Unscripted Read online

  On the first take, Riley forgot to exhale. The words she’d written flowed naturally between the two actors, and tender love filled the air when Carson reached out and caressed Vivian’s cheek with the back of his hand. The illusion was awe-inspiring. Half a dozen takes later, Martin called for the next scene.

  Nick clapped her on the shoulder. “The romance between Carson and Vivian will shock the fans.”

  As Blythe pulled away from Isabella, she gripped his shirt, halting his retreat. His hand closed on her wrist, and the actress winced in pain.

  Nick snickered at the futile seduction attempt. “Try as she may, she won’t reel him in. Men like Blythe seek more than ethereal beauty.”

  ***

  After he was done shooting the love scene with Bella, Blythe walked into Andy’s office.

  Riley had written every word of that scene. It belonged to her, and he was eager to know if what she’d saw on the set met her expectations. “Where’s Riley?”

  From behind his desk, Paul flipped a pen between his fingers. “Do I look like her babysitter?”

  Irritated by Paul’s attitude, Blythe pounded on the top of the desk with his right fist.

  The writer dropped his pen and recoiled in his chair. “Are you crazy?”

  Pleased he’d succeeded in rattling the pathetic excuse for a man, Blythe leaned forward. “Listen carefully, Paul.” He emphasized each word. “You so much as touch a hair on Riley’s head or undermine her work again, and I swear a broken jaw will be the last of your problems. Is that clear enough?”

  A ghastly shade of white spread over Paul’s face. “Yes.”

  “Now. Where is she?”

  “The park. She went running. You just missed her.”

  It was past her regular lunch hour. When Blythe saw her on the set, he’d assumed she’d already gone for her daily run. Disappointed he had missed her, he was presented with two choices. He could wait at the studio, or he could go for a walk and breathe some fresh air. Not due back on the set for another hour, he left the building and ventured outside.

  The park across the street from the studio provided a taste of wilderness within the heart of the city. In the summer, the artificial pond made a beautiful backdrop for a picnic or a friendly game of Frisbee. In the winter, it turned into an outdoor rink where young and old people skated to the beat of the music blasting from speakers attached to lampposts.

  There was a time when he’d enjoyed coming here with Claire in the evening, and he would love to recapture the feeling of gliding carefree on the ice.

  Riley told him Hunter played hockey, but it didn’t occur to him to ask if she skated. The rink would make a nice place to spend an hour before they went out for dinner.

  They were months away from snow and frozen ice, and he was already planning activities with her. Something was wrong with his thought process. Riley was married, happily married, to another man, and keeping her off his mind should be easy—but it wasn’t.

  On the open trail circling the pond, women pushed strollers, little kids fed ducks, elderly couples walked hand in hand, and lone joggers dodged the people in their path.

  Under the scorching sun and heat, his T-shirt clung to his chest. He regretted not wearing his good running shoes. If he were to develop a sweat walking in the park, he might as well do it running.

  He entered the shaded trails winding through the forested area and strolled past a wrought-iron garden bench bolted to a base of cement. Around the corner, rhythmic steps on the crushed gravel warned him of an upcoming runner. Twigs and leaves crunched under Blythe’s weight as he stepped aside to avoid colliding with a pair of gray running shoes tied with pink laces.

  His head snapped up. “Riley?”

  Saturated with perspiration, her yellow tank top was pasted to her heaving chest. She stopped and turned to him. “Blythe?” A red iPod was strapped to her upper arm, ear buds were in her ears, and a clear water bottle was clipped to the belt loop of her shorts. The bottle was two-thirds full. She touched the dial of the iPod while looking strangely at him. “What are you doing here?”

  Bumping into her had been a chance encounter. “I’m disrupting your run. I’m sorry.”

  A mischievous smile cracked her face. “You mean you’re not here to exercise with me? I’m disappointed.”

  He liked how she teased him, and he decided to take her at her word. “For your information, I used to run everyday.” With a sweep of his hand, he indicated the trail. “Lead the way.”

