Page 10 of Script Swap (The Last Picks #11)

(There’s not even a correspondence course, actually. I made that up. But I did make myself a certificate one time and print it out at home, and because Bobby honestly doesn’t know what to do with me sometimes, he went out and bought me a frame for it.)

“They’ve both been here going on at least forty years,” Fox said.

“Betty won’t retire. Ever. She’s going to die in this theater, like my father.

And Milton would retire in a heartbeat, but why should he when he’s got the easiest job in the universe?

He spends half the day hiding in his cubby, looking at—” Fox delicately coughed. “—art on his phone.”

“Gross. In a cubby ? Double gross.”

“Dash.”

“Right, right. Okay. Does anybody else work here?”

“A couple of high school kids, Joey and Audrey. Stagehands.”

“I don’t suppose they’re also criminal masterminds?”

“One time, Keme stopped by the theater to pick up something I needed to give to Indira. Joey saw him, turned around, and ran .”

“God, I bet he was unbearable after that.”

“For two weeks,” Fox said glumly.

As they were locking up the box office, I said, “I know this is switching tracks, but can we talk to Kyson? I still don’t know what’s going on with this script thingy, but I want to ask him what happened.”

Fox nodded and led the way. We followed the same hallway off the lobby that we’d taken to get backstage, but this time, we kept going until we reached the theater’s workspaces: costumes, props, even a workshop where old power tools and sawdust suggested a lot of loud, dirty things happened.

Then the hallway turned, and there was a large room that was being used, from the looks of it, as extra storage space—rolling racks of costumes, cardboard boxes, folding chairs—although the presence of lighted vanities suggested this had originally been intended for hair and makeup, or something like that.

Several doors stood along one wall, and two were open.

“Father’s moving everything out of storage upstairs,” Fox said, gesturing at the boxes.

“The renovation, right.”

At the sound of our voices, a shadow moved inside one of the rooms, and then Jonni poked her head out.

“Hello there,” she called with a big stage-girl smile that made me think of fake teeth.

“What are you doing poking around back here?” And then she did this deep, throaty giggle like she’d made a dirty joke.

“Excuse us,” Fox said. “We want to talk to Kyson.”

“He’s not in his dressing room,” Jonni said, trailing after us. “He’s too important to be here unless we’re rehearsing. What do you think about that?”

If Fox had any thoughts, they didn’t share them. Instead, they rapped on the door to Kyson’s room and called out, “Kyson, are you in there?”

“I told you, he’s not here.” Jonni pushed past us, opened the door, and strode into the room. It was dark, and then lights bloomed, and she did a little twirl. “See?”

Fox was making a sound in their throat that cats make sometimes.

The dressing room looked fairly standard to me.

The walls were painted black. The lights were fluorescents.

There was a chair and a sofa, both of which appeared, uh, well-used in a way that meant I didn’t want to touch them in anything less than a full hazmat suit.

Clothes lay on the floor, presumably Kyson’s.

A long counter with a Hollywood vanity showed more disorder: three different kinds of cologne (cue the incipient headache), a bouquet of drying flowers, prescription antiperspirant.

There was a little black block of wood that might have been a minimalist jewelry box.

The ceiling was discoloredfrom water damage, and it sagged ominously as though it might give at any minute.

But that didn’t matter because the real star of the show, as far as yours truly was concerned, was the mini-fridge.

I’d been on a quest for a mini-fridge. Bobby didn’t understand the limitless potential of having soda and nicely chilled snacks at your literal fingertips.

(Did you know that chocolate chip cookies reach 110% deliciousness—we’re talking critical-mass deliciousness—if you chill them in the fridge?)

It was hard to reconcile the realities of this space with the fact that Jonni had (apparently) wanted it badly enough to threaten to quit.

It didn’t look like anything to fight over, but I imagine I’d feel differently if I were an actor.

When you’re in a profession, you learn all the little things that are status symbols.

A better dressing room was one for actors.

For writers, it could be all sorts of things—where your book was displayed in a bookstore, or advance promotion, even the conferences you were invited to attend.

I’d been at a panel one time where these two guys (big, muscly, ripped jeans—they wrote military urban fantasy, big surprise) had gotten into a fistfight over who got to sit closest to the microphone.

“No script,” I said.

