Beach Town (19 page)

“Great,” Kregg said, sounding bored.

The chief poked him in the chest. “You, on the other hand, are not a nice person. So if you get in any more trouble in my town—and I mean if you so much as spit on my sidewalk—I'm gonna lock your punk ass up. You understand me, boy?”

Kregg rolled his eyes. “Yeah.”

“Uh-uh,” the chief said, poking his chest again. “You speak to me, it's ‘Yes ma'am.'”

“Yes ma'am,” Kregg said, smirking. “What about my car?”

“Your car is out in the parking lot, but you ain't driving nowhere tonight, unless you want Officer Balfour to run a Breathalyzer test on you,” the chief said.

“How'll I get home?”

“I'll take you,” Greer said wearily.

*   *   *

“A Kia?” He looked at the car in disbelief. “I'm supposed to ride in this piece of shit?”

Greer slid into the driver's seat. “You could always ask the chief to have one of the officers take you back to Bluewater Bay.”

He turned his head as they passed the Porsche. “They better not mess with my car, man. If there's one scratch on it…”

“What?” Greer asked. “You'll sue the police department? After they just let you walk away from speeding, drag racing, and public indecency charges? And without checking your blood alcohol to add driving under the influence?”

“Hey!” Kregg said sharply. “It wasn't all my fault. That dude in the bar, he called me out. What was I supposed to do?”

“Walk away? Offer to buy him a beer? I can think of half a dozen choices that would have been better than running one hundred ten miles an hour down Main Street.”

He gave her an appraising look. “What's your name again?”

“Greer Hennessy.”

“You're something with the production company, right?”

“I'm the location manager.”

“Right. So, thanks, I guess, for getting me out of there before one of those redneck cracker cops decided to pistol-whip me or something.”

“Let me give you a piece of advice, Kregg. Lose the phrase ‘redneck cracker' while you're in this town. Okay?”

“Sure.” He leaned against the headrest. “Shit. What time is it?”

“Almost three.”

“You happen to know what time my call is in the morning?”

“Seven. At the beach.” She said it with a deeply malicious satisfaction.

“Shit.”

He closed his eyes, and Greer thought he'd fallen asleep. They rolled up to the makeshift guard shack at Bluewater Bay and the off-duty cop, recognizing Greer, waved them through the open gate.

Kregg turned and looked at her through bleary eyes. “Hey, uh, we can just keep this between us. We're cool, right? No press, right?”

“You and I are cool, and I'm certainly not about to alert the media to what happened tonight,” she assured him.

“Cool.” He nodded his head. “And, I mean, Bryce doesn't need to hear about this. Okay?”

“Too late,” she said. “I called him on the way to the police station.”

“Jesus! Why'd you have to go and do that?”

“Because he's the boss. And he'd find out anyway.”

“Did he sound pissed? Jesus, now I'm gonna have him on my case all over again.”

“He didn't sound pissed at me,” Greer said. “But I'd imagine he'll want to have a discussion with you tomorrow.”

“Great. He'll call my mom, and then the shit will really hit the fan.”

“Your mom? Really? How old are you?”

“She's my manager, okay?” He shot her a look.

Greer shrugged it off. “By the way, sometime tomorrow you and your mom-slash-manager are going to want to make a very large, generous contribution to the Cypress Key Police Benevolent Society. And by generous, I'm thinking fifty thousand dollars sounds about right.”

“Oh, hell no! Why would I give money to those redneck—I mean, cops?”

She pulled the Kia into the driveway of the rapper's rented house and parked behind the Hummer.

“Call it an expression of gratitude for walking free tonight.”

“Fu-u-uck.” He climbed out of the Kia, slammed the door, and headed for the house without a backward glance at his chauffeur.

“Nighty-night,” Greer muttered.

 

22

Watching Kregg run lines and block scenes on the beach Thursday morning, nobody would know that he'd had only three hours of sleep after a long night of partying. His eyes were uncharacteristically clear, his voice was strong, and for once he seemed to hit his mark with every shot as Bryce put him through his paces.

