LITMIR.BIZ

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      “I know I’m inexperienced, but—”

      “It’s not that.”

      “Well, what, then?”

      “First, I don’t want to lose you. Second, you probably won’t get the job. Third, you’ll make enemies if you do.”

      We talked a bit longer. In spite of his concerns, Chris thought it was remotely possible that Greg Langenfeld would like the idea of a “fresh young voice.” He agreed that writing about living in the Nash house and visiting the Parks Academy would make good spec pieces. By the time I hung up, I was very nearly convinced it would be worth risking the wrath of people like Mary Beth Sweeney to try for the new gig. Even if I didn’t land the job, I told myself, I’d be building my portfolio. I swore to Chris I’d do it all on my own time. I’m not sure he believed that was possible, especially when I followed my declaration with a request to leave early.

      “Of course,” he said. “You know our deal.”

      “Our deal” is that I’m willing to work nights and weekends on a moment’s notice in exchange for a few hours off here and there. It usually works to my advantage, because emergencies are rare in arts and entertainment. I’ve had to work at night only twice: once when a comedy magician keeled over dead on stage, and once when a Chinese acrobatic troupe had visa difficulties.

      Really, Chris Farr is the best boss anyone could ever have. His only flaw is that he keeps his private life private. I don’t know where he lives, where he went to school, or even his sexual preference. The only tidbit he’s ever let slip is that some of his past occurred in Huntsville, Alabama. As for the rest, he might as well become a shadow as soon as he steps outside The Light.

      I’ll talk this whole column thing over with David tomorrow night, I decided as I turned back to my inbox full of press releases. It will be perfect for keeping us off the subject of babies.

      Curtis Weaver surprised me by dropping by after lunch. I walked out to the front desk to meet him.

      “Slight change of plans. I’ve got to go out of town,” he said, handing me a set of keys. “Sorry I can’t give you a personal grand tour of the Nash house, but everything’s pretty straightforward. Call me on my cell if you need anything.”

      I took the keys, which were dangling from a brass keychain with a tag that said “Lady Luck.”

      “Oh, and I almost forgot. Never use the front door. The big key goes to the door on the side that’s under the grape arbor.”

      “What’s wrong with the front door?” I asked.

      “Hasn’t been used since Lollipop Lassiter’s day.”

      “What’s this little key for?”

      “Oh, that’s for the basement. Colby’s studio.”

      “Colby?”

      “Colby Nash—didn’t I mention him?”

      Even though the property now belonged to Kayla Lord, it turned out there was still a Nash attached to it. The youngest of three brothers who had grown up in the house, Colby was the family’s black sheep. Instead of following tradition and becoming an undertaker, Colby had decided his calling in life was making movies. The basement had been his studio since he was in high school, and he’d made a deal with Kayla to rent it for a few months while he found new space.

      “He really does make movies,” Curtis told me. “Sci-fi, horror, that kind of thing. You won’t ever see them in theaters—they go straight to video and supposedly sell well in Thailand. You can find them online if you’re interested.”

      I was more interested in whether I really wanted to share a house with a stranger. I mentioned my concern to Curtis.

      “Colby only has a key to the basement,” he said. “And you can’t get into the house from down there. It has a separate door outside.”

      “That’s what the little key opens?”

      “Yeah. It also opens the gate to the yard behind the swimming pool, but I left that gate open for the guy who’s building the tortoise burrow.”

       The tortoise burrow?

      It was just one more thing Curtis had forgotten to mention. Besides the Steven Spielberg wannabe living in the basement, there would be a fifty-year-old desert tortoise named Oscar living in the backyard. Kayla Lord had recently adopted Oscar from the Las Vegas chapter of the Tortoise Protection Society. Somehow, Curtis’s assurances that “Old Oscar will be no trouble at all” did little to calm my nerves. Besides a tragically short-lived guinea pig I was given when I was ten, the only animal I’ve ever called my own was a stray cat that decided to move in with me last winter. I still considered Sekhmet mine, but she had quickly realized that my sister-in-law was a much better kitty mother than I could ever hope to be. Sierra and I have negotiated a “joint custody” arrangement, which at least makes it easy for me to be away for a month without having to take the cat away from her regular haunts.

      “The guy who’s building the burrow is keeping Oscar at his place until it’s done,” Curtis said. “You won’t have to worry about him for another few days, but I left Oscar’s manual on the dining room table.”

       His manual?

      “Look, I’ve got to run,” Curtis said, “but call me if you need anything.”

      “Thanks, Curtis,” I said.

      “Thank you, Copper. Kayla really didn’t want to have to fly back from Singapore to take care of Oscar. She definitely owes you one.”

      Chapter 5

      “A great place to call home.” That’s the all-American slogan of Henderson, the city south of Las Vegas that used to be an island in the sand. Then, like rising bread dough, both Henderson and Las Vegas expanded to the point where the two cities bumped up against each other.

      Because David lives in Henderson, I’m more familiar with the place than I would be otherwise. He’d pointed the Parks Academy out to me a couple of times when we were first dating, but just to make sure I’d find it on my own, I printed out directions and a map.

      I already knew from my earlier drive-bys that the Anna Roberts Parks Academy was surrounded by a formidable fence, so I wasn’t completely surprised that the entrance gate had a guard. He set down his oversized Coke cup when I pulled up to his kiosk.

      “I’m Copper Black, here to see Marilyn Weaver,” I said.

      “Oho! Just who I was a-waitin’ for,” he said as he scribbled something on his clipboard. Then he turned off his television and did something to make the gate in front of me begin to swing open. “Wait just a sec, please.”

      He pulled a baseball cap over his bald dome and popped out the side of his booth. Wedging himself behind the wheel of a golf cart, he pulled in front of my minivan and waved at me to follow.

      Just past the kiosk a landscaped traffic island featured a carved stone sign. “Anna Roberts Parks Academy,” it read in large chiseled letters. Underneath, a delicate italic script spelled out “Reach for the stars.”

      Zipping into a parking lot, the guard pulled up near a space next to a white pickup truck and pointed. He waited while I pulled into it, then I stepped out into the afternoon furnace and locked my door.

      “Where—?”

      “Hop in, miss,” he said before I could finish. He patted the seat next to him and smiled. “I’m driving you. Nobody’s getting heatstroke on my watch.”

      The campus seemed deserted as we rolled down a tree-shaded lane and pulled up in front of a tan two-story building with big letters over the door that spelled out “Beeman Hall.”

      “Ms. Carpenter’ll help you,” my chauffeur said. “Her desk is just inside the door.” He offered

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