Dominique fought bravely to keep her cool. The sexy older woman sashayed on the set, walked right up to Dominique, and squeezed her arm.

"Mommy's here," she said with a laugh. She was clearly the actress playing Dominique's mother in the film.

Stella rumbled onto the set for final makeup checks. She stopped at me last, her nose crinkling up with distaste at the sight of me, but then she caught herself.

"Great," she said.

Before she could run off, I whispered, "So who is that actress playing the mother?" If anyone knows the lowdown on a film set, it's the makeup and hair people. Nothing gets by them.

"Her name's Viveca something," Stella said, relieved to know there was another gossip on the set. "I think she's married to one of the investors, which is how she got the part. Like they say, it's who you know."

"She and Juan Carlos seem chummy," I said.

"That's the understatement of the year. Amy Jo told me she dropped her off at the hotel last night, and helped her up to her room with her bags. Before the elevator came back up, she saw Viveca dash down the hall to Juan Carlos's room with her toothbrush. This morning when she picked them up, they came down together. You do the math." Stella bounded off the set, and watched from the sidelines.

"Okay, quiet, everybody. We're rolling," screamed the assistant director.

"And action!" Larry hollered, thrilled to have this much authority.

Juan Carlos, wearing a green park ranger's uniform, launched into his cautionary monologue about the dangers of camping while a killer lurks about. He displayed all the gusto of a bad soap actor desperately trying to branch out. He was awful. But the rest of us reacted gamely, as if we were listening to one of Martin Luther King's speeches, and waited for our turn to speak and steal the spotlight.

That's when we all heard an incessant ringing. Juan Carlos kept going, not about to be deterred by some muffled annoyance.

Larry's face went beet red, and finally he screamed, "Cut!"

Everybody fell silent. All we heard was that damn ringing. I looked around, an exasperated look on my face, anxious to identify the idiot who forgot to turn off his cell phone. That's when it hit me. It was coming from my coat pocket. Oh God. The first shot of the movie. And I'd ruined it. I debated on whether I should ignore it, and keep the exasperated look on my face in place. Maybe no one would notice it was me. But all eyes were fixed upon my coat pocket, and I finally had to fess up.

"I am so sorry," I said.

Larry tapped his foot angrily as I yanked the phone out and pressed the talk button. I would've just turned it off, but I was afraid it might be Charlie.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Jarrod, it's me," Laurette said. "Is this a bad time?"

"Um, yes, actually it is," I said, as I slowly became unglued under the glares of my fellow cast and crew.

"Then just tell me quickly. How's Juan Carlos? Is he behaving himself?"

"Yes," I lied. Now was not the time to divulge the truth. There would be plenty of time to fess up, since every fiber of my being was telling me things were about to get much worse.

Chapter 14.

After my rather inauspicious first day on the set, I decided it was best to leave my cell phone in the trailer I shared with two other supporting actors in the cast while shooting my scenes. My relationship with Larry Levant, our esteemed director, improved dramatically after that. As for the rest of the cast, I got along famously with almost everyone. Even Juan Carlos and I managed to keep things professionally civil. We just stayed out of each other's way. Juan Carlos wanted the film to be a success. It was not in his best interest to stir up conflict with other cast members, so he cut a wide berth around me.

However, there was one notable cast mate I did not get along with right from the start. I despised Simon, the little spawn of Satan who was playing my son in the picture. On the first day of shooting, he demanded that I surrender the last Jell-O Pudding Pop, so he could suck on it between takes. Not accustomed to being ordered about by an overindulged child actor, and having always respected my fellow adult costars when I was in his shoes, I adamantly refused. He screamed at the top of his lungs for his mother, the director, and his agent. The first to arrive on the scene was Caitlin, his thirtysomething stage mom. Once alerted to what was bothering her little star, she tried appeasing him with a measly box of raisins. The screaming just got louder, piercing the air with such force I thought for a moment I'd blown out an eardrum. No wonder the mini-asshole's mother had a nervous tick.

"How about if you shared it with him?" Caitlin said with a pleading look. I was about to lay into her about her decidedly lax parenting skills when I spied a production assistant summoning Larry on the walkie-talkie. After ruining the first shot of the movie with my ringing cell phone, I thought it best to drop the matter. I didn't need to tick off the director twice in one week. I peeled off the plastic wrap, and handed the Jell-O Pop to Simon. He swiped it away from me with his piggish little hands and started devouring it without even a thank-you. I looked to his mother, who shrugged, as if to say, "What can you do?"

