Act it Out (A Hailey Webb Mystery, Volume 2) Read online

  Act it Out

  by

  Deany Ray

  Copyright © 2021 Deany Ray

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real names, characters, places, events, and incidents is purely coincidental.

  No part of this work may be used or reproduced in any format, by any means, electronic or otherwise without prior consent from the author.

  www.deanyray.com

  Before You Start . . .

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  CONTENTS

  Before You Start . . .

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  From the Author

  EXCERPT FROM JAMMED

  Chapter One

  “What the hell is going on here?” I jogged through the crowd to Mike. Lights flashed across his face as emergency vehicles waited, poised for action.

  Mike walked up to meet me. “Fitzgerald stole a plane.”

  “He what?” I stopped and stared.

  Amery Fitzgerald was People magazine’s “Sexiest Man Alive” and hottest human being to ever walk the earth.

  “He stole a plane but he’s flying back,” Mike said. “Not enough fuel.”

  I glared at him. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Nope,” Mike said. “That’s why we’re all here waiting for him.” With his arms folded across his chest, he looked toward the sky. Only a news guy could display that kind of calm in the face of such startling events.

  I looked around at the growing crowd: fire and police as well as cameras, lots of cameras. Every news channel, magazine, and paper seemed to have been tipped off. Amery Fitzgerald was a darling of the media—and that was before he was accused of murdering the costar of his latest action film.

  My name is Hailey Webb, and I work as an assistant/errand runner for the Palm Shores Gazette. I got the job only about one month ago because I needed a job—any job—but I got the hang of things pretty quickly. This was not where I would have imagined myself being at twenty-eight; however, life doesn’t always turn out the way you planned it, right?

  This was the part of my life post-breaking-up with my ex-fiancé and moving to a new place, which was still in need of a lot of stuff. Some of that needed stuff, in fact, was crammed into Mike’s truck at that very moment. My shopping trip, however, had been suddenly cut short. When a superstar goes airborne during a murder investigation, a reporter on the crime beat has to have his truck.

  With what I had already bought, my place was shaping up. I was excited to have it filled with life’s little comforts, like a soft reading light to go in the living room and a pretty basket for my remote controls. Oh yeah, and a real bed. I was almost thirty, for crying out loud, and way too old to fold my bed out from a couch.

  At first, after I broke up with Connor, I didn’t give a damn about furniture and mirrors. When you catch your fiancé with a half-dressed waitress at your rehearsal dinner, it’s all you can do to just get out of bed. You don’t really feel like wafting through a store checking out end tables and salt and pepper shakers. Most of my old stuff had stayed with him at the place we used to share; I could barely look at it back then, although in retrospect, I should have grabbed some tables or some lamps, some cups and plates at least—considering that I pretty much was broke. You don’t get deposits back the night before a canceled wedding.

  My job at the Gazette didn’t pay as much as my old position in desktop publishing. But since my boss there had been none other than Mr. Cheating Snake himself, the time had come for me to find another place to work.

  I had just begun to come out of my funk, and with some money saved up, today had been the day to load up on some treasures. A couple of pieces of framed art, a nightstand, and a soft rug for the kitchen were all waiting in the truck. Plus other knickknacks I just had to grab. There might have been more goodies, but a call had come from Mike while I was still downtown.

  “Listen, Hailey,” he had said. “It’s an emergency of sorts. I’m afraid I need the truck. Meet me at the airfield. Do you know the one? Down Liberty Road past those subdivisions they built last spring.”

  Drat. I’d just have to be happy with what I’d bought so far, and I did have a nice haul. I’d found a great deal on nonstick cookware, part of a matching set like an adult would have. I bought a panini maker too, thinking that it might be time to step up my kitchen game.

  In my reduced circumstances, I had become adept at finding coupons and scoping out the best deals. Twenty percent off was almost as exciting to me now as the feel of cashmere against my skin when shopping for a throw.

  My mother had offered to gift everything to me, but it was a point of pride to pay for it myself. I did accept advice, however, from my best friend Kat, who could pair a half-price pillow with a cheap, artsy-looking throw and make a room “just pop,” as she liked to say. She, unfortunately, had not been around to help today. She was at a crash course in accounting for her new job at a doctor’s office.

  “Um . . . congratulations?” I had told her when she’d announced the job. “It’s a paycheck, and that’s great, but it’s so not you.” Assistant to the director of finance sounded like it would come with a bigger check than the assortment of odd jobs she had previously cobbled together for a living—waitressing and walking dogs, for instance. But those seemed more like Kat. All of those were jobs that had her up and moving, chatting it up as she liked to do, with customers or poodles. Yes, she talked to the dogs and sometimes sang to them, claiming they liked Taylor Swift. My reaction to that was to roll my eyes.

