Page 17 of Script Swap (The Last Picks #11)

For some reason, my face started to heat. “The, um, adult photo.”

“My God,” Jonni said again, lips curving. “The runt kept it.”

“Uh—”

That was my way of verbalizing the fact that this was not how I’d expected the conversation to go.

To be fair, I hadn’t interacted with Jonni much before—a better verb would be experienced or suffered .

Aside from that conversation in Kyson’s dressing room, I’d only seen her when she’d been putting on a show.

And I had the feeling that Jonni was pretty much always putting on a show.

Bobby came to my rescue. “Did you give him that photo?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because he was cute.” Jonni’s smile deepened. “Because a woman has needs.”

(Picture the throwing-up emoji.)

“Were you and Kyson sexually involved?” Bobby asked.

“My, my,” Jonni said. “Such language. And to a lady.”

“Is that a yes?”

“I’m afraid I don’t discuss personal relationships of that nature. I have a reputation to maintain.”

“That’s not going to work with the sheriff,” Bobby said. “That photograph suggests a relationship. And in homicides, sexual partners are the most common culprits.”

“Also,” I said, “you found the body. In a super weird way, actually. A lot of killers do that—put on a big show of finding the victim so that it looks like they couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with it.”

Jonni’s mouth tightened. “I never touched that boy.”

“Are you sure about that?” Bobby asked.

“He laughed at me. Can you believe that? I’ve got more experience and know-how in my little finger than that stupid boy would ever have.

I could have helped him, too. Put him in touch with people that could get his career going.

And when I gave him that photo, he stared at it like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

Like—like it was all a joke. He let out this high, short, nervous laugh and stared .

” As though considering it now, she added, “I could have slapped him.”

“Did you?” Bobby asked.

“Of course not.” With a smile for Bobby that I think —in Jonni’s mind, anyway—was supposed to be languid, she leaned against part of the set depicting Vivienne’s bedroom and kicked out one leg. “My stocking keeps slipping. Be a dear and pull it up.”

Before Bobby could respond—and before I had to rip off Jonni’s wig—a voice cut across the stage. “Get your butt off my set, Jonni!”

Jonni jerked upright as Betty came across the stage. The stage manager was dressed in her bulky work shirt, fishing vest, and pants combination. She carried a clipboard under one arm, and her other hand twisted a dial on her walkie restlessly.

“Have you forgotten who I am—” Jonni began.

“I know who you are,” Betty said. “I’ve known you since you were seven years old, and you know better than to lean on one of my sets. Now get your butt up.”

With what must have been an attempt at dignity, Jonni lowered the leg she had been proffering to Bobby and straightened. “You can’t talk to me like that,” Jonni said, but she undermined herself by adjusting her wig. “I don’t have to put up with this kind of treatment. I’m doing this as a favor .”

Betty opened her mouth to respond—and whatever it was, I was pretty sure it was going to send Jonni into her dressing room for the next month—but before she could, Nora stepped out from behind one of the curtains, bringing with her the scent of jasmine.

She gave Jonni and Betty a glance, but she addressed me and Bobby as she leaned against the same piece of scenery that Jonni had been using a moment before.

“What’s going on?” Nora asked. “What’s the problem? ”

“No problem,” I said. “We’re trying to find Terrence—”

“Terrence is busy,” Betty said. She took her clipboard in both hands like it was proof.

Or like she was going to brain me. “We’re all busy, in case you couldn’t tell.

I’m missing half my lav mics, we’re making do with an ancient sound board because the good one is still gone for repairs, and somebody moved the par lights.

This is a theater, and we’ve got a show to put on. ”

“Are you kidding me right now?” Jonni said, casting her arms wide, her voice rising. “Is anyone else seeing this injustice?”

“I need to ask him a few questions,” I said.

“Look at her,” Jonni said, pointing at Nora. “My God, she wants you to look at her.”

Nora said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Jonni, but we’ve got a full house, and they can hear you.”

“Betty!” Jonni snapped. “If you don’t do something, I won’t be responsible for my actions, I won’t.”

The stage manager gave a sigh; she was back to fiddling with the dial on her walkie again, and she didn’t quite meet Nora’s gaze as she said, “Nora, you know you’re not supposed to lean on the set.”

“Oh God,” Nora said, standing up straight and offering an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, Betty.”

“That’s it?” Jonni said. “That’s all you’re going to say to her? That’s it. I’m done. I’m not going on stage tonight; you can find yourself a new Penny Pinrose.”

She hurled herself at the doors, already sobbing.

“I’ll talk to her,” Nora said. “I am sorry, Betty; I had no idea.”

Betty shook her head, but she still wasn’t quite looking at Nora.

“No, I’ll do it.” She called off to the wing, “Joey, Audrey, help me fix this.” A pair of what I can only describe as drama-club kids emerged from behind one of the masking curtains.

I didn’t really get a good look at them, though, because Betty’s gaze swung back to me and Bobby.

“Get off my stage, and get back to the front of the house, because if I see you back here again mucking up my show, I’m going to have you arrested for trespassing. ”

“You can’t—” I began.

“We’re leaving,” Bobby said. “Sorry for the disturbance.”

He drew me toward the door. Behind us, Nora said something in a softer tone to Betty—another apology, it sounded like, although I couldn’t make out the words—and Betty replied in the same quiet staccato.

A clang, so soft it barely rose above the muffled sound filtering in from the audience, made me glance up. A shadow stood on the catwalk overhead, looking down at us. And then something moved out over the edge.

I flinched.

Bobby must have sensed something was wrong because before I could step, he yanked me several steps toward the door.

And then nothing happened.

Nothing fell.

Nothing slammed into the floor.

No near-death experience. (Try telling that to my heart, which had climbed up into my mouth.)

Faint laughter floated down, and then more of those soft clangs as someone—Milton, my brain suggested—moved away along the catwalk.

“What happened?” Bobby asked. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Sorry. It was—” I stopped. Took a breath. “I guess I’m still spooked from the other day.” And then my mouth said what my brain hadn’t quite processed. “He did that on purpose.”