Hollywood Scream Play (27 page)

Ryan must think differently, because he refuses a cuppa joe in a cup embossed with the presidential seal. “Thank you for taking the time to meet with us, Mr. President. I don’t know if you’ve had time to review the dossier I forwarded to you.”

Lee nods. “In fact, I have. And I agree with Acme’s findings that make an irrefutable case for Jack and Donna to be dropped from the international terrorists list, as well as for Acme’s reinstatement as an approved vendor with the US intelligence community.”

“I can imagine Director Stone isn’t pleased with your decision.” I detect a shadow of a smile on Ryan’s lips. He is relieved to get back the thing that matters most to him: his honor.

“He’ll learn to live with it. More to the point, he knows better than to question it.” I presume Lee’s grimace is a reflection of his argument with Carl over us. Lee’s been in office less than two months, and yet, already, he looks older than his forty-six years.

Jack leans forward. “We hope you think the other intel we’ve collected from various Quorum hot spots also makes a case for the removal of Carl Stone as DI. Having a known terrorist in your administration will throw the country into chaos, and put our citizens and our national security in harm’s way.”

Lee shrugs. “Based on what I’ve seen, I can understand why you’d feel this way. But Acme’s allegations have yet to be substantiated, despite the CIA’s attempts to do so.”

“It’s no longer just our word against his, Mr. President,” I point out. “Have you reached out to the eye witnesses who were there when Carl committed these atrocities? They can verify our reports.”

“Our agents in those countries have tried. But your sources are now either deceased or have disappeared.” He pulls out the pictures of our witnesses, taken from our video interviews. He points to the one of Roger Cavanaugh. “Mr. Cavanaugh broke his neck while fox hunting.”

A wave of guilt washes over me as I remember running into Sebastian on the morning he met Jack and me at the Railway Inn. Now I realize he hadn’t known Roger at all, but tricked me into dropping his name so that the Quorum could get to him.

Lee frowns as he stares down at the photo of Serena. “And Ms. La Costa, her husband and infant baby were killed by one of the Venezuelan paramilitary
colectivos
 in one of their door-to-door roundups, just last night.”

“What? But—that can’t be true!” Abu arranged for a private jet to pick them up tonight, in fact.

The guilt hits me: 
we should have pulled them out sooner.

Ryan catches my eye as if to say, 
get ahold of yourself.

Lee turns to me. “I wish that were the case, Donna. His finger moves onto the last photo—of Eric Weber. “Mr. Weber has disappeared from his estate. No one has seen him—or any of his staff, for that matter—for the past three days. The place sits empty.”

Jack looks over at me. I know what he’s thinking:

Now, we’ll never know who has the microdot.

“For now, Carl Stone stays in his position as Director of Intelligence.” His tone says it all: 
case closed.

“Despite all you see before you?” Jack asks. “Even the part where the new Director of Intelligence molests Donna on the Metro, then admits to several terrorist acts, and threatens to throw innocent people in jail for his own treasonous acts if she doesn’t kowtow to his blackmail?”

I’m about to say something, but Ryan catches my eye. He knows I’m embarrassed by Jack’s outburst.

Jack ignores my frown, though, as he waits for Lee’s answer.

Lee pauses before giving it. His tone is not defensive, or an angry one. His words are cautious. “The web feed you provided me also showed Mrs. Stone holding a knife to her husband’s neck, leading me to believe she is quite capable of taking care of herself. Their mutual dislike and anger issues aside, for various reasons Mr. Stone will stay in his current position. But, thank you, for your concern.” Lee rises.

Talk about a broad hint.

We all stand. When Jack puts out his hand, Lee takes it. “Mr. President, whatever he has on you, we can take care of it.”

“Acme’s plate will be kept quite full, believe me.” From the sadness in his eyes, I don’t doubt that in the least. “Nonetheless, I appreciate your concern.”

When he turns to say goodbye to me, it’s with a slight bow. No handshake, no peck on the cheek. Our mutual admiration society is officially over.

At least as far as I’m concerned.

None of us speaks during the long walk through the West Wing, and back out onto Pennsylvania Avenue. I’m sure Ryan is thinking of all the work that will be needed to put the office back together. Jack is angry and frustrated because, once again, Carl has slipped through our grasp.

As for me, I’ll be relieved to get home.

Well to Hilldale, anyway. Where we’ll live while we’re rebuilding our house will be a whole other matter.

I wonder how Dominic will feel about hosting us? We had to put up with his lordly airs when he stayed as a guest in our home, while his was being renovated. It’s time he returned the favor.

I don’t know who to feel sorrier for—him because he’ll be in a constant state of worry over the proximity of the children to his antiques, or the kids, for having to tiptoe through that mausoleum he calls a home.

I’ll make it up to him with my cooking. He’ll grouse about getting love handles, even as he takes third helpings.

At the same time, I’ll worry about the number of martinis I’ll be downing during what Dominic calls “tea time,” but hey, playing bartender is one of the few things he does very well.

Just like old times—when we thought Carl was dead and buried.

If only that were the case.

Chapter 18

Heaven Can Wait

“The likelihood of one individual being right increases in direct proportion to the intensity with which others are trying to prove him wrong.”