  I feared that lines of numbers would not give Kat the company she needed during a long workday, but I knew she had struggled with finances. Both of us had, in fact, since we left the publishing company we worked at when we met. Kat had claimed she felt “hemmed in” by the job, but her more free-spirited attempts at earning money did not exactly bring in the big bucks. I found myself wondering how long this job would last. All of her new “careers” seemed to be short-lived, but I wished her well.

  “Oh man, I want to shop with you instead of taking some dumb course,” she’d told me on the phone. “Do you know they make these trees with fairy lights, and I was thinking we could get you one of those. They looked totally awesome in the pictures I’ve seen.”

  “I’ll keep an eye out for them, but there will be other shopping trips in our future, Kat. Hold on to that thought.”

  She suggested I do some online shopping because I wouldn’t have to change out of my pj’s, but I’d been in my pj’s for so many months after the breakup, also known as the big “B,” that I really needed and wanted to go out. You know, see the world and all. For Kat, shopping was more a form of entertainment than a chore. She’d run to the store for eggs and come home with three different kinds of ice cream—and no eggs.

  “You know what else I’m looking forward to?”
I asked her. “People-watching!” I was thrilled to have my groove back. I had also studiously avoided seeing people after the big “B.”

  I had been so enthusiastic about the day ahead, I spent a bit more time than usual on my hair and makeup that morning. I applied an extra layer of mascara and used some blush and a highlighter around my eyes. I fluffed my short blonde curls about a thousand times before leaving the house, totally aware of how stupid that might be. I was not exactly going to the Oscars. But the hell with it, I was feeling good, and nobody was going to put a damper on my cheery mood.

  In comfortable clothes and a small black crossbody bag holding my cell and my wallet, I drove my Jeep to Mike’s place and then took the truck keys from him. “I so appreciate this,” I said. “Hope you can manage without your truck for the day.”

  He grinned. “That’s going to be tough. But don’t worry, I’ll think of some way you can repay me.”

  I felt my cheeks getting hot, realizing I could have skipped the blush altogether.

  I raised an eyebrow. “Gee, way to help out a friend.”

  “I never claimed to be a saint.”

  I laughed. “That I believe.”

  Mike had the kind of gorgeous blue eyes combined with dark hair and muscled build that made me sometimes lose track of whatever I was doing if he was close by at work. He often had that untidy but sexy look about him, and he always smelled super good. Plus, he was a genuinely nice guy—under that whole grinning with a half smile attitude of his—which was sexy in itself. Mike never mentioned any girlfriend or anything like that, but somehow I got the impression a zillion girls would do anything to go out with him.

  Kat had also suggested online dating. For me. “Just don’t say yes to any date until I check their profile too,” she said. “You can’t be too careful out there. I want to make sure any guy you go to meet has been Kat-scanned.”

  “Well, thanks, but I’d rather spend my evening at your accounting course than going out with a guy I met online.”

  “Why?” Kat had asked surprised. “That’s the new thing now. I’ll do it too. Then we can double date.”

  I had convinced her—I thought—it was Hailey-time right now, not going-out-with-a-random-dude-from-the-internet time.

  Kat didn’t need online dating actually. She probably got fifty invites per week from guys. Which was totally understandable. She had long, dark hair around a pretty face and emerald-green eyes, and a body to die for. I’ll admit I was at times jealous of her good genes and the fact that I’d probably have to up my gym visits to seven per week to look like that. However, I imagined getting asked out that often was pretty daunting and exhausting, so I’d stick with what I had.

  After I thanked Mike, and he walked me to his truck, I lifted my hand in goodbye. I got into the truck and moved the seat way up; Mike was a tall guy, and the seats held the faint scent of the musky cologne he wore. There was that blush creeping up again.

  I pulled into the traffic and headed into town, turning on the radio when I got to the first light. He had it on a station that played jazz and blues. It was one more thing about the man that made me think, Oh yeah, I approve.

  I spent the first half of the day browsing through stores, buying the stuff that would fit in my apartment and breaking for lunch at a French place. This one had outdoor seating and had always been a favorite among the eateries that lined this part of downtown. The day was warm and sunny, typical of Southern California, especially for April, and I couldn’t imagine anyone ducking into the darkened insides of the restaurants to eat.

  As I ate my chicken crêpe with roasted tomatoes and mozzarella, I glanced over at Mike’s truck, which was pretty loaded down. I had covered up my new treasures with a dark green tarp and fixed it on the hooks on the side of the truck. I was really hoping to get to a couple of other stores, and I thought there was still room if I didn’t buy anything that took up too much space.

  I finished up my crêpe and took one last bite of salad before heading to the truck. My plan was to drive a few blocks down where there was a vintage shop I liked. I had just put the key in the ignition when my phone began to vibrate. It was Mike, and my shopping was curtailed; he needed his truck. That was the crime beat for you. The criminals were not Monday-to-Friday guys; you could never really count on having weekends off.

