The Book Stops Here (9 page)

He made a face. “It’s possible. But these don’t feel like the sorts of things a woman would do. That’s probably sexist.”

“No, your instincts could be right,” I said, although inside I wasn’t so sure. He was a good-looking guy and could have easily attracted the wrong sort of female attention. I glanced at my phone and realized Derek might arrive at any moment. “Why haven’t Tom and Walter called the police?”

“I don’t know,” Randy said, exasperated. “They think I’m either hallucinating or I’ve turned into some kind of a diva. Or
divo
, I guess. I haven’t been with the show for very long so maybe they think I’m trying to stir up excitement with the media or something.”

“Have they said that to you?”

“Not in so many words. But lately if I complain about something, even if it has nothing to do with the stalker, they ridicule me.” He frowned more deeply and shook his head. “I happened to mention that I thought I was coming down with a cold a few weeks ago. Walter said that maybe my stalker had put sneezing powder in my talcum. Tom thought that was hysterically funny.”

That seemed kind of cruel. And shortsighted, too. They were demeaning the star of the show, which couldn’t be helpful to the morale of the staff and the reputation of the program.

“Think about it,” I said. “Do you have any idea who could be doing this to you?”

“I have my suspicions, but I’d rather not say because it doesn’t make sense.”

“Would you like me to talk to my friend who owns the security company I told you about? He could make some inquiries and see if your suspicions make sense.”

Randy chewed on his lip. “Oh, hell. I don’t know what to do. If I have the guy investigated, won’t it just make him angrier and more destructive?”

Before I could answer, there was a knock on the door. I called out, “Come in.”

Derek opened the door and walked in. He took one look at my bruised jaw and swore ripely. “I’m not leaving you alone in this place for one more minute.”

“I’m not quitting,” I said, instantly defensive.

“Of course you’re not.” He sat on the edge of the couch and scowled as he studied the bruise on my jaw. “But as long as you’re working here, I’ll be accompanying you every day.”

I beamed at Derek, then looked at Randy. “This is Derek Stone, the security expert I told you about. Looks like he just made your decision a lot easier.”

Chapter Five

After formally introducing the two men to each other, I announced that I had work to do on the next book. Mostly I wanted to talk to Derek alone and was hoping Randy would take the hint and leave. But he looked perfectly happy to hang around until Derek mentioned that he was about to sign on to a conference call. Randy got up to leave then, right after securing Derek’s promise to meet him later to discuss the stalker situation.

Once Randy was gone, Derek explained that he didn’t have a conference call. He simply wanted to see me alone. He took a good, long look at my injuries, not happy at all about the bruising. And I wasn’t happy that he could see it through my makeup, since it meant I would need another visit with Chuck before I went onstage again.

I had discovered bruises on my upper arm, as well, where my attacker had gripped me and squeezed, but my long sleeves covered those.

“I know you’re in a time crunch,” Derek said with reluctance, “so go ahead and get to work. But this conversation isn’t over.”

“I know.”

“I’ll want to hear every detail of the assault.”

“I know.”

“You’re sure you don’t know where this animal lives?”

“I have no idea. But Vera can tell us.”

“Good. I want that information.”

I didn’t like the tone of his voice. Derek was the most civilized and sophisticated of men—unless his loved ones were threatened. Then he turned into one of those guys who thought he had a license to kill. In Derek’s case, he actually
did
have a license—for a gun. And while I appreciated his need to protect the people he loved, the fact that he often carried a weapon and knew how to use it didn’t exactly fill me with serenity.

Derek made himself comfortable on the turquoise couch, pulled some papers from his briefcase, and began to skim through them.

No way did I trust his calm facade, but I didn’t have time to dwell on it, since I had to finish my own work. Sitting down at the dressing table, I picked up the next book the producers had chosen for me. It was a first edition of Truman Capote’s
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
. Within minutes I was in my own world.

