“Yeah, but Flashing Lights isn’t going to be the artistic comeback that would justify taking so many crap roles,”
she says.
“You said there was something impressive about the letter,” I redirect. “What was it?”
“It’s not just the letter,” she says, “check the dates on these.”
In the front room of my house and extending into the living room are dozens and dozens of pots, some with live flowers, some with dead flowers, and some with only soil.
I bend down and look where Danna’s pointing.
“June 5, 2013,” I say aloud.
“Now the next one,” she says.
I move over and read the date off the next flower pot, “June 6, 2013.”
“Each one of these was planted every day, one after the other for a year,” Danna says. “The newest one—it’s over there by the door—is from three days ago.”
“Where was all of this?” I ask.
“On the sidewalk out front,” Danna answers.
“I was going to ask why the security guys didn’t do anything, but if she wasn’t on the property—”
“No, they would have seen her,” Danna interrupts. “They should have seen her, anyway. It must have taken a long time to set all of these pots out in chronological order by planting date, but nobody saw anything, neighbors, no one.”
“What about the security tapes?” I ask.
“Doesn’t cover where she was outside the fence,” Danna says. “I called the cops and they came by and everything, so it’s all taken care of. I guess the only thing we’ve got to do now is hope they catch her while we figure out what to do with all of these flowers.”
“You’d almost think something like this would be good in a movie,” I tell her.
“Yeah,” she scoffs. “You’d have the crew cursing your name every time one of the plants dies out of order, though. How was the weekend?”
“It was okay, I guess,” I tell her. “It didn’t really go off the way it usually does.”
“No sex in the hot tub of the presidential suite this time, huh?” she asks.
“Oh, that only happened the one time,” I protest. “No, I don’t know, I’m starting to think that maybe she and I could actually be friends. You know, she told me she got her first movie role after winning a contest in the newspaper.”
“Really?” Danna asks without inflection.
“Yeah,” I tell her, undaunted by her grumpiness, “the role was to be an extra in some low-budget kids movie, but the director liked her look and bumped her into a speaking role. That’s how she got her start.”
“It’s nice to hear that not everyone goes for the blood pacts and the soul-selling in order to get their foot in the door like you did,” Danna says. “By the way, I’ve got a thing for the two of you next week if you can. It’s a new show on prime time—”
“I don’t want to be doing so many interviews and drop-ins while I’m working on a movie,” I remind Danna. “Seriously, it divides my focus and I don’t have the time for it.”
“I can get you out of it,” Danna says, “but I think they’re going to insist on your costar.”
“Why would they want her and not me?” I ask.
“Hey, now you’re starting to sound like my client again,” Danna says. “Oh, and Penelope called. She said that she’d love to see you this weekend if you’ve got the time. If not, she says she understands, but I kind of got the feeling something was going on there.”
“Any idea what kind of something?” I ask.
“She didn’t say,” Danna answers. “If you ask me, it’s probably something to do with that asshole she’s married to.”