Beach Town (10 page)

Her cell phone rang just as she stepped out onto the curb. A glance at the caller ID screen told her she wouldn't need to wait to blast the mayor—because it was the mayor calling.

“You!” she said accusingly. “You just had to go and talk to the damn press, didn't you? Couldn't wait to blab the news about Kregg.”

“Where are you?” Eb Thibadeaux asked. “I knocked on your door just now. If you'll let me explain—”

“I just left the Coffee Mug,” Greer said, her voice icy. “The waitress there knows exactly where Kregg is staying. Apparently, everybody in town knows now too. And not just people in Cypress Key. A reporter from
Entertainment Weekly
called too. The story is on the newswires, which means it's everywhere.”

“Let's not do this over the phone, okay? Are you headed back to the motel?”

“You mean to the luxurious Silver Sands? Yes. I'll be there in five minutes, but I doubt anything you can say is going to change my opinion of you as a double-crossing blabbermouth.”

“I don't give a goddamn about your opinion of me,” he said heatedly. “But I would like the opportunity to clear the air.”

“Whatever.”

She clicked the Disconnect button and accelerated her pace from stroll to stride. While she walked, her phone continued to ring, until she finally turned it off.

*   *   *

Eb was standing outside of the Silver Sands office when she got back to the motel. He was dressed as he'd been the first time she'd seen him, when she mistook him for a maintenance worker—sweat-soaked white T-shirt, cargo shorts, running shoes. He had what looked like a two-day growth of beard, and an expression of barely contained rage.

“We can talk in my office,” he said, pointing down the breezeway.

The door of a room opened, and a mother shepherded out two small children dressed in bathing suits and smeared with white sunblock. “Why don't we just talk out here?” Greer said loudly. “You don't seem to have a problem with oversharing. Why not let all six other guests here in on the source of our disagreement?”

The mother shot them an anxious glance, then hurried her children off in the opposite direction.

Eb clenched and unclenched his jaw. “Can we please just have a rational discussion in my office?”

The door to the Thibadeaux Realty office was open, so she marched in and found herself a seat. The mayor launched himself into the remaining chair, behind a large wooden desk.

He leaned across the desk and looked Greer squarely in the face. “I'll tell you again. I had nothing to do with that story. The reporter called me repeatedly yesterday, and I purposely did not return her calls. Finally, she did what you did. She tracked me down—at the grocery store. There was no way to escape her.”

“So you say,” Greer replied, crossing her arms over her chest. “And yet, this morning, I read all about it in the local newspaper.”

The room got very quiet. His gray eyes narrowed. “Are you calling me a liar?”

“I'm saying you've made it clear from the start that you wanted nothing to do with having a film made here, and now you've conveniently managed to sabotage it by leaking confidential information about the project,” Greer said, feeling the heat rising in her face.

“I leaked nothing. The reporter already knew all the details when she called me. Including which houses you'd rented.”

“But you didn't try to scare her off the story, right? No way you could just tell her she had her facts wrong? You just had to be a big shot and comment.…”

“Despite what you think, I'm not in the habit of lying. To anybody, for any purpose,” Eb said. “She asked me point blank if what she had was factual. I asked her not to run the story, and I explained that you and your people had real security concerns about Kregg. I even hinted that if she went ahead with the story it could actually jeopardize chances that the movie will get made. Which, apparently, made her all the more eager to run with the story.”

“Well, if you didn't tell this reporter, who did?” Greer asked.

“I don't know,” he said sharply “Word travels fast. And you've talked to a lot of people locally. The chief of police, Milo, the clerk's office…”

“I swore all of them to secrecy,” Greer said, knowing it sounded lame.

“And they probably turned right around and swore somebody else to secrecy too—and that's how the coconut telegraph works on a small island.”

Greer took a deep breath. “So. I guess maybe I owe you an apology?”

“I guess,” Eb said. “But what would be better is if, since you're apparently going to be around town for the next six weeks or so, you didn't treat me like your sworn enemy.”

