Читать книгу Legacy of Silence - Flo Fitzpatrick - Страница 11

CHAPTER THREE

“BROOKS, YOU ARE the most incredible agent in the history of show business, but this is nuts! I just got here,” Miranda groaned. “On the other hand here didn’t end up being where I thought it was.”

“What are you babbling about?”

“Never mind. I’m currently at my Dad’s—which means I’m also at Farrah’s—instead of sleeping in my brand-new bed at Virginia’s house. Two days so far.” She shuddered. “She’s trying to teach me to cook.”

Brooks howled. “I’d buy tickets to see Ms. Miranda Nolan in the kitchen! But this is more important. I swear. So book a flight and get up here—like yesterday. You’re perfect for this role. Wendy Konstanza is casting and she specifically requested that you read for the part of Miami Montreville, superspy. I gather she caught your stellar performance in Illumination and was impressed. And Miranda, this is a one shot deal. They’re not doing callbacks. You’re looking at a major film and consequently a major career booster. You won’t need a house in Birmingham—you can buy an apartment in Manhattan if this comes through.”

Miranda was still reeling from the news that one of the best casting directors in the business wanted her to audition. “Konstanza asked for me? Really?”

“She did. So quit whining, take a red-eye and be ready to knock ’em dead Thursday. I’m emailing you sides and as much character analysis as the skimpy sheet provided,” Brooks Tanner practically growled into the phone. “Someday I’m going to revolutionize the entire industry by demanding that in-depth casting breakdowns become the norm.”

Miranda chuckled. “Dream on, darlin’ dream on. Agents from the days of vaudeville have tried and failed. Okay. I’m already online. I’ll see what I can find for cheap flights and get there tomorrow sometime. Give me the details and maybe we can squeeze in a little agent/actress coffee while I’m in town. Wait. Scratch that. Let’s make it a meal at China Tan’s. I need hot ’n’ spicy anything with peanut sauce on it.” She chuckled. “And a fortune cookie reading, Nice Job! Movie Yours!”

“It’s a date,” Brooks said. “Now go pack. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

* * *

SIXTEEN HOURS LATER Miranda was in a Manhattan studio smiling at five men in suits who were apparently producers and the only other woman in the room—Wendy Konstanza. Miranda had just taken a big breath and was ready to read her lines opposite the bored production assistant when a curve ball came sailing past home base.

In the less than twenty-four hours since Brooks had called her, the producers of The Agency (precisely which agency not specified and hopefully non-existent in the real world) had begun to consider options for the character Miranda was reading for, a spy with the unlikely but entertaining name of Miami Montreville. The original script (and the sides) had called for Miami to die.

But the producers and screenwriters were obviously thinking “sequel” and hadn’t decided whether to let Miami miraculously survive what any sane person would consider certain death.

Now, instead of a scripted death scene, Miranda was plunged into the land of “wake up, realize you’re alive and escape,” which translated into “improvise, Miranda.” The character breakdown hadn’t included much of the plot for The Agency apart from, “Miami Montreville, female spy, dies in Indonesia while on a mission.” Miranda wasn’t terribly familiar with the geography of Indonesia but she knew Jakarta was a big city and big cities have restaurants and shopping malls so she figured those would be great places for a resurrected spy to duck into and find a cell phone some poor tourist had carelessly left on the table. Miranda idly wondered if plans were being made for an actual location shoot in Jakarta, hopefully during winter months, but she shelved that thought for later.

All was going well. Wendy liked Miranda’s improv and the guys in suits gulping coffee nodded a lot during Miranda’s attempts to come up with outrageous lines spoken into an imaginary cell phone.

Then came the final twist.

Wendy held up her hand. “Miranda? Nice job. But we’d like to see a little interaction with another human.” She gestured to her assistant, who opened a door and ushered in an actor. Miranda nearly shouted, He’s not human! He’s a rodent!

Grant Spencer stepped inside the studio. He appeared to be as stunned as Miranda.

“Hi, Grant.”

“Miranda.”

Wendy glanced from one to the other. “You two know each other?”

Miranda nodded. “We do.” She hurriedly added, “We actually just finished doing a show together, although it was my impression that Grant was about to start directing Topaz in Delirium.”

Grant’s color changed from red to white to red again “I am. But it’s stalled for who knows how long, so I’m free.”

