“Look, honey, I trust you,” Rita told Angie over the phone. “But something’s fishy out there, and it ain’t the sardines, all respect to Steinbeck. Of course, that was Monterey, but anyway, Mackenzie’s worried and, frankly, I don’t know why her lawyer or I can’t get through to anyone at that place.”
Angie felt a growing sense of dread and her head was starting to ache. Two days after getting Rita’s message, Angie was still trying to figure out what to say. Nicole would know if something got fast-tracked, but she hadn’t heard anything, and Angie had the distinct feeling that people were getting tired of her questions about IP. The decision on developing the book at all would come from the very top. And I can’t very well ask Charles.
“I’m sorry,” she finally went with, weak as it was. “Let me ask around and see if anyone knows anything. It could take a while, but I’ll dig a little bit.” She hesitated. “Rita, by the way, did another one of our—sorry, your—writers, Alexandra Gold, sell DreamWeaver her rights or maybe get an option? I saw a draft of a contract, but I haven’t been able to find out anything else.”
“We haven’t cut a deal on that yet. I don’t know why they’d draft anything. Maybe so they’ll be ready in case we move forward. But we’re also talking to two doc and one indie producer.”
“Listen. Hang tight with Alexandra. Don’t sign anything yet. I’ll talk to you soon.”
“Okay, kid. Jesus, now I know why I stayed in New York. At least here if someone is yanking your chain, they tell you.”
“I’m sorry. I may have . . . overpromised. Let me see what I can find out.”
She hung up. Who besides Charles or Nicole might know something?
She opened her email and scanned her inbox. One message caught her eye; it had come from legal about reorganizations in that department. As unusual as it would typically be for a low-level creative exec to reach out to a top attorney at a studio, not every lowly CE was the sister of a well-known actress who’d killed herself while in the studio’s employ and had shared a cocaine-fueled limo ride with said attorney after the Academy Awards.
She opened a new email and started to type.
Dear Tanya,
I hope this finds you well. I wondered if you were still interested in getting together some time. I’d love to pick your brain about a few things now that I’ve had a chance to settle in. I also wondered how Patricia is doing.
Best,
Angie Norris
Now we wait. She tried to get back into the groove of work, but it was hard to focus. She was behind in her reading because the database project had soaked up so much of her schedule, and while she wanted to spend as much time as she could with Nicole, she also had to devote hours to finding projects for the studio. And she had to locate and contact women who might shed more light on Charles and DreamWeaver’s tactics. She was in regular touch with Jango, who was worried about keeping Charles off her trail, and she needed to return a message from Scott.
She covered her eyes with the heels of her hands. No wonder my head’s killing me.
When she got home that night, she went into the guest bedroom to assess her whiteboard. In addition to Audra, she had tried to call several women who had only done one or two movies at DreamWeaver, but so far they weren’t returning her calls.
She was looking at contact information for an actress on IMDbPro when her phone buzzed with an incoming text from Jango.
Can I stop by?
Will be out your way
for another case.
Found something interesting.
Sure. I’m here.
She was in the kitchen when she heard a car pull up outside. She rushed to the door and opened it before the bell could ring, only to find Nicole on her front step. Nicole had said she might come over if she didn’t have to work too late, but since she usually didn’t come over during the week—it took too long to get to Topanga Canyon in traffic—the tentative plan had entirely slipped Angie’s mind.
“You look surprised.” Nicole beamed at her and held up two big paper bags, her rose gold hoop earrings glinting against the caramel skin of her slender neck.
Angie was surprised, but mostly she was stunned at how sexy Nicole looked in her satiny sleeveless blouse.
“Expecting your other girlfriend?” Nicole joked. “Anyway, I brought Middle Eastern. Hummus, pita, tabouli, the full mezze experience. Any wine left?”
“Absolutely.” Angie kissed her as she stepped into the foyer. “And you’re in luck because my other girlfriend just left.” She grinned in jest.
The shot of happiness she felt whenever she saw Nicole always took her by surprise. It was so new, that sense of excitement. On the surface, it seemed ordinary enough: People dated all the time, moved in together, got married. Yet to her, it was special, unreal, the first time in the history of the world anyone had ever felt such a thing.