  “Are you sure?” As he moved on the trail beside her, her grin widened. “Okay. I was about to start cooling down anyway, so I’ll go easy on you.”

  He fell into step with her, and stride upon stride, he built up to her pace. His running shoes were worn out, his cargo shorts were uncomfortable, but he hadn’t had that much fun exercising in a long time.

  “Are you going to tell me the real reason you came here?” Her breathing was even, and her voice was steady.

  “I was eager to—to hear your impression of the scene.” As he labored through the sentence, he realized just how out of shape he’d become. “Was it what you pictured when you wrote the script?”

  “It was perfect, Blythe, even without the kiss.” She glanced at him, and he noted the sparkles in her eyes. “But I didn’t recall anything about twisting Vivian’s wrist or her grimacing in pain.”

  “Please, let’s not talk about how insufferable Bella has become lately.” His gaze washed over his running companion. Hopefully, that’d be the first and last love scene he played with the actress. “Would you like—” As he struggled for another breath, he promised himself to start running regularly. “—like to dine on an outdoor terrace tonight?”

  Amid the bright blue sky peeking from the treetops, an invisible cloud obscured her face, and she slowed down. “Paul found out about Casa Grigia. He sent a picture of us to my husband last week.”

  “He what?” How dare Paul attack her personal integrity. The little weasel had no moral fiber, drunk or sober. No wonder Riley had been distant when he picked her up at the airport, though Blythe hoped her anger was directed toward Paul, not him. “Was Oliver upset?”

  “No. He found the picture rather flattering.”

  He’d never meant to create a rift between her and her husband, and he was pleased with Oliver’s reaction. “I’d like to meet him one day.”

  “No. Not going to happen.” Like the morning mist on a lazy sunny morning, the tension dissolved from her body. “Between his protective streak and yours, I’d be smothered alive.”

  “Would you like me to talk to Paul?”

  Her head shook vigorously. “This is my battle. If you fight it for me, it’ll only add to the rumors. I have the situation under control. Honest.”

  While he wasn’t convinced about the latter part, he understood her point. “As you wish, but if he keeps pestering you, I’m chipping in.”

  She rolled those vibrant shamrock eyes at him, and his heavy breath caught in his throat. “I stand corrected. You’re worse than Ollie.”

  Being compared to her husband rang like a nice compliment.

  ***

  With the sun setting over a purple sky and the cool breeze blowing from the south, it would have been a perfect night to have dinner on an outdoor terrace, but Riley insisted they eat at Casa Grigia.

  Changing the venue would have given the impression she had something to hide, and she didn’t want Paul to believe he’d stumbled onto an illicit affair. To think she’d asked Blythe to keep their dinners secret in order not to hurt Paul’s feelings and to preserve the fragile peace in her office was an irony she wouldn’t soon forget.

  Parked across the street from Casa Grigia, Blythe fed quarters into a parking meter while she waited on the sidewalk next to him. “You’re one stubborn woman.”

  “Really? What did I do?”

  “The weather is great, but you chose to come to Casa. You’re making a point, but unless Paul is stalking us, he’ll never know we were
here tonight.”

  That sounded about right and foolish. “You could have dissuaded me.”

  “Me?” Mischievous glints twinkled in his blue-gray eyes. “I don’t fight losing battles, Shamrock.”

  Twice already, he’d called her Shamrock. Over the years, her friends had given her many nicknames, but no one had ever referred to her stubborn Irish streak in such a poetic way. She liked it.

  His hand touched her elbow. “Hungry?”

  “Starving.”

  They crossed the street. The outside door of Casa Grigia was open. She entered first and came to an abrupt halt inside the lobby.

  Near the sign inviting patrons to wait to be seated, Paul argued with the hostess.

  Behind her, Blythe bumped into her back. “Sorry.”

  Shocked by her nemesis’s presence, Riley couldn’t help but stare straight ahead without moving.

  The hostess looked in their direction and greeted them with a smile. “Mr. Huxley. Ma’am. If you please give me a moment to sort out this gentleman’s reservation, I’ll get your regular table ready on the second floor.”