“Ah.” Why is it I can come up with terrific lines for a superspy, but “ah” is the only thing that drips out of my mouth when I want to be brilliant? She trusted that her improvisational skills would kick in again once she and Grant were given the basics of the next scene.

They did. She and Grant were used to playing opposite one another on stage and both were professional enough not to let any personal issues sneak into their performances. Wendy seemed pleased again, as did the suits. An hour later, Miranda finished calling out goodbyes and began briskly walking down Eighth Avenue to meet her agent.

“Miranda!”

She turned. “Grant.”

“I wanted to ask how you’re doing. I was worried about you after our talk during the Illumination party...uh, a couple of weeks ago. You kind of disappeared.”

Miranda looked directly into Grant’s pale blue eyes. “It was less than a week, Grant. And I didn’t disappear. I flew down to Birmingham, and now I’m here. I fly back tomorrow.”

“Why?”

“Why, what?”

“Why are you going back down to Alabama? I thought your stepmother drove you crazy.”

“She does.”

“So why are you heading back?”

“Why are you being nosy?”

He inhaled sharply. “Whoa! That was rude.”

“No. It was honest. If you must know, I’m doing inventory on the estate of a good friend who recently passed away. And, I’m meeting Brooks in about twenty minutes, so I see no reason to hang out in the street making small talk. Good luck with getting a part in this movie and I trust you wish me the same.”

“Oh.”

“Bye.”

She whirled around and briskly crossed West Forty-Sixth Street at Eighth then headed down Ninth Avenue. She was absurdly pleased that Grant’s last word had been a mere “Oh.” So much more vacuous than “Ah,” which at least signaled the speaker was thinking of something brilliant to say.

Miranda arrived at China Tan’s with seventeen minutes to spare. She ducked into her favorite art gallery, A. J. Rinaldi’s, which was conveniently located next to the restaurant.

“Miranda, great to see you!” the manager exclaimed before enveloping her in a huge hug.

“Hey, Jason. You, too! I know, I know, it’s been ages but I’ve been working nonstop and just haven’t had the chance to come by.” She loved A. J. Rinaldi’s. The gallery sold enough high-end artwork to pay for its midtown address, but the manager, Jason Devere, and the other employees were friendly and just as willing to help clients choose one of the less costly pieces

The staff was not only friendly, they were knowledgeable. After Miranda finishing oohing and aahing over a sculpture she knew she’d never be able to afford, lightning struck. “While I’m here, I wanted to ask if you’ve ever heard of an artist named Benjamin Auttenberg? He was imprisoned in Terezin, the concentration camp in the Czech Republic. He died there in 1945.”

“Auttenberg?” Jason’s interest was apparent. “Talk about a blast from the past. I haven’t heard anyone mention Auttenberg in years. There’s a lot of mystery surrounding him—as there is with most of the artists who were imprisoned.”

“Please tell me.”

“Well, you already know that Auttenberg was a Czech artist. I believe he and his family lived in Prague before the war, which wasn’t far from Terezin. His works had begun to sell not long before he ended up in the camp, along with his wife and child. Rumors have floated for years that he continued to paint while he was at Terezin. The only thing that’s certain is that he was killed in the camp just before it was liberated. I’ve heard from some dealers that a few of his paintings ended up in the hands of private collectors. And of course, there were the Nazi generals who were forced to hand over a piece or two after the war, although those were actually the works he’d done back in Prague. They were stolen directly from his home before it was burned to the ground. The most interesting rumor is that his wife transported his Terezin artwork to America, but Mrs. Auttenberg was never located.”

“Until now,” Miranda muttered.

“Meaning?”

“You may need to take a trip to Birmingham, Alabama, sometime in the near future.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve supposedly inherited a house from Miss Virginia Radinski. I use the term supposedly because there’s an issue regarding her will—make that two wills.” A vision of Russ Gerik immediately flashed through her mind, followed by an anticipatory tingle. She’d be working with him once she was back in Birmingham.... She determinedly brought her focus back. “Anyway, I found out three days ago that Virginia wasn’t a miss. She’s the widow of Benjamin Auttenberg.”

Jason appeared astonished.

“Seriously? This is amazing! It would be even more amazing if you found any of his works there. Have you spotted anything interesting?”

Miranda shook her head. “Haven’t had a chance to take a look at any art that isn’t already on the wall and what I’ve seen was by artists I know aren’t Auttenberg. In the brief time I was in the house, I spotted one Renoir print and two seriographed Tarkays.”

