“It was great to meet you, Vera.” I walked with her down the hall and across the studio to the stage door that led to the parking lot, just to make sure she didn’t get lost.
By the time I stepped back inside the studio door, my mind was already back to my next book. The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám was one of the most widely published books in the world, but the edition I was about to research was unlike any version I’d ever seen before. Excited to get back to work, I crossed the studio quickly and entered the backstage area. But while approaching the makeup room, I slowed down as I caught a snippet of hushed conversation.
“I’m sick of you two brushing this off,” a man whispered harshly, and I realized it was Randolph. “Either you call the police or I will.”
“And tell them what?” another guy said caustically. “That you stumbled over a broom?”
“No, damn it,” Randolph said. “Tell them someone’s trying to kill me.”
? ? ?
The old freight elevator in my converted loft building came to a shuddering halt, and I dragged myself down the hall toward my apartment. Working in television was invigorating, almost manically so, but now I felt all of my high energy and perkiness collapsing from within.
Earlier, I had forced myself to shut off all thoughts of that short, ugly conversation I’d overheard, in order to give my work the attention it deserved. Concentrating on my job, I’d found some fascinating facts about the publisher of the wood-carved Rubáiyát I was appraising. Later I had managed to appear intelligent and sparkling during the videotaping of the segment. The book’s owner was thrilled to be in possession of such a fabulous piece of art and history. I got high fives from the crew members and gushing words of praise from the production staff and I left the studio feeling proud and confident.
But now those ugly words came back with full force. Tell them someone’s trying to kill me.
When I’d first heard it, my heart had clenched in my chest and my feet had stuttered to a stop just short of the open doorway to the makeup room. I’d been tempted to spin around and dash right out of the studio, jump in my car, and race home. I didn’t want to be anywhere near someone who might be the target of a killer.
Been there, done that.
But because my innate curiosity outweighed my fear, I hadn’t moved a muscle. Instead, I was still standing in the hall like a statue when Tom and Walter walked out of the makeup room, exchanging a derisive look.
Tom noticed me first. “Hey, Brooklyn. Nice job on the book segment.”
“Thanks, Tom.”
Walter winked at me and the two producers walked away, chatting quietly. They stopped halfway down the hall and went into another dressing room. They’d been chuckling and talking as if they didn’t care that I’d obviously overheard their troubling conversation with Randolph.
I glanced inside the makeup room and saw Randolph gripping the counter as he stared at himself in the wall-length mirror. He looked pale, frustrated, and unnerved, completely unlike the flirtatious, smooth-talking dude I’d chatted with only a few minutes ago.
I lifted my arm in a casual wave. “Hi, Randolph.”
“What? Oh. Hi, Brooklyn.” He rolled his shoulders and neck as if to work out some kinks.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
Gritting his teeth, he muttered, “Just great. Couldn’t be better.”
I hadn’t expected him to confess his deepest, darkest fears right then and there. He barely knew me. But my curious mind was itching to find out and I figured I would hear the truth eventually. At that moment, though, I had simply nodded and hurried back to my little dressing room, where I’d closed myself off to study more books.
Now I slipped my key into my front door, relieved to be home.
“Hi there,” said a voice behind me in the hall.
I whipped around. My place had been invaded a few times in the recent past and I didn’t like people creeping up on me. But the woman standing there didn’t look threatening—unless you counted the fact that she was drop-dead gorgeous with long dark hair, exotic eyes, and supermodel legs. And she was tall. Taller than me by an inch or two, and I was no slouch at five foot, eight inches in my socks.
She stood by the door of Sergio and Jeremy’s loft, at least twenty feet away. Not exactly invading my personal space.
“Hi,” I said cautiously. “You must be Sergio’s friend.”
“Yes, I’m Alexandra Monroe,” she said, and walked over to shake my hand. “But please call me Alex.”
I worked up a smile. “I’m Brooklyn Wainwright. Nice to meet you. Are you settling in okay?”
“Oh yeah.” She gave a quick glance over her shoulder at the apartment, then back at me. “The space is fabulous. I love all the exposed brick and the hardwood floors and the freight elevator. And this location is perfect. I’m really lucky I was able to work out a deal with Sergio.”