Rage Factor (17 page)

She felt the risk factor escalating. Nevertheless, a private boat in the bay with a few dozen people aboard was still better than a crowded public restaurant with no control at all.

When Joanna insisted Sarina needed appropriate clothes for the occasion and pressed a credit card into her daughter’s hand, Dixie started to protest. Busy department stores presented the same risk as busy restaurants. Then she recalled a quiet boutique that Belle claimed was Houston’s best-kept secret. Located in River Oaks, an upscale area near downtown, the store was small, exclusive, and anyone entering would be highly visible. Besides, Dixie also needed some party duds. She hoped to find the perfect yacht bash attire to make Parker’s eyes light up when he saw her.

While Sarina scuffed along, halfheartedly rummaging the clothing racks for something her mother would approve of, Dixie found a few items for herself. She scrutinized a short red wool blazer with creamy white pants and matching blouse. She couldn’t recall ever owning a red blazer. Brown, yes, and bright blue, exactly the color blue Joanna had been wearing with her spike heels, running from a make-believe killer.

“Was it my imagination,” Dixie asked Sarina, “or was that director coming down harder than necessary on your mother today?”

“Old Bubble Butt Barton? He has the hots for her, but she told him to lose a hundred pounds, she wasn’t into dating hippos.”

“So he gets even by making her shoot a scene over and over in freezing rain? Why does she put up with that?”

“He’s an unwiped ass, but a talented unwiped ass.”

“Sarina!”

“Uh-oh. Now you’re the language police as well as the fashion warden.”

Dixie made a mental note to have Belle find out if any other actresses had received threats while working on one of Barton’s films.

“Does your mother receive a lot of fan mail?”

“Tons.”

“And she keeps it all?”

“No way.” Sarina zeroed in on a black dress barely long enough to cover her crotch.

Dixie took it out of her hands and found a longer version in kelly green. “What does she do with it?”

“Her mail? Marty’s secretary sends every fan a signed glossy and a letter mentioning Mother’s latest film.”

“What about the anonymous letters?”

“Oh. Mother keeps those, if they’re obviously from men.”

“She gets love notes from women?”

“Duh!” Sarina gave her a look. “This
is
the nineties.”

Of course it is.
“Why does she keep anonymous notes from men?”

“She thinks Dad sends them.” When Dixie continued staring, she added, “Mother thinks Dad’s still in love with her.”

“Is he?”

Sarina shoved the green dress savagely back on the rack. “You think he’d tell me? I don’t even know why they divorced in the first place.”

“How long have they been divorced?”

“Officially
, eight months.”

Dixie wondered what “officially” meant, but after those three bitter words, Sarina’s face had closed down. Dixie decided to drop it for now. She could always find out more from Belle about John Page.

“How would this look for a yacht party?” she asked Sarina, modeling the red blazer and cream slacks in front of a mirror.

“What’s wrong with your jeans and sweatshirt? Isn’t that your, you know, uniform?”

Probably seemed that way. After she stopped having to dress for court, Dixie saw no reason to wear clothes that required panty hose, dry cleaning, and dignified posture.

“A bodyguard needs to blend. In jeans, I’d stand out like spinach on a smile.”

“Oh.” Sarina scowled at the racks of clothing. “Well, none of this stuff works for me. I’m fine in what I have on.”

Not according to her mother. “I
like
what you have on,” Dixie said, truthfully. She thought the kid looked like any teenager. Rebellious. “Only, why should I be the only one who has to gussy up for this event?”

“You’re the blending bodyguard.”

“The bodyguard who
didn’t squeal to Mom
about your deal with Alroy Duncan.
Yet”

“Sounds like blackmail.”

“Let’s call it insurance.” Dixie slid into the red blazer, smoothed it over her hips, and decided it fit okay. Her cast, which the doctor had adamantly refused to remove, even when Dixie threatened to take a hacksaw to it herself, didn’t
look quite as obtrusive with the white, full-legged pants over it. She tossed Sarina a similar jacket in pearl gray. “Cooperate on the small stuff, kid, and maybe I won’t rat on you about Duncan. At least until the week’s out. What’s more important to you, a fashion statement or your future as a special-effects wizard?”