Greer, on the other hand, felt and looked like death warmed over, with dark circles under her eyes and a fatigue that no amount of caffeine could assuage. The night before, she'd fallen into her bed for what seemed like only minutes before being roused to start solving problems. Fortunately, since the day's shoot was actually at the beach behind the Silver Sands, she hadn't had much of a commute.

She watched the grips lay a pathway of wooden planks across the soft, white sand, to afford traction to the camera dollies, and pitied the crew working in the high-nineties heat.

When Bryce finally called for lunch break, it was nearly one. She dragged herself over to the catering tent and was picking at a salad when CeeJay slid onto the chair opposite hers.

“Hey,” Greer said wearily.

“Wow,” CeeJay said, dipping a carrot into a cup of hummus. “I really love what you've done with yourself today.”

“Which do you like best—the hair that looks like dryer lint or the giant bags under my eyes?”

“Why don't you come over to the makeup tent and let me fix you up a little?” CeeJay asked. “You truly look like one of those celebrity police booking photos from The Smoking Gun.”

“I don't have the energy,” Greer said. “But I notice Kregg looks remarkably refreshed and well rested. Unlike me.”

“Thanks,” CeeJay said, preening a little. “But looks can be deceiving. I used about a pound of Preparation H on his eye bags, and lots of eyedrops too.”

“What did Bryce have to say about Kregg's exploits last night?” Greer asked.

“He was frothing at the mouth after he got off the phone with you,” CeeJay said. “Then he put in a call to Anita and things really got ugly.”

“That's Kregg's mom?”

“Momager,” CeeJay said. “The woman lends new meaning to the phrase ‘control freak.' She's absolutely vile. She was threatening to fly down here and sic her lawyers on the Cypress Key cops, but Bryce basically told her if she showed up he'd have her banned from the set.”

“Did Bryce have words with Kregg?”

“Oh yes,” CeeJay said. “They had a come-to-Jesus first thing, but I don't know what was discussed.”

“Must have worked,” Greer mused. She looked at her phone, saw the time, and stood. “Back to the grindstone.”

*   *   *

Late in the day, between shots, Greer happened to glance back toward the beach and spied a lone figure sitting in the shade of an umbrella on Ginny Buckalew's porch.

She walked toward the porch, expecting to see the motel manager sneaking a smoke break, but was surprised to encounter Allie Thibadeaux, staring intently out at the beach from between some palm fronds.

“Hi, Allie,” Greer said, as she reached the porch railing.

“Oh, hey,” the girl said. “Is it okay for me to be sitting here? Am I in the way or something?”

“Not at all. Have you been watching long?”

“All afternoon. It's really cool, huh? I can't hear anything from here, but that's okay.”

“Some days it's cooler than others,” Greer said. “I guess you're a Kregg fan like every other girl on the planet, right?”

“He's okay,” Allie said. “I'm a huge Adelyn fan. I've seen
Carry Me
probably twenty times. I like her other movies a lot too, but that's my favorite. I can't believe she didn't even get nominated for an Oscar for that.”

“I like
Carry Me,
too, but it was only her second movie, and the subject matter was a little dark for the Academy,” Greer confided. “I'm surprised you even know about that movie.”

“It's so cool that you're making a movie in Cypress Key. I can't even believe Adelyn Davis ate dinner at the Inn last night. I was totally geeking out when she walked in.”

Greer was touched by the girl's enthusiasm. “Well, if you're really that interested, you're welcome to come on down to the set.” She pointed toward one of several blue tents set up close to the water's edge. “I've got a chair under the tent down there, but I'm not really using it today.”

The girl jumped up from her chair. “Really? Oh my God! That would be so awesome.”

“Come on around,” Greer said, indicating the gate that led from the patio to the beach.

*   *   *

Allie trailed her across the sand to the tent where Bryce and his assistant were peering at the screen of a laptop, watching the footage that had just been shot.

“Sit here,” Greer said, indicating a folding wooden and canvas director's chair with “Crew” screen printed on the back.

“Joe,” she told one of the P.A.s who was standing nearby, “This is Allie. She's my guest, if that's okay.”

“Sure thing,” Joe said. “Let me know if you need anything.”

