No Humans Involved (2 page)

Jaime Vegas, Center Stage

ONE DRAWBACK TO BEING ONSTAGE for most of your life is that eventually you forget how to act when you're off it. Not that it matters. In such a life, you're never really offstage. Even walking from your bedroom to the kitchen you can't lower your guard… at least not if you're on the set of one of the most anticipated TV specials of the season—one costarring you.

I'd started my career at the age of three, forced onto the toddler beauty pageant catwalks by a mother who'd already decided I needed to earn my keep. I should have grown up dreaming of the day I'd be off that stage. But when I stepped into the limelight, every eye was on me and I shone. It became my refuge and now, forty years later, while there were days when I really didn't feel like strapping on four-inch heels and smiling until my jaw hurt, my heart still beat a little faster as I walked down that hall.

The buzz of a saw drowned out the clicking of my heels on the hardwood. I caught a whiff of sawdust and oil, and shuddered to imagine what alterations the crew was making to the house. From what I'd heard, the homeowners weren't likely to complain—they desperately needed the money. The "official" rumor was a failed film project, but the one I'd heard involved an unplanned baby project with the nanny. Tabloid stories to be suppressed, a young woman to be paid off, a wife to placate—it could all get very expensive.

As I passed a young man measuring the hall, I nodded and his jaw dropped.

"M—Ms. Vegas? Jaime Vegas?"

I swung around and fixed him with a megawatt smile that I didn't need to fake. Shallow of me, I know, but there's no ego boost like the slack-jawed gape of a man half your age.

"Geez, it is you." He hurried over to shake my hand. "Could I—? I know it's unprofessional to ask, but is there any chance of getting an autograph?"

"Of course. I'm heading to a meeting right now, but you can grab an autograph from me anytime. Just bring me something to sign. Or if you prefer a photo…"

"A photo would be great."

My smile brightened. "A photo it is, then. I have some in my room."

"Thanks. Grandpa will love it. He's such a fan of yours. He has a thing for redheads, but you're his favorite. All his buddies in the nursing home think you're hot."

Just what I needed on the first day of a big job—the reminder that in Hollywood time, I was already a decade past my best-before date.

I kept smiling, though. Another minute of conversation, and the promise of a handful of signed photos for Gramps and the boys, and I was off again.

As I neared the dining room, I heard a crisp British voice snap, "Because it's ridiculous, that's why. Mr. Grady is a professional. He will not be subjected to mockery."

Before I pushed open the door, I pictured the speaker: a stylish woman, roughly my age, dressed in a suit and oozing efficiency. I walked in, and there she was—short blond hair, thin lips, small and wiry, as if extra flesh would be a sign of softness she could ill afford. Icy green eyes glared from behind her tiny glasses. Personal assistant model A: the bulldog, designed to raise hell on her client's behalf, leaving him free to play the gracious, good-natured star.

Facing her was a younger woman, maybe thirty, dumpy, with a shoulder-length bob and worried eyes. Director model C: the overwhelmed first-timer.

The dining room, like most of the house, had been "redecorated" to accommodate the shoot. The homeowners had cleared out anything they didn't want damaged, so the dining set was gone, replaced by a cheaper one. As for the dead guy hanging from the chandelier, I suspected he came with the house, and was probably tough to remove without an exorcism or two.

The hanging man was maybe fifty, average size but with heavy jowls, as if he'd lost a lot of weight fast. He swayed from an old crystal chandelier, superimposed over the modern one. His face was mottled and swollen, eyes thankfully closed.

I eyed him from the doorway so I wouldn't be tempted to stare once I was in the room. After thirty years of seeing ghosts, you learn all the tricks.

This one, though, wasn't a ghost but a residual. What tragedy had brought him to an end so emotionally powerful that the image was seared forever in this room? I doused my curiosity. It would do me no good. When you see scenes like this every day, you can't afford to stop and wonder. You just can't.

Both women turned as I entered. The assistant's gaze slid over me, lips tightening as if someone had shoved a lemon wedge in her mouth. I flashed a smile and her lips pursed more. If you can't still turn the heads of twenty-year-old boys, winning the catty disapproval of women your own age is a good consolation prize.

