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  Hot Secret

  Sherryl Woods

  Copyright

  Hot Secret

  Copyright ©1992 by Sherryl Woods

  Cover art to the electronic edition copyright © 2011 by RosettaBooks, LLC

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted In any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.

  Electronic edition published 2011 by RosettaBooks LLC, New York.

  ISBN e-Pub edition: 9780795317279

  Contents

  eForeword

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  eForeword

  Dear Readers:

  When I moved to Florida in 1974, my apartment was only blocks from what has now become Miami Beach’s historic Art Deco District. As an indication of the dramatic changes in that area, I’d like to share one of my Sunday morning walks from those days with you.

  As I neared Washington Avenue, about halfway between my bayside apartment and the ocean, a small, frail woman of about seventy-five approached and asked for help. When I asked what she needed, she insisted that I follow her back to her tiny apartment to help with her luggage. Since I doubted that she was part of a white-slavery ring or worse, I went. Worried that her new and expensive luggage would not be safe on the long journey back to Boston, she wanted help in tying a rope around it. By the time I’d done the task to her satisfaction, it looked as if a giant spider had spun a web around the suitcase. Then, with grandmotherly determination, she gave me a sermon on the dangers of dating for a young woman my age.

  There were a lot of grandmothers and grandfathers in South Beach in those days, lots of them in need of people to listen to their years of wisdom. Today the rocking chairs have given way to barstools, the porches have become trendy cafes. There’s a new energy and a coat of fresh paint. I hope you’ve enjoyed the new SoBe, as it’s now called. I do, but I can’t forget the way it used to be not so very long ago.

  Watch for Hot Money in the spring. As always, I’d love to hear from you. Please contact me via email at [email protected] or via my website www.sherrylwoods.com.

  Sincerely,

  CHAPTER

  ONE

  Anyone who considered filmmaking glamorous had never been on a movie set at the end of a twelve-hour day. And at ten P.M. on a hot and humid Saturday night, tempers tended to be frayed beyond repair. Veronica Weston’s dressing room trailer, half a block long and complete with kitchen, practically reverberated with the echoes of an argument that had begun in mid-morning and gotten noisier and nastier with each passing hour. Anyone who knew the gist of the star’s complaint wasn’t sharing it with Molly DeWitt, who’d been assigned by the Miami/Dade film office to keep everyone happy. Judging from the shouts, she wasn’t doing a wonderful job.

  Hot, tired, and drained from the nonstop tension, Molly sat at the Cardoza’s porchfront café in Miami Beach’s rejuvenated Art Deco district and sipped on her tenth iced tea since dinnertime. If she hadn’t been working, she would have ordered something a lot more lethal. The thought of a piña colada or maybe a straight shot of Scotch held an almost irresistible appeal.

  The door of Veronica’s trailer crashed open and the star emerged in a dramatic swirl of hot pink chiffon that was more suited to a boudoir than to a public place. It was not a costume. Veronica dressed to suit her glamorous image.

  The actress caught sight of Molly and made a beeline for her table. She flounced into a chair amid a cloud of pink. It was indicative of the neighborhood, a haven for trendy yuppies and high-fashion European models, that no one paid the slightest attention.

  “That man,” she said in apparent reference to the film’s director, Gregory Kinsey, “has the talent of a toad. I will not listen to another word he says.”

  Since Veronica was making her comeback film after years of alcoholic decline, Molly thought it prudent to suggest a spirit of cooperation. “I’m sure he has your best interests at heart,” she said.

  “Ha!” Veronica gestured to a passing waiter and ordered a double vodka on the rocks. Apparently she wasn’t worried about either slipping off the wagon or falling down drunk in her final shot of the night.

  “After all, it’s his reputation on the line as well,” Molly ventured, feeling infinitely braver since her first observation hadn’t drawn fire. She didn’t dare suggest that Gregory Kinsey, whose last two pictures had been money-making Academy Award nominees, hadn’t needed to take a risk on a woman who’d dragged her own last two films into overbudget box-office debacles.