I was going to say, "I can strangle the little bugger until his fat ugly face explodes," but didn't want to risk social services swarming down on the set armed with whistles and restraining orders.

Crisis averted, I wandered over to watch Larry shoot the last take of the day with Juan Carlos and Dominique. It was a pivotal scene in the picture where they both profess their love for each other right before setting off into the woods together to vanquish the killer. Viveca watched from the sidelines. She gazed at Juan Carlos lovingly as if picturing herself in the scene with him as opposed to Dominique.

Although Juan Carlos was stiffer than Steven Seagal in an Adam Sandler comedy, Dominique showed real promise as an actress. As she clutched the forest green ranger's jacket Juan Carlos was wearing, the look in her eye betrayed real feelings, real emotion, and real desire. She made the stilted dialogue resonate because the delicate little flower really did love him.

Larry sat in his chair, his big round saucer eyes glued to his actors, practically orgasmic over Dominique's performance as he mouthed the dialogue along with her.

As they neared the end of the scene, a lone tear streaked down Dominique's face. She shyly wiped it away and said, "If we don't get him before he gets us, I want you to know, even if that mad killer carves out my heart with a hunting knife like he did to those other campers, it will still belong to you."

Okay, really bad dialogue. But she sold it. And a euphoric Larry screamed, "Cut! That's a wrap for today! Everybody have a nice weekend!"

Larry sprinted over to embrace Dominique. She accepted his accolades with graciousness, but kept one eye on Juan Carlos, who bounded off the set and over to Viveca. Juan Carlos, though obviously wanting to shower the older woman with affection, restrained himself when he realized I was watching. The last thing he needed was his wife's best friend calling her to report his onset shenanigans. He settled for a soft sweep of his lips across Viveca's still beautiful but aging and definitely pulled-back face.

Dominique excused herself from Larry, who was still fawning over her, and dashed off to her trailer. Once she was gone, Viveca was less apprehensive about where she put her hands. Right on Juan Carlos's butt. She yanked him closer, whispered something in his ear, and then with a flourish, grabbed her fur coat, threw on her oversized Christian Dior sunglasses despite the fact that it was already dark outside, and said her good-byes to the crew.

Juan Carlos watched her go with an adoring smile on his face. It faded when he noticed me watching the whole scene. With a scowl in my direction, he grabbed his leather jacket, tossed it over his shoulder, and marched off the set and down a trail to the parking area, where his Kawasaki motorcycle awaited him.

I gathered up my things, and followed him. I figured since Juan Carlos and Viveca had made such a production of leaving separately, then they were undoubtedly planning a secret rendezvous later. When I'd reached the end of the trail leading to the large paved lot at the foot of the park, Viveca was not there to greet him. But Dominique was. He marched up to her and enveloped her in a hug. They spoke softly, completely oblivious to me. I walked nonchalantly toward the Ford Taurus that Amy Jo had so kindly rented for me the day before in case I wanted to do some sightseeing over the weekend.

Juan Carlos brushed aside some of Dominique's hair to get a good look at her face. He smiled, and then kissed her gently on the lips. She quivered at his touch. This girl had practically been stalking him, and now he was acting as if she was on The Bachelorette and he was the last guy holding a rose. What was going on here? It was clear to me that Juan Carlos was two-timing Laurette. But I just couldn't figure out whom he was cheating with. Viveca or Dominique? Or both? That was too much to think about.

I slipped behind the wheel of the Taurus, and shut the door as quietly as possible. I didn't want Juan Carlos to know I was watching. He held Dominique in his arms, and they rocked back and forth, her head resting on his broad chest. He seemed to be whispering gentle apologies in her ear.

Finally, when Larry and his assistant director loudly pounded down the trail to the lot discussing the dailies from yesterday's shoot, Juan Carlos pulled away. He kissed the tip of his right index finger, and then pressed it to Dominique's lips. As she ran off giddily to her car, Juan Carlos peeked around to make sure there had been no witnesses, then put on his shiny black helmet and straddled his Kawasaki. Revving it up, he squealed out of the lot, heading, from what I was guessing, straight toward a hot night of unbridled sex with Viveca. I turned the ignition key, threw the Taurus into drive, and peeled out behind him. He headed straight for the 95 Freeway north, hit the on-ramp, and at that point I almost lost him. He effortlessly weaved the cycle in and out of traffic, getting farther and farther ahead of me.

