"No Humans Involved" - читать интересную книгу автора (Armstrong Kelley)

THE ANGEL OF THE SOUTH

DURING A BREAK BETWEEN INTERVIEWS, I decided to send the babies a get-well gift. As for what to send… well, that was a problem. I get a kick out of the twins-I even babysat them during one council meeting- but they were the only little ones I'd had extended contact with since I'd been a child myself.

My first thought was a balloon bouquet… until the FTD florist in Syracuse told me they didn't recommend balloons for kids- choking hazard, apparently. So I went with stuffed animals. Rabbits. Perfect.

I spent the rest of the afternoon following my schedule and using the spare time to poke around the house and meet the crew. To my disappointment, I didn't bump into Bradford Grady.

Grady was a bona fide star with a wildly popular show exploring haunted European locales. That was where the money was: television. Right now, I had a prime monthly spot on The Keni Bales Show and I was a regular guest on Knight at Night. But my own show? That was the dream. Always had been… even though I personally preferred a stage to a soundstage. With Keni's show skyrocketing in the ratings, now the second hottest daytime talk show in America, I had two offers-one from a major network, the other an up-and-coming netlet.

Whether those offers turned into an actual time slot depended largely on how I performed on this show. Spending a week learning from a master wouldn't hurt.

AT NINE, I was in front of the full-length mirror in my bedroom, getting ready for the welcome party and making sure my new dress fit as it should, not wrinkling or sagging unbecomingly as I moved. And, let's be honest, making sure I didn't wrinkle or sag in it. It was a daring choice for a woman my age-a Valentino silk peekaboo dress. It wasn't from this year's collection, but I'm not above shopping the sales rack.

The dress had come in deep golden yellow or black. I'd picked the yellow. Silk straps left my shoulders bare. The ruffled hem brushed my knees. Slits in the deep-cut shirred bodice showed off generous swatches of skin. Not something you'd wear if your triceps sagged or your thighs were dimpled with cellulite.

I was proud of my body. I worked damn hard for it. Paid for it, some said, the whispers growing louder with each passing year. But I hadn't had any work done and I didn't plan to, yet sometimes I suspected my resolve wouldn't outlast the first significant wrinkle or sag. Getting my own TV show wouldn't make it any easier to resist.

A rap at the door. "Ms. Vegas?"

I shook off thoughts of television and plastic surgery and gave my reflection one last mirror check. Then I was ready for my close-up.

THE WELCOME party for Death of Innocence was being held in the basement. An odd location, especially for a warm, dry fall night, but I'd heard the neighbors hadn't been thrilled with having a TV show moving in next door. Getting the permit couldn't have been easy. Palms probably had to be greased, favors pulled in and concessions made, including no outdoor parties.

As we reached the bottom of the stairs, I pulled back to let my escort-one of the security team-lead the way, and give me time to see what I was walking into.

The basement was one huge room and held only a collection of high, small tables for setting down drinks. A waiter who barely looked old enough to serve was making the rounds with champagne, flashing a camera-ready smile, unaware that no one here was in a position to give him his big Hollywood break.

The producer, Todd Simon, wasn't coming. He was on location in Amsterdam after filming Red Light District-a controversial but much anticipated new reality show-and was supposed to have returned by now, but had been delayed. Can't say I was thrilled about that. When I'd first signed onto the show, the producer had been a real sweetheart who was also a fan, and had seemed committed to approaching the special with just the right balance of showmanship and solemnity. Then, less than a month ago, I got a fax from the studio. The producer and his entire team had been replaced by Todd Simon, a guy best known for beer commercials.

I'd done my best to meet with Simon and his team, but it never happened. When I'd lived in L.A. I'd have tracked them down myself. Not so easy now that my condo was in Chicago and I'd spent the last two months on my live-show circuit. I hated going in blind, but my future in television was riding on this show. I'd make it work.

There were fewer than a dozen people in the room. There, chatting up the model who'd be playing Marilyn in the dramatized death scene, was Bradford Grady. Not much older than me, if the tabloids were right, yet his dark hair was streaked with silver, giving him the air of a distinguished gentleman. The old Hollywood double standard.

The waiter hurried over to offer me a glass.

"Thank you-" I checked his name tag. " Jordan."

I smiled and he blinked, bedazzled. My smile grew. When I looked up, Grady was heading my way, his gaze sliding over me as he walked.

"Ms. Vegas," he said. "This is such a pleasure."

He took my hand and kissed it. No one snickered. Amazing what the British can get away with.