  Paul spun around. “Huxley? And Ryle?” The look of surprise on his face appeared anything but genuine after it metamorphosed into a smirk. “You have a regular table on the second floor? How cozy.” His date, a cute strawberry blonde not much older than Rowan, giggled. “Suzy and I will go somewhere else. We wouldn’t dream of disturbing your…dinner.”

  His audacity showed no limits, and Riley would be damned if she let him crawl under her skin. “You’re leaving on our behalf?”

  “Don’t worry about us, Paul.” Blythe’s hand made gentle contact with the small of her back. “After all the trouble you went through to get this reservation, Riley and I wouldn’t want you to change venues. Your date would be too disappointed. Good night.”

  Led toward the exit by her dinner companion, Riley resisted the temptation to look over her shoulder at Paul’s expression. “Where are we going?” she murmured.

  “Outdoor terrace. I promise you’ll love the view.”

  ***

  The call from the station came as Oliver readied to go to bed, alone. He noted the address, got dressed, and jumped in his truck. Full and bright, the moon rose in the night sky and bathed the dark country road. As he drove toward the scene of the fire, he reviewed in his mind the unsolved cases he attributed to the mystery arsonist.

  The first fire razed Striking Star Bowling Alley shortly after Easter. Then two more were lit at the end of April. One was at Star Night Video Star, which caused more smoke than damage, the other occurred at Night Time Friends Toy Store, which thrashed their entire inventory.

  Mid-May, the arsonist struck twice in the same week. First, the children’s section of the library, which Ken had affectionately nicknamed Friend’s Corner and then Luther’s Gas Station. As luck had it, the pumps had been low in fuel, but the explosion was still seen kilometers away.

  At the beginning of June, another suspicious fire was set, this time at Rose-Lynn Weight Clinic. The building shed more than a few pounds as it turned into ashes.

  At the scene of every fire, Oliver had found a discarded can of paint thinner, the arsonist’s signature.

  At least he waits after business hours to target the sites. But there had to be a connection or a pattern to the attacks.

  “A bowling Alley, a video store, a toy store, a library, a gas station, a clinic, and now a pawnshop on Main Street,” he mused aloud. Not that he could pin the latest fire onto the paint thinner arsonist…Thinner. Yeah, that sounded like an appropriate name until they identified him. Before he blamed Thinner, however, he needed to ascertain the right accelerant was used.

  All the fires had occurred on a Tuesday or Friday night, and tonight was Tuesday. The odds pointed toward Thinner.

  The area on either side of the road was heavily wooded. Aware that deer and coyotes loved this particular narrow stretch of road, Oliver slowed down. The moon disappeared behind the top of the trees. Sticking out of the ditch, a yellow road sign warned of a series of sharp turns ahead. As he negotiated the first curve, he kept a tight right. A beam of light filtered through the branches, and a vehicle sped out of the next turn, straight on the centerline. Oliver jerked the steering wheel right to avoid a head-on collision. Tires screeched in the silent night. He glimpsed the driver, a young girl, her eyes wide-open. The vehicle, a dark station wagon, zoomed by him. His front wheel hit the unpaved, uneven shoulder.

  The truck swayed out of control and crashed into the ditch with a deafening thud.

  Chapter Thirteen

  On the veranda, moths and insects hovered around the light fixture, a replica of a railroad brakeman’s signal lantern.

  Home at last.

  Riley entered the house and discarded both her sandals and suitcase in the vestibule before proceeding to the kitchen.

  “Mom?” Standing by the dining table, Hunter greeted her with a weary smile. “Dad wasn’t sure if you were coming home tonight. You’re late.”

  The two of them should know she would have called if she had to spend an extra night away. “We had thunderstorms at the airport. My plane was delayed.” Tired after her long trip, she sat on a chair. “Where’s your dad?”

  “In the barn, checking the bandage on Astral’s leg.”

  Over the weekend, the stallion had tangled its hind leg in the barbed-wire fence. “And where’s his truck?” She hadn’t seen it when she parked beside Hunter’s car.

  “That is a long story.”