At that moment, however, she couldn’t revel in their specialness. How was she going to keep Nicole and Jango from meeting?
She got plates that they filled with dips, olives, dolmas, and salads before she casually tried to introduce the subject of Jango. “Hey. I’ve got someone coming by.” She busied herself pouring a glass of wine so she could focus anywhere but on Nicole’s face.
“Aha! So your other girlfriend is coming back!” Nicole grinned, then added, “You know, the other woman, as it were?” She dipped a piece of pita into the baba ghanoush before the plates could even be set on the dining room table.
“Ah. No, she’s been and gone,” Angie teased. “It’s the person who’s been helping me out with some family business. He’s in the area tonight, so he’s coming by to update me. It shouldn’t take long.”
“I see.” Nicole sat at the dining table, fiddling with the stem of her wineglass. “You know, you can tell me things. Confide in me.”
“What do you mean?” Angie hoped she sounded more natural than she felt. She carried in the plates and took her own seat at the table. “I mean, it’s nothing like that. It’s just something my family needs to . . . sort out. About Scarlett’s estate.”
Nicole reached over to rest a hand on Angie’s arm. “I really care for you, Ange. I haven’t felt this way in so long. And I want us to be able to talk.”
Angie looked into her golden-brown eyes and sun-kissed face. But she wasn’t ready to let her guard down. Her phone buzzed, and she quickly checked the text. Then replied:
Outside. Come around side.
I’ll unlock the gate.
“Okay, that’s him.” She stood, ready to break away. “I’ll be back in a sec.”
She slid open the door at the back of the house and slipped out to find Jango at the side gate. “Sorry to barge in on you like this,” he said.
“No, it’s no problem. I want to know about anything you find.” They heard faint music from the kitchen and looked over. Nicole was standing by the doors holding her glass of wine. She waved through the sliding glass door at Jango, who gave a sort of half-wave back.
“I’m interrupting,” he said. “I’ll make it quick.”
“It’s just my boss.”
Jango looked at her with raised eyebrows and a skeptical smile.
“Let’s go over here.” Angie led him to two patio chairs and a table beside the pool. Wind rushed quietly in the palms.
“Someone close to Charles wants to help. He gave me a lot of information about actresses and other leads including the name of a producer in town, Christo Holland, who hates Charles Weaver’s guts.” Jango pulled back a chair, the wrought iron screeching against the flagstone tile that surrounded the pool, and sat. “Seems Holland goes way back with Weaver. A few years back, this guy was in serious talks with the writer of this killer sci-fi mystery novel, but somebody at DreamWeaver got to the writer first, who was so enticed by the idea of getting a DreamWeaver movie made from it that he sold the rights outright. The writer was on cloud nine by the sound of it. But the book never saw the light of day. No movie, no nothing. And the writer couldn’t get the rights back, not even with an IP lawyer, and this producer said the writer hired the best, spent a whole lot of money. So the producer got locked out and the writer is totally screwed, too. The thing got taken off the market—buried—like for good.”
Angie gazed out at the night sky. Another deal that locked a writer out from getting his book turned into a film. Anywhere. Ever.
“You following me?” Jango asked.
“What? Yes, sorry. It’s just . . . This is the same thing I’ve noticed. We—DreamWeaver—buys options and rights and none of it ever goes anywhere. I don’t know why.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean we’re in the business of making movies. So why do no movies get made out of a large majority of the books and IP we own?”
Jango looked at her hard. “Angie, you’re smart, but you still don’t get it. It’s not just about making good movies. Your stuff not only needs to be good, it’s gotta be better than what your competitors are churning out. It’s got to be the best movies in town. That’s how you get box office, audience, awards. You getting me?”
How could I be so dense? “He’s locking them down so no one else can buy them. Because he doesn’t want the—”
“Competition,” Jango said, finishing her sentence. “Exactly. This producer says Weaver does it all the time. Buys up the rights to books, articles, you name it, just to bury them, so no one else can have a crack at them either. It’s a classic catch-and-kill situation.”