—James Mason, as “Mr. Jordan”

Don’t believe everything you see on the screen. From plot and dialogue to location and lip lock, it’s all an illusion, meant to transport you out of the here-and now, into a wish-I-were-there fantasy. Here are three perfect examples:

Example #1: The stars aren’t really as pretty as they look on the big screen. Spend just twenty minutes in a make-up trailer and you’ll realize that the dewy skin on your favorite actress isn’t God’s gift to her, but a touch-up with an airbrush brandished by the skilled hands of the make-up artist she has written into every film contract she’s ever signed.

You too deserve your own on-call make-up artist, who will keep you ready for your close-ups for all the many soirees on your calendar. It would behoove you to keep such a person on retainer, even if it means whittling down your child’s college tuition account to pay his fee. Better yet, send your child to beauty school, and you’ve killed two birds with one stone!

Example #2: The sets are never as intricate, or as humongous as you’d imagine. Sometimes the furniture is the weight of kindling, and the sets are no more than well-painted cardboard flats. At other times, you’re looking at computer-generated imagery (CGI), which means the actors are emoting in front of a large flat green screen.

You might also consider a CGI stage as your living room! By filling it with various photos, you can change your furnishings as quickly and as often as you like. And since it doesn’t really exist, it will be so much easier to clean.

Example #3: Actors may have great chemistry on screen, but that doesn’t mean they even like each other once the director calls out, “Cut!” Sure, they seem to be all hot and heavy with each other when the cameras are rolling, but more than likely she’s holding her breath because of his bad breath, and he’s thinking about the real love of his life—his boyfriend.

In other words, the man at your side is the true happily ever after in your life, so give him a big meaningful kiss—

But first, pop a breath mint. Illusions in the real world have to be done on a budget.

The veranda of Chateau Fleming—Dominic’s nickname for his Hilldale mini-mansion—encircles the whole house, providing shade in the hot Southern California sun at all times. I’ve been out here since sunrise staring out at the hills that encircle our little hamlet…I’ve been out here for so long that my cup of coffee is already cold.

That’s perfectly fine by me, even if it is cause for concern to Dominic’s valet, Giles, who hovers just out of view in case I come to my senses and actually demand a spot o’ hot.

As tempting as Willow’s Malibu place is to Jack and me, while school is in session, the kids would much rather hang here, so Dominic is crashing there.

In fact, he’s taken Willow up on her offer to train her in martial arts. I have a feeling she’s got a few tricks up her sleeve he’ll appreciate, too. Hopefully they will have changed the sheets before we’re ready to check it out for ourselves.

Lee Chiffray was good to his word. Acme is flooded with work. Both Dominic and Jack are on overnight assignments.

I’ve begged off since Jack and I have been home, which is going on two weeks now. I love doing nothing. Let others take on the weight of the world. I am perfectly content to get back to my baking and gardening. Perhaps I’ll take up knitting and scrapbooking, too—

Oh, who in hell am I kidding?

Pakistan is in turmoil. The Middle East is a boiling pot. China is the US financial markets’ puppet master—

Doesn’t anyone give a damn?

And to top it all off, the Hilldale Elementary School auction still needs its big get-everyone-to-bust-out-of-their-Spanx item: dinner at the “Western White House,” which is what the media has dubbed Lion’s Lair, Lee and Babette’s eighty-six-room palace on the hill.

Snore
.

Both happen to be back in Hilldale. In fact, according to the 
Los Angeles Times,
 Lee is using his birthday as an excuse for a four-day weekend.

To justify the time off, he’s meeting with a few international dignitaries and attending a fundraiser or two.

Which reminds me: I’m to meet with Miss Darling in half an hour. As the elementary school’s auction chairman, I’m to give her an update on auction item donations and ticket sales, both of which have been lethargic, at best. Apparently I’ve yet to be embraced by the yummy mommies who run Trisha’s school.

Or maybe my reputation precedes me—not as described in my rap sheet that can be found on the FBI’s Most Wanted list, but by what is whispered by Cheever’s mother, Penelope, and the rest of her middle school posse.

Poor Miss Darling. If she had turned me in back then, she’d have the reward money, and the school would never have to do another auction again.

All the more reason this event has to be a success.

I force myself out of the settee and head out the door.

Miss Darling waits until we’ve gone over all the logistical details of the event before she asks, “So, have you followed up yet on asking the Chiffrays about the auction prize?”

How do I break the news to her that I no longer have, or want, anything to do with Lee?

For my own wellbeing, I have to let her down. “Sorry, no can do,” I tell her.

“But Trisha and Janie are the closest of friends,” she murmurs.

“Yes, well, that’s true for the girls, but Babette and I have never been close.”

“I know for a fact that President Chiffray remembers the school quite fondly,” she counters.

She’s right. He’s already sent a hefty donation for the math and science fund.

She smiles knowingly. “And he thinks fondly of you too, I might add.”

I can feel the heat crawling up my neck. I force myself to smile. “Miss Darling, were you to ask Babette directly—or the president, for that matter—I’m sure you’d get the gift.”

“That’s the whole point. I’ve sent a handwritten letter already, to both of the Chiffrays.” She sighs. “But I’m getting nowhere.” She shakes her head sadly. “They both know you, and they know you’re chairing this event. Wouldn’t they be offended if you didn’t reach out to them?”

She’s got a point.

What do I have to be afraid of, anyway? For one thing, Lee owes me.