“I don't think that,” Greer said. “It's just—I've got a job to do, and frankly, I could lose my job over a leak like this—and I can't afford to lose a job right now. Especially this one. Nothing personal, you know?”

“Of course not,” Eb said. The phone on his desk rang, and he peered down at the digital screen and sighed. “This is the
Tampa Bay Times.
I think maybe I'll just let it roll over to voice mail.”

 

11

Greer's phone was still blowing up with calls, text messages, and e-mails—all from the media, all wanting details about Kregg's participation in
Beach Town.
She ignored all of them—until Bryce Levy called, or rather, CeeJay called to warn her that Bryce would be calling.

As usual, her best friend got right down to business. “Girl—are you nuts? Leaking the fact that Kregg signed to do Bryce's movie?”

Greer felt the heat rising in her cheeks. This was it. Bryce was using CeeJay to do his dirty work. Probably her replacement was already on the way to Florida right now. If she lost this job, it really would be all over.

“You know me better than that,” Greer said. “I told maybe three people, all of whom were definitely on a need-to-know basis, including the police chief and the mayor. Somebody talked—I'm not sure who, but the mayor swears he wasn't the one, and I'm inclined to believe him. Cypress Key is this tiny little flyspeck of a place. This is the biggest thing to hit the town since the last big hurricane. It's impossible to keep secrets here.”

“Well, somebody started a real shit storm,” CeeJay said. “And Bryce is not happy. He's had the media calling his office all day. And, of course, Kregg's manager went ballistic when the media started calling him. He even threatened to pull out of the movie.”

“He can't really do that, can he?”

“Nah. Bryce has him under contract, and anyway, his manager knows this is a great start for Kregg's transition from music to movies. The guy's just blowing smoke, I think.”

“Oh God. You don't think Bryce is gonna fire me, do you? I need this job, CeeJay.”

“I think he just needs to blow off some steam,” CeeJay said. “He's not gonna pull you off the project before it even really gets under way. Just tell him what you told me. I already told him there's no way you would have deliberately let the cat out of the bag. He'll probably yell and raise hell with you, and that'll be it.”

“Hope so.”

“You leave him to me,” CeeJay said. “I gotta get back to packing. Did I tell ya, when we get back from Florida, Bryce wants me to move into the big house with him?”

“That's great, CeeJay. Out of the garage apartment and into the house. I guess that means things are going good between the two of you?”

“I hate to jinx it, but yeah, things are great. His ex has a new boyfriend, so she's kind of taking a break from squeezing his balls, which is nice.”

“Has he filed for divorce yet?”

Silence.

“CeeJay?”

“Look. You know how messed up legal shit is. His ex wants to clean him out and take half of everything. It's ridiculous that he should have to fork over a pile of money to that bitch. You know she's never had a job? In, like, ever? All she does all day is go to yoga and shop. Bryce's lawyers are trying to figure out how to keep her from taking him to the cleaners. It takes time. Right?”

“I guess.”

“Don't use that tone with me, young lady.”

Greer laughed. “I'm not judging. I just want you to be happy. You deserve somebody wonderful, who wants to be with you. That's all I'm sayin'.”

“Quit worrying about me. I can take care of myself. You hear? I am happy. Bryce is amazeballs. We are going to make a kick-ass movie and all will be well. See you Monday, right?”

“Right.”

*   *   *

She waited all day for the other shoe to drop. Finally, since it was Saturday night and she was weary of microwaved popcorn and take-out pizza, she decided to treat herself to a real dinner—at what Ginny promised was the best restaurant in town.

For the first time all week, Greer took some pains with her appearance. She blew her hair dry to straighten out some of the curl and applied a bit of brown eyeliner and mascara. Most of the clothes she'd packed were strictly utilitarian—jeans and T-shirts, some capris and tank tops, but she had thought to throw a dress in her suitcase.

It was an old dress of her mother's, actually. Greer had liberated the Mexican cotton wedding dress while sorting through her mother's clothes. Most of Lise's clothes had been too flashy for Greer's taste, but there was something endearing about the simplicity of this piece.