“Catch and kill? I thought that was a tabloid thing, what a celebrity’s lawyer does to kill an embarrassing sex scandal.”
“It can be. But it isn’t always about burying damaging information, scandalous behavior. This is about burying books to deprive your competitors of content. Now, there’s lots of content around town, original screenplays, all sorts of things being written all the time. But this is one area, published books and stories, that the sonofabitch you work for is trying to control. And this guy, Charles Weaver, he likes to have control.”
Angie heard the sliding doors open. Why was Nicole coming outside?
“Didn’t mean to startle you. Just wanted to see if I could get you anything.” Nicole joined them, extending her hand to Jango. “Hi, I’m Nicole Hawkins.”
“Nice to meet you, Miss Hawkins.” Jango shook her hand but didn’t introduce himself in return. “I’m fine, thanks. In fact, I need to get going.” He turned to Angie. “Enjoy your evening. I can see myself out.”
“Thanks. Let’s talk soon.”
Jango held up one arm in a goodbye as he walked away, disappearing through the gate.
“Should we get back to dinner?” Nicole suggested. “Wait until I tell you Charles’s reaction when he toured the database. It’s still being tested, of course, but I think he’s really pleased.”
“Why did you come out here?” Angie demanded.
“What?”
“Why did you come out?”
“I just thought I’d see if your guest wanted a drink or something. I didn’t mean to do anything wrong. I mean . . . I guess shouldn’t have intruded.”
Angie softened a little. Was she being paranoid? “It’s fine. I’m just feeling a little tired. Let’s eat.”
***
When Angie got to work the next morning, staggering her entrance with Nicole’s so they wouldn’t draw attention, her mind was still reeling. She hadn’t been able to sleep and found herself sitting up at three in the morning gazing at Nicole sleeping peacefully in the moonlight streaming through the window. She wondered what was going on behind those eyes fluttering through a dream. Was she sent to investigate Angie? Was their relationship solely a ruse? If so, what will I do?
When she plopped into her desk chair, exhausted, and brought her computer awake, Angie found an email waiting from Tanya. She’d entirely forgotten that she’d reached out. It made her anxiety spike even higher. She clicked it open, unable to bear the suspense.
Nice to hear from you, Angie. I meant to follow up after we met that day in the elevator. A little free time opened up later today. What about a coffee around four?
She fired off a reply.
Sounds fine. Let me know where you want to meet.
Angie showed up at an airy café near the studio at four o’clock on the dot. Tanya, impeccably chic in a slim gray pantsuit, was already waiting and waved her over. “Have a seat.” She motioned for a server who breezed by to take Angie’s order.
“Well, I’m glad we’ve finally had the chance to do this,” Tanya said smoothly. “Word is you’ve settled in nicely.”
“I think I’ve gotten my sea legs.” Angie played nervously with a packet of Equal. She’d truly thought she had settled in when she wrote to Tanya, and she hadn’t expected that bombshell from Jango. Overnight she’d realized she didn’t have her sea legs at all.
“That’s great, though I wouldn’t have necessarily expected that after meeting you the first time.” Tanya gave her usual unreadable smile. “No offense, but you seemed rather shell-shocked that night. Not that anyone could blame you. You were thrown into the deep end without so much as a pair of water wings.”
Be direct. Be confident. “Yes, well, I suppose I was. It seems so long ago now.” She wasn’t going to make mention of the party limo again unless Tanya did.
Both of them paused as the server swooped in with Angie’s coffee.
“But here you are!” Tanya raised her cappuccino in a little salute.
“Yes, indeed.” Angie saluted back with her own steaming cup.
Tanya checked her phone. “So what was it you wanted to pick my brain about? By the way, all I know about Patricia is that she’s home and getting physical therapy.”
“That’s good to hear.” She knew she needed to cut to the chase before she lost Tanya’s attention, or her courage. “I’m trying to get a better handle on how all the departments at the studio work together. I thought you might be able to shed some light on how fast properties can move into development once the IP contracts are signed. I recently closed a big deal with a writer back in New York who has a bestseller.”
