Scare Tactics Read Free Page B

agent obtained a fee equal to half the national debt of Ecuador. Production plans and major casting coups were to be announced and celebrated at a wingding hosted by the producer and the director, a thirty-year-old Wunderkind who—bless his heart—had yet to taste failure.
    Much of the fun of having a party in Hollywood is to have it at a boîte which is so desirable that code names are assigned to the famous few allowed by the management to make reservations. There is more fun in deciding whom not to invite, and delivering invitations only on the day before the event. The howls of pain and outrage from the uninvited thus are concentrated into a short period of time, and the maneuverings of the newly disenfranchised to be included becomes a frantic shadow dance up and down the corridors of Tinsel Town.
    I adored it all: exiting from a massive silver limousine, the press of paparazzi and plain folk swamping the sidewalk outside Gepetto’s, the monstrous energy of allure released inside the packed café, the director’s acknowledged indebtedness to me for providing the “raw material” for his next megahit; the camaraderie of the charmingly maniacal actor, a two-time Oscar winner, who was to essay the character of Lordy Lambkin in the screen version ...
    “I wonder what David would have thought?”
    I was near the bar, looking for a refill, when she spoke. Perhaps not to me. But I turned anyway because, in spite of the atmosphere in the chic café, the mild scentings of fresh flowers and drop-dead perfume all around, the odor of violets was suddenly pervasive.
    The room was filled with glamorous, world-famous women, but even in their company the youthful creature watching me with a questioning smile was unique. Perhaps because she seemed perfectly at ease when everyone else was trying a little too hard. She wore her red hair pulled severely back from her forehead; it was gathered in a cunning Psyche knot. There was a sweetness in her oval face, but not naiveté. Her gaze was direct, coolly sensual, slightly mischievous. She wore an almost piously simple, rather old-fashioned off-the-shoulder gown of some neutral, crushed fabric that shimmered with exotic color, like sunlight in the sea, each time she moved.
    “I beg your pardon?” I said, sniffing audibly. I couldn’t help myself. Her scent was familiar, and although it should have been pleasing, I had an adverse, almost allergic reaction to it: my skin suddenly felt clammy, my heart raced.
    She edged past an old man in pigtails and a pink leather suit and stood in front of me, never taking her vivid blue eyes from my face. She was drinking one of those abominable Fuzzy Navels. Her nearness, the pungency of violets, made my eyes water.
    “David wouldn’t have liked it,” she said thoughtfully, lowering her long-stemmed glass after a sip. “All the hoopla. I think we would have been someplace else right now, working on a new book. Isn’t that what you think, Mr. Mayo?”
    “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, too fascinated to avoid her strict gaze.
    “I’m talking about David Hallowell,” she replied. “The author of Angels and Aborigines. The book you stole from him.”
    “What a preposterous accusation! I don’t know any David Hallowell!” A skeptical dimple appeared on one perfect cheek. I glanced around to see if anyone had overheard us, but the party babble was at such a level that our conversation, thus far, had been private. “Who put you up to this ludicrous jape? Who are you?”
    “I’m Dierdre. I was David’s muse.”
    I began to laugh, although I felt panicky. Somehow, somewhere, this be utiful, merciless girl had known David Hallowell, and he had told her about the book he was writing. What was she doing here now, and what did she have in mind? I could only try to bluff my way out of this predicament without exhibiting any sort of anxiety and thereby allowing that her accusation might be true. But my