Chapter 10 #2
Max’s face underwent several quick, complicated changes in expression before he settled on annoyed but scared.
“I heard you were dead,” he hissed, and I realized belatedly his eyes were red-rimmed not from losing sleep over a long shoot but because he’d been crying.
“Hightower said he’d heard through the grapevine you’d been killed in mugging gone bad then I couldn’t get hold of you and do you know how many Benjamin Wittes are in the world and how few of them have publicly accessible phone numbers and why doesn’t he have freaking social media or something, damn it? ”
“He does,” I fumbled. “He just doesn’t check it.
He posted a picture of Muffin once,” I offered, stunned.
“Max, I’m so sorry. I... how did Hightower hear about me getting hurt?
” Geoff Hightower, the director of Max’s current project, wasn’t exactly super high powered but he was gaining traction in the industry and also kind of a gossip.
The sort of person who might be dangerous in a few years, once he had more sway in our professional world and people gave him what he wanted too easily, too often.
Max shook his head, dashing his tears with the back of his hand.
“I don’t know. I think someone back home did.
He’s been really pissed about Tubbs dying owing him so much money and it’s just become a whole thing on set lately.
Like he’s been bitching nonstop about it.
” He took a shaking breath and schooled his features into stern lines. “What the hell is going on, D?”
“Tubbs owed him money?” I straightened. “How much? Why?” Hello, new problem...
“No idea. Hell, Damien, most of the movers and shakers are in debt to one another in the industry, you know that. So many private deals and you owe me secrets going on. For all I know, he loaned Tubbs money for rent or something. Does it matter?”
“No freaking idea,” I groaned, flopping sideways and taking the laptop with me, sending the world inside the chat screen topsy-turvy for a second.
So I told him about the weird morning, about Pamela begging for my help, then blackmailing me for it.
About gate crashing, then the encounter on the lighthouse walk that apparently led to the rumor about my early death.
“Wait, wait,” he said, cutting in suddenly. “Who pushed you in the water?”
“No idea. They were bigger than me though.” I paused, thinking hard, dredging up the sense memory of the moment.
“Taller. Not bigger like heavier or bulkier. They had on layers though. Like a coat over a sweater or something. They didn’t move like it was their body that was big,” I said slowly.
“Kind of like they weren’t able to bend their arms right or something.
” Elusive Nate skittered through my thoughts—he was definitely taller than me, and he definitely had taken an instant dislike to me.
But enough to try and throw me into the cove? Enough to maybe kill me?
Max lifted his brows. “And you’ve been sniffing around for this Anmorata Blue person because you think they killed Tubbs? And someone is pap stalking you?”
“Busy week.”
“Damien...”
“I know, I know,” I sighed, closing my eyes. “I swear to god, this town...”
“I’ll talk to Geoff in a bit—we’re on a break.”
“Ooooh,” I arched. “Personally or professionally?”
That was enough to break Max’s foul temper. “Ass,” he huffed. “They thought I was about to absolutely lose my shit when I couldn’t get hold of you. I thought you were dead, dorkface!” He sniffed hard, lips pressed into a thin line. “I’ll find out who told him that.”
“And why. I’m not exactly on Hightower’s holiday card list. Why would he care whether I’m alive or dead?”
“It’s a story,” Max pointed out quietly. “Newly reclusive actor, rumors swirling about his involvement in the death of a Broadway star from the golden age of stage...”
“I’m barely a footnote,” I muttered. “Why would killing me help anyone?”
Max raked a careful, sad look over my face and shook his head. “Sometimes I wonder how you lasted so long, Damien. Fame. Notoriety. Titillation. And what could be more titillating than a child star tied—however wrongly—to the death of a famous actor, who then dies in mysterious circumstances?”
#
SLEEP WAS NOT MY FRIEND. Max had to go after a bit more conversation—apparently your best friend being possibly murdered only earned so much goodwill in the production schedule but the fact he had the inside scoop about me being alive had bought him a half-hour more—and I was feeling sick from all of the ups and downs of the day.
Charlemagne followed me down to the kitchen, jumping onto the table while I made myself a cup of chamomile and got a gummy out of my kitchen stash.
I was running low and should go into Bangor to restock, but the idea of driving anywhere any time soon was anathema.
Charlemagne moved to sit in front of me when I sat at the table, the oven hood light the only illumination in the room.
It shone on the little plate on his collar, making it gleam gold against the diamante-studded strip of leather Tubbs had chosen for him.
"He really loved you, huh?" I sighed. "You don't buy a cat a diamond studded collar unless you really care about 'em. I have to tell you, the idea of Tubbs being soft for any living creature is weird to me.”
The cat, in his infinite wisdom, blinked at me.
"Stop it. I don’t want to think that Tubbs was possibly a complicated and multi-faceted person and not a single-note villain in my story.”
He followed me back upstairs a little bit later, my gummy-tea combo kicking in and doing the heavy lifting to get my brain to settle down so I could sleep.
As I finally drifted off, Charlemagne in his new spot by my head, Muffin taking up most of the other side of the bed and Tony guarding my feet, I wondered if the Moons had thrown out the detritus yet. Somewhere outside,
off in the distance, there was a pop and crash, muffled by trees and air and sea, but no sirens came so I didn't let it bother me, sleep finally claiming me for a few hours.