“Congratulations. But I’m afraid I can’t really help you. I don’t have anything to do with it once our attorneys wrap up their part of the work. What’s this bestseller?”
“It’s called Peregrine. It’s a memoir.” Angie wondered if Tanya had even heard of it. “I just thought that being one of the top people at the studio, you would have a sense of which projects Charles wants to fast-track.”
“I have a slew of attorneys reporting to me who draft contracts and handle a zillion other legal tasks. The studio owns a lot of IP. I can’t remember what happens to every book.”
“Of course not. I just thought this one might ring a bell because it’s a recent acquisition. And Charles knows about it. I told him personally.”
“What are you getting at, Angie?” Tanya looked at her watch.
Shit. She was losing her. “Just that I recently helped wrap up the huge IP database project—”
“Angie, let me give you a little advice. To be honest, normally I wouldn’t even bother having this conversation with an employee working at your level. But you’re Scarlett’s sister. I liked Scarlett, I did. We were friends. Something you no doubt know and are using—”
Angie started to speak, but Tanya held up her hand.
“Not to worry, I admire you being assertive, trying to get some inside knowledge that may help you succeed in this industry. But all you need to know is that DreamWeaver runs based on what one man wants.” She leaned in. “One. It’s not a public company. We are not beholden to shareholders. We do what Charles asks of us. It’s that simple. So if I were you, I wouldn’t try to figure out too much beyond your job. If something moves into development, you’ll hear about it.” She looked at her phone again. “I really must get back.” She stood. “Nice catching up with you, Angie.”
***
That night, Angie headed directly upstairs to the guest bedroom with her whiteboard where she dropped her jacket, bag, and keys on the floor. She needed to prioritize her search. She’d been so busy with work, the database update, and her deepening relationship with Nicole, that tracking down and cross-referencing actresses to contact had slowed practically to a crawl.
She turned the light on and headed to the whiteboard, leaning against the desk, a Sharpie in her hand. She had been there for twenty minutes and was filling in contact information for an actress who hadn’t been active for eight years when something caught her eye.
On the floor was a glinting object. A delicate rose gold hoop earring.
Nicole. Had she been snooping? If she’d seen the whiteboard and not said anything, the jig was up. Angie sank to the floor, pulling her knees close, her breath thin and gasping. Had Nicole already reported to Charles? Were they going to arrest her? Had she done anything illegal? Should she leave town? Just get on a plane to New York?
Breath in, two, three, four. Out, two, three four . . .
Her blood coursed hot and fast, rushing in a burst of static into her brain. She was fucked. And she’d gotten fucked over in the most stupid, stereotypical way—by a pretty girl. Had Nicole always known? Had Charles? How could I have been so stupid? I’m such a patsy. All over again, Angie felt like the weak, shy middle child who had never achieved anything and never would.
Tears burst past her lids and she wept, for herself, for her ignorance, her stupid innocence . . . for Scarlett.
Her phone buzzed and she pulled it out to silence it but there was Scott’s beaming face. Scotty, thank God. He was the only one she could fall apart in front of.
She didn’t even recognize her own voice when she answered. She eked out his name but the tears wouldn’t stop.
“Ange!” His voice came through the speaker. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
Angie couldn’t tell him the truth. She couldn’t tell him about Nicole. Or her true intentions in working at DreamWeaver. Or her fears for Scarlett.
“Angie? Remember to breathe.”
In, two, three four. Out, two, three four . . .
“I don’t know what’s happening out there, but I know you’re doing something you’re not telling me about. And that’s okay. I’m proud of you, Ange.”
Angie’s breaths slowed as she focused on his words.
“Just know that I am behind you a hundred percent. Scarlett would be, too. She always believed in you. And you going out there, trying to figure your shit out, figure out Scarlett, you are so much braver than I am. All I wanted to do was hide from it all. You are rushing headlong toward it. So no matter how scary or fucked up things are, you are the bravest person I’ve ever known. You have balls of cast iron.”
Angie couldn’t help but laugh. “Balls of cast iron, eh?”