I stopped a hairbreadth from the hanged man and tried not to recoil as his swaying body circled my way.

"I hope I'm not interrupting," I said to the woman with the worried eyes. "I was sent to speak to the director, Becky Cheung. Would that be you?"

She smiled and extended a hand. "It is. And you must be Jaime Vegas. This is Claudia Wilson, Bradford Grady's assistant."

I shook Cheung's hand. "Should I step outside and let you two finish?"

"No, no." Desperation touched Becky's voice. "This concerns you too. We're discussing a promo shot. Mr. Simon has decided he wants the three stars to say a line."

Claudia shot a hard look at Becky. "A specific line. Tell her what it is."

"Um… T see dead people.' "

The. hanged man's stockinged foot swung past my arm as I managed a laugh. "I think I've heard that one before."

Becky's gaze went to mine, searching for some sign that I was offended. "We—Mr. Simon—thought it would be fun."

"It sounds like a cute gimmick."

"Mr. Grady does not do gimmicks," Claudia said, then strode from the room.

"Thanks," Becky whispered. "This isn't as easy as I thought. Everyone's taking it very…"

"Seriously? We're trying to raise the ghost of Marilyn Monroe. If that doesn't scream cheap thrills, what does? I'm in it for the fun." I grinned. "And the chance to spend a week in a neighborhood like this."

"Not everyone is so thrilled with that part. I think we're going to lose Starr Phillips."

"I heard she wasn't happy about the living arrangements."

"I know it's unusual, but the studio is all over us to cut the budget. Mr. Simon thought this would be the most efficient way to handle the preshow tapings. Put the three of you up in a rented house in Brentwood, a block from the Monroe home, where we can do all the preshow work and media in one swoop." A crew member motioned from the doorway. "Whoops. Gotta run. Here's your schedule for the afternoon, just media interviews and—"

My cell phone rang. I could tell who it was by the ring tone, and I'm sure I broke into a grin more becoming to a four-year-old than a woman of forty-four. I motioned to Becky that I'd just be a second, then told the caller I'd phone right back. When I hung up, Becky gave me a ten-second rundown on my afternoon obligations, and passed me the schedule. Then I was sprinting for the door as fast as my platform sandals could take me. Four-inch heels aren't made for anything speedier than a runway stroll, but I pushed them to a quick march, inspiring a look of alarm from two passing workmen.

I told myself Jeremy had a plane to catch, but even if he hadn't, I'd still have hurried.

I know I should have more self-respect. More dignity. The way I see it, though, it's karmic payback. I've always been the one leading the chase—inspiring the bad love poetry, setting the hoops ever higher—then waltzing away when I grew bored. Now, I guess some cosmic force had decided it was time for me to make a fool of myself.

I'd taken a big chance asking Jeremy to join me for the week.

We were—despite my hopes—just friends. Then, a few weeks ago, we'd been talking about the show and, having had a few drinks, the segue came easily. To my shock, he'd said yes. Now he was flying three thousand miles just to see me. That had to mean something.

The patio opened to a terraced yard stuffed with perennial borders, gazebos, ornamental trees and statuary. As I trotted along the flagstone path, winding around one fountain, one pond and two oversized statues, I wondered whether a trail of bread crumbs would have been wise.

Finally, far enough from the house to mentally step offstage, I found a wooden bench. Jeremy answered after the first ring.

"Did I catch you at a bad time?" he asked.

"No, I was just getting my schedule for the day. Mainly interviews plus some meet-and-greets, culminating, of course, in the welcome bash tonight—which, lucky man, you'll be just in time for. I hope you're ready to play party escort."

I stopped for breath. Silence filled the pause, and I winced and mentally smacked myself. Jeremy at a Hollywood party? He'd rather face off against a pack of ravenous wolves.

"I'm just kidding," I said. "You'll be jet-lagged, and I'm sure you don't have a tux—"

"I do. And it's packed. The party isn't a problem, Jaime…"

When he let the line trail off, my heart started thumping.