“Okay, okay! I get it.” Sarina tried on the gray jacket and two others, and in minutes had an outfit even her mother should approve of

But Dixie wasn’t as sure about her own clothes.

“What do you think?” She turned in front of the mirror. The pants fit snugly around her hips, then fell in a soft line to a half inch off the floor, covering the plaster almost completely. The blouse had long sleeves and a low V-shaped neck. The tailored blazer curved just right over her bust, nipped in at the waist, and sported brass buttons, epaulets, and a fancy gold crest on the left breast pocket.

“You’ll blend,” Sarina said. “Once you put on makeup.”

Dixie studied her appearance and had to agree. The dressy outfit made her face look unfinished. She hated worrying with colored creams and powders, had barely accomplished Lipstick 101, but the sales attendant assured her they could do a complete makeover with time to spare.

Half an hour later, Dixie peered in the mirror at a stranger.

“Perfect,” Sarina said. “You look totally unexceptional. Not at all like a bodyguard. Ordinary.”

Ordinary?
After spending a wad on clothes and all that time getting painted and fluffed, Dixie had hoped at the very least for smashing.

The Berinson yacht would’ve been hard to miss, since it was the biggest boat in the harbor. White with black trim, it sparkled like a diamond, lights glittering, music pulsing. The party was well under way when Dixie and Sarina shuttled out. They could hear a live band playing country rock.

Sarina laughed. “Seafaring shitkickers. Is that not
un-credibly
cool?”

She’d directed her question to the young man driving the shuttle, yelling to be heard over the music and the roar of the outboard motor. The man had a lean, tan face, strong hands, and a yearning in his eyes that said he’d just found the un-credibly coolest thing on the water and it wasn’t a boat.

“If you think the music’s hicksville, wait’ll you see the food,” he teased, grinning back at her. “Barbecued hog jowls, mustard greens, corn fritters …”

Sarina moved closer to him, said something Dixie didn’t hear, and by that time the skiff had arrived at the ship. Waiting for Sarina to board ahead of her, Dixie appraised the
girl’s new appearance. In a charcoal gray blazer with gray and black striped pants and a black turtleneck sweater, she looked more mature than her sixteen years. Along with the clothing, she’d magically donned an air of sophistication. She was acting, Dixie realized, playing the “dazzling young sophisticate.” Her Hollywood upbringing had kicked in. No wonder the shuttle driver was salivating.

Dixie only wished her own movements could be as graceful. Even in her new duds, she felt awkward. Sarina had talked her into carrying a brass-headed cane they’d found in the accessories department.

“You’ll look eccentric rather than crippled,” she’d said.

Dixie hadn’t felt
crippled.
But recalling Alan Kemp’s elegance as he waved his cane, she’d decided to buy one.

Spotting Parker at the ship’s bow, she stood admiring him a moment. He looked as glamorous as a riverboat gambler.

“That’s your guy?” Sarina asked.

“Yeah, sort of.”

“Then who’s the blonde cutting in on your time?”

Dixie hadn’t noticed who Parker was talking to. Now she saw the woman—tall and fortyish, with the sort of healthy good looks Dixie associated with orange juice and aerobics. Parker appeared to be explaining the boat’s layout.

“Probably a client.” Dixie looked away, not wanting anyone else to catch her staring.

When a couple approached—the woman horse-faced and thin as a needle, the man stooped, bald, and beaming as if he’d won the lottery—Dixie guessed they were the Berinsons even before they introduced themselves. Holding hands the entire time, they gushed over Sarina, saying how glad they were that she and her mother had decided to come. Joanna was still coming, wasn’t she?

“I’m sure she is,” Dixie said.

“Mother never misses a good party.” Sarina-the-young-sophisticate showed she could make a hit with all ages.

The Berinsons beamed at her, pointed out the bar and food, then moved on to their other guests. Dixie steered Sarina
toward the bar, positioning herself where she could see Parker and the “client” he was with. She should go out there, introduce herself to the woman. Walk up casually, laughing, as if she hadn’t been watching them together. Wrap a possessive arm around Parker. She could introduce Sarina. She should do almost anything other than stand here. But a bit of Barney’s sage advice popped into her mind:
If you can’t run with the big dogs, stay on the porch.
In a courtroom, or on the highway tracking down skips, she could run with the biggest. Here she felt small.