Luckily, as we hit the Fort Lauderdale exits, traffic slowed and he cut down on the fancy maneuvering. Once past the city, the highway opened up, and it was easier to hit the gas and keep him in my sights while maintaining a safe distance.

We drove on 95 for over two hours. Where the hell was he going? Was he so afraid of getting caught that he had to drive to a remote part of the east coast of Florida? Or did Viveca have a quiet little getaway on the Sebastian River? She had a few minutes' head start, so she was probably putting on a little mood music and pouring a couple of glasses of Merlot. I could still see the bright red glow of the Kawasaki's taillight as it veered right off the freeway, ten minutes past the town of Vero Beach. It dawned on me exactly where I was. The little hamlet of Sebastian situated roughly midway between Orlando and Miami. I had been here many times before. This was the home of Clyde and Priscilla Jarvis. My parents. Like many Florida zip codes, Sebastian was populated primarily by East Coast retirees who had discovered the joys of golfing and square dancing. For my parents, it was paradise. They had bought a quaint two-story riverfront house at an affordable price after I turned eighteen and no longer needed them to manage my career. They had despised the Hollywood scene, and were more than happy to leave it behind. They had both grown up on the East Coast, and were blessed with grounded East Coast sensibilities. They loved the simple life of Florida, where they could lounge with a cocktail on their deck that overlooked the river and watch the space shuttles take off from Cape Canaveral a short distance away. Viveca was just shy of their age range, so it didn't surprise me that she had bought in the area as well.

Juan Carlos sped down Highway 111, and for a brief disquieting moment, I thought he was heading straight for my parents' house. But just a mile short, he pulled into the parking lot belonging to a flat, plain-looking structure. In front, a weathered hanging sign barely illuminated by a dull street lamp rocked in the heavy wind. It said SAND DRIFT MOTEL. Viveca had certainly presented herself as a woman of means with her fur coats and flashy jewelry. This was well beneath her. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe Juan Carlos was meeting Dominique, and at any moment, she would pull in behind me. As Juan Carlos pressed the kickstand of his bike down with the heel of his boot, I drove pass him so as not to raise any suspicion. I parked on the far end of the lot, facing him, turned off my engine, and shut down the lights.

Juan Carlos checked himself out in the rearview mirror of his Kawasaki, straightened his jacket, and popped a breath mint into his mouth. He ambled down the row of doors lining the one-story motel. When he reached door number six, he rapped on it twice with his fist. After a moment, the door opened, and I saw a young man step out. He was about Juan Carlos's height and slender of frame, with dark olive skin and wavy jet-black hair. He broke out into a sexy, winning smile when he saw Juan Carlos. The kid was about twenty-four. He had on a ripped pair of jeans, no shirt, and he was barefoot.

I had expected Viveca or Dominique and was surprised by this new character in the picture. I was even more surprised when he grabbed Juan Carlos's jacket and drew him close, covering Juan Carlos's mouth with his lips. They stood there, devouring each other, before Juan Carlos got self-conscious, glanced around to see if they were being watched, and then pushed the kid back in the room, following him inside and slamming the door behind him.

I sat motionless in my Ford Taurus. The question was no longer, "Who is Laurette's new husband sleeping with?" The question was, "Who isn't Laurette's new husband sleeping with?"

Chapter 15.

I staked out the Sand Drift Motel for the whole night. Juan Carlos and the young shirtless stud who had greeted him at the door never left the room once. When the sun rose hours later, I sat in the Taurus, bleary-eyed and exhausted, knowing full well that the night hadn't been nearly as satisfying for me as it had been for the occupants of room six. My scratchy throat ached for hot coffee, my mind imagining the jolt of caffeine that would help spring me to life. But if I left my post, I risked missing something that could shed some light on the salacious secrets of Juan Carlos Barranco.

With overwhelming proof, I was certain at this point that Juan Carlos was a stinking, lying cheat who never really loved Laurette, and used her heart and kindness to get ahead as an actor. But a murderer? With the San Simeon police not any closer to handing out an indictment in the murder of Austin Teboe at the Hearst Castle, my firm belief that Juan Carlos was somehow behind it all was a shaky proposition at best.

