Page 1 of Script Swap (The Last Picks #11)

“But I’m not the same old Dashiell Dawson Dane,” I said as we made our way along the sidewalk. “I’m different. I’m better!”

“Like your hair,” Millie observed in a voice that was slightly too enthusiastic for my taste.

“Not like—”

“It’s pointier!”

I spared her a withering glance, but it bounced right off. It must have ricocheted out into the street, though, because a red-faced, sweating Deputy Winegar, who was on tourist duty—which mostly consisted of making sure nobody got run over—glared back at me.

At least, I think he glared.

And I think it was Deputy Winegar.

Beyond five feet, everything got a little fuzzy.

“And those stupid clothes,” Keme said, pulling his hair away from his neck and fanning himself.

Usually, Hastings Rock had perfect evenings in August—warm during the day, and then cooling off at night—but a recent heat wave had made the days and nights simmer, and as a result, everyone’s blood was on the brink of boiling.

“These clothes are not stupid,” I said. “They’re mature and professional and—and hip!”

“That sweater makes you look like those dads who don’t have real jobs and play Xbox all day and smoke a lot of—” But he cut off with a sidelong glance at Indira and mumbled whatever he’d been about to say.

Fox snorted.

“Keme,” Indira murmured.

Outrage left me speechless, but I managed, “It’s called a cardigan, and it’s cute even in summer—”

“The new contacts are nice,” she said as she patted my arm.

“Thank you.”

“For a nerd,” Keme said.

“Bobby!”

“You’re very handsome,” he said dutifully.

Lest I be distracted from my real goal this evening, I asked for approximately the millionth time, “Why do I have to go?”

“Because you’re the guest of honor,” Fox said. “The play is based on your life.”

“But it’s not based on my life because I refused to give Pippi those stupid life rights. What did I do to deserve this? Why did they have to write a play about me? I hate attention. I hate people looking at me or talking to me or thinking about me. Why didn’t anyone write a play about Keme?”

Nobody seemed eager to reply as we made our way down the street.

“I’m serious,” I said. “I’m a good person. I mind my own business. I don’t bother anyone.”

“You don’t always mind your own business,” Millie said. “Remember when you told that lady at the library she was hogging all the Clancys?”

“She was hogging all the Clancys! Take one. Take two. But don’t take all of them.”

“You bother me.” That was Keme’s input. “Pretty much all the time.”

I chose to ignore that. “I solved a murder! I solved a bunch of murders!”

“Yeah,” Keme said in a tone that suggested this was a case-in-point example of me bothering him. “We know.”

“I’m basically a hero!”

“Of course you are, dear,” Indira said. She even patted my arm again. “I think you should consider this play an honor. It’s a testament to your accomplishments.”

Okay, that was a slightly better way of putting it.

“You’ll feel less honored,” Fox said, “when you hear your soliloquy in the second act on, quote, ‘the woes of being a virgin.’”

“That’s it. I’m going home.”

“No, no, no,” Fox said. “Please!”

I looked at Bobby.

“Whatever you want to do,” he said.

“Dashiell, please,” Fox said again. “I never ask you for anything.”

“You asked me for my Ring Ding yesterday.”

That must have gotten their dander up because Fox’s voice took on a hint of Ye Olde English, and they even did a dramatic flourish with one hand as they pronounced, “Then I shall never ask for anything again.” A lot of the bluster dropped out, though, when they said again, “Please?”

I sighed. I grimaced. I might have even groaned.

And then I started down the street again.

Our destination was on the next corner: The Historic Foxworthy Theatre. (It’s spelled t-h-e-a-t-r-e because that’s classier.) And yes, before you ask, there’s definitely a connection between The Foxworthy and, well, Fox. As it turns out, a family connection.

The Foxworthy was a prominent building in Hastings Rock’s scenic downtown.

I’d passed it dozens of times. During the summer, tourists thronged there for productions like Dames at Sea and Wish You Were Here and Pirates of Penzance —which also explained, in case you were wondering, why I’d never set foot inside.

It was a two-story building with an ornate—albeit weathered—stucco facade, and in front, an old-fashioned marquee with black letters announced the premiere of BETRAYAL!

!!: THE WORM HAS TURNED: THE DANIEL DANK STORY.

Yeah. About that.

So, apparently Pippi Parker—that’s local mystery author Pippi Parker, my part-time nemesis, full-time nuisance, who had once accused me publicly of murder and then, later, roped me into proving she was innocent in another murder—decided to write a play.

About my life. Loosely—and I cannot stress this enough: loosely —based on how I had caught Vivienne Carver.