  Besides, she felt a certain amount of sympathy for the fifty-something actress, whose once-gorgeous face and career had been ravaged by alcohol. She admired the spunk it had taken to ignore all of the vicious tabloid gossip and return to the screen in a less than flattering role, a role Kinsey reportedly had fought to offer her. The fact that the two had been at loggerheads since the first day of production was no secret, and Molly wondered why the up-and-coming Gregory had bothered trying to salvage the woman’s downsliding career.

  Veronica gulped down the drink and ordered another. “You know, dear, you’re really wasting your time in this town,” she said, giving Molly a critical once-over. “You ought to move to L.A. That’s where the industry is. Half the producers in that town would kill to have someone who could keep things organized the way you do. Does that boss of yours, Vince what’s-his-name, appreciate you?”

  The concept of self-absorbed Vincent Gates displaying gratitude was enough to make Molly smile. “No, but I happen to love Miami,” she said. “And I’m not the issue, you are. What will it take to make you happy? Is there something I can do to make this shoot easier on you?”

  Veronica seemed startled that anyone honestly cared what she wanted now that her stardom had crashed like a meteor plummeting to earth.

  “Maybe you could go talk to Gregory,” she said, slowly warming to the idea. “He’d listen to you. He’s surrounded by all those sycophants. I haven’t seen so much bowing and scraping since I met the queen. Did I ever tell you that story, dear? Well, never mind, now’s not the time. You go speak to Gregory and then we’ll talk about all that ancient history.”

  Molly was flattered by Veronica’s faith in her persuasiveness, but she seriously doubted that the director was the least bit interested in her amateur opinions. From what she’d observed this past week on the set, Gregory Kinsey had a pretty good idea of exactly what he wanted in every shot. Barely into his thirties and riding an artistic high, he wasn’t the type of director to encourage input. “What exactly is the problem between you two?” Molly asked.

  “This godawful script is the problem. Have you read it? Does it make a bit of sense to you? No,” she answered before Molly could comment. “Of course not. No woman my age is going to chase around after some worthless twerp like Rod Lukens. What kind of name is that anyway? It sounds like some cowboy drifter.”

  Since the entire plot of Endless Tomorrows was created around just such a chase and just such a drifter, Molly couldn’t help inquiring, “Why did you take the role, if you hated it so much?”

  Veronica directed one of her famous disbelieving
glances at Molly. The subtle lift of one delicate brow spoke volumes on-screen and off. “Offers have not exactly been rolling in the last few years. Everybody wants young. Everybody wants sexy. They seem to forget there’s an audience out there that’s my age, that women my age can be sexy. I figured I owed it to my gender to prove that.”

  “And you needed the work,” Molly dared to guess.

  Veronica laughed, a bawdy, raucous sound that carried on the ocean breeze. “Hell, yes, I needed the work. Do you have any idea how much a stay at that de-tox clinic costs?”

  “Then I’m surprised you’re so anxious to repeat it,” Molly said with a pointed look at the second double vodka sitting in front of the actress.

  Veronica didn’t seem to take offense. “Don’t worry about me, honey. I’m just getting my second wind. When Gregory calls for action, I’ll be in front of the camera, hitting my mark and delivering my lines, no matter how absurd they are. The bottom line is I’m a professional and Gregory knows it. He’s counting on it, in fact. He’ll let me rant and rave all I want as long as I show up.”

  “So the tantrum’s just for show?”

  “Essentially,” she admitted with a shrug. “Maybe he’ll make a few little changes to pacify me, but he knows I can’t afford to walk away from this project, no matter what I say.”

  “Then why bother? Doesn’t all this arguing upset you? How can you possibly be creative in the midst of all this tension? I can’t finish a grocery list if I’m under a lot of stress.”