The dress, a seventies throwback, was a fine white cotton minidress with a scooped, drawstring neckline, hand-embroidered bodice, and loose, bell-shaped sleeves. She added a string of turquoise and coral beads she'd picked up during a shoot in Santa Fe, and some turquoise and silver drop earrings, and slid her feet into a pair of leather sandals.

She set out to walk to the Cypress Key Inn, feeling oddly self-conscious in the short dress and jewelry.

Saturday night was apparently the hot night in town. Cars and trucks lined Pine Street, and diners sat at tables on the sidewalk in front of the pizza parlor. She heard the heavy bass thump of music coming from a place called the Crow's Nest, which, by the looks of the Harleys parked out front, constituted the local biker bar, and through the open door at Castaways she saw young families waiting to be seated for the chalkboard-advertised seafood buffet.

The scent of shrimp boil drifted on to the sidewalk. An older-model sedan rolled slowly past on the street, and a horn honked, followed by a low wolf whistle.

She allowed herself a small, secret smile, then walked a little faster.

*   *   *

The Cypress Key Inn was a white two-story wood-frame building with a wraparound porch furnished with wide-bottomed rocking chairs, wicker settees, and huge, leafy ferns. A pair of gas lanterns marked the front door, and Greer was charmed even before she walked inside.

The hotel lobby was dimly lit, but she could make out dark varnished wood floors, white plank walls, and a few pieces of ornate Victorian furniture. Behind the high-topped reception desk a staircase curved upward to the second floor. It looked like a movie set—in fact, it would be perfect for the film, and she wondered why she hadn't found this place earlier.

An elaborately carved bar stretched along one side of the lobby, and every stool was full. Sitting in the stool right in the center, looking up at the wall-mounted television showing a baseball game, was Eb Thibadeaux.

Greer stepped neatly into the dining room, hoping to avoid another encounter with Cypress Key's mayor.

There was a hostess stand located a few feet inside the door. The blond girl manning the stand was naturally pretty, but she'd given herself the dramatic Katy Perry eye makeup treatment in a failed attempt to make herself look older. Despite the navy shadow, the shiny black eyeliner, and the short, sleeveless black dress, it was obvious that she couldn't have been more than eighteen.

“Dinner?” the girl asked, gazing over Greer's shoulder to see if she had a date.

“Yes, please. Table for one.”

The girl frowned and looked down at the open book on her stand before glancing into the dining room just beyond the doorway. The room held a dozen or so tables, and at least three were vacant. But the tables were candlelit, with pale pink starched tablecloths and small vases of flowers, and the diners were dressed up, for Cypress Key, which meant collared shirts for the men, a scattered few sport coats, and dresses on the women.

“Do you have a reservation?”

“No. Do I need one?”

“Not really. I'm just supposed to ask, because it sounds fancier.” The girl giggled, grabbed a menu, and motioned for Greer to follow.

She seated her at a table on the enclosed porch, by a window. “How's this?”

“Great.”

The girl looked around for a moment. “Okay, um, well, we're kind of shorthanded tonight. Do you want something to drink?”

Greer scanned the abbreviated wine list and ordered what she hoped was a safe choice—the house white—then went back to reading the menu.

“Everything's really good,” the hostess offered. “Like, the grouper came off a boat just a little while ago, so it's fresh, and so is the redfish, but it's kind of spicy. The fried shrimp is my favorite, but some people like the linguine with clam sauce. We farm the clams locally, you know. And uh, well, you can always get the chicken or a steak. We only have one special tonight, the soft-shell crabs. They're saut
é
ed in butter and wine, and served over potatoes and some kind of spinach stuff.”

“Soft-shell crabs,” Greer said quickly.

*   *   *

Her food arrived, and she had to agree with the recommendation that the Inn actually did have the best food in town. In fact, it was the best she'd had in a long time. She nibbled at her salad, sipped her wine, and savored the sweet crabmeat and buttery, salty potatoes.

The room began to clear out, and soon, even though it was barely nine o'clock, Greer realized she was the only diner still eating. But she was determined not to cut short her only night out on the town.