With enough changes (see Daniel Dank ) that she didn’t have to pay me for my life rights.

You can probably guess how I felt about all of that.

(Also, in case you need proof that Pippi was behind this madness, all you have to do is look at the title of the dang thing. It has three exclamation points and two subtitles.)

And here I was. Attending said premiere. Personal feelings, best judgment, and pending lawsuit to the contrary.

Because Fox had asked me to.

No, scratch that. Not asked . Begged .

And honestly, it was so unsettling that I blame my total disequilibrium for why I now found myself in this predicament.

As we approached the theater—er, theatre—the number of people on the sidewalk increased until we were moving through an honest-to-God crowd.

And while August in Hastings Rock was always busy with tourists, these were all people from town.

The Archer clan was there—Cosmo, three years old and the legal definition of an ankle-biter, was screaming as he ran up and down the sidewalk, apparently for the joy of it.

Dr. Xu waved at us as she passed. Even Mr. Del Real, of Swift Lift Towing, was there with his wife (Mrs. Del Real of Swift Lift Towing).

Mrs. Del Real actually beamed when she saw me.

It took me a moment—and another of those destabilizing moments of disbelief—and then it landed.

They were all going to see this freaking play.

(Note: in my head, I didn’t say freaking .)

I was still processing this when we reached the doors to the theater. Fox said something to the teenager who was taking tickets—he was a total beanpole, and he literally flinched when Keme looked at him; you could practically see Keme’s head swell—and then Fox ushered us inside.

It was what I expected. Kind of.

Fading elegance. Dusty glory. Red carpet. Gold stanchions with velvet ropes. Lots of elaborate plaster ornamentation (I wanted to say cornices?) that had been painted gold. A coffered ceiling with medallions. And, of course, the smell of popcorn.

No, I told myself.

No way.

But I couldn’t help looking.

The concessions counter was tucked off to the side.

Glass display cases full of candy. An enormous glass-sided popcorn machine so you could see the popcorn popping.

(And, equally importantly, so you could see it being liberally buttered and salted.) Even fountain drinks—a touch of modern convenience amidst the shabby vintage glamor.

I know I’m not a cartoon character. I know I can’t actually float toward a smell. But it was a close thing.

Then I caught myself. And I reminded myself absolutely not.

My stomach, however, didn’t get the message, and it gave an ominous rumble.

“It sounds like the soda machine’s broken,” Millie announced.

“Go get me candy,” Keme told me.

“No,” I said.

Fox, glancing around, gestured with both hands as if they were pressing us into place, and said, “Wait right here.” Then they scurried off.

“What do you mean, no?” Keme said.

“I mean no,” I said. And then, because it sounded like the right thing to say, “No means no.”

“Nope,” Bobby said. “Wrong context.”

Keme apparently couldn’t wrap his head around this turn of events. “Why not?”

“Because I don’t want any candy,” I said.

Which was technically true. The rational, logical, decision-making part of me did not want candy.

On the other hand, that was a small part of me.

“Are you sick?” Millie asked. “ARE YOU GOING TO THROW UP?”

Let me tell you: if we hadn’t already been the center of attention. People stopped. Heads turned. Mrs. Shufflebottom, the librarian, actually took a bottle of Tums out of her purse.

It was times like these that my charmingly mild case of social anxiety liked to flare up.

“I’m not going to throw up,” I said—loudly enough for the message to carry.

Slowly, the theater—uh, theatre—crowd churned back to life.

“Is it because you’re broke?” Keme asked.

“No,” I snapped. “It’s because I don’t want any.”

“I’ll buy you some,” Millie said.

“No!” I drew a deep breath. “No, I’m fine. But thank you.”

Millie nodded with a commiserating expression. Keme glowered, but that faded when Indira gave him a folded-up bill, and he slunk off toward the concession stand with Millie. Indira, with a frown for me, excused herself to talk to Princess McAdams (disappointingly, not a real princess).

“Are you feeling alright?” Bobby asked me.

“Fine,” I said. Bobby didn’t actually do anything, but my face heated. “Sorry. Yeah, fine. Just a weird night.”

He nodded, and he rubbed my back.

And that was it.

Not that I needed him to do more than that. I didn’t need him to do anything.

But.

I didn’t have a chance to dwell on that but, because at that moment, Mr. Li stopped and handed me a giant fountain drink. “I accidentally bought the combo,” he said with a rueful grin. “Why don’t you take this and help me out?”

“Oh, no—” I began.

But Mr. Li was already moving on, and Brad Newsum of Newsum Decorative Rock was pressing a box of M&M’s into my free hand. “I forgot I don’t like chocolate,” he said as he hurried away.

“What—”