Excerpt
“Traitors,” I muttered. “Deserters. Sneaking off to India and Paris and who-the-hell-knows-where. Leaving me to face bungee-jumping into a damn grave without a hand to hold. Rat-fink, rotten, no-good, stinkin, wimp out on the actress so-called friends.”
“P.L.! Hush up! I can hear you all the way over here and your mic isn’t even on yet. Do you know your lines, or are you ad libbing?”
“Got ‘em.” I sang out. “Sorry, Sid. I’m ticked at my compadres who promised to at least be in the near distance when we did this scene and perhaps my tickiness is growing in volume. But I’m ready. Really.” I began to take deep breaths and rethink the reasons I’d given up barrel racing and calf roping in high school to go into the classier ‘ thee-ah-ter” profession.
Jared Rodgers, standing next to me in front of the freshly dug grave chuckled. “Like hell you’re ready. Come on, girl, suck it up. The audaciously bodacious Jocelyn would never blanch at lowering her self below to dig up old bones and buried cuckoo clocks.”
“Yeah, well, my question―and where the fool is Agnes Boito to provide a better alternative―is―why is the bodacious Det. Girard doing this grave scene in a stinkin’ lace skirt that exposes more skin than a pole dancer on a Saturday night on Eighth Avenue? And my other question is why is Jocelyn the one who gets this honor? Why aren’t you doing it? Why isn’t Leo or Keiran or even Noelle? I mean, the writers come up with this all-important bloody dive to unearth a clock that holds the key to whatever it holds the key to. If it’s that bloody vital, shouldn’t a valid-cast-picture-credit-rolling member of the C.U. squad be the one to find it?”
Jared grinned. “Because you look better in a lace mini than anyone except Noelle and she’s got claustrophia and you don’t.”
“Well, there is that, I guess.” I grumbled. “I do wish Bambi or Sol hadn’t decided to go traipsing off to opposite ends of the globe today, though. I mean, Bambi always brings out the fearless in me and Sol would have brought goodies for me to lust after and think about devouring once I’m back in civilization and not covered in dirt.”
I didn’t mention that I’d hoped one Mike Shimada would have joined the others to lend support. But all three had disappeared three days ago. It was like a conspiracy to avoid P.L.’s humiliation at all costs.
At least Bambi and Sol left notes and or messages. Bambi’s had been in the form of a tiny orange sticky note tacked to the fridge. “Yo. Found another backer. Bollywood here I come. Later.”
Sol called from JFK about six minutes before he boarded a plane to Paris. “Hey, darlin’. Sorry I have to miss the spectacle of Jocelyn and the grave but there’s this fantastic culinary seminar going on this week and I just found out about it yesterday and I love you and you’ll be fine.”
Mike left nothing. After we’d gotten a late snack the other night at Tuesday Afternoon’s, he’d walked me home (“How do you know where I live?” Answer―“Reporter.”) kissed my hand (the one with the bruises and cuts on it, so I guess that was one of those maternal ‘boo-boo-make-it-better jobs’) then turned and disappeared into the night. And when I say disappeared I mean it.
I hadn’t expected calls every day. Hadn’t even expected a mad, passionate kiss that night. Which isn’t to say I would have objected to either. But shoot, he knew I was doing this scene today and he hadn’t even bothered to call and say “Hope it goes well and hope the water in the dressing trailer shower is hot after the great jete´ to join the fakely departed.”