Laura Merrick passed by and offered a quick, conspiratorial smile. “Not as fun as I’d hoped this would be,” she said on her way to the bar. “Kind of a pall over the place. It’s as if Allie is here and she’s not here, y’know?” Hitching her chin toward the set of Shondie in the mental hospital, she shook her head. “Macabre, if you ask me. Arnette’s idea of art.” She looked past Cassie and added, “Uh-oh, here comes Picasso now. Talk later,” and with Cherise in tow drifted toward the open bar where a crowd had gathered and two bartenders were busy mixing drinks.
“Cassie! There you are!” In a black suit and matching open-throated shirt, Dean Arnette approached. His smile, beneath his signature glasses, was wide. Friendly. He seemed pumped to be in the room.
“Hi,” she said.
Tall, rail thin with a shaved head and hint of a beard, Arnette gave her one of those almost-hugs. As if he were actually glad to see her. As if he hadn’t been ducking her calls.
As Arnette gave her a little space, Cassie caught a glimpse of Trent returning with their drinks. Walking carefully, agilely avoiding other guests while balancing the half-full glasses, Trent slid around the producer to hand Cassie her drink.
She held up the drink in shades of orange and yellow. “What is this?”
“Tequila sunrise. Signature for the party tonight, I guess. Kind of retro.”
“Shondie drank it in a bar scene,” Arnette clarified, “the character Allie played.” He had the good sense to appear grave for a second, then said, “You’re Cassie’s husband.” Quickly he stuck out his hand. “Dean Arnette. The director of Dead Heat.” He flashed a quick smile as they shook. “I’m surprised we haven’t met before.” He acted as if Cassie were his long lost daughter rather than someone he’d deftly avoided.
“You know,” Cassie said, “I’ve been trying to talk to you.”
“Oh, right. Right. I know. Sorry. I’m just busy as hell right now.” With a sweeping gesture, he motioned to the surroundings. “You know, putting this together was almost as difficult as filming the damned movie.” As if he’d personally constructed the sets, hired the caterers, and overseen the publicity when he had assistants and minions doing the actual work. He flashed his grin then and it seemed practiced and false. “I’m so sorry your mother couldn’t come. How is she holding up?”
Inwardly Cassie tightened. Suddenly she didn’t want to divulge a word to Arnette. Her skin actually crawled as he studied her intently. As if he cared. “She’s fine,” she lied.
“Well, we all miss Allie. I had hoped she would, you know, show up before tonight. God, it’s awful.” He shook his head, the sweat on his bald pate visible in the light from the chandeliers.
“It is.” Cassie nodded. “I was hoping to talk to you about her.”
“Of course! Any time.” Arnette was already looking around, searching for an escape route, someone more important so he could slither away.
“How about tonight?”
“Tonight?” He tossed her an exaggerated look of disbelief. “Seriously? Like after the party or something?” He swirled one finger as if to include everyone and everything in the ballroom. “Honey, I’d love to, but we’ll both be exhausted. And I fly out tomorrow. At the crack. But I’ll be in LA next week, I don’t start shooting Forever Silent until next month.”
“Dean?” a voice called from somewhere nearby.
He waved across the room to someone Cassie couldn’t see.
“I could meet you in the morning—”
“My flight’s at the crack. No, that won’t work, but don’t worry. We’ll talk!” And then he was gone. Disappearing into the crowd.
“Cassie Kramer?” a woman’s voice called from behind, and Cassie turned to find Whitney Stone not two feet away. Dressed in a long, black dress that sparkled under the lights, she was as beautiful as anyone in the room. Once more Cassie thought about her anonymous half-sibling and once more she saw a resemblance to Jenna in the slope of Whitney’s cheekbones, the arch of her brows, her sleek, black hair with just the right amount of wave. Was it possible? Cassie felt her pulse elevate. Whitney Stone? Her half sister? Whitney had been in LA and Portland and . . .