“Don’t tell me that’s what this is about,” Jonni said. “The script? Really?”

“I think we’re all good, Jonni,” Fox tried.

“He bungled his lines.” Jonni waved a hand. “He’s not as good as he thinks he is. What’s the big deal?”

I didn’t know what the big deal was, but do you know what’s interesting from an amateur sleuth’s point of view? People who tell you things aren’t a big deal. Especially when those things clearly are a big deal—at least, to somebody.

“I don’t suppose you saw what happened last night,” I said.

“Do you mean the show?” she said with a kind of exaggerated playfulness, like I was a little slow and needed to catch up. “I shouldn’t even be here, you know. I’m doing this as a favor to Terrence.”

“Really?” Fox said, and their voice had shot up into the I’m-going-to-throttle-you range. “Because as I recall—”

“But I love to give back. ‘One must always give back.’ Do you know who said that to me?” She didn’t wait for me to guess—I was going to say Cher!!!! “Jane Fonda.” And then with the kind of offhand pride that only the truly self-deluded can pull off, she added, “We worked together, you know.”

My mental index of films wasn’t that comprehensive, so I nodded and smiled.

I pretended I was from one of those bland Midwestern states where everybody loves their neighbors and gets along and they do a barn-raising and have a big dance.

(Was I thinking of the Amish? Did the Amish dance?) Missouri!

I pretended to be from Missouri, and I smiled and nodded and was so impressed to meet a real, live movie star.

“Is something wrong with him?” Jonni asked Fox.

“Where do I start?” Fox said. “Have you ever seen a grown man google ‘video game underwear not for kids’—”

I cut them off with a nervous laugh. “Uh, nope, nothing wrong with me. Just so overwhelmed to be meeting you. I’m helping out, you know, and I wanted to ask you about last night.

If you saw anything.” I tried to soften the words with a smile.

“Anything suspicious, I mean. Anything that might help us figure out how someone managed to switch Kyson’s script. ”

“It didn’t get switched,” Jonni said. “He got the lines wrong. Then he threw away the script and made up this story because he absolutely cannot fail—he thinks this is his big break, and if he screws it up, his life is over. It all starts in the home, you know. Mommy is an absolute dragon. I heard her on the phone with Kyson. The way she talked, if that boy didn’t bring home an Emmy, he could find himself a new family.

God, wouldn’t that be a role to play? Like Mary Tyler Moore with teeth . ”

I had no idea what that meant. I had no idea, for that matter, if Mary Tyler Moore had problems with her teeth. Or if she was even still alive. (Yes, I know I could google it.) But I did think it was an interesting detail about Kyson, and one I tucked away.

“Before the show—” I began.

“No, I didn’t see anything. Kyson was in his room, primping.

” She rolled her eyes—this from a woman who was about two inches deep under foundation.

“Terrence and Betty were arguing, as always. Nora had locked herself in her dressing room. The grande dame wasn’t going to come out until she got the respect she deserved—thinks she deserves.

And that horrible little janitor was scurrying around, doing whatever he does. ”

At this point, I have to tell you: Fox’s kettle was about to boil over—er, so to speak. I swear to God I saw sparks in their hair.

“Where were you?” I asked.

I expected to hear my dressing room , probably followed by a list of complaints and explanations about why she had to / deserved to move into Kyson’s. But instead, Jonni gave me that uncomfortably big smile, batted her eyelashes, and said, “Oh, you know. About.”

I thought some words in my head that would have made Mary Tyler Moore’s teeth fall out.

(I have no idea what that means, but it sounds good, right?)

“Nobody came in here last night except Kyson?” I asked Jonni.

“That’s what I told you, isn’t it?”

To Fox, I said, “And there aren’t any other ways in here? A service entrance?” It felt like a big swing, but I went for it anyway: “The vents?”

It was a measure of Fox’s distress—or annoyance—that they didn’t jump all over that. “Not at all.”

I nodded to the only other door. “And that?”

“A private bathroom,” Jonni said. She pranced over to it. “Now call me old-fashioned, but I think a lady ought to have the dressing room with the private bathroom, don’t you? And look how big it is—”

She threw the door open with a little showgirl flourish.

The door hit something and wobbled.

In the opening, a hand was visible.

I suddenly had an idea of what had stopped the door. And where Kyson had gone.

Jonni started to scream.