The Ticket Out Read Free Page B

nail marks on my arm. “Just another unhappy reader. The consensus seems to be that I’m not doing my job.”
    Mark smiled. I said, “We better get back.” Vivian shrugged and finished her drink.
    The party was winding down out front. Most of the guests had left and waiters were taking dirty dishes to the kitchen. We split up at the foyer. Mark told me to call him tomorrow, and Vivian went to check the buffet.
    Barry and Scott Dolgin stood at the front door saying good-bye to people. Barry had a mentorly arm around Dolgin’s shoulder. A petite woman in a black pantsuit was trying to get Dolgin’s attention. She pulled at his sleeve while he passed business cards to the people leaving. Barry waved for me to come and talk.
    I pretended not to understand. I smiled, waved good night, turned around, and walked out of the foyer. Barry called my name. I ignored him and walked faster.
    I hurried down the back hall toward the service stairs. There was a furnished office in the back corner of the mansion; it was for the film companies that rented the place. As I walked past the office, I saw the blond woman again. She was sitting at the desk, flipping through the Rolodex, talking to someone I couldn’t see from the hallway.
    The blond looked up and saw me walking by. I nodded at her. She didn’t acknowledge the nod. She stared through me like we’d never met.
    Too nuts, I thought, and kept walking. A few seconds later the blond raised her voice.
“In-Casa Productions is a farce and you know it!”
    I heard that and started to laugh. It would have made a great lead for my Scott Dolgin story.

CHAPTER TWO

    I WOKE UP the next day feeling better than I’d felt in ages. Movies had been getting to me; I didn’t realize how badly until I was given a break. No reviews for a while felt like a giant relief.
    I threw off the covers and bounced out of bed. The bed was a foldaway couch—the only piece of furniture on the mansion’s second floor. I’d stayed there overnight because part of my caretaking duty was to sleep upstairs for parties and check for damage after. I did a fast tour of the main floor. Everything looked good; no one had stolen the vintage fixtures or gouged the woodwork.
    I headed to the pool house to fix coffee, clean up, and plan the day. Mark would have to reassign all my screenings. I’d call him first.
    I walked out the kitchen door and looked across the backyard. The screen door to the pool house was standing wide open.
    The pool house was a miniature copy of the mansion—a stucco box with striped awnings and a tile roof, shaded by old avocado trees. I didn’t always lock my door because I didn’t think I needed to. The mansion sat on two acres on a quiet street that dead-ended at a steep hill. There were no neighbors to the north or west, and the backyard was enclosed by a ten-foot wall. The pool house sat at the back of the property. It was only accessible from the mansion or the driveway gates, and I kept both locked and alarmed unless the mansion was being used.
    I walked around to the pool house. The inside door was open, too. I walked into the front room.
    Someone had turned all the lights on, and the radio was playing soft rock. A canvas duffel bag drooped off the daybed. Jeans, a T-shirt, and cotton underpants lay in a pile on the floor. A pair of platform sandals stood next to the pile.
    My throat went dry. I crossed to the bathroom, took a deep breath, and looked inside.
    It was the blond.
    She was naked and stretched faceup in the bathtub. Her head was resting on the back ledge. Her hair was dark where the water had soaked up to her ears. Her eyes were almost shut; a green half-moon showed under one lid, white showed under the other. Her skin had a healthy flush, an effect produced by condensation and the sun on pink porcelain. The bathwater was pink, too, from the porcelain, and diffused blood. Her hands floated palms down on the