Chapter Eleven
Eleven
The next morning, Grand and I stand in her bonus room/studio and survey the damage.
“It looks worse than it is. Nothing’s really missing,” Grand says.
“Doesn’t that seem a bit odd to you?”
“I don’t know, Sydney. I don’t have any experience with this kind of thing. Maybe they broke into the wrong place. Or maybe mine was just one of a number of places that were ransacked for the hell of it.”
Luke Hayes shows up and stands with his arms folded, surveying the mess. He’s no longer wearing a uniform, and the sports car he arrived in is clearly not government issue, so I’m guessing he’s no longer on duty.
“They were clearly looking for something,” he says.
“Like what?” I ask. “Drugs? Money? Mischief? Surely they hit the wrong unit or hit a bunch of them at random.”
“Nope. Only this unit,” Luke says, his eyes on Grand’s face. “Any idea why?”
“Not a clue,” Grand replies. “Maybe it was just proximity to the fishing dock?”
“But Myra’s unit is even closer to the dock,” I point out.
Grand shrugs. But she also trembles.
“Are you sure you have no idea what they were after?” Luke asks quietly, his gaze locked on Grand.
“I can’t imagine what they thought they’d find in a garage bonus room.” Grand’s chin goes up but she’s having trouble meeting his gaze. “Maybe they hoped the silver hadn’t been unpacked yet. Or were targeting the previous owners and didn’t know it was just a studio.”
“Or maybe Grand is right and it was totally random mischief.”
“I don’t think so,” Luke says. “This feels intentional. And the fact that nothing was taken indicates they either made a mistake or they were looking for something that they didn’t find. Yet.”
“Or it was completely random vandalism,” Grand says.
“Either way I suggest you have an alarm system installed.” He hands Grand a piece of paper with a list of local companies and their phone numbers. “This is generally an extremely safe area and neighborhood, but if you’re going to be living here alone, you really should have a system put in.
“I’ll be back this afternoon to put up a piece of plywood to secure the garage until you can have a new slider installed. I’m also going to ask the Treasure Island Police Department to make regular drive-bys. And I’ll do a late one when I go off duty.”
“You?” I beat back the vision of myself in skimpy pajamas knowing Luke will be just outside. “I really don’t think—”
“Don’t bother arguing,” Luke says. “I’m doing this for Grand. And to prevent you from having to go all Cassie Everheart on any bad guys ever again.”
“That’s very kind of you, Luke,” Grand says. “I know we’ll both feel much safer knowing you’re keeping an eye out.”
I sigh but manage not to roll my eyes.
He cocks his head as if waiting for something further.
“Thank you,” I say through gritted teeth.
“You’re welcome.” He winks and tips his hat. “You ladies take care and have a good day.”
He turns and walks back to his car. I try to keep my eyes focused on his broad shoulders and not on his backside, which proves a lot harder than it should be.
· · ·
Two days after the break-in, Grand’s alarm system is installed. A day after that, I go to an audition for a grocery chain’s point-of-purchase videos. There I discover that acting-as-if-you’re-cooking is not as easy as acting-as-if-you’ve-already-cooked—something I’ve pulled off numerous times while trying to impress men with culinary skills that I don’t possess.
On the bright side, this audition doesn’t require me to bare my bosom or any other part of my anatomy lik e Bosom Buddies would, and I’m pretty sure that Tonja Kay has not reached out to in-house production departments or local dinner theaters. At the moment, all I have to do is make an ice cream sundae.
“Try that again, please. And try not to make it look as if the container and scooper are difficult to use.”
“Right. Sorry.” I roll my shoulders, take a deep cleansing breath, and plaster a smile on my face.
On cue, I dig the scooper into the carton. But the scooper gets stuck, and when I finally jerk it out of the carton, the block of vanilla is way too big to fit into the sundae bowl. I freeze (okay, pun intended) while I try to figure out whether to attempt to cram it in anyway. Or break off part of the chunk. Or—
“Cut!”
“Sorry.” I manage to keep my smile in place. “Can we try that one more time? I’m sure I can…” I swipe at the hair that keeps falling in my eyes, only to realize I shouldn’t have used the hand holding the scooper to do it. I reach up with my other hand and feel the ice cream in my hair, which I dyed a chestnut brown last night in hopes of disguising my normally blond self.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t think this is going to work,” the casting director says.
“Oh, but I can definitely do better…” Because let’s face it, that’s not exactly a high bar at this point.
“That’s all right. I think we’re clear on how you come across on camera,” she says. “And honestly, even if you could manage to scoop the ice cream better or pretend to cook in a convincing way, I don’t see how we can cast Cassie Everheart, who is still supposed to be in rehab, for a national grocery chain. And how would we handle the whole wine-pairing scenario we offer for each dinner recipe?”
I don’t bother to point out that I’m an actress (though not an impressive one today) and not the fictional character I played for the last five years because, really, shouldn’t that go without saying?
On principle, I hold my head high as I leave, even though it makes vanilla ice cream dribble down my forehead.
In the parking lot I check to see whether I still have time to make it to the dinner theater audition for a musical version of Romeo and Juliet . After all, I’m an actress, not a pitch person. And I’m pretty sure I sing better than I cook.
· · ·
“Goodness, what happened to you?” Grand asks as I drag myself into the town house late that afternoon and plop down on her sofa.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, your hair is an odd shade of brown and there are sticky clumps in it.” Her smile is sympathetic. “You look like you’ve been through the ringer.”
Damn. I guess that explains why the casting director at the dinner theater not only couldn’t see the former Cassie Everheart singing and dancing when she was supposed to be in rehab, but never actually looked me in the eye.
“I went on a couple of auditions. One of them involved scooping ice cream, which is apparently not my forte.”
“Is it still Tonja Kay that’s the problem?” Grand asks quietly.
“I intentionally stayed away from film companies and anyone doing a SAG-AFTRA production that might be afraid of her. But even without her in the picture, I’m apparently way too closely identified with the character I played.” I shake my head woefully. “People look at me and see Cassie. And as far as they’re concerned, I’m either still in, or just got out of, rehab.”
To her credit, Grand doesn’t smile or laugh. “I’m sure things will improve, and that reaction will fade with time.” She gives me a comforting hug. “Why don’t you go take a nice hot shower and maybe wash the color and ice cream out of your hair? I’ll order us some Thai food for dinner.”