leave now,” he whispered. “And don’t tell Harry Handsome where we’re going.”
Jane and Tim stood in front of Jeb, who was swearing softly on the phone. When he looked up at them, he changed expression—his eyes and mouth went from night to day and he smiled brightly at Jane.
“All’s well and all that, huh, babe? Shall we continue reminiscing over dinner?”
Jane explained that she and Tim had another meeting about another project entirely. “T & T, our estate sale business, is bidding on a big sale out here. We’re expanding, going national, and cracking L.A. would be fantastic,” Jane said in order to hold off Jeb’s protest. “Call me later at the hotel.”
“If I wasn’t on hold with this son of a—Hey, Paco, sure, no problem.” Jeb waved them off and turned back to the phone.
Jane, following Tim into the little front foyer of the bungalow, gave a good-bye look to the shakers displayed in the window. She noticed a few saltcellars, some tiny pink cut-glass dishes, that she hadn’t seen before. In one lay two small keys. They were old enough and tiny enough to fit the lock on the secret gate. Jane picked up the saltcellar and ran a finger around its rim. “Hey, Timmy, this is the real thing. Little fleabites from the silver spoon they used.”
“Look at you, Ms. Pro Picker,” Tim said. “You need a set of those salts to make them worth anything, honey.”
Jane knew all about the relatively small value of the saltcellars, but she didn’t answer. It was the little key she had wanted to examine. Jane was a sucker for old keys and locks and hidden gates and secret gardens. Why had Jeb wanted to use the hidden entrance? She clutched the key so tightly that her nails dug into her palm. She would just borrow this key for a few days, she thought, until…when? Until she found out why Jeb Gleason used a secret entrance…why he anticipated chaos, the police…She could hear Bruce Oh’s voice in her head, tutoring her on how to be a detective.
Refine your question, Mrs. Wheel. Learn to ask the question that hovers over the obvious.
Right. Jane would borrow the key until she found out why Jeb Gleason, when he thought his friend had been killed, wanted to
avoid
the police.
5
As soon as someone refers to you as hot—as in the hot writer/producer/director—cover your ears and do not, I repeat, do not listen. Make sure you have some money in the bank and a full tank of gas. If you’re not careful, you will be heading out of town and into a new career within a month.
— FROM
Hollywood Diary
BY B ELINDA S T . G ERMAINE
Tim loved driving in L.A. He had picked it up quickly, loved the expensive cars he saw whizzing by, loved the beautiful girls and boys he saw driving the expensive cars, and he adored the
Thomas Guide.
“It’s a bible out here, you know,” Tim said, patting it where it sat next to them on the front seat. “I studied it this afternoon while I waited for the car to be delivered.”
Thankfully, it wasn’t a Mini. Tim had ordered a sensible car for them to drive to Pasadena the next day. A Volvo station wagon.
“Way too soccer mom for my taste,” said Tim,” but it was the best they could do for safety and storage and I figured it this way: If we brought a van, we’d feel cocky and shop too large. Anything we can fit into this, I can figure out how to get easily home. Not that we couldn’t ship something larger, mind you—”
“Hey,” Jane stopped him. “Why are we going to the hospital? What’s the secret stuff going on here?”
“Didn’t you get my message?”
Jane always answered her cell phone. It was her deal with her son. She had promised Nick that she would always answer and she always did. Even if it meant she would miss bidding on a Heisey punch bowl or a souvenir Rhode Island tablecloth, she would pick up the phone when it rang. Nick, and Tim, for that matter, both tested her by changing the rings, but she had never missed a call from her son…except
Jane and Tim stood in front of Jeb, who was swearing softly on the phone. When he looked up at them, he changed expression—his eyes and mouth went from night to day and he smiled brightly at Jane.
“All’s well and all that, huh, babe? Shall we continue reminiscing over dinner?”
Jane explained that she and Tim had another meeting about another project entirely. “T & T, our estate sale business, is bidding on a big sale out here. We’re expanding, going national, and cracking L.A. would be fantastic,” Jane said in order to hold off Jeb’s protest. “Call me later at the hotel.”
“If I wasn’t on hold with this son of a—Hey, Paco, sure, no problem.” Jeb waved them off and turned back to the phone.
Jane, following Tim into the little front foyer of the bungalow, gave a good-bye look to the shakers displayed in the window. She noticed a few saltcellars, some tiny pink cut-glass dishes, that she hadn’t seen before. In one lay two small keys. They were old enough and tiny enough to fit the lock on the secret gate. Jane picked up the saltcellar and ran a finger around its rim. “Hey, Timmy, this is the real thing. Little fleabites from the silver spoon they used.”
“Look at you, Ms. Pro Picker,” Tim said. “You need a set of those salts to make them worth anything, honey.”
Jane knew all about the relatively small value of the saltcellars, but she didn’t answer. It was the little key she had wanted to examine. Jane was a sucker for old keys and locks and hidden gates and secret gardens. Why had Jeb wanted to use the hidden entrance? She clutched the key so tightly that her nails dug into her palm. She would just borrow this key for a few days, she thought, until…when? Until she found out why Jeb Gleason used a secret entrance…why he anticipated chaos, the police…She could hear Bruce Oh’s voice in her head, tutoring her on how to be a detective.
Refine your question, Mrs. Wheel. Learn to ask the question that hovers over the obvious.
Right. Jane would borrow the key until she found out why Jeb Gleason, when he thought his friend had been killed, wanted to
avoid
the police.
5
As soon as someone refers to you as hot—as in the hot writer/producer/director—cover your ears and do not, I repeat, do not listen. Make sure you have some money in the bank and a full tank of gas. If you’re not careful, you will be heading out of town and into a new career within a month.
— FROM
Hollywood Diary
BY B ELINDA S T . G ERMAINE
Tim loved driving in L.A. He had picked it up quickly, loved the expensive cars he saw whizzing by, loved the beautiful girls and boys he saw driving the expensive cars, and he adored the
Thomas Guide.
“It’s a bible out here, you know,” Tim said, patting it where it sat next to them on the front seat. “I studied it this afternoon while I waited for the car to be delivered.”
Thankfully, it wasn’t a Mini. Tim had ordered a sensible car for them to drive to Pasadena the next day. A Volvo station wagon.
“Way too soccer mom for my taste,” said Tim,” but it was the best they could do for safety and storage and I figured it this way: If we brought a van, we’d feel cocky and shop too large. Anything we can fit into this, I can figure out how to get easily home. Not that we couldn’t ship something larger, mind you—”
“Hey,” Jane stopped him. “Why are we going to the hospital? What’s the secret stuff going on here?”
“Didn’t you get my message?”
Jane always answered her cell phone. It was her deal with her son. She had promised Nick that she would always answer and she always did. Even if it meant she would miss bidding on a Heisey punch bowl or a souvenir Rhode Island tablecloth, she would pick up the phone when it rang. Nick, and Tim, for that matter, both tested her by changing the rings, but she had never missed a call from her son…except
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