  I could hear a lot of shouting in the background. “Sure, I’ll head straight to you,” I said. “Where exactly are you?”

  He gave me directions to a hangar at an airfield, sounding more serious than normal and extra focused on what was going on.

  “An airfield? Are you serious?”

  “Yes, I’ll explain later. Just hurry.”

  “On my way.” I turned the key in the ignition.

  I drove with my window down, wondering what was going on. I could be driving straight into a crime scene. That sent chills and kind of a rush through me in equal parts.

  Different scenarios floated through my head as I found myself stepping constantly on the brakes for traffic. There was always traffic, but today was worse than normal. There was no work rush on a Saturday, but the SoCal crowd—at least the ones my age—planned their weekends as fervently as they did their workdays. Palm Shores was the kind of town where people were rarely home. As a sign indicated I was almost at the airfield, I looked down at the dashboard to check the time. I’d been driving forty minutes. Damn. I hoped Mike wouldn’t be ticked.

  That is when I noticed the small crowd. People were pushed up against the fence to peer at the field. I scrunched my forehead and leaned forward. It seemed every TV channel was there, along with emergency responders: the fire department, paramedics, the police, their lights mixing blue and red waves onto the field.

  I drove on until I could find a parking place off the side of the road, at the edge of a wood, a ways away from the mob scene. Another car pulled up right behind me, and a man jumped out, running toward the scene. Whatever the heck was going on, this was some major stuff.

  I got out of the truck and rushed as well. I scanned the crowd for Mike and saw him waving at me. I pushed my crossbody bag over my hip and hurried toward him, about to burst to know what the story was.

  “What the hell is going on here?”

  “Fitzgerald stole a plane.”

  “He what?” I stopped and stared.

  “He stole a plane but he’s flying back,” Mike said. “Not enough fuel.”

  I glared at him. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Nope,” Mike said. “That’s why we’re all here waiting for him.”

  Both of us fell silent, watching the sunny California sky for the man who just might be the biggest star of his generation. Kat and I got our tickets right away anytime an Amery Fitzgerald picture opened; a lot of them we went to twice.

  “How lucky are we, Hailey, to live in a world where we can feast our eyes on that?” Kat had asked me once as we shared a box of movie chocolates and watched Fitzgerald on the screen. Both of us were entranced as he pulled off his shirt and dived into the ocean, his muscled arms and legs moving forcefully through the waves as the music swelled.

  We also kept up with any bits of news that came out on him: the rumors of his affairs with this star or that one, which woman he was spotted with, and what they were both wearing. It was our guilty little pleasure—until last Monday came around and the news took quite a turn. Fitzgerald was accused of murdering his costar on the set of an action picture being filmed right here in Palm Shores. Fitzgerald played a spy who had been betrayed by someone and was running for his life, out to prove once and for all that he was innocent—a good man, falsely accused. The beautiful, and late, Victoria Fleming had been cast opposite him.

  That’s how all of Fitzgerald’s movies went: betrayal, on the run, the need to protect his name. Each one pretty much had the same plot as the last one. “Good thing he has those abs,” Kat had once remarked, “because I could probably guess how the story goes before I even buy a ticket.”

  In
this latest film, the two main characters were bitter enemies caught up in a mutual and intense attraction. Again, same old thing. Insert new details and new names. This time, however, things were exceptionally different in one climactic scene. Instead of a prop weapon, Amery Fitzgerald had aimed a real gun at her chest—and shot the woman dead.

  As it was reported, those on the set were confused at first. “I didn’t call for all that blood!” the director is said to have shouted. “Victoria, get cleaned up, and let’s try this again.” But Fleming didn’t get up. Never ever would she stand or speak a single line again.

  Fitzgerald was hauled in right away. There were like a million witnesses to tell the cops they had clearly seen him fire a bullet into Fleming. It didn’t help that he admitted to having been romantically involved with his sultry costar, who was said to have broken off the relationship. Not an easy breakup either. Workers on the set reported loud fights between the two in Fleming’s trailer.

  “I’ve covered murder mysteries, and I’ve covered plain old murders,” Mike had told me after writing his first story on the case. “There doesn’t seem to be too much of a mystery this time.”

  To make matters worse, under the mattress in Fitzgerald’s trailer were bullets that matched the gun—covered, as it turned out, in Fitzgerald’s fingerprints.

  A police sergeant had mused privately to Mike that Fitzgerald probably figured people would think twice before accusing him. They would think no one would be so stupid as to commit a murder in front of that many people in a scene that was being filmed. It was his perfect alibi. Fitzgerald’s lawyer had maintained his client “was just as shocked as everybody on the set when a real bullet was fired into the deceased.” The lawyer claimed his client had never seen those bullets found beneath the mattress and that he was being framed.

  Fitzgerald was said to have put up quite the fight as he was being handcuffed. “I heard the guy cried,” Mike told me in confidence.