Fleeced: A Regan Reilly Mystery by Carol Clark (reading in the dark .txt) 📕

“I’m sorry I couldn’t go up there with you,” Janey said. “I just didn’t feel up to it, and I look a mess.”

“Don’t worry about it. Lydia wouldn’t have been too happy anyway. She doesn’t want it to seem as if we suspect any of her clients, and if you had walked into a singles party while you’re still recovering from a Mace attack, it might have seemed a little odd.”

“Or people might think I’m desperate.”

“That too,” Regan agreed.

“But I’m not desperate. I have Thomas.” Janey reached for his hand as he beamed.

And you’d better hang onto him, baby, Regan thought. Because something tells me you’re going to bring the Settlers’ Club into the papers tomorrow. And it ain’t going to be pretty. As the couple gazed into each other’s eyes, Regan took a sip of the wine the waiter had just put in front of her. I may as well continue, she thought. “I got the names of the perfumes all the women were wearing. I’m going to go out tomorrow and buy each one of them. Then we can see if you recognize any of them as the one you smelled today.” Regan paused. “Whoever ransacked Ben’s apartment might have no connection with the woman Nat was seeing. It could just be a coincidence.”

“The Fragrance Foundation would be thrilled to know how many people are spritzing themselves,” Thomas remarked.

“You might say the whole situation stinks,” Janey said before she drained her glass and started to giggle.

How many glasses of wine have you had? Regan wondered as she smiled at Janey. I guess I’d get a little giddy too after being locked in a cold, dark closet for a good part of the day, not knowing when I’d be rescued.

“Clara’s coming in tomorrow,” Thomas announced. “In an attempt to make amends for her disastrous phone call to the crime show.”

“I want to talk to her,” Regan said.

“Of course.”

After several minutes of small talk, Regan stood. “Time to call it a night. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“We have a lovely breakfast here in the dining room. Why don’t you come down?”

“Sounds good,” Regan said. As she walked out of the room, she looked at her watch. It was eleven-thirty. I’ve been here nearly fourteen hours, and I only have two days left to solve this crime.

Crimes, she thought. With each passing minute, she was becoming more and more certain that Nat had been murdered. That’s why she had to talk to Clara. She felt sure that Clara, unknowingly, had information that would be helpful.

When she got off the elevator and walked down to Nat’s door, she could still hear a small group of people inside Lydia’s apartment. The diehards, she thought.

Within fifteen minutes she was in bed in the guest room, the alarm set for seven o’clock. I want to get up early and take a good look through this apartment, she thought. There’s got to be something around here that gives me a clue. Regan turned out the light and put her head down on the pillow. Five minutes later, she was asleep.

47

Action!” Jacques Harlow cried to Daphne.

They were in his sparsely furnished, high-ceilinged, drafty loft on a deserted street in lower Manhattan. Jacques had signaled one of his assistants to turn on a fog machine as Daphne sat on the floor, surrounded by darkness, and began to rhapsodize on the benefits and sorrows of selling her farm. Nat and Wendy’s sheep stood at attention on either side of her.

“I look out over the moors,” Daphne almost whispered, “and my heart starts to sing…”

“Wait!” the cameraman shouted.

“Wait! What do you mean wait?” Jacques demanded. “The director is the boss! The director calls ‘action’ and the director calls ‘cut.’ How could you forget such a thing?”

“You’re going to waste a lot of film. I’m getting a bad reflection off the sheep’s eyes.”

“So turn the sheep sideways and pull their bangs down,” Jacques screamed impatiently.

Two weary production assistants hurried over. When they turned Dolly to face Daphne, one of her eyes fell out and rolled away into the darkness. As they frantically scrambled to feel around for it on the floor, Jacques screamed again. “Don’t worry about it! I don’t care about the sheep’s eyes. I only care what’s going on in my actor’s eyes. Now turn the other sheep and let’s go!”

Bah-Bah in place on one side, Dolly on the other, Daphne was ready to start over. The two sheep now looked as though they were dying to hear what she had to say.

“Action!” Jacques cried again.

For the next six minutes, Daphne emoted over her character’s sheep farm like nobody’s business. At the end, sobbing, she lowered her head to the ground as Scarlett O’Hara had done so famously in Gone with the Wind.

“Cut!” Jacques cried, his voice trembling. He wiped a tear from his eye and ran over to embrace Daphne. “I was so moved,” he whispered in her ear as the crew broke into applause. “You’re a magnificent actress. I want you to star in my next film.”

Daphne was speechless. She hadn’t felt this good in years. Both her personal and professional lives had been less than satisfactory. But all of a sudden, it seemed as if a whole new wonderful world was opening up to her. It sure beat stand-in work. “Oh, Jacques,” she finally mouthed as she laid her head against his shoulder.

Pumpkin sat seething in the corner. She stood up. “Are we ready to shoot my final scene?”

“No!” Jacques sneered. “Daphne is going to do her monologue again for me. Her well is overflowing, and I want to capture more of it.”

“Yeah, well I’m going outside for a cigarette,” Pumpkin announced and turned on her heel.

Jacques gave Daphne a mischievous glance. “Would you like Pumpkin to be your stand-in?”

Daphne laughed as Jacques returned to his director’s chair. She petted Dolly and Bah-Bah. “Can you imagine how surprised your mommy and