"The babies are sick. It's just a cold, but it's their first—"

A scream drowned him out—less like the wail of a sick baby than the roar of a wounded lion. I recognized Katherine, one of his foster son Clayton's fourteen-month-old twins.

"Jesus, poor Kate," I said. "She sounds miserable."

Jeremy chuckled. "She's not that ill, actually. It's Logan who's bearing the brunt of it. Of course, he's not complaining, but he's quite willing to let her express outrage on his behalf."

"How's Clay taking it? Or dare I ask."

"Let's just say he's not making it any easier. We don't usually contract colds, so he's worried. I'm sure it's no cause for alarm but…"

He let the sentence trail off. I understood his concern. A werewolf's increased immunity meant sickness was rare, so even a cold would be worrying. If the situation worsened, Clay and Elena couldn't just bundle the little ones off to the emergency ward, or the doctors might discover they carried something far more alarming than a cold virus. Jeremy wasn't a doctor, but he was the Pack's medical expert and they'd need him there. Even more important, he'd want to be there.

"Stay," I said. "We can do this another time."

"No, I am coming, Jaime. I'll be there soon as I can, hopefully tomorrow. "

My heart gave a little flip. "Good. Then look after those babies, tell everyone I said hi and I'll get an update in the morning."

When I signed off, I closed my eyes, listened to the birds chirp and rustle in the hedges, and let the wisps of disappointment float away. To my surprise, they
were
only wisps. If Jeremy had made any other choice, he wouldn't be the man I'd raced at breakneck speed to talk to. Family—and family responsibilities—came first, and that was fine by me, even when I knew his priorities wouldn't change, whatever form our relationship might take.

The birds had gone silent, their song replaced by the soft whisper of the wind and the tinkle of distant chimes. I looked around as I rose.

"Hello?" I said.

Someone touched my arm. I wheeled, but no one was there. I rubbed the spot. Probably a butterfly brushing past. It wouldn't be a ghost—with them I only got sight and sound, no touch.

I checked the schedule Becky had given me. Three interviews plus—

Fingers clasped my free hand. Resisting the urge to yank away, I looked down. Nothing. Yet I could feel the unmistakable sensation of a hand holding mine.

My gut went cold. This was how it had started with Nan. A lifetime of seeing what shouldn't be there and eventually she started imagining what she knew
couldn't
be there. That's what happens to necromancers, and that's what I am, same as my Nan.

Like most supernatural powers, necromancy runs in the blood. It often skips a generation or two, but in our family no one is spared. We see and hear the dead, and they are relentless in their quest to be heard. I may have learned a way to profit from my powers, but if I could be free of the ghosts, I'd give it up in a heartbeat and muddle through like every other con artist in the business. Better that than this long, cursed road that ends in madness.

The fingers slid from my hand. I squeezed my eyes shut.

Once before I'd had a ghost who'd been able to touch me. Didn't hold my hand, though. She'd sunk her fangs into my neck and nearly killed me, all because she couldn't make contact the normal way. Typical vampire—thinks the world exists to serve them.

But the chance that I'd encounter another dead vamp was remote. Extremely rare to begin with, they're so uncommon in the afterlife that I'd found only unconfirmed ancient tales of necromancers contacting one. If a vampire is already dead when it walks this world, where does one go when it passes into the next?

Somehow Natasha had clawed her way back and made contact with me,
physical
contact, as this ghost had now done. I rubbed the spot on my neck and cast a nervous glance around.

I let my mind shift to the semitrance state that would let me see ghosts too weak or inexperienced to pass over. Around me, everything seemed to go still, the wind chimes faint and distant, the gardens blurring.

"Hello?" I said. "Is anyone here?"

I kept turning and calling out, but no one answered. A sharp shake of my head and I was back to Earth.

"Ms. Vegas?"

I spun as a security guard peeked around a hedge.

"Didn't mean to startle you. Were you calling for someone?"

"Actually, yes," I said with a rueful smile. "I'm hopelessly lost."

He laughed. "This place is a maze, isn't it? Come on then, and I'll walk you back."

