Bed of Bones (A Sloane Monroe Novel, Book Five) by Cheryl Bradshaw Page B

junior appeared that way to me lately. He had Hugh Grant hair and wore white shorts, some fancy tennis shoes with bright yellow shoelaces, and a hoodie that said Park City across the front. His legs were hairless like he shaved them every day. They looked cold. He reached into a bag of tortilla chips, pulled a handful out, swirled them inside a bowl of orangish-colored queso, and then plopped them into his mouth, crunching down with an expression on his face like he’d just had a bite of better-than-sex cake.
    After the blissful moment passed, he noticed me standing in front of him. He quickly wiped his hands, staining the front of his shorts in the process. He interlaced his fingers behind his head and leaned back in the chair as far as it would go. He flicked his chin up and said, “Hey,” like he’d just taken voice lessons from Joey Tribbiani.
    “Hey,” I replied.
    “What can I…uhh…do for you?”
    He smiled, wide. I imagined he’d do just about anything I wanted.
    “Is there any way I could screen one of the films from this year?”
    “Tell me which one and I’ll give you the schedule.”
    “So, are all of the movies up and running again?”
    “Yep. Most of ’em anyway. They just started back up today. Not a very big crowd, though.”
    I leaned forward, lowered my voice. “I was actually wondering what I’d need to do to get a private screening?”
    He squinted like he didn’t understand. “Everything is public. You just have to go and see the movie.”
    “I’m willing to pay.”
    “Oh, well, you don’t actually buy the tickets here. The ticket office is—”
    He wasn’t getting it.
    “I meant I’d be willing to pay extra for the chance to see a certain film alone.”
    I had no intention of paying the “extra” myself, but one phone call to Carlo was all it would take. Besides, he’d lied to Ronnie. He owed me.
    “Well, see, it doesn’t work like that.”
    I waited, wondering if the pilot light inside would ignite.
    It didn’t.
    Never a quitter, I had decided to try again when a plump woman in a full-length sweater dress rounded the corner. She looked to be in her sixties and had pulled her salt-and-pepper hair back into a too-tight bun that made her look like she should be living in Asia. She arced her head when she saw me, her cat-shaped glasses sliding an inch down her nose.
    “What’s going on here?” she asked.
    “This lady is trying to see one of the films by herself,” the kid said. “And I was just telling her it doesn’t work like that.”
    Idiot.
    “She even said she’d pay ‘extra’ to see it by herself. Funny, huh?”
    Double idiot.
    “A hoot.” Her nose wrinkled in more ways than I conceived possible. “Who are you and what are you really doing here—are you press, police, what?”
    I paused, considering my next move. I didn’t have one.
    “Well?” she demanded.
    I extended my hand. “Sloane Monroe.”
    She didn’t accept it.
    “Yes, but what are you doing here, Miss Monroe?”
    “I wondered when you’ll be showing Bed of Bones again?”
    “We won’t. It’s off the agenda for now. Sorry.”
    “But you have copies, right?”
    “Digital, yes. Why?”
    “I’d like to see it.”
    “There are plenty of other films playing this week. Buy a ticket.”
    “I don’t want to see anything else.”
    “Well, you haven’t much choice,” she huffed.
    The kid’s eyes lit up, finally. Ding, ding . Only he’d identified what I wanted a little too late. He moved behind the woman and signaled me with his right hand, pointing at a side door on the other end of the building.
    I looked at the woman. “Sorry I bothered you.” I returned to my car. I watched. I waited. No kid. Maybe I misunderstood whatever he had tried to tell me. It was still early, and already it had been a rough day.
    I started the car. A hand reached out from the side of the building, waving me over. I drove around.
    “Who are you?” the kid said, approaching my open car window.
    I had