gallagher if I ever saw him again.

Laura patted my arm. “Try not to worry about it. People who knew him won’t believe it, and it will all be forgotten as soon as the next interesting bit of gossip pops up.” Glancing at her watch, she added, “I better scoot back to class. The little monsters are probably destroying something.”

I nodded, and she tapped off carefully, like a deer crossing a frozen lake. I could not imagine how she managed to stand on those things all day long.

*   *   *

When I returned to the courts, Carl from the movie set had arrived, cigarette on lip, tattoos gleaming through a sheen of sweat. He was wearing a rag that at some point had been a T-shirt before either he or a grizzly bear had ripped off the sleeves.

“Goddamn, it’s hot here,” he greeted me.

“It’s warmish,” I agreed.

Actually, it wasn’t all that bad for early September. We’d already had the first cold front of fall, and the temperature was in the low nineties.

He looked at me sourly, but asked, “You got all the release forms? We want to get a shot in today.”

“Yes, they’re right here.” I retrieved them from my desk in the shed, and handed them over.

He gave a grunt, which I assumed was meant as thanks. He was a charmer, that’s for sure. On the other hand, he seemed to be Michael Dupre’s right-hand man, which implied he was sharper than he seemed.

Thoughtfully, I asked, “Hey, Carl, when did you guys get here? I mean, what day?”

“Some of us been here about a week. Trailer and such came yesterday. Well, you know that,” he added with a small grin.

“Were you here the Monday before last? August 23?”

“Maybe. Why do you want to know?” He looked at me suspiciously.

“If you were around Monday evening, I was wondering if you’d seen the old tennis coach. The guy who was here before me.”

“You mean the dead guy?” He perked up with interest at that. “Yeah, I saw him. Old geezer wearing white shorts and a Gilligan cap.”

“That’s right,” I agreed. I wondered how he would describe me and decided I didn’t really want to know. But it confirmed my hunch that he was both alert and observant.

“What about him?”

“Did you happen to notice him talking to anyone in particular? Besides the kids, I mean?”

He took a pull on his cigarette, making the tip flare and the paper retreat toward his face. He held the smoke deep in his lungs for a long moment and then blew it out, courteously turning his head away from me. Not that it helped much. The breeze blew it directly into my face.

He noticed and coughed apologetically. “Sorry ’bout that. Yeah, old dude had some sort of argument with a guy. I could see his hands waving. Sorta funny, that’s why I remember.”

I could feel my mouth hanging open and made an effort to close it. “What did the other guy look like? Do you know who it was?”

He shrugged. “Nope. He was just a guy.”

Grinding teeth, I said, “Do you remember anything about him? Was he tall? Short? Wearing a skirt? Anything?”

He grinned at me. “Wearing a skirt. That’s good. Probably remember that. Nah, he was just regular. Big ass, though,” he added as an afterthought. “For a dude.”

“Big, but not fat? Wait! Did he have man-boobs? And look like a Chihuahua?”

He blinked. “Now that you mention it, he did have man-boobs. And the Chihuahua thing—yeah, you could say that. You know who it is?”

“I’ve got a good idea.” I did indeed. Ed Jones, math teacher and wannabe tennis coach. I would have to have a talk with Mr. Jones.

Ever alert, the kids had stopped playing and were watching us eagerly. I beckoned to them and they galloped over, shoes slapping on the concrete.

Carl flicked through the forms. “Okay, good enough. Let’s go.”

He led the way toward a school bus, and I frowned. “Wait, where are we going?”

“We’ve got the cameras set up over in the park … um,” he consulted his notes, “… Slaughter Creek Park.”

“We’re going to a park?” No one had told me that.

“Yeah, there’s a terrific wooded path there, lots of trees, real isolated. Perfect for a foot chase.”

I looked over at my kids, dressed in their tennis clothes, carrying racquets. “Um, I’m not objecting, but just out of curiosity, in what universe would a tennis team be running through the middle of an isolated park?”

He grinned. “Don’t worry. By the time we get done with the edits, it’ll look like the path is right beside the courts.”

I shook my head, but retrieved my purse from the shed and locked the door. Despite what I’d said to Roland, I had to admit this was pretty exciting. I’d never been on a movie set before, and the kids were almost beside themselves, talking and laughing as we all piled on to the bus. As we rolled out of the parking lot, I spared a sympathetic thought for Roland and the drama club. No wonder he’d been green with envy.

Carl drove the short distance to the park without much regard for either the speed limit or the laws of physics. We were all gripping our seats with white knuckles to avoid being flung into the aisle when at last he pulled into a parking lot beside an enormous playground where a few moms sat in the shade, watching their preschool kids playing. They looked up curiously as we disembarked—I somewhat shakily and the kids with a great deal of laughter.

“This way,” said Carl, and led the way along a path of crushed red gravel that ran beside the soccer fields and into the trees.

Just past the seventh tee of the disc golf course that ran beside the path, our way was blocked by a strip of yellow tape and guarded by a large young man with a clipboard and a wireless headset. He acknowledged Carl with a nod and opened the tape for us to pass, announcing us into the microphone as we went by. The path narrowed and wound through a thick grove of live oaks, elms, and cedars. Dense undergrowth filled the gaps between the trees and made any thought of leaving the path all but impossible. Dusty green and blue shadows spilled around the brush, growing long as the sun sank toward the western horizon. The crunch of tennis shoes on gravel drowned out the natural songs of cicadas and mockingbirds.

The young woman I’d seen on the first day hurried over, long brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, thick black glasses perched on her head.

“Hi,” she said in a bright voice. “I’m Amanda Finch, the casting director.”

She looked us over, eyes bright and an inquisitive as a hamster’s, then beamed at us. “Oh, yes. You’re perfect. Come this way.” She started off at a brisk pace.

We followed, looking around in wonder. The soccer fields and playground were less than two hundred yards away, but you would never know it. To all appearances, we had entered an isolated wilderness.

“I wasn’t at all sure about it when Michael said he’d hired you,” she said over her shoulder, “but I should have trusted him. He has a really good eye. Okay, let’s have you stand just here. Might as well take advantage of the shade, right?”

She walked down the line of kids, looking at each one individually.

“You’re just perfect,” she said finally. “Very authentic. I have no changes whatsoever. Now, I don’t know if anyone has told you yet, but you’ll need to wear these exact clothes for every take. Exact. Right down to your underwear.” She smiled, an unexpected dimple flashing like a star on her smooth cheek then vanishing as quickly as it came. “No, I’m just kidding about that. But everything that shows. Even your socks. Audiences are very sophisticated these days. They notice the minutiae. I’m going to take a picture of each one of you so that we can be sure everything is right if we need to film on another day. So, if you are wearing anything you don’t want to be wearing, take it off now.”

She began taking pictures of each kid, and I took the opportunity to walk forward just a bit farther. The path made another serpentine turn, and rounding the bend I came into an opening where the film crew was setting up. A small group of people was dancing attendance around a massive camera with a lens as big around as a tennis racquet. A few paces away, Michael Dupre consulted with the cameraman, pointing out something and shaking his head. Someone with a light meter was taking measurements and calling them out.