the same time. He handed me the phone.
“This is Iona Moss,” a woman whispered. “You wanted me to let you know when Tab Gentry got here. Well, he’s here. And it looks like he wants to cause trouble.”
“On my way,” I said, hanging up.
Telling Joel where I was headed, I hopped on the Segway and took off for the elevator. Arriving at the movie wing minutes later, I could hear yelling. I dismounted and hurried around the corner. The actor I’d noted yesterday, a man in his midtwenties, tall and handsome in an all-American-boy sort of way, was yelling at a petite woman wearing jeans and a photographer’s vest. I realized I’d seen her Monday when I’d escorted Ethan back to the set. She’d wanted to talk to him about some fountain scene. They stood in the doorway of the production office. Three or four onlookers tried to appear as if they weren’t paying attention, but their bodies all angled toward the twosome having words.
“All I’m asking for is another chance, Bree,” Tab Gentry pleaded.
The petite woman, who must be Bree Spurrier, the second assistant director, shook her head, dark pageboy swaying against her cheeks. “I can’t, Tab. Our insurers—”
“Damn the insurers! Did you know the cops came to talk to me yesterday? All but accused me of killing Zoë because she got me fired.” He looked around wildly, and ran a hand through his thick, wheat-blond hair.
“Zoë didn’t get you—”
“The hell she didn’t! No one wanted to fire
her
because Ethan Jarrett, our big star”—he sneered the words—“was cuddling her, telling her it wasn’t her fault. It was an accident. No one even got hurt.” His voice had changed from accusing to pleading. “I need the work, Bree.”
With a shake of her head, the dark-haired woman turned her back on him to enter the office. Gentry’s hand flashed out and grabbed her shoulder, jerking her back half a step. Two of the beefy movie security men belatedly realized they should be doing something and started forward even as I came up behind the pair and said, “Mr. Gentry?”
Distracted, he turned and looked at me. “Who are you?”
“My name’s EJ Ferris.” I offered my hand, and he automatically removed his hand from Bree’s shoulder to shake.
Bree scooted into the office and pulled out her cell phone. I had a feeling she was calling the police. The security guys surged forward, about to latch onto Gentry, but I gave them a look that told them to let me handle it. They’d had their chance.
“You really don’t want to do this. I know it’s disappointing and unfair, but you don’t want to make things worse by getting the police involved.” I nodded to Bree where she was talking on her phone. “Don’t burn your bridges, and they may hire you for another project. Why don’t you let me buy you a cup of coffee?”
Gentry looked from me to Bree to the looming security guards. “I don’t want any damned coffee,” he snarled. He pivoted and half stalked, half jogged toward the mall exit. I let him go, although the security guards followed him to the door.
“You handled that well,” a voice behind me said. “Better than I did.”
I turned to see that Bree Spurrier had emerged from the office. Crinkles at the corners of her eyes suggested she was older than I’d first thought, maybe in her late forties. Thin lips, slightly chapped, were drawn into a tight smile. Her slight frame seemed weighted down by the bulky vest, even though it looked like the pockets were mostly empty.
I shrugged. “When you’ve dealt with drunken soldiers, a disappointed actor isn’t much to take on. EJ Ferris.”
“Bree Spurrier.”
We shook hands.
“Drunken soldiers?” she asked.
I gave her the
Reader’s Digest
version of my career: “I used to be an air force cop.”
“Really?” She looked at me with interest. “Isn’t that unusual for a woman?”
“Not these days.”
“How do you come to be working in a mall, if you don’t mind my
“This is Iona Moss,” a woman whispered. “You wanted me to let you know when Tab Gentry got here. Well, he’s here. And it looks like he wants to cause trouble.”
“On my way,” I said, hanging up.
Telling Joel where I was headed, I hopped on the Segway and took off for the elevator. Arriving at the movie wing minutes later, I could hear yelling. I dismounted and hurried around the corner. The actor I’d noted yesterday, a man in his midtwenties, tall and handsome in an all-American-boy sort of way, was yelling at a petite woman wearing jeans and a photographer’s vest. I realized I’d seen her Monday when I’d escorted Ethan back to the set. She’d wanted to talk to him about some fountain scene. They stood in the doorway of the production office. Three or four onlookers tried to appear as if they weren’t paying attention, but their bodies all angled toward the twosome having words.
“All I’m asking for is another chance, Bree,” Tab Gentry pleaded.
The petite woman, who must be Bree Spurrier, the second assistant director, shook her head, dark pageboy swaying against her cheeks. “I can’t, Tab. Our insurers—”
“Damn the insurers! Did you know the cops came to talk to me yesterday? All but accused me of killing Zoë because she got me fired.” He looked around wildly, and ran a hand through his thick, wheat-blond hair.
“Zoë didn’t get you—”
“The hell she didn’t! No one wanted to fire
her
because Ethan Jarrett, our big star”—he sneered the words—“was cuddling her, telling her it wasn’t her fault. It was an accident. No one even got hurt.” His voice had changed from accusing to pleading. “I need the work, Bree.”
With a shake of her head, the dark-haired woman turned her back on him to enter the office. Gentry’s hand flashed out and grabbed her shoulder, jerking her back half a step. Two of the beefy movie security men belatedly realized they should be doing something and started forward even as I came up behind the pair and said, “Mr. Gentry?”
Distracted, he turned and looked at me. “Who are you?”
“My name’s EJ Ferris.” I offered my hand, and he automatically removed his hand from Bree’s shoulder to shake.
Bree scooted into the office and pulled out her cell phone. I had a feeling she was calling the police. The security guys surged forward, about to latch onto Gentry, but I gave them a look that told them to let me handle it. They’d had their chance.
“You really don’t want to do this. I know it’s disappointing and unfair, but you don’t want to make things worse by getting the police involved.” I nodded to Bree where she was talking on her phone. “Don’t burn your bridges, and they may hire you for another project. Why don’t you let me buy you a cup of coffee?”
Gentry looked from me to Bree to the looming security guards. “I don’t want any damned coffee,” he snarled. He pivoted and half stalked, half jogged toward the mall exit. I let him go, although the security guards followed him to the door.
“You handled that well,” a voice behind me said. “Better than I did.”
I turned to see that Bree Spurrier had emerged from the office. Crinkles at the corners of her eyes suggested she was older than I’d first thought, maybe in her late forties. Thin lips, slightly chapped, were drawn into a tight smile. Her slight frame seemed weighted down by the bulky vest, even though it looked like the pockets were mostly empty.
I shrugged. “When you’ve dealt with drunken soldiers, a disappointed actor isn’t much to take on. EJ Ferris.”
“Bree Spurrier.”
We shook hands.
“Drunken soldiers?” she asked.
I gave her the
Reader’s Digest
version of my career: “I used to be an air force cop.”
“Really?” She looked at me with interest. “Isn’t that unusual for a woman?”
“Not these days.”
“How do you come to be working in a mall, if you don’t mind my
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