  Not a good story if Ollie came home without it. She propped her elbows on the edge of the table and cupped her chin into her hands. “I’m listening.”

  “The arsonist set another fire last night. On his way there, Dad encountered a speeding station wagon. To avoid a head-on collision, he drove into the ditch.”

  At the prospect of another tragedy, shivers coursed through her body. “Was he hurt?”

  “No, but the truck may never be the same.”

  Vehicles could be replaced, people could not. “What about the driver of the station wagon?”

  “It was a girl. Dad saw her face for a sec before he veered to avoid her. He didn’t think she looked old enough to have a license. She didn’t slow or stop for him.”

  “Nice.” The sarcastic remark spurted on its own. Underage or not, the girl needed to learn about responsibility, but it wouldn’t surprise Riley to learn she’d been driving under the influence. “Where was the fire?”

  “Pawnshop. Dad found an empty can of paint thinner in the back alley. It’s Thinner’s seventh fire.”

  “Thinner?” The nickname sounded appropriate. “Your dad’s idea or yours?”

  “Dad’s.” A deep frown crossed her son’s forehead, reminding her of Chad. “These are all the fires Thinner set.” With a tilt of the head, Hunter indicated sheets of paper covering the table. “He strikes on Tuesday or Friday night. Dad thinks it might be work related.”

  Seated across from him, she leaned over the table to have a better look. This was Ollie’s handwriting, and the words were upside down, but she read them as easily as if she was looking at them from Hunter’s place.

  Each sheet chronicled a different fire.

  #1 April 6th, Tuesday night, Striking Star Bowling Alley.

  #2 April 20th, Tuesday night, Star Night Video Store.

  #3 April 30th, Friday night, Night Time Friends Toy Store.

  #4 May 11th, Tuesday night, children’s section of the Library.

  #5 May 14th, Friday night, Luther’s Gas Station.

  #6 June 4th, Friday night, Rose-Lynn Weight Clinic.

  #7 June 22nd, Tuesday night, Weight In Gold Pawnshop.

  Except for the two nights, Riley didn’t see much of a pattern. “He seems to pick random dates and places.”

  “I’m not too sure about the places, Mom. Do you remember…” As he hesitated, Hunter raked his fingers through his short blond hair. “Do you remember the word game we used to play in the car whe
n we were little where we’d have to start a sentence with the last word of the previous sentence?”

  “Yes. Why?” The game had kept the children busy on the dreadful road trips to go visit Ollie’s mother.

  “It may not mean anything, but look. The first fire was at Striking Star. The second fire was at Star Night.” Hunter pulled a red pen from the front pocket of his shirt, and circled the words star. “The third fire was at Night Time Friends.” He underlined the words night. “The fourth fire was in the children’s section of the library, which you nicknamed Friend’s Corner.” He crossed out “Children’s Section” and wrote “Friend’s Corner” over it before tracing a rectangle around the words friend.

  One of the patrons had cross-stitched a bright sign welcoming the children to Friend’s Corner, and Riley had hung the frame on the inner wall where the patrons of the section could see it.

  “But if your pattern were sound, the location of the fifth fire would have started with corner, not with—” As an old sign flashed in her mind, her heartbeat accelerated in overdrive, and Luther died on her lips.

  “Luther doesn’t add up, I know.” Hunter reached out above the papers and patted her forearm. “Mom? Are you okay? You look like you’ve seen Medusa.”

  No, not Medusa. Something much more terrifying than my mother-in-law. “Luther’s gas station used to be called Corner Rose gas station.” A childhood game had given her son an insight into the mind of the arsonist. “It matches up, Hunter. Striking Star, Star Night, Night Time Friends, Friend’s Corner, Corner Rose, Rose-Lynn Weight, Weight In Gold.” As she spoke, she pointed at each name. “And the next target will start with gold. You need to show this to your dad.”

  “Show me what?”

  Startled by her husband’s voice, Riley turned around. Ollie stood in the doorframe of the kitchen, a roll of tension bandage in his hand.

  “Hunter figured out the arsonist’s pattern.”