I had a little time to kill until I could swing by the sheriff’s office and pick up the copied file on Annika Kron/Ana Newman’s disappearance. I decided to stay put at the Upper Crust in case Gemma came back. I figured she would fume for ten minutes and then return and apologize. That was what the new Gemma would do, anyway, because the new Gemma wanted us to be a family again, as though that were even possible when we’d never really been one in the first place. We’d been colleagues. Costars. At home, we avoided each other like strangers. We had never been sisters. We’d only played them on TV.
But Gemma didn’t come back to the café, and I couldn’t make up my mind how to feel about that. Either relieved or disappointed, or maybe a little of both. I would have preferred to feel nothing at all when it came to Gemma.
The woman who’d taken my order stopped by my table to refill my coffee. “How was everything, sweet pea?” she asked. “You need anything else? Slice of pie maybe?” She was middle-aged, round and ruddy-cheeked, reminding me of a cheerful Irish maid from a PBS historical series, the kind who was always ready with an anecdote.
“Nope, I’m good,” I told her, but she didn’t leave. She put her hand on her hip and stared down at me, scrutinizing my face.
“You look very familiar. Are you an actress?”
I don’t know what I am anymore, I thought, but nodded. Her question did not necessitate a nuanced answer.
“Is this your first time at the festival?”
“Yep.”
“That’s exciting! I hope you remembered your mask.”
“What?” I said, giving her my full attention for the first time.
“Your mask,” she said brightly. “For Mr. Kron’s opening-night gala. It’s a masquerade party. But don’t worry,” she said, stacking empty plates on her forearm. “There are a few shops around town selling them, and I hear he’ll have masks available at the door for anyone who didn’t bring one.”
“Thank you for the heads-up,” I said, and smiled. I would message Kron when I got back to the Eden Tree and request an invitation to his gala. I wasn’t sure how it would help my investigation, but it seemed like the perfect opportunity to scope out the people with whom Kron associated. There had to be a lot of weirdos in his circle, and one of them might be the weirdo I was looking for.
I finished my coffee and got up to leave, waving goodbye to the friendly waitress on my way out the door. A man tried to enter the café at the same moment. I looked at him through the glass and stopped dead, struck by yet another wave of déjà vu. Only this time the moment felt familiar because I had already experienced it the previous day at Raymond Talbot’s gas station.
“We have to stop running into each other this way,” the man said, smiling with large, square Chiclet teeth that had to be veneers. He wore stylish gray jeans, a black V-neck sweater, and a black motorcycle jacket. He looked like what a good-looking man was supposed to look like, but somehow he avoided actually being attractive. His face was too symmetrical to be interesting, his hair too artfully molded, like a living Ken doll. His perfection made him bland. A slightly crooked nose or a few forehead creases would have made him irresistible.
“Soren Kron, right?” I said, thinking of what he’d claimed at the gas station, that we’d already met, though I still couldn’t remember where or when.
His smile dimmed a few watts. “I knew it would come back to you.” He didn’t sound pleased by the idea.
“It didn’t. I saw your picture in an article online.”
“Ah,” he said. “Of course.”
I decided to play nice now that I knew who Soren was. He was at the top of my list of people I wanted to interview. He’d grown up in Stone’s Throw, his cousin was the most recent victim, and he’d lived his entire life in Jonas Kron’s shadow, peering into the sinister worlds his father created. That had to have a strange effect on a person, and yet Soren appeared to be nothing more than an arrogant playboy who’d grown up with a rich daddy. There had to be more to him than that, and if there was, it meant he was hiding it, and if he was hiding it, there had to be a reason why.
“Maybe you can remind me over coffee how we know each other. Are you busy now?”
He checked his watch and made an exaggeratedly disappointed face. “I have a meeting in a few minutes. I’m organizing the festival this year. Not sure if you’re aware.” He said it like his volunteer position at a small, local film festival was akin to being appointed vice president of Sundance.
“Sounds like a lot of work. But maybe you could find time later this afternoon? Or tonight?”
“Don’t you have plans with Porter?” Soren asked.
Ghostly pinpricks raced up my spine, and my eyes narrowed automatically. “How do you know that?”
It didn’t seem possible for Soren’s smile to get any wider, but he managed it. “Word travels fast in a town this small. I ran into Porter about ten minutes ago. I asked if he wanted to get a drink with me tonight, but he said he had a date…with you.”
A date? Was that what he thought it was? And what did it mean that Soren and Porter were on casual drinking terms? How did they know each other?
“Did Porter tell you why I’m here?” I asked, wondering if Soren might already know, if Jonas had told him about backing my investigation, or if the director was keeping our arrangement a secret even from his son.
“Oh yes. You’re here to crack the case on the Dark Road.”
“Maybe you can help me out,” I said. “I’d love to arrange an interview. It won’t take long. I’ll work around your schedule.”
He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a silver card case, handed me one. “Give me a call.” As they had yesterday, his eyes did a quick, obligatory appreciation of my body before returning to my face with a smile. “We’ll work something out.”
I suppressed a chill of revulsion, though I got the feeling that was exactly what Soren Kron wanted me to feel.
* * *
I stopped by the sheriff’s station to retrieve Annika Kron’s file, hoping for another chance to talk to Lot, but his office manager said he was on an errand. She would not tell me where.
My car with its broken window was parked on the street. I headed for it, giving up on the idea that Gemma was still skulking around Stone’s Throw Village, waiting for me to find her. How would she get back to the inn? Stone’s Throw was too small to offer a cab service, much less Uber. But when I spotted a white Suburban cruising past with the Eden Tree logo on the side, I waved until the vehicle pulled up to the curb next to me, pleased to find Porter behind the wheel. Gemma wasn’t with him.
Porter rolled the window down. “Hi there,” he said, adjusting his tie. He really was paranoid about that thing remaining straight. Or maybe it was just his nervous habit. We all had one. In my early teens, mine had been excessive smiling. I walked into every casting session looking like the Joker. Now it had shifted to excessive consumption of alcohol.
I went to the window, feeling self-conscious about my stringy hair and the mascara grime beneath my eyes.
“I got rained on,” I said before he could comment.
He nodded sympathetically. “I figured you might.”
“Have you seen my sister Gemma? She’s staying at the inn, too. She might have called to request a ride.”
“You mean Ms. Suzanne Stone Maretto from To Die For?”
I was impressed. “Most people don’t catch that reference.”
He shrugged, nonchalant. “I’m a database of useless film knowledge. But, no, I haven’t seen your sister. I did notice her car was gone from the parking lot when I left.”
I leaned against the side of the Suburban. “Didn’t you say you were working the desk until four?”
“I arranged for someone to take my shift so I could pick up pie for the new guests. Hey, you didn’t tell me the rest of the Bullshit Hunters were going to be part of your Dark Road investigation. I thought you were on your own now.”
I felt the blood drain from my face, leaving my cheeks cold and numb.
“I am,” I said. “And they aren’t.”