The Angel Of The South

DURING A BREAK BETWEEN INTERVIEWS, I decided to send the babies a get-well gift. As for
what
to send… well, that was a problem. I get a kick out of the twins—I even babysat them during one council meeting— but they were the only little ones I'd had extended contact with since I'd been a child myself.

My first thought was a balloon bouquet… until the FTD florist in Syracuse told me they didn't recommend balloons for kids— choking hazard, apparently. So I went with stuffed animals. Rabbits. Perfect.

I spent the rest of the afternoon following my schedule and using the spare time to poke around the house and meet the crew. To my disappointment, I didn't bump into Bradford Grady.

Grady was a bona fide star with a wildly popular show exploring haunted European locales. That was where the money was: television. Right now, I had a prime monthly spot on
The Keni Bales Show
and I was a regular guest on
Knight at Night
. But my own show?
That
was the dream. Always had been… even though I personally preferred a stage to a soundstage. With Keni's show skyrocketing in the ratings, now the second hottest daytime talk show in America, I had two offers—one from a major network, the other an up-and-coming netlet.

Whether those offers turned into an actual time slot depended largely on how I performed on this show. Spending a week learning from a master wouldn't hurt.

AT NINE, I was in front of the full-length mirror in my bedroom, getting ready for the welcome party and making sure my new dress fit as it should, not wrinkling or sagging unbecomingly as I moved. And, let's be honest, making sure
I
didn't wrinkle or sag in it. It was a daring choice for a woman my age—a Valentino silk peekaboo dress. It wasn't from this year's collection, but I'm not above shopping the sales rack.

The dress had come in deep golden yellow or black. I'd picked the yellow. Silk straps left my shoulders bare. The ruffled hem brushed my knees. Slits in the deep-cut shirred bodice showed off generous swatches of skin. Not something you'd wear if your triceps sagged or your thighs were dimpled with cellulite.

I was proud of my body. I worked damn hard for it.
Paid
for it, some said, the whispers growing louder with each passing year. But I hadn't had any work done and I didn't plan to, yet sometimes I suspected my resolve wouldn't outlast the first significant wrinkle or sag. Getting my own TV show wouldn't make it any easier to resist.

A rap at the door. "Ms. Vegas?"

I shook off thoughts of television and plastic surgery and gave my reflection one last mirror check. Then I was ready for my close-up.

THE WELCOME party for
Death of Innocence
was being held in the basement. An odd location, especially for a warm, dry fall night, but I'd heard the neighbors hadn't been thrilled with having a TV show moving in next door. Getting the permit couldn't have been easy. Palms probably had to be greased, favors pulled in and concessions made, including no outdoor parties.

As we reached the bottom of the stairs, I pulled back to let my escort—one of the security team—lead the way, and give me time to see what I was walking into.

The basement was one huge room and held only a collection of high, small tables for setting down drinks. A waiter who barely looked old enough to serve was making the rounds with champagne, flashing a camera-ready smile, unaware that no one here was in a position to give him his big Hollywood break.

The producer, Todd Simon, wasn't coming. He was on location in Amsterdam after filming
Red Light District
—a controversial but much anticipated new reality show—and was supposed to have returned by now, but had been delayed. Can't say I was thrilled about that. When I'd first signed onto the show, the producer had been a real sweetheart who was also a fan, and had seemed committed to approaching the special with just the right balance of showmanship and solemnity. Then, less than a month ago, I got a fax from the studio. The producer and his entire team had been replaced by Todd Simon, a guy best known for beer commercials.

I'd done my best to meet with Simon and his team, but it never happened. When I'd lived in L.A. I'd have tracked them down myself. Not so easy now that my condo was in Chicago and I'd spent the last two months on my live-show circuit. I hated going in blind, but my future in television was riding on this show. I'd make it work.

There were fewer than a dozen people in the room. There, chatting up the model who'd be playing Marilyn in the dramatized death scene, was Bradford Grady. Not much older than me, if the tabloids were right, yet his dark hair was streaked with silver, giving him the air of a distinguished gentleman. The old Hollywood double standard.

The waiter hurried over to offer me a glass.

"Thank you—" I checked his name tag. "Jordan."

