Rage Factor (16 page)

Production was
ALREADY
behind schedule, the fat man explained, and
NO, MS
. Francis could
NOT
spare a moment to talk to
MS
. Flannigan. And if
MS.
Flannigan didn’t make herself scarce immediately, he would be elated to have her bothersome self escorted off the set. Dixie might’ve reminded him that the “set” was actually a public street, which the city had temporarily cordoned off for the production company’s use, and as a tax-paying citizen, she could launch a protest the likes of which he’d never seen. Instead, she
decided to “make nice,” a strategy her Irish adoptive mother had promised would reap greater rewards than otherwise.

Besides, it wasn’t the rude director pushing Dixie’s trouble alert button. It was the equipment poised to crash down from a building, or trip someone, or short out and fry anybody standing in a rain puddle. It was the unfamiliar crew. It was the teeming crowd—some of the watchers permanently fixed at the perimeter, others stopping and moving on, the mass pulsing like a giant amoeba.

So while she and Sarina waited for Joanna to get a break, Dixie studied faces as if through a camera lens. She wanted a mental snapshot of every crew member and onlooker: one of them was quite likely Joanna’s stalker. She dug out the notebook from her jeans pocket and jotted ideas as they occurred to her. The first note read,
Find out if fat direc. wanted Joanna on film.
He certainly seemed to be unnecessarily rough on his star actress.

On their way downtown, Dixie had stopped to photocopy the stalker’s messages and to ship a set by overnight mail to Les Crews, her FBI contact at Quantico. A profiler, trained by the agent credited with inventing the field of medical criminology, Les had developed almost as many credits as the guru himself. If anyone could suggest a “type” to watch for, it was Crews.

Joanna, dressed in a skimpy frock, stood beyond the barricades, hugging herself against a harsh wind and silver drizzle. A ragged awning snapped and bellied over her head. A lighting crew fussed with fill lights. Several yards farther along the sidewalk, a Hollywood killer in a western-tailored suit and lizardskin boots smoked a cigarette.

The crowd pressed close behind the barrier. The atmosphere buzzed with expectancy, everyone waiting for the director to yell
ACTION
. Spectators wanted to hear the
zing!
of bogus bullets, the screams of the killer’s prey. Dixie just wanted to be elsewhere.

Sarina’s habit of darting off to chat with friends increased
Dixie’s uneasiness. The teenager knew everybody in the film crew and slipped among them like a shadow in her gray attire. Workers from surrounding buildings, suburbanites who’d read about the shoot and driven in to rub elbows with celebrities, students, novices scooped up as extras—all had their eyes fixed on Joanna Francis. Dixie hoped a break would come soon when Sarina could check in with Mom. The less time spent among film people and their unpredictable fans, the better.

Then a face popped into Dixie’s view that made her heart leap: Parker. He must’ve talked to Belle.

He squeezed through the throng and joined her at the perimeter rope.

“Thought you’d be on your way to the boat,” Dixie said. “I’m glad you stopped by.”

“I didn’t like the way we left things.”

“Neither did I.”

“Guess working for a famous film star is more exciting, anyway, than a boat ride,” he said flatly, watching Joanna huddle beneath an awning.

“I’m not here for excitement. I’m here because someone threatened a client and her daughter.”

“Sorry. I didn’t come to argue.” He kissed her forehead, squeezed her shoulder, and let his hand linger there. “Don’t suppose you found someone to take over for a while this evening?”

Dixie regarded him in his spiffy navy blue blazer and camel slacks, a tan raincoat draped casually over his shoulders. He looked terrific.

But she had committed to staying at Sarina’s side, warding off potential danger, until the girl was tucked safely in bed, where hotel security took over.

“What if she went along?” Dixie suggested.

He glanced at Sarina, a few feet away, talking with a techie. “Is that the girl?”

“Looks like a lost puppy, doesn’t she?”

“You have a reputation for picking up strays.” He smiled and wiggled his eyebrows. “Lucky for me.”

Dixie knew he was considering all the possible ramifications of taking Sarina to the ribbon cutting. The weight of his hand felt good. In companionable silence, they watched the action unfold as the film resumed shooting.

“I don’t understand why anyone would choose to be a screen actor,” Dixie whispered.

“Money? Fame?”