  Veronica threw back her head, setting a shoulder-length wave of chestnut hair into sensuous motion. “Tension, honey? You call this tension? This is just a warm-up. You wait until we get to the love scene, and I refuse to get into bed with that sleazy character until he washes that gunk out of his hair.”

  Molly had to admit that Duke Lane’s insistence on wearing a slicked-back hairstyle for the role of Miami Beach gigolo Rod Lukens was enough to make her own stomach churn. It might, however, be difficult to get him to step out of character in mid-production and wash his hair. “How do you plan on winning that one?” she asked.

  “I’ve been thinking about insisting on a sexy shower scene which includes a bottle of shampoo. What do you think?” There was an impish gleam in Veronica’s vivid green eyes as she contemplated the prospect.

  Molly grinned back at her. “A stroke of genius.”

  “Yeah. Now if I could just figure out how to get him to try the mouthwash, too,” she said wearily. She finished her drink and glanced at her watch. “What the hell is slowing things down now? God, I hate night shoots. They drag on forever. If the cameras don’t roll soon, I’m going to have bags under my eyes the size of airline carryons. Honey, could you go check for me? If we’re not starting soon, I’m going back inside to rest.”

  “No problem,” Molly said. “I’ll be right back. Any idea where Gregory is?”

  “Probably in the production trailer trying to figure out how he got himself mixed up in this dud.”

  Molly cut through the Saturday night crowd milling along Ocean Drive past the string of hotels that had been painted the colors of dawn on the Atlantic—palest pink, mauve, turquoise, and sun-bleached white. Front porches that had once seen no more action than the squeaking of a rocking chair now served as swank outdoor cafés. Swimming pools had become the focal point of trendy sidewalk bars. On Thirteenth Street, which had been blocked off to accommodate the production, she passed Veronica’s trailer and went on to the slightly smaller RV parked in front. A plastic sign declaring GK PRODUCTIONS, ENDLESS TOMORROWS was plastered on the side.

  Molly tapped on the trailer door and opened it. A handful of exhausted-looking, jeans-clad men and women were collapsed into the chairs around a rectangular table along one side of the long, narrow room. Several were playing poker, while the others sipped sodas and watched in apparent boredom.

  “Anybody in here seen Gregory?” she asked, stepping inside long enough to savor the Arctic temperature.

  “He’s with Veronica.”

  “No,” Molly said. “She’s been outside at one of the cafés with me for the past twenty minutes.”

  The legs of one tilted-back chair hit the floor with a thud. “Shit, man, not again,” assistant director Hank Murdock muttered as he lumbered to his feet. “Come on, guys. Let’s go find him.”

  “Find him?” Molly repeated. “You think he’s taken off or something?”

  “The street is crawling with broads and bars and bedrooms. Greg’s not known for overlooking any of those opportunities, especially when they come in combination,” Hank said in weary resignation.

  “Does that mean you’re going to have to shut down production for the night? Should I tell Veronica she can go back to her hotel?”

  “Not yet. Tell her to hang loose. We may get this last shot in yet. Jerry, you check Veronica’s trailer just to be sure he’s not still in there. That’s the last place any of us saw him. Maybe he stuck around to recuperate once Veronica got her claws out of him.”

  “Don’t panic, man,” Jerry Shaw said soothingly. “It could be he’s with Daniel setting up the next shot.”

  “I’ll check, but I’m not holding my breath.”

  Molly walked with Jerry as far as the star’s trailer. “You all don’t like Veronica much, do you?” she said to the young production assistant. He was only twenty-three and a recent UCLA film school grad, but this was his third film with Gregory Kinsey.

  “She’s making Greg crazy. That’s not good for him and it’s not good for the film. Other than that, I don’t much think about her one way or the other.” For his age he managed an incredible air of bored cynicism.

  “Why do you suppose she gets to him? Surely, he’s worked with other difficult actresses.”