I smiled and he blinked, bedazzled. My smile grew. When I looked up, Grady was heading my way, his gaze sliding over me as he walked.

"Ms. Vegas," he said. "This is such a pleasure."

He took my hand and kissed it. No one snickered. Amazing what the British can get away with.

"Jaime, please, and the pleasure's mine. At the risk of gushing, I'm
such
a fan. I bought your first season on DVD just last week, when it finally came stateside."

Actually, I'd ordered all three seasons from the U.K. when I realized I'd be working with him. Can't pull a convincing fan-girl if you haven't studied the material.

Claudia appeared from nowhere. "Mr. Grady, Dr. Robson wanted to speak to—"

He cut her off with a "go away" flutter of his fingers. Claudia glared at me.

"She's right," I said. "You have people to meet and I don't want to monopolize you. What do you say we do the rounds together, save everyone from having to introduce themselves twice?"

He gave me his arm and let Claudia escort us over to Dr. Robson, a parapsychologist the show had hired as an expert. As I asked about Dr. Robson's studies in electronic voice phenomena—more homework—Grady's hand slid to my lower back then began inching down. When Bruce Wang, a specialist in ghost photography, approached, I used the excuse to slide from Grady's grasp and shake Wang's hand. It's a balancing act—being flirtatious enough to flatter without arousing expectations.

As we chatted, talk turned to speculation over Starr Phillips's mystery replacement. Robson had heard a rumor that it was Buck Locke. I prayed he was wrong. Last time I'd met the abrasive TV spiritualist, he'd offered to teach me the secret of tantric magic—sex magic—to enhance my link with the afterlife, and I'd made the unfortunate mistake of laughing. Worse yet, I'd done so as he'd stood in my hotel room doorway, wearing only a robe, which he'd let hang open to display the full "extent" of his offer.

We were still naming names when a murmur rippled through the room. I followed it to the door. In walked two men in shades, like FBI agents from a B movie. Between them stood a tiny, ephemerally beautiful girl in a silver dress. She had long blond hair, perfect porcelain skin and blue saucer eyes—far bluer than anything nature could produce.

Her gaze went straight to me, and she clapped her hands together, giving a kittenish mew of delight. She floated over, chiffon scarf streaming behind.

"Jaime Vegas. Oh, my sweet Lord, it
is
you!" She took both my hands and clasped them as she gazed up in limpid adoration. "You're my idol. I've been following your career since I was—" a girlish laugh, "—knee-high to a grasshopper, as my daddy would say."

A cameraman and a journalist appeared behind her, recording every frame and word. I tilted my head to my best angle and swept my hair back so it wouldn't block my profile. The lens inched my way.

"That's so sweet of you," I said. "And you must be… ?"

"Angelique… but my friends call me Angel. The Angel of the South."

"Oh, of course. Let me guess, you're the third spiritualist."

"I am. Can you believe that?" An earsplitting squeal of a giggle. "My big chance to work with Jaime Vegas. I was so afraid you'd retire before I got the chance."

I gave a throaty laugh. "Don't worry, I'm not retiring for a while."

Around us, the party had stopped, everyone watching the drama unfold.

"So, do you have any theories on Marilyn's death?" I asked.

"Oh, it was
such
a tragedy," she said. "Someone so young and beautiful, called to heaven too soon. My daddy—he's a minister, you know—always says—"

"I meant theories on
how
she died."

A wave of titters.

"Oh, yes, of course. Well, er, that's what we're here to learn, isn't it? To free her from the limbo of a tragic passing, to discover who wronged so innocent a soul."

"So you think she was murdered? Are you leaning toward the Kennedys or the Mafia?"

"Oh, my Lord, that is such a beautiful dress. So daring. My daddy would die if I wore something like that. You're so brave!" She waved to the cameraman. "Doug, you have to get a shot of the two of us, for my press release."

I pictured that shot and realized how I'd look towering over the fresh-faced, virginal blond.

"Unless you don't want to…" she said, her eyes wide with innocence.

"And miss the chance to get my picture taken with a rising star? Never. Doug, hon, can you make sure I get a copy of it?"