Jason grinned. “I’d call that interesting. Two?”

Miranda smiled. “Two very fine Tarkays, which are hanging in Virginia’s living room. Even if I don’t get the house, I’m hoping the judge will decide those prints go to me. I haven’t yet hit the attic, so there might be something hidden away in a secret panel or guarded by a presence from beyond. One never knows.”

Jason sighed. “It would be worth dealing with ghosts and goblins. If you truly have inherited her possessions there’d be a pretty price in an original Auttenberg. Or if you’re not inclined to sell, you’d still have a piece you’d enjoy owning the rest of your life. Auttenberg is a great fit for your taste.”

“Well, if I do find anything—and it’s actually mine—I’ll give you a call before I make any decisions. Thanks for all the info.” She inclined her head toward the front door, where a middle-aged couple with determined expressions glared at Miranda and Jason. “Looks like you have real live paying customers.”

Jason glanced at the entrance. “I do. They’re here for that pricey sculpture you admired. If they like it, I’ll be able to afford my apartment for at least a year on my commission alone.”

They grinned at each other, and Miranda gave Jason a quick hug. “I’m outta here anyway. Meeting Brooks next door.”

Brooks was waiting for her at a small booth in the middle of China Tan’s. Dishes of rice, spicy bean curd, walnut chicken, veggies, crab rangoons, egg rolls and wontons with peanut sauce were already on the table.

Brooks quickly kissed her cheek. “I’ve ordered for us both. Hope you don’t mind. I have a meeting in an hour.”

“Of course I don’t mind. You know what I like and I’m starving, so I’m a happy woman.”

“Well?” he asked.

“Well, what?” Miranda filled her plate, poured peanut sauce over everything but the egg rolls, took a bite of wonton and sighed with sheer pleasure.

“Audition, Miranda. Remember? The one you left about thirty minutes ago?”

“It was lovely. I was lovely. The only non-lovely part was running into Grant. He’s up for the role of a suave spy agency director who gets shot in the first reel.”

“Ouch!”

“To what? The demise of his character?”

Brooks chuckled. “Well, I was thinking more in terms of you seeing Mr. Spencer again. Couldn’t have been easy.”

“Not a problem. I’m fine. Truly. The bust-up wasn’t all that dramatic. Plus, I’ve been concentrating on how to avoid getting into a huge fight with my fellow claimant or legatee or inheritee or whatever word works. I’m also discovering some very interesting things about Miss Virginia’s life before she came to Birmingham.”

She told Brooks about the house and about Jason Devere’s revelations regarding Benjamin Auttenberg.

Brooks listened attentively. “Intriguing. Although I wonder why she would hide priceless pieces of art?”

Miranda shook her head. “They might not be hidden. They might not actually exist.”

“So, what’s the skinny on this other claimant?”

Miranda paused. “He’s...as intriguing as the house.”

Brooks’s left eyebrow shot up. “Oh?”

“Uh. Yeah.”

“Come on, girl, give it up.”

Miranda told her agent all about meeting Russ her first day at the house “I have no idea how he ended up in Virginia’s second will and I’m extremely curious to find out. If he was that close to her, why didn’t he and I meet years ago?”

“Because you’ve been in New York or on tour for six years?”

“Good point. Anyway, Russ appears to be very smart.” She paused. “There’s a warmth and humor behind his sarcasm. I could see it in his eyes, which are a fabulous dark hazel. But what’s truly sad is that he can’t hear his own voice. It’s like hot liquid honey. Really rich baritone.”

Brooks grinned. “You do realize that your own lilting alto just savored every bit of that honey and now you’re turning the color of your hair?”

His cell phone rang as Miranda was hiding her face in her napkin pretending to mop up a trail of hot ’n’ spicy sauce. “Hang on, Miranda.”

She politely stayed silent while he was on the phone—finishing up two crab rangoons and her bowl of wontons and thinking about topics that could steer the conversation away from Mr. Gerik.

Brooks hung up and clinked his teacup against hers. “You don’t need a fortune cookie today. You got it! Congrats!”

“What?”

“I’m glad you’re sitting. That, my pet, was Wendy Konstanza. She loved you. The suits loved you. She said you were the ultimate superspy! She’s sending contracts to my office this afternoon and filming starts right after the Fourth of July.”