Page 48 of Just Killing Time


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Damn. Renauld was going to have a fit. “Anything else?”

Charlie gave her an apologetic shrug. “Yeah, uh, the guy who lives there?”

“Yes?”

“He did some redecorating.”

“Oh, God.”

“I think he likes the color green.”

“How green?”

“Think two tons of strained peas sprayed on four walls. It ain’t pretty.”

Double damn.Before Caro could go on a rant about how the man had signed a contract agreeing not to make any principal changes to his home before the shoot, Charlie continued, “And, there’s these…things everywhere.”

“Things?”

“Yeah. Little ceramic stuff. I guess maybe his mother or girlfriend makes it. There’s all this crap on every surface in the place, complete with price tags and the logo for a local store that sells them.”

This time, the four-letter word that spilled out of her mouth didn’t start with the letter “d.”

MICK TRIED HARD to ignore the throng of people as he headed downtown to mail a package at the post office Saturday morning. The crowd was gathered on Decatur Street, listening to some guy with a megaphone calling out instructions. He’d just about made it past the insanity when he felt someone grab his arm. “This! This is what I want!”

He gave the guy who grabbed him a, “Hands off, buddy,” stare.

The man was dressed straight off the pages ofGQ, and had a balding head which probably reached Mick’s chin. He still ignored Mick’s frown. “You see? Appropriate look for a man on the street, in the daytime, in the fall.” He shot Mick a look. “But go put on a jacket. It’s supposed to be October.”

Mick shook his head. “You got the wrong guy, mister.”

“I am not a meremister,” the man replied with an offended sniff. “I’m Renauld Watson, the director of this production. If you want to double your twenty dollars extra pay, help me get these sheep back in their pens to remove their spring wool.”

Sheep. Spring wool. Mick looked around, confused as hell by this man who talked a mile a minute and sniffed in a peculiar watery way every third word. “Like I said. You got the wrong guy. I’m just going to the post office.”

“You’re not an extra?”

Mick shook his head.

“Then what are you doing on my set?”

“I believe this is called a public street.”

Mr. Watson crossed his arms. “And I own it for the day.”

Before Mick could reply, he heard Police Chief Daniel Fletcher. “Uh, you bought the right to close the street to automobile traffic, Mr. Watson. This is a living, breathing town. You’ve got no say about who walks on the sidewalk.”

Watson looked ready to argue, but before he could do so, something on the corner crossed his eye. “No, no, no! No advertisements in the store windows.” He stalked off to deal with some poor merchant who’d apparently tried to capitalize on the TV crew by putting up a huge banner with the name and address of his store.

“This is a madhouse,” Mick said, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Yeah, definitely. Sophie’s loving it.”

Mick exchanged an amused look with his future brother-in-law. He wasn’t surprised Sophie would enjoy this. Since his little sister had begun to emerge from her cocoon of secrecy, she was revealing her true identity as a bloodthirsty butterfly.

“You look like shit,” Daniel said in a matter-of-fact manner.

“Oh, thanks.”

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