"Absolutely. Is there a mailing address?"

"Just bring it up to my room. Top of the stairs."

He grinned. "Be happy to, ma'am."

I flirted with Doug as he set up the shot, then struck a pose that would give Angelique's daddy a rise in spite of himself.

ANGELINE WAS going to be a problem. Her sly jabs I could handle—you don't spend a lifetime acting without learning how to deal with two-faced starlets. But television is so much more youth-oriented than the stage. Put me on camera next to a slip of a girl barely out of high school and the network execs who were considering my show might start thinking they were making overtures to the wrong spiritualist. I could sex it up—I could out-vamp her any day—but it might not be enough. I'd have to play this one carefully, prove I wasn't just the "sexy redhead" but the better performer. And, as it turned out, I was going to get my chance a lot sooner than I expected.

Becky had barely finished introducing Angelique to everyone when some wit came up with the idea of a "test" seance. As long as you had three spiritualists in a room, why not put them to work providing the entertainment?

"That's a wonderful idea," Becky said. "We should tape it too. For the DVD extras."

"There's going to be a DVD?" Angelique said.

Becky grinned. "There's always a DVD. "What about Tansy Lane?"

"Who?" someone asked.

"Starlet," another responded. "From the seventies. Murdered right next door, I think. The crime was never solved."

I struggled to recall the case. I wasn't big on Hollywood legends, but because Tansy had been a former child star, her case had struck a chord. After outgrowing her starring role on a top-rated sitcom about a fairy changeling, she'd faded away, only to reappear again at twenty with a headline-making comeback. She'd not only beat the odds, but KO'd them, winning an Emmy. And that's when both her career and her life ended. Shot to death at a postawards party in Brentwood.

Murmurs of excitement ran through the crowd. Grady glanced at Claudia. I kept my mouth shut, my expression intrigued but not committed, waiting to see how Grady would play it.

"How mysterious were these circumstances?" he finally asked.

"I've heard there was satanism involved," the guard piped in. "That's why no one saw anything. They were conducting a secret Hollywood black magic rite."

Grady's face lit up. Satanic rites were his specialty. He found evidence of them everywhere. He and Claudia exchanged a look.

She cleared her throat. "As per Mr. Grady's contract, he is supposed to receive a minimum of six hours' notice before any attempted spirit communications. He's willing to forgo that tonight. However, I insist that he still be allowed as much time as possible to complete his mental preparations, so he must be granted the final position."

Taking the final spot meant he'd have our work to build on, plus the chance to leave the most lasting impression.

Becky glanced at me, but I didn't have any such stipulations in my contract. I could hit the ground running anytime, anywhere, so I saved my contract demands for important things like billing position and wardrobe allowance.

"It's all yours, Bradford." I smiled, then slipped in, "I'll take the final spot next time."

"Excellent," Becky said. "It's settled then. Angelique will go first, Jaime second—"

"Oh, no," Angelique breathed, her face filling with genuine horror. "I couldn't go before Ms. Vegas. She's the star; I should follow her."

I shook my head. "It's your first big seance and I insist you take the premier position."

She opened her mouth, but there was little she could say to that. I accepted Grady's proffered arm and we headed upstairs.

WHEN I realized they planned to hold this seance in the garden, I thought of the presence I'd felt there earlier and a chill ran through me. As bizarre as it might seem, I avoid mixing necromancy and spiritualism whenever possible. I use my powers to give me an edge, but under controlled circumstances. When I'm booking a show in a new city, I always visit the venues myself first, to make sure there aren't any resident ghosts. Nothing buggers up a fake seance more than having a real ghost screaming in your ear.

So I stepped into that garden, steeled against the first sign that my reluctant spirit had returned. But, to my relief, the presence of others seemed to scare it off. Or, if I was really lucky, it had given up and moved on.

We stole into the gardens like schoolkids cutting out on a class trip, snickering and whispering, hoping the neighbors didn't overhear.

It was midnight. The witching hour, which I'm sure the writers would make a big deal of when they wrote the introduction to this segment. The full moon and the wind rustling through the bushes didn't hurt.