  “Beats me. I’d have told her to take a hike the first day, but Greg wouldn’t budge. He wanted her on this picture no matter what. Fought the studio and everyone else till he got his way.” Jerry rapped on the trailer door and waited. When no one answered, he peered inside.

  “Oh, hell,” he muttered, the color draining out of his face. He leaned against the side of the trailer and drew in a couple of deep breaths before shouting at the top of his lungs. “Hank, guys, get the hell over here.”

  “What is it?” Molly said, trying to peer past him. Jerry blocked her way. He wasn’t quite big enough, though, to keep her from spotting one dungaree-clad leg at an awkward angle. She recognized Gregory Kinsey’s well-worn cowboy boot. She swallowed hard and forced her eyes away. “Shouldn’t you get inside and do something?”

  “Sweetheart, there’s not much you can do for a guy who’s got a bullet wound in the middle of his head.”

  CHAPTER

  TWO

  Chaos erupted as word of the shooting spread along Ocean Drive like news of free drinks. Crew members abandoned cameras, lights, and card games to join the shocked, tearful vigil outside Veronica’s trailer. Despite Jerry’s conviction that Gregory Kinsey was dead, Hank Murdock shoved the young production assistant aside and went into the trailer to check for himself. When he emerged, his own complexion was ashen.

  “Greg’s dead. He’s been shot,” he announced, his voice sandpaper rough and unsteady. He shoved his wide, workman’s hands into the pockets of his well-worn jeans, but not before Molly saw how they trembled. She was every bit as shaken by Hank’s obvious dismay as she had been by the sight of Greg’s body sprawled on the floor.

  From the first day on the set Hank Murdock had impressed her as the kind of solid, reliable man anyone would want around in an emergency, the kind of man who would be unfazed by any calamity. His calm, easygoing personality was the opposite of Greg’s more volatile, creative frenzy. They’d made good partners. Now one of them was dead and the other obviously distraught.

  Molly wondered if there was a prayer that the gunshot wound was self-inflicted. There was one school of thought around the set that Veronica could drive the most stable among them to consider ending it all. Molly thought, thou
gh, that the director would have aimed the gun at the actress.

  “Shouldn’t someone call the police?” she asked, since Hank seemed, for the moment at least, incapable of making decisions.

  “Done,” the off-duty police officer assigned to the production responded just as sirens began their nerve-racking whine a few blocks away. He was already trying to move people back from the door without letting them get too far out of sight. His partner was doing his best to establish a perimeter around an area meant to close in potential suspects and eliminate curiosity seekers.

  With her own options quickly diminishing, Molly edged away from the two officers. She scanned the rapidly growing crowd, looking for Veronica, but there was no sign of the actress’s glamorous attire amid the crew’s denim and T-shirts. Surely the woman hadn’t downed so many vodkas that she’d missed the sight of people streaming toward her trailer.

  Torn between finding Veronica and calling her boss to report they were likely to be caught in the middle of a public relations nightmare, Molly prayed for a pay phone somewhere between the trailer and the outdoor café where she’d left Veronica. She could probably borrow a cellular phone from half the status-conscious people along the beachfront street, but that would mean having her conversation overheard by everyone who’d crowded around. There were also cellular phones galore in the production trailer, but the prospect of being inside that confined space with a murderer on the loose nearby made her stomach churn.

  It hadn’t been all that many months since she’d discovered a body in the card room of her own condominium. The murderer had later taken her hostage and left her to die in a sweltering storage shed. The claustrophobic memory was still spinetinglingly fresh. She opted for a pay phone half a block away, searching for a quarter and Vince’s home number in her purse.

  The call to Vince elicited a stream of obscenities. Since she’d barely said “Hello,” she guessed she’d caught him in the middle of his Saturday night seduction ritual. No wonder he’d insisted the number be used only in dire emergencies. The flow of invective and the rustle of sheets stopped abruptly when she casually mentioned the murder. That, at least temporarily, cooled his ardor. She’d always wondered what it would take.