She ordered two club sodas with a twist.

“Soda?” Sarina scoffed. “Totally unoriginal. I’ll have San Pellegrino.”

“No alcohol,” Dixie said.

“Sparkling water,” the bartender translated.

Dixie turned away from the man’s smarmy smile. Since when had water become so damned complicated?

“Make it two.” She didn’t really like club soda anyway. She wondered if the new yacht owners were going to sail around the world in this luxurious tub, and when Joanna and Alan would finally show up, and who the hell was the blonde Parker was talking to, and why the hell had she agreed to come here in the first place?

“Tell me about Alan Kemp.” She ushered Sarina toward a window where they could look out at the shoreline. “Your mother said she hasn’t seen him in years. How did he know where to find you?” Through a forward porthole, she could see Parker and the blonde. He was laughing, not a pretentious, polite laugh, but the real thing. They looked good together, both tall, attractive, totally at ease.

“No big mystery,” Sarina said.
“Billboard
would’ve carried the film’s location. Cast, crew, all that.”

“Has he ever visited any other film she was on?”

“Not that I remember.” Sarina stared into her glass, worrying the swizzle stick back and forth. “You don’t think it was Alan who sent Mother those notes, do you?”

“Maybe, maybe not.” With all his charm, good looks, and
sex appeal, something about the man didn’t ring true. “His arriving on precisely the same day as you and your mother bears noticing, that’s all.”

“But Mother and Alan haven’t seen each other in years. And Alan was in Brussels when those cards were sent.”

“You know that for certain, do you?”

“His E-mail—”

“Can be sent from anywhere. He
said
he arrived in the States yesterday, but if he’s the stalker, isn’t that what he’d want us to believe?”

The girl shrugged. “I suppose.”

“How often do they keep in touch?”

“They talk on the phone once or twice a year. He always sends gifts at birthdays and Christmas.”

“On the flight from Los Angeles, do you remember seeing anyone who might have been Kemp in disguise? Different hair, eyeglasses, maybe padded clothing—?”

“I don’t remember anyone like that.” Sarina set her drink down and frowned at the carpet. “They’re not
close
cousins, I mean by blood. Before Mother married Dad, I think she and Alan had a … a thing going.” She looked worried.

Dixie patted the girl’s arm reassuringly.

“Listen, kid, it’s my job to be suspicious. Most of the time my suspicions are unfounded, which is exactly how I like it.” Parker and the blonde had disappeared around the deck. Dixie inched along the rail, bringing them back in view. “Now, tell me about Tori Pond.”

“The wardrobe tech?”

“You said she showed up at the studio where Joanna was working after they met on a cruise.” At the ship’s rail, the woman took Parker’s arm and pointed toward something on shore.

“Tori hung out with us the whole trip,” Sarina said.

“Could she be jealous of your mother? A wanna-be actress, maybe?” Dixie couldn’t get past the notion that the stalker’s messages were too hokey to be real. Like a bad TV movie. Belle had made a good point—criminals were more
likely to be crude than clever. But the notes Joanna received were neither.

“Dixie, Mother’s had fans before who got totally intense. I don’t see why she’s making such a fuss this time.”

“Has any fan ever threatened you before?”

“I don’t think so.”

“That’s why your mother’s treating this one differently.”

The girl puffed out her cheeks and picked up her glass to worry the swizzle stick some more.

“Did you and Joanna continue the friendship with Tori Pond after she joined the studio’s staff?”

“Tori doesn’t come to our house, if that’s what you mean. It’d be okay with me. She does incredible things with costumes and makeup. But a wardrobe tech is not exactly the crowd my mother hangs with.”

“There was a tall, red-haired kid who followed your mother around on the set, handing her things—”

“Hap Eggert.” Sarina grinned. “Hap’s cool. His mother costarred on some of the
Guerilla Gold
segments. Hap’s been in the business forever, works lighting, sometimes camera crew, whatever.”

A waiter stopped beside Parker with a tray of drinks. He took one for himself and handed one to his “client.” When they touched glasses before drinking, Dixie’s throat tightened.

“Were Pond and Eggert”—Dixie hesitated—“and the director—on the same flight from LA as you and your mother?”

“Sure, but … Dixie, we’re all like
family
, even the techs. You’re not going to hassle them, are you?”