I went online to check some of my favorite antiquarian-bookstore sites. I wanted to determine the going rate for a first edition of this quality. I found copies worth anywhere from two thousand to ten thousand dollars. The most highly prized versions still had the dust jacket intact and were in excellent condition, which meant that the colors were still vibrant, and there were no torn edges and barely any fading.

Now that I had some parameters, I examined the book that was in my hand. The text paper had been gathered and sewn together in groups of eight, so the book was officially referred to as an octavo.

The binding was tight; the boards were straight and showed very little wear and tear. The pages were bright white and free of any writing, marks, or bookplates.

The big difference between the book in my hand and the ones online was that instead of the usual pink cloth cover, my book had been bound in pink morocco leather by a specialty bindery in England.

In the center of the pink front cover was a slinky black leather silhouette of Holly Golightly holding her trademark cigarette holder. She wore a diamond necklace and tiara. Tiny gems embedded in the black leather sparkled like diamonds. The cutout silhouette was elegant and fun, and I was looking forward to discussing the book on camera.

I had always loved the movie version of
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
. George Peppard and Audrey Hepburn were magical together. I could still picture that last scene in the rain, looking for the cat. That damned wonderful cat.

After falling in love with the movie, I had read my mother’s copy of the book. The ending was nothing like the movie’s and it was my first realization that books and movies were completely different species.

The fact that I preferred the happy-sappy ending of the movie to the more starkly ambivalent ending in the book should’ve given me some insight into my own happy-sappy psyche.

My mind wandered for a moment as I considered the name Holly Golightly for my kitten. Would Derek approve? I glanced over at him and almost sighed. Without even trying, the man looked ruggedly handsome and masculine sitting there on that shabby turquoise sofa.

At that moment, he looked up at me and smiled.

I wanted to melt. Instead I said, “Tiffany?”

He paused for only a second, then scowled as comprehension struck. “Absolutely not.”

“Audrey?”

“No.”

I shrugged and returned to my work. I was jotting down the
last of my appraisal notes when Angie, our intrepid stage manager, knocked on my dressing room door to walk me out to the stage. Derek followed close behind us.

It was so much fun to see the book owner tear up at my announcement that his beloved
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
was worth eight thousand dollars. The book had belonged to his recently deceased father, who had purchased the specially bound version in England. He assured me that he wouldn’t dream of selling it for any amount of money because of all the sentimental value the book held for his family.

It was nice to know that not everyone wanted to run out and resell their treasures, like Vera planned to do. Not that I was judging her—much. Vera needed the money more than the book, and that was fine. But I had to admit, I really loved it when people appreciated the book itself.

I stood and said good-bye to the guest, then glanced around the studio, looking for Derek. I’d seen him standing off to the side earlier, watching my segment, but now he had disappeared. Maybe he was back in the dressing room. He’d left his office earlier than originally planned so he probably had some work to finish.

On the way back to my room, I passed Randy at the catering table and stopped to grab a cup of coffee.

“You do a good job with those books,” he said.

“Thank you,” I said, surprised and pleased with the compliment. “You obviously see a lot of different appraisers in this job.”

“I do, so I know what I’m talking about. All the experts know their subject well enough, but a lot of them are as dry as dirt. You make the books come alive.”

“Wow, I love hearing that. I guess I’m pretty crazy about books.”

He grinned. “Lucky for you it comes across as enthusiasm, not insanity.”

“Good to know,” I said with a laugh.

Randy picked out a creamy buttermilk doughnut. “That last guy looked pretty happy about your appraisal.” He bit into the doughnut and closed his eyes to savor it.

Why were there always doughnuts? I stared at a row of chocolate-dipped crullers and almost moaned. If Randy was still talking, I couldn’t hear him over the hubbub those doughnuts were making. They whispered my name, murmured endearments, did all they could to get my attention. Doughnuts loved me in the worst way.

Randy was still talking. “It’s great to see them go away happy.”

I tried to pick up the conversation. “It is, isn’t it? I was so pleased with his reaction. He said he plans to give the book to his son as a wedding gift someday.”