"Jaime, please, and the pleasure's mine. At the risk of gushing, I'm such a fan. I bought your first season on DVD just last week, when it finally came stateside."

Actually, I'd ordered all three seasons from the U.K. when I realized I'd be working with him. Can't pull a convincing fan-girl if you haven't studied the material.

Claudia appeared from nowhere. "Mr. Grady, Dr. Robson wanted to speak to-"

He cut her off with a "go away" flutter of his fingers. Claudia glared at me.

"She's right," I said. "You have people to meet and I don't want to monopolize you. What do you say we do the rounds together, save everyone from having to introduce themselves twice?"

He gave me his arm and let Claudia escort us over to Dr. Robson, a parapsychologist the show had hired as an expert. As I asked about Dr. Robson's studies in electronic voice phenomena-more homework-Grady's hand slid to my lower back then began inching down. When Bruce Wang, a specialist in ghost photography, approached, I used the excuse to slide from Grady's grasp and shake Wang's hand. It's a balancing act-being flirtatious enough to flatter without arousing expectations.

As we chatted, talk turned to speculation over Starr Phillips's mystery replacement. Robson had heard a rumor that it was Buck Locke. I prayed he was wrong. Last time I'd met the abrasive TV spiritualist, he'd offered to teach me the secret of tantric magic-sex magic-to enhance my link with the afterlife, and I'd made the unfortunate mistake of laughing. Worse yet, I'd done so as he'd stood in my hotel room doorway, wearing only a robe, which he'd let hang open to display the full "extent" of his offer.

We were still naming names when a murmur rippled through the room. I followed it to the door. In walked two men in shades, like FBI agents from a B movie. Between them stood a tiny, ephemerally beautiful girl in a silver dress. She had long blond hair, perfect porcelain skin and blue saucer eyes-far bluer than anything nature could produce.

Her gaze went straight to me, and she clapped her hands together, giving a kittenish mew of delight. She floated over, chiffon scarf streaming behind.

"Jaime Vegas. Oh, my sweet Lord, it is you!" She took both my hands and clasped them as she gazed up in limpid adoration. "You're my idol. I've been following your career since I was-" a girlish laugh, "-knee-high to a grasshopper, as my daddy would say."

A cameraman and a journalist appeared behind her, recording every frame and word. I tilted my head to my best angle and swept my hair back so it wouldn't block my profile. The lens inched my way.

"That's so sweet of you," I said. "And you must be…?"

"Angelique… but my friends call me Angel. The Angel of the South."

"Oh, of course. Let me guess, you're the third spiritualist."

"I am. Can you believe that?" An earsplitting squeal of a giggle. "My big chance to work with Jaime Vegas. I was so afraid you'd retire before I got the chance."

I gave a throaty laugh. "Don't worry, I'm not retiring for a while."

Around us, the party had stopped, everyone watching the drama unfold.

"So, do you have any theories on Marilyn's death?" I asked.

"Oh, it was such a tragedy," she said. "Someone so young and beautiful, called to heaven too soon. My daddy-he's a minister, you know-always says-"

"I meant theories on how she died."

A wave of titters.

"Oh, yes, of course. Well, er, that's what we're here to learn, isn't it? To free her from the limbo of a tragic passing, to discover who wronged so innocent a soul."

"So you think she was murdered? Are you leaning toward the Kennedys or the Mafia?"

"Oh, my Lord, that is such a beautiful dress. So daring. My daddy would die if I wore something like that. You're so brave!" She waved to the cameraman. "Doug, you have to get a shot of the two of us, for my press release."

I pictured that shot and realized how I'd look towering over the fresh-faced, virginal blond.

"Unless you don't want to…" she said, her eyes wide with innocence.

"And miss the chance to get my picture taken with a rising star? Never. Doug, hon, can you make sure I get a copy of it?"

"Absolutely. Is there a mailing address?"

"Just bring it up to my room. Top of the stairs."

He grinned. "Be happy to, ma'am."

I flirted with Doug as he set up the shot, then struck a pose that would give Angelique's daddy a rise in spite of himself.

ANGELINE WAS going to be a problem. Her sly jabs I could handle-you don't spend a lifetime acting without learning how to deal with two-faced starlets. But television is so much more youth-oriented than the stage. Put me on camera next to a slip of a girl barely out of high school and the network execs who were considering my show might start thinking they were making overtures to the wrong spiritualist. I could sex it up-I could out-vamp her any day-but it might not be enough. I'd have to play this one carefully, prove I wasn't just the "sexy redhead" but the better performer. And, as it turned out, I was going to get my chance a lot sooner than I expected.