“Fame only lasts until a new face comes along, and there isn’t enough money on this continent to make me put up with what she’s endured the past half hour. Look at that dress she’s wearing. How she keeps from turning as blue as the silk is a mystery.” The temperature was falling rapidly. The wind gusted the misting rain under even the largest umbrella. From a trailer labeled
WARDROBE
, a red-haired techie hurried across the lot with a slicker to wrap around the star’s shoulders.

“Actually, the weather is the reason I was able to stop by,” Parker said. “These clouds are supposed to blow north. Hasn’t rained a drop in the bay, but the new owner postponed his maiden voyage for an hour to be certain.” He stroked a raindrop off her nose. “I think bringing Sarina, daughter of the famous Joanna Francis, will make us the talk of the party. Unless you want to keep her anonymous.”

Dixie thought about it. “Anonymous would be good.” Provided Joanna approved of this off-the-list excursion.

He handed Dixie a square envelope.

“Here’s the slip location. The party starts around six, goes on until midnight. I offered to help with any last-minute errands, but you can show up anytime. There’ll be a skiff to ferry latecomers to the yacht.”

Taking a small shopping bag from under his raincoat, he thrust it into Dixie’s hand, kissed her briefly on the mouth, and was gone. Inside the bag she found a red rose and a new pair of deck shoes in her size. Her sappy grin reappeared,
until she realized she’d be clumping around the boat on a cast. Unless she got the doctor to take it off.

And what the devil would she wear? If everyone dressed as snazzy as Parker, her jeans and sweatshirt would embarrass him. Now she almost wished she’d said no.

But when she told Sarina about the party, the girl was surprisingly enthusiastic.

“The cast and crew hang out and go to dinner together after a wrap. I hate that. Mother attracts only the ungifted people. A Texas yacht party sounds like having some fun for a change.”

When the director finally decided to take a break, Sarina shouted, “Mother! Over here!”

Joanna stamped toward them on heels every bit as high and skinny as the ones she’d worn that morning.

“I can’t believe you have the nerve to show up here,” she raged at Dixie, her anger hot enough to turn the drizzle to steam. “I instructed Belle Richards to fire you. You are stupid and irresponsible, taking my daughter out of town without checking in. There are telephones—”

“Mother, it wasn’t Dixie’s fault. Didn’t you get my message?”

“Young lady, I’ll deal with you later. At least I can understand
your
taking off to that NASA thingy without checking in, but
she’s
old enough to know better. And I’m surprised I have to remind you we are not on vacation here. This is a working trip for me. How do you expect me to work if I’m worried sick about you?”

NASA
? Dixie looked at Sarina. Somebody had been ad-libbing.

“It was on the list, Mother. If all I can look forward to this week is being imprisoned at the hotel and you ripping on me, I’d rather stay with Dad.”

Joanna’s beautiful eyes widened as if she’d been slapped. Then her lips mashed together in a hard, straight line.

“Of course you’re not a prisoner, Sarina.” She glared at Dixie. “That’s why I hired someone to keep you … company.”

“Then let Dixie do her job. And stop worrying.”

Dixie hadn’t missed the girl’s quick, furtive glance to see if her bodyguard would rat on her. Apparently, the conniving twerp had invented a NASA tour to cover her visit with Alroy Duncan. Dixie knew she should tell Joanna the truth … but, what the hell, she sympathized with Sarina’s determination to apprentice with one of her idols, and Joanna’s hostility hadn’t won any points. On the other hand, she couldn’t let the kid off too easy.

“Why don’t you tell your mother what you saw on the NASA tour, Sarina?”

“Ummm, well, I thought I’d tell her later.”

“At least tell her the part you liked best.”

“Okay, sure, soon as we get to the hotel. Hey—” She pointed desperately toward a row of trailers lined up along the street. “Mother, isn’t that the woman we met on the cruise last fall?”

“Tori Pond? Yes, she showed up needing a job, and wardrobe had an opening.” Joanna’s eyes flashed one last angry spark at Dixie, then she tossed back her damp auburn hair with that famous shrug and began scanning the street. “Actually, Sarina, I
am
expecting someone. You remember Alan Kemp, don’t you?”

“Alan from Brussels?” Sarina’s diversion had worked perfectly.

Joanna smiled as if her anger of mere moments ago had never existed. “Oh, there he is—A/an!” She waved at a silver-haired man standing in a puddle of light, wearing a dark trench coat and black leather gloves. “Over here!”

Alan waggled a knobby cane in response. Then, staving off the rain with a huge umbrella and leaning on the cane, he threaded his way past the production crew busily repositioning cameras and lights. Joanna hooked an outstretched hand around his bicep and pulled him under the awning.