“Absafuckin’lutely!”
She laughed harder, and Scott laughed, too.
“So what’s going on? Why are you freaking out?”
“Oh, GOD. There’s just. So. Much. Charles Weaver is . . .”
“Yeah?”
“He’s just a lot.”
“Okay. You’re used to dealing with egos, though, right? All the authors you’ve worked with?”
“Yeah.”
“He’s just another ego.”
You can say that again. Times ten. “Right.”
“And who’s got the balls of cast iron?”
She chuckled to herself. “I do.”
“That’s right. It’s not Charles Weaver, no matter what kind of blowhard he is, how much he squawks.”
“Thanks, Scotty. I feel better now.”
“Good. You let me know if you need me to come out there and kick some Hollywood ass, okay?”
“Oh, I will. Absafuckin’lutely.”
Both of them were laughing when they hung up and Angie realized she really did feel better. More solid. Scott heartened her, steeled her. She wasn’t searching for the truth about Scarlett, about Charles just for herself. Scott and their parents deserved to know too. She was doing it for them. And for all the actresses Charles had threatened, assaulted, buried through the years. It was bigger than she was.
It seemed Scotty was seeing her through new eyes . . . perhaps it was time she did too. She wasn’t just trying to emulate Scarlett anymore. She was finding her own strength. And that was what she needed to draw from so she could stand up, dust herself off, and try again, even though part of her wanted to pack up and run. Run from the rhinestone world of Hollywood, from powerful, controlling Charles, from Nicole and her lies. But it had been a full day since Nicole had been at the house. That gave Angie pause.
Nothing had happened. She hadn’t been aware of a change in Nicole’s demeanor. She hadn’t been arrested. She hadn’t been fired.
It didn’t take the sting out of the betrayal. Obviously, she would have to keep an eye on her while she pretended nothing had changed, but clearly Nicole was biding her time too. Two could play that game.
But she needed help.
So she dried her eyes, steadied her breath, and reached out to the one person she thought she could trust in Los Angeles.
Hey, Patricia.
I hope you’re healing.
I’d like to stop by.
You were right.
I’m out of my depth.
***
Angie kept herself busy at work for the next two days, her guard up around not just Nicole, but everyone. She distrusted every person she worked with. If Nicole was a plant, anyone could be. The hardest part was keeping Nicole at bay without raising any suspicions. Wednesday night she begged off, saying she had an upset stomach. Thursday, she claimed “family business,” though she was aware that hadn’t stopped Nicole from barging in on her and Jango, which now made sense.
Her “family business” was actually the meeting in Malibu with the person who’d texted her during her Sunday hike with Nicole. Someone needed to know where she was should something go down, so she had confided in Jango, who had not been pleased.
“You’re going out to Malibu at night to meet someone who sent you a text, but you have no idea who they are?” he’d said over the phone earlier that day. “Your sister, we think, was driven to suicide working for a guy who is controlling and dangerous and for whom you now work. It’s a high-stakes industry full of sex, power, and money, and you’re trying to bring the dark underbelly to light. And you think that this meeting is safe?”
“It’s safe,” she assured him, and herself. “I don’t know why, but my instinct tells me it will be fine. And if someone out there really knows something about Scarlett, I can’t afford to pass up a chance to find out. Plus, if someone wanted to kill me, there are less risky ways than throwing me off a cliff in Malibu in the middle of dinner.”
“Whatever you say,” Jango said. “Just be careful.”
Driving out that night, she was so preoccupied she almost missed the turnoff to the restaurant. After she’d given the valet her keys, she fingered a small bottle of pepper spray in her purse. Earlier, she had programmed her GPS with a few public places she could go on her way home if she thought she was being followed.
It’s okay. It’ll be okay.
Despite some nervousness, she felt strong. And brave. She reminded herself why she was doing this, and that Scott had said he was proud of her. Plus she had balls of cast iron, which forced a smile and calmed her butterflies—a tad, at least.
“Hi, I’m Angela Norris,” she told the host. “I’m meeting someone. I’m not sure if they’ve arrived yet.”
