Legacy of Silence. Flo Fitzpatrick
did. So quit whining, take a red-eye and be ready to knock ’em dead Thursday. I’m emailing you sides and as much character analysis as the skimpy sheet provided,” Brooks Tanner practically growled into the phone. “Someday I’m going to revolutionize the entire industry by demanding that in-depth casting breakdowns become the norm.”
Miranda chuckled. “Dream on, darlin’ dream on. Agents from the days of vaudeville have tried and failed. Okay. I’m already online. I’ll see what I can find for cheap flights and get there tomorrow sometime. Give me the details and maybe we can squeeze in a little agent/actress coffee while I’m in town. Wait. Scratch that. Let’s make it a meal at China Tan’s. I need hot ’n’ spicy anything with peanut sauce on it.” She chuckled. “And a fortune cookie reading, Nice