“Ten years since I’ve seen this gorgeous man. He drops by the set today for lunch as if it’s an everyday event.”

“Young lady,” Kemp told Sarina, “you were scarcely as
tall as my walking stick when I last saw you. You’ve turned out quite as pretty as your mother.” Up close, he appeared to be in his early forties, distinguished mane prematurely silver, voice smooth and rounded. No accent. Stage actor, Dixie figured. If not, he ought to be, with that voice.

“Alan’s a syndicated reporter,” Sarina told Dixie. “We’ve been E-mail buddies since I got my first computer.” Then, turning back to Kemp, “Mother didn’t tell me you’d be in town.”

“She didn’t know. I only arrived in the States yesterday, on business. When I read in the newspaper last night that Joanna would be shooting a film here, I couldn’t let the opportunity pass without seeing the both of you. I hoped we’d all dine together this evening….” He raised an eyebrow quizzically at Dixie.

“Oh!” Joanna exclaimed. “This is Dixie Flannigan, a … friend of … a friend. She’s … showing Sarina around while I work. This is Alan Kemp, my cousin.”

His grip was firm in the leather glove, and he held Dixie’s hand a fraction longer than customary, soft, curious eyes gazing into hers.

“When I was a lad,” Kemp said, “my guides were unfailingly quite old and crotchety.”

He didn’t buy the “friend of a friend” story, Dixie was certain, but he was too excruciatingly polite to question it aloud. She slid her hand free of his glove.

“A decent guide would suggest a drier place for you folks to chat. There’s a good restaurant up the street. I can find a taxi—”

“No, Tori’s expecting me.” Joanna flapped a hand at the young woman watching from the wardrobe trailer. “After this last scene, we’ll all go someplace exciting—”

“Mother, Dixie invited me to a party. On a yacht.”

“A yacht?” Joanna was intrigued.

Hearing the
whir
of a camera’s motor drive, Dixie glanced around to see Casey James sitting in her Camry, head thrust through the car’s open window, Nikon busily clicking off
frames. The reporter flashed her bold grin, then continued shooting just in time to catch Joanna linking an arm with Alan Kemp. The star’s dazzling smile wasn’t at all cousin-like. When Casey beckoned insistently, Dixie cast a wary eye at Sarina, decided she was safe under Mom’s wing for the moment, and excused herself, to amble over.

“What’s up?” Casey’s tone held an unmistakable note of accusation. “Thought we were buddies, and now you’re letting Kemp scoop me?”

“You know him?”

“You’re kidding me, right? Osgood, Kuralt, Harvey, Kemp—don’t tell me you’ve never heard his show, ‘Starstruck.’”

Dixie vaguely recalled the name. Basically a radio gossip show about the world’s rich and eccentric. But she’d never seen Kemp’s face. He was strictly radio.

“How did you recognize him?”

“Eight or nine years ago, before I
decided to destroy my reputation as a journalist and go for the dough, Alan Kemp and
I covered the same Hollywood beat. I was hard news, he was flash. Truth, honey, Kemp had that sexy silver hair way back then.” A wistful expression slid over the reporter’s chubby features.

Dixie glanced back at Kemp, whose posture suggested more than a cousinly interest in Joanna Francis, and wondered if Casey had nurtured a crush on the man all these years.

“Kemp is Joanna’s cousin,” Dixie said softly. “You, Kemp—that woman has cousins like a dog has fleas.”

“He seemed surprised to find Joanna filming here.”

“Don’t bet on it. That man can tell you what color panties Demi Moore is wearing on any given day. You think he doesn’t keep up with who’s shooting where with whom? Take off your blinders, honey. Their meeting is no accident.”

As Dixie strolled back to the trio under the awning, she heard Casey’s motor drive whir into action. Joanna couldn’t have missed it. Apparently, the TV queen didn’t mind
having the press around as long as they were catching her looking beautiful between scenes. At Dixie’s approach, she tossed her auburn hair and smiled up at her cousin.

“Alan,” she cooed, “wouldn’t a yacht party be the perfect escape from this miserable day?” Her eyes rounded at Dixie. “You don’t mind, do you, if we tag along?”

“No problem.” Parker sounded pleased when Dixie called to beg two more invitations for Joanna and her cousin. His clients promised not to broadcast to their other guests that the star would be there, but Dixie had little faith they’d keep the secret.