“No one has mentioned you, Miss Norris. But I will happily seat you and bring the rest of your party over when they arrive.”
He was so solicitous it struck Angie he might recognize her from the Oscars speech. Or maybe he just thought she was meeting someone from a dating app.
She sat and looked around. Two young women, very thin and very blond, were at one table, talking excitedly. At another table, a man in sunglasses sipped a cocktail as he checked his phone. Two middle-aged couples were dining at a third. No one looked familiar or paid her any attention.
She decided to walk to the restroom so people could see her and she could survey the restaurant. As she headed back, she caught sight of someone she recognized being ushered to a table. Her breath caught in her throat. Could that be who she was supposed to meet? She didn’t see how it could make sense.
“Hi, Tanya,” she said, approaching the table her coworker had been seated at.
Tanya looked up, her brow knit in surprise. Obviously not expecting me. Coincidence.
“Angie, hello. How . . . interesting to run into you out here.”
Angie nodded and started to say something but a younger woman was suddenly brought to the table.
“Ah,” Tanya said. “Angie, do you know Dominique Spencer? Dominique, this is Angela Norris. You may have heard her marvelous speech at the Oscars this year.”
Angie recognized the beautiful dark-haired woman—the same one who’d approached her in the restroom when she’d lunched with Charles.
Dominique looked at Angie and chimed in quickly. “No, I don’t think we’ve met. How do you do.”
Picking up the cue, Angie extended her hand. “So nice to meet you.”
Dominique sat down and Angie stood silently for a moment before Tanya said, “I’d ask you to join us, but we have some business to go over.”
“I’ve got to get going anyway. I’m meeting a friend.” Angie gave a gracious smile. “Nice to meet you, Dominique.”
Angie could swear her heart was pounding loud enough for Tanya to hear as she walked back to her table. She was tired and jumpy. The mysterious stranger was either delayed, had changed their mind, or never intended to show. Maybe it was just a deranged fan of Scarlett’s toying with her.
She was walking out of the restaurant when her phone buzzed, startling her. It was her mother. She hit the Accept button as the host opened the door for her and she moved outside.
“Angela!” Ellen’s voice was chipper, too chipper for Angie’s mood.
“Hey, Mom.” She was already regretting picking up.
“We’re coming to visit!”
What? She didn’t even have a chance to process the announcement before her mother charged on.
“But don’t you worry. We won’t cramp your style. We’re renting an Airbnb in Santa Monica. Your father agreed to come only if we didn’t stay in Los Angeles proper. We know you’re busy with work. We don’t want to get in the way, so we’ll entertain ourselves. It is the entertainment capital of the world after all!”
It was then that Angie detected the strained note in her mother’s voice. They weren’t coming for a vacation, not with the way her father felt about LA, especially after what happened to Scarlett. They were coming to check up on her. They didn’t believe she could take care of herself.
“You have some time for us, right, dear? We arrive a week from Friday and want you to come see our place that Saturday.”
“That’s . . . great! I’ll clear my social calendar,” she joked but then realized she actually did have a social life. Sort of. With Nicole. Shit. One more thing to pile on the stress percolating through her veins.
“Perhaps you can introduce us to a movie star.”
“Mom. That’s not what LA is like. You don’t just see movie stars standing on street corners. But we can go to the tourist spots. I haven’t even been to them yet, so it will be fun for me too.”
She said goodbye to her mother and then looked out over the Pacific. As she waited for the valet, the clouds streaked across the horizon, outlined in gold as the sun lit them from behind. She was thinking it was easy to see how people would never want to leave the Southern California coast when she heard footsteps crunching up behind her on the gravel parking lot.
She turned quickly to face a very handsome man in his late thirties. Sporting a full beard and mop of wavy dark hair that reached the bottom of his ears, he had brown eyes and a chiseled physique. And he looked vaguely familiar.
“Angie?”
She started to bring out the pepper spray hidden in her purse. “Yes.”
“Sorry I’m late. Traffic.”
“And you are . . . ?”
“Jeremy. Jeremy Banker. I was Scarlett’s boyfriend.”