My cell phone battery was dead, so I plugged the jack into the cigarette lighter and started the car to give it some juice. Luckily I was on the Verizon America's Choice plan that gave me unlimited calling access anywhere in the country. I hit the speed-dial button for home, and waited for a grumpy, groggy Charlie to pick up. I got our machine. It was eight-thirty in the morning in Florida. That meant it was only five-thirty on the West Coast. Where the hell was he? Why couldn't I reach him? Was he on some all-night stakeout like me? I tried his cell number and got his voice mail. I was beginning to regret accepting the job in Florida. Charlie and I always worked things through, but maybe this time I had gone too far. Maybe he had reached his limit with me, and there would be no coming back from this one. As I pondered the state of my relationship, I spied a sleepy, long-haired desk clerk in his late twenties stirring inside the registration office. Since the shirtless kid in room six had arrived before Juan Carlos, chances were he had registered himself.

I stepped out of the Taurus, stretched my legs, and bounded across the parking lot, keeping one eye on the door to room six to make sure no one came out while I was in plain view.

The bells above the door clanged as I entered the office and startled the laconic clerk with the half-closed eyes.

"Can I help you?" he said with a slow, Southern drawl, barely offering me a cursory glance.

"Yes," I said, mustering up a chipper, friendly voice. "I was wondering if you could tell me who is in room six?"

"Can't. It's like a rule or something." His gaze suddenly caught mine, and his half-closed eyes popped opened all the way.

"Oh," I said with proper disappointment. I reached behind for the wallet tucked into the back pocket of my jeans. I was not above a little bribe since it looked like the kid, wearing a torn, stained Counting Crows tour T-shirt and faded cutoffs, barely made enough for beer money.

He was still staring at me. "You're . . . you're that guy. From the TV show."

Sometimes my past proved to be an invaluable asset.

"Go to Your Room!" I offered with a smile.

"Yeah, I watched you all the time when I was just a rug rat. You had that saying, the one that was on all the T-shirts," he said, straining to remember. "What was it?"

"Baby, don't even go there!"

He shook his head. "No, that wasn't it. It was something like 'Baby, don't you be messing with me.'"

I wasn't going to correct him. Let him think he was right if it got me what I needed.

"That's right," I smiled.

"Man, you've gotten old."

My smile faded.

Oblivious to his social faux pas, the kid prattled on, "So what the hell are you doing way out here in the boondocks?"

"I thought I spotted a friend of mine from the good old days. One of the kids from Head of the Class."

"You're shitting me, man! No way! Which one?"

I had to think fast. I had gone clubbing with pretty much all of them at some point during the heyday of our various sitcoms. There was one in particular, though, I had always thought was adorable. I went with him. "The one who played the preppy, snooty kid."

"Fuck, yeah! I remember him! That show was awesome, man!"

"Totally awesome," I lied. When my show was canceled, my agent tried to float the idea of adding me as a new student in the show's third season, but they didn't bite so I forever hated the show.

"So where did you see him?"

"Right here. At the Sand Drift."

I thought the clerk was going to drop dead from shock. Not one, but two big stars at this obscure, crumbling motel were almost too much for him to take. He snatched up the registration book off the desk, and began skimming through the pages.

"I saw him go into room six," I said, praying he wouldn't ask me the actor's name because I was drawing a blank.

The clerk ran his finger down the page and studied the name. He looked up at me hopefully. "David Miller?"

I shook my head and sighed. "Nope. Not him. Damn. He looks just like him."

"Fuck, man, what a bummer. I was going to offer him a free continental breakfast and get him to be the first one to sign our VIP guest book."

I glanced out the window and saw David Miller heading straight for the office. I turned to the clerk and said quickly, "Oh, well. Thanks anyway."

"Hey, would you sign it?" the clerk said. "I know you didn't stay here or anything, but who the fuck's gonna know?"

I figured it was quicker to do as he asked rather than argue, so I scribbled my name illegibly in his scuffed blue notebook, dropped the pen, and held open the door as David Miller swept inside.

"I'm here to check out," he said gruffly, tossing the keys down on the desk. He never looked my way and I took the opportunity to slip outside.