“That’s great,” Randy said, but I could tell he was already distracted. Changing the subject, he said, “I’ve got another half hour before I’m due on the set. Do you think your friend Derek would mind talking to me for a few minutes?”

“Let’s go find out.”

I turned to cross the stage, but Randy grabbed my arm. “Wait. I know a shortcut to the dressing rooms.”

I followed willingly, since Randy was more familiar with the studio than I was. He ducked through a break in the curtains and we walked along the narrow space behind the cyclorama, the secured backdrop that marked the outer perimeter of the staging area. It was fun to be backstage, where you could hear what was happening on the other side of the curtain, but nobody knew you were back here—except for the occasional stagehand or prop guy who passed by.

The lighting was dim where old props and faded stage flats were stored along the walls.

“Watch your step through this area,” Randy warned as he approached a door and led me into the studio adjoining ours. It was a massive space with a ceiling that had to be at least three
stories high. It was cavernous, dark, and empty, except for all the props and staging equipment stored against the walls.

This route didn’t seem shorter to me and I had no intention of going this way again. Still, I was fascinated by the dozens of rolls of carpet leaning against one wall.

“Carpets?” I asked.

“No, those are painted canvas backdrops. They roll them up to store them more easily.”

Next to the rolls were a few hundred wooden stage flats painted with various backgrounds. One had a living room scene painted on it. Others showed a kitchen wall, a tropical forest, and a circus tent. Shoved against the far wall were hundreds of fake trees and large plastic shrubbery, all planted in big barrels and crates.

We passed piles of square black metal boxes and I stopped to check them out. “What are these things?”

“They’re light boxes.” Randy picked one up to explain. “You’ve seen them hanging on the lighting grid above the stage, right? You put a bulb inside here, and these flaps can be opened wide or closed slightly in order to light up some specific spot on the stage.”

I took the light box from him and moved the flaps back and forth. “I get it.”

“Those movable flaps are called barn doors.”

“Interesting.”

“Yeah, it’s a wonderland,” he said dryly, and waited until I’d set the light box down before he continued our trek.

We tiptoed around more piles of coiled cables and past rows and rows of thick ropes that were hanging down from the rafters three stories above us.

I stared at the ropes. “What are all these for?”

“They pull the various curtains up and down, or raise and lower different backdrops, depending on which show is being
taped in the studio.” He pointed up at the ceiling. “Can you see the pipes up there?”

There was a bit of ambient light coming in from outside, so I could just make out the rows of pipes and beams that ran across the ceiling. There weren’t any curtains hanging because the studio wasn’t being used, but I could imagine it.

“How do they get the backdrops onto those pipes?” I wondered aloud.

“The canvas drops have grommets or cloth ties sewn into the edges.”

“Oh. Kind of like a shower curtain.”

“Kind of,” he said, amused.

“Do you have a theatrical background?”

“Yale School of Drama and seven years on Broadway.”

“Wow,” I said.

He chuckled ruefully. “I was going to be the next Richard Burton. Instead, I wound up as the pretty face on
This Old Attic
.”

“This seems like an awfully good job,” I said. “The show’s so popular.”

“It’s fine for now.”

“Well, look on the bright side. It could be worse, right?”

He smirked. “Yeah, I could be the
ugly
face on
This Old Attic
.”

“Oh, come on. You like working here, don’t you?”

“It has its moments,” he allowed, “but my ambitions are a little bigger than this.” He kept walking through the deserted studio, which was dark except for the small wall sconces that beamed weak patches of light every fifteen feet or so. The light was too dim to do much except toss odd shadows onto the walls.

My stomach growled and I realized I was getting hungry. I wished I’d brought some of my doughnut friends along with me on this journey.

“The doorway to the dressing rooms is coming up on the right.”

“Okay. This is some shortcut.”

He shrugged. “I guess it’s more of a scenic route than an actual shortcut.”

“It’s interesting, anyway. Thanks.”