He said it with such genuine pride that Callie could see more clearly than ever what a wonderful father Jason was going to make someday. She felt that odd little tug in the region of her heart once more. The last of her irritation with him from the night before vanished for the time being.
“I called Henry earlier,” he told her then. “His wife and her sister will be here at eight to help with the cleanup.”
Callie was startled. “Henry has a wife?”
“Sure he does. It’s the only thing that keeps him from meddling in my life.”
“How much did you have to do with getting him married off?” she asked suspiciously.
“It was self-defense,” he insisted, looking embarrassed. “Not matchmaking.”
“No wonder the man seems inclined to return the favor.”
He silenced her with a quick brush of his lips across hers. “Do you really want to waste this time we have to ourselves talking about Henry?” he asked.
Callie pretended to give the matter some thought, then shook her head. “No, I can think of far more interesting things to do.”
He gave a nod of smug satisfaction, but before he could claim her mouth with another kiss, Callie backed away. “Let’s go over the cast list for Within Our Reach.”
He stared at her. “Why would we want to do that?”
“Because you may know more about these people than I do. I still don’t think these notes have anything to do with Terry’s kid. I’m more convinced than ever that someone on the show is responsible.”
“You’ve already said everyone seems to like Terry.”
“Maybe someone likes him too much,” she suggested.
“Meaning?”
“Maybe we have someone else in the cast who’s gay.” At Jason’s snort of disbelief, Callie said, “No, I mean it. I was assuming maybe one of the women resented him for rejecting them, but maybe that’s not it at all. Maybe it’s one of the guys who’s after his body.”
“Don’t you think threatening him would be an odd way of courting by anybody’s standards?”
“True enough. Okay, maybe they just resent his success as a hunk and figure he ought to pay for passing as a straight guy.”
“That sounds slightly more plausible, but I think Dana is going to find our answers in Madison.”
“Would it kill you to go over this cast list in the meantime?”
“Do you have a copy here?”
“In my makeup bag,” she said, grabbing it from the chair where she’d tossed it the night before. “I go over it before my mall appearances so I can remember people by their real names and their soap personas.”
Jason eyed the sheet with resignation. “Let’s do it, but I think we’re wasting time. I can’t think of a male on the show whose sexual preference has ever been questioned.”
“Terry’s hasn’t been, either,” she reminded him. “In fact, America thinks he’s as macho as they come.”
“Touché.”
Callie read off the names one by one, as much to trigger her own instinctive impressions of the men as to get Jason’s insights. There were fourteen contract men and a handful more with recurring status. A review of all of them didn’t turn up a single clue, not so much as a whiff of suspicion. The two Callie knew most about—Jonathan Baines and Randall Trent—were clearly heterosexual. Baines had the alimony payments to prove it and Trent had a wife and Lisa.
“Don’t be discouraged,” Jason consoled her. “There’s also the crew to think about. They have access to his dressing room and fan mail, too.”
Despite Jason’s attempt to comfort her, Callie felt as if she’d failed Terry. Worse, it appeared that the stakes were getting higher by the minute.
21
The cleanup of Callie’s apartment took all day Sunday, despite the help of those nice women Jason had hired. Regina was exhausted and emotionally drained not only by the hard work but from thinking about those intruders going through all of Callie’s lovely things and destroying them. She’d like to get her hands on them for a few minutes and teach them a few lessons about respect for other people’s possessions. Obviously their parents had failed at the task.
Although everything was pretty much back in order by Monday morning, Regina found she was too jittery to sit around the apartment all by herself and worry over whether there was likely to be a return visit.
At least that was the excuse she came up with when she found herself in a taxi heading toward Soho. She swore she was only going for a little outing to distract herself. She’d spend a few minutes looking in gallery windows, maybe stop for a cup of fancy cappuccino. She intended to be back home in no time.
But even as she made that vow to herself, she found herself turning in a once-familiar direction the minute she set foot outside the taxi. A lot had changed in the area, but she couldn’t help the vague stirring of excitement in the pit of her stomach as she checked the addresses closely. It ought to be right along in here, she thought, walking a little faster. An oddly familiar flutter of anticipation began to build inside her.
Suddenly she came to a stop, her heart pounding so loud she was sure the passersby must be able to hear it. It hadn’t changed at all, she thought with a sense of astonishment. The seven in the address was still a little crooked on the faded blue door. The zero had fallen away years ago. At the time the paint on the door had been darker beneath where the number had been, but the years had washed away the difference in color. Only the eight was firmly tacked into place.
Mikel Rolanski’s School of Art had been elegantly lettered above the number. It, too, looked sadly neglected. Why an artist as gifted as Mikel hadn’t spruced up the front of his building was beyond her, but that had always been his way. He’d cared nothing for appearances, nor much more about making money. His art had been everything.