Greer leaned down to give the girl instructions. “Just keep quiet and don't talk to anybody unless they talk to you, and you'll be fine. Okay?”

The girl nodded and beamed her appreciation.

“And if you get hungry or thirsty, go on up to the catering tent,” Greer said. “Help yourself. If anybody asks, just tell him you're my guest.”

Allie's eyes widened. “You're sure it's all right?”

“Perfectly sure.”

*   *   *

The afternoon seemed endless, but whenever Greer glanced toward the blue tent she saw Allie's slight figure, bent over in her chair, intently watching the cameramen and lighting and sound techs.

Shortly after five, Bryce called it a wrap for the day. Greer still had a production meeting with the art director and set designer. When she dragged herself back to her motel room two hours later, she nearly nodded off to sleep in the shower.

She'd just dressed in shorts and a ratty T-shirt, and was trying to decide between a microwaved burrito and a microwaved Hot Pocket, when there was a timid knock at her door. Allie Thibadeaux looked almost surprised when Greer opened the door.

“Hi, um, Ginny wondered if maybe you would want to eat dinner with us. She said it's just baked chicken, and I said you probably wouldn't come, and she said I should ask anyway.…” The teenager's words came rushing out in a torrent.

“I'd love to have dinner with you,” Greer said, laughing. “Can it wait until I change clothes?”

“You don't have to change. Ginny and me are dressed crummy too,” Allie said, blushing furiously when she realized that she'd just insulted the guest.

“Even better,” Greer said.

*   *   *

The first thing Greer noticed, with relief, was that the glass-topped table in Ginny Buckalew's apartment was set for only three—meaning they would not be joined by Eb Thibadeaux.

A shallow bowl in the center of the table held a grouping of pink, yellow, and red hibiscus blossoms. “How pretty,” Greer said.

She sniffed the tantalizing aroma of roasting chicken wafting from the kitchen, sighed, and turned to Ginny, who handed her a cold beer. “A home-cooked meal. You have no idea what a treat this is for me.”

“It's nothing fancy,” Ginny said. “Allie, would you please check on my green beans, to make sure they're not burning?”

Allie nodded and disappeared into the kitchen.

“I just wanted to thank you for letting her watch today,” Ginny said in a low voice. “That girl has always been crazy for movies. I thought about asking you if she could come on the set to watch, but then she made me promise I wouldn't impose on you.”

“No imposition at all,” Greer said.

*   *   *

Despite Ginny's claims that the menu was “nothing fancy,” it was obvious to Greer that the older woman had taken pains with the fare: baked chicken and dressing, gravy, corn cut off the cob, fresh green beans cooked with chunks of ham, biscuits, and a lemon chess pie for dessert.

“How do you two eat like this and stay so skinny?” Greer looked from Ginny to Allie to the half-eaten slice of pie on her own plate.

“We don't eat like this all the time,” Ginny said. “But we wanted to do something nice to say thanks for letting Allie go on your set today.”

“It was probably totally boring for you, right, Allie?” Greer asked.

“No way! Everybody was so nice. It was amazing,” Allie said.

“Ginny tells me you're like me—a big movie buff. Is that right?”

“Uh-huh.” Allie sipped her iced tea.

“Even when she was a little kid, she wanted to watch movies, and not just kid ones, either,” Ginny volunteered. “Tell her your favorite movie, Al.”

“She doesn't care about that stuff, Gin,” Allie said.

“Sure I do,” Greer said. “I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours. Let me guess—
Hunger Games,
right? Or maybe
Twilight
?”

“Mmm, not really. It changes sometimes, but right now it's
Rear Window.
”

“You're a Hitchcock fan? I'm impressed,” Greer said.

“I wasn't so sure she should be watching those scary movies,” Ginny said. “I still remember after watching
Psycho.
I didn't sleep for a week.”

“Yeah, but
Rear Window
's not gory scary,” Allie said. “It's suspenseful. And I love the way Hitchcock played around with perspective—showing Jimmy Stewart's apartment, and then the apartment that he's spying on. You can never figure out what's going to happen next, and then, when it's about to happen, you're just holding your breath to see if Grace Kelly is going to get out of there before the bad guy comes back.”