A Script for Danger (Nancy Drew Diaries #10)(10)

I considered that. If either of Nysa’s guesses were correct, Sal wouldn’t be a viable suspect. In order for him to continue torturing people or to keep receiving paychecks, the film shoot would have to continue. It wasn’t enough to bump Sal off my radar, but at this point it was more important for me to discuss the case with Alex.

As George and I followed Nysa across the parking lot, I spotted a piece of paper lying on the asphalt and stopped to pick it up.

“What’s that?” George inquired.

Nysa stopped and turned around. “Oh, that’s a call sheet,” she said when she saw the paper in my hand. “It tells you everything about a specific day on set. What time everyone has to be there, what scenes we’re shooting, which actors are involved, how many extras we need.”

George peered over my shoulder. “You make one of these every day?”

Nysa nodded. “Well, not me, personally, but someone on my team does. Every crew member gets one for the following day before he or she leaves the set.”

“Can I keep this one?” I asked.

Nysa nodded, then led us to the lawn behind the train station, where several picnic tables had been set up in the middle of a vast buffet. A pair of tents protected the food and the crew from the hot sun.

“All right, girls, catch you later!” Nysa exclaimed before rushing off, barking commands into her walkie-talkie.

George eagerly got in line for food, her eyes gleaming. Bess joined us seconds later.

“Where have you guys been?!” she exclaimed. “You missed an amazing performance from Brian.”

“Oh, you know,” I replied, trying to sound as vague as possible in the presence of so many unknown ears, “just poking around.”

As we served ourselves pasta, potatoes, vegetables, and meat from large trays, I carefully observed the various crew members, thinking about the lengthy list on the back of Nysa’s call sheet. There had been at least one hundred people on there, not including the extras, security guards, and reception guests. We might have identified a few potential suspects, but we hadn’t even interacted with most of the cast and crew.

When George finally joined Bess and me, her plate was piled at least six inches high.

“You’re like a bottomless pit!” Bess cried.

Alex beckoned us to his table at the edge of the tent, and we hurried over to join him. Brian sat across from Alex, while Cora was perched on the edge of the bench, fiddling with some settings on her camera.

“Have a seat, girls!” Alex offered.

George plopped down and promptly began eating her turkey burger. I put my tray down next to hers, but Bess just stood frozen in place, staring at Brian. He was drinking some kind of green, lumpy liquid from a clear thermos.

“Bess, come on!” I called, suppressing a smile. “You can squeeze in next to me.”

“Hey, Cora, you’d better give me copies of all this footage you’re taking, okay? I’ll give you my e-mail,” Brian said.

Cora beamed. “Absolutely, Brian!”

I raised an eyebrow in George’s direction as if to say, oh, so Brian can see her footage, but nobody else can!

“Whoa, guys. I don’t want any behind-the-scenes stuff out there yet!” Alex exclaimed.

“Obviously, Alex,” Cora replied defiantly. “Brian meant after the shoot, right?”

“Of course,” Brian said. He finished his green drink. “I’m all done . . . you can have my seat.” He stood up and gave Bess a friendly nod. “I have to go over my lines, anyway.”

“Um. Thank you?” Bess responded breathlessly.

Just as she sat down, I noticed that Brian had left something behind: a copy of The Hamilton Inn screenplay with his name printed in black ink on the cover page. There was a comic book sticking out of it, and I could see the words No. 1 of the Blue Ranger Series printed in one corner. I tried to get a closer look, but a hand quickly moved in and scooped up the script.

“There it is! I was so worried.” I recognized the anxious, well-dressed young man I’d seen hanging around Brian earlier.

“You’re Omar, right?” I asked, and introduced myself.

He nodded, keeping one eye on his phone. “Omar Billings. I’m Brian’s assistant. Oh! That, too.” He grabbed the empty thermos with his free hand.

“What is that green goop, anyway?” George asked.

“It’s a kale-bee-pollen-oatmeal-flax smoothie!” Omar snapped, as if it were the most common thing in the world. “Brian says these help him stay fit and focused.”

Alex swallowed a bite of his hamburger. “I keep telling Brian that he doesn’t need to bulk up for this role; his character is just supposed to be a regular guy! But he insists on looking like a movie star anyway.”

Omar seemed to take Alex’s comment as criticism. “He is a movie star!” he fired back. “What do you expect?”

Before Alex could respond, Omar’s phone started buzzing. He leaped to attention and hurried off toward Brian’s trailer.

“I need a new memory card,” Cora announced brusquely, and flounced away.

As soon as we were alone, Alex leaned in. “So, any news? What’s the latest?”

“Well,” I replied slowly, “Sal is bitter enough to want to hurt people. We haven’t ruled him out, but whoever climbed to the top of that trailer and cut that hole had to have been less . . .”