Becky had barely finished introducing Angelique to everyone when some wit came up with the idea of a "test" seance. As long as you had three spiritualists in a room, why not put them to work providing the entertainment?

"That's a wonderful idea," Becky said. "We should tape it too. For the DVD extras."

"There's going to be a DVD?" Angelique said.

Becky grinned. "There's always a DVD. "What about Tansy Lane?"

"Who?" someone asked.

"Starlet," another responded. "From the seventies. Murdered right next door, I think. The crime was never solved."

I struggled to recall the case. I wasn't big on Hollywood legends, but because Tansy had been a former child star, her case had struck a chord. After outgrowing her starring role on a top-rated sitcom about a fairy changeling, she'd faded away, only to reappear again at twenty with a headline-making comeback. She'd not only beat the odds, but KO'd them, winning an Emmy. And that's when both her career and her life ended. Shot to death at a postawards party in Brentwood.

Murmurs of excitement ran through the crowd. Grady glanced at Claudia. I kept my mouth shut, my expression intrigued but not committed, waiting to see how Grady would play it.

"How mysterious were these circumstances?" he finally asked.

"I've heard there was satanism involved," the guard piped in. "That's why no one saw anything. They were conducting a secret Hollywood black magic rite."

Grady's face lit up. Satanic rites were his specialty. He found evidence of them everywhere. He and Claudia exchanged a look.

She cleared her throat. "As per Mr. Grady's contract, he is supposed to receive a minimum of six hours' notice before any attempted spirit communications. He's willing to forgo that tonight. However, I insist that he still be allowed as much time as possible to complete his mental preparations, so he must be granted the final position."

Taking the final spot meant he'd have our work to build on, plus the chance to leave the most lasting impression.

Becky glanced at me, but I didn't have any such stipulations in my contract. I could hit the ground running anytime, anywhere, so I saved my contract demands for important things like billing position and wardrobe allowance.

"It's all yours, Bradford." I smiled, then slipped in, "I'll take the final spot next time."

"Excellent," Becky said. "It's settled then. Angelique will go first, Jaime second-"

"Oh, no," Angelique breathed, her face filling with genuine horror. "I couldn't go before Ms. Vegas. She's the star; I should follow her."

I shook my head. "It's your first big seance and I insist you take the premier position."

She opened her mouth, but there was little she could say to that. I accepted Grady's proffered arm and we headed upstairs.

WHEN I realized they planned to hold this seance in the garden, I thought of the presence I'd felt there earlier and a chill ran through me. As bizarre as it might seem, I avoid mixing necromancy and spiritualism whenever possible. I use my powers to give me an edge, but under controlled circumstances. When I'm booking a show in a new city, I always visit the venues myself first, to make sure there aren't any resident ghosts. Nothing buggers up a fake seance more than having a real ghost screaming in your ear.

So I stepped into that garden, steeled against the first sign that my reluctant spirit had returned. But, to my relief, the presence of others seemed to scare it off. Or, if I was really lucky, it had given up and moved on.

We stole into the gardens like schoolkids cutting out on a class trip, snickering and whispering, hoping the neighbors didn't overhear.

It was midnight. The witching hour, which I'm sure the writers would make a big deal of when they wrote the introduction to this segment. The full moon and the wind rustling through the bushes didn't hurt.

"Too bad we can't do it next door," someone said. "Right at the site of the murder. That's where she was found, wasn't it?"

"Near the pool house." Becky turned to the cameraman. "Can we get it in the backdrop?"

"Perhaps we could get some dirt from the site," Grady said.

Becky looked at the security crew. "Any volunteers?"

"I will," I said.

All heads turned my way.

"Oh, come on," I said. "What will film better? A security guard jumping that fence? Or me?" I turned to Angelique. "Unless you want to."

She backed away as if I'd suggested she desecrate a grave. "Oh, no. I couldn't. My dress-"

"Then it'll have to be me." I pulled off my sling-backs and handed them to the nearest guard. "Now which of you boys is going to boost me over that fence?"

SO I snuck into the neighbor's yard and swiped dirt from behind their pool house. By the time I got back, my feet were filthy, my hair had twigs caught in it and I was sure there was a dirt smear or two on my face. But I got my round of cheers-and my laughs- and some footage of a cute young guard washing my feet in the fountain.

"Okay," I said, putting my heels back on as I leaned against the obliging guard. "Time for the seance. Angelique? You're up."