Juan Carlos stood by his bike and put on his helmet. I turned my head the other way as I passed him, hoping he wouldn't recognize me, but he was lost in his own thoughts.

As I crossed the parking lot, I noticed a black Lincoln Town Car situated across the street and facing the motel. Two giants, one Caucasian, one Hispanic, were stuffed into the front seat. The one in the passenger seat held binoculars up in front of his face and watched me as I headed toward the Taurus. When he noticed that I was watching him watch me, he quickly turned and spoke to the driver. The Town Car roared to life, spun out of the gravelly road across from the motel, and sped off down Highway 111.

I hopped into my car just as David Miller ambled out of the registration office. Juan Carlos sat on the bike, twisting the handlebar accelerator so the bike's engine revved loud enough to accentuate his macho posturing. Juan Carlos was obviously proud to have such a powerful machine wedged between his muscular, toned thighs.

David stopped, caressed Juan Carlos's cheek with the back of his index finger, whispered a good-bye, and then headed to his own car, a sleek red BMW from the five hundred series. Whoever this kid was, he had money. So why meet at the dumpy Sand Drift?

Juan Carlos zipped out of the lot and headed back toward the 95 Highway. I knew he was returning to Miami. He had already gotten what he'd come for, and there was no reason to hang around on this desolate stretch of road anymore. I debated following the kid to find out more about him, but I was afraid someone in the area might recognize me. And if it got back to my parents that I was in town and didn't at least stop in to say hello, Jarvis family relations would undoubtedly be dealt a severe blow.

It was a five-minute jaunt to River Oak Drive, and as I pulled up to the white two-story house with its breathtaking river view, I saw my father, Clyde, fussing in his tiny vegetable garden that sprouted one cucumber a year if he was lucky. Oh, well, it gave him something to do between golf games and square-dancing competitions.

The Ford Taurus pulling into the small paved driveway caught his attention, and as I waved with a bright smile, his face lit up. My father was a retired Navy captain, who'd spent most of his life touring ports around the world. He cut a striking figure at six feet four inches tall, and had a barrel chest that would have made him physically intimidating were it not for his sweet, kind demeanor. His silver hair was thinning, and he wore thick glasses that suggested his age, but his broad face darkly tan from nine months a year in the Florida sunshine was nearly wrinkle-free. Although seventy, most people would put him somewhere in his mid-fifties.

When Dad retired from the Navy, I had just landed my first commercial. I was five years old, and it was a thirty-second spot for Cap'n Crunch cereal. Although all I had to do was salute a cartoon character and say, "Ahoy, matey!" before diving into a bowl of cereal, seeing me on television made him cry. For a Navy captain, my dad cried a lot. He cried when I got my sitcom. He cried when I guest-starred on his favorite show, JAG, as a Navy admiral's homicidal son. He cried when I broke up with my first boyfriend. He was always proud of me no matter what I did or whom I was dating. His years of military service did little to diminish his loving acceptance of me. I was his son and I was gay. Big deal.

As I stepped out of the Taurus, he rushed at me and enveloped me in his big, comforting, tanned arms. "Well, hello, stranger!"

"Hi, Dad," I said breathlessly as he squeezed the last gulps of air out of me with his bear hug.

"How's the movie going? How's Charlie?"

Before I could answer, my mother, Priscilla, came sauntering out of the house. A foot and a half shorter than my father, she was your typical fiery redhead, a ball of energy and full of uncensored attitude. She carried a crossword puzzle and pen, and pushed her husband aside to steal a quick hug for herself. "He just got here, Clyde. Don't hit him with so many questions!"

Although my mother had once run my career, she was not a fan of Hollywood. She was much happier now, mingling with real people outside of the spotlight. And although she'd lived among the gays while residing in LA and counted many of them as her close friends, in a stunning twist of irony she was not as accepting as my Navy dad. Her reaction was similar to Cher's when her only daughter, Chastity Bono, had her coming-out party. "I love the gays, they've made my career, but please God, not my kid!" She cried, too, when I broke up with my first boyfriend, although upon closer inspection, I was able to identify them as tears of joy. In the early days of our relationship, Charlie had worked his magic, and she instantly adored him, treating him like her own son. She chose to ignore what went on between us behind closed doors and loved us both unconditionally. But she made it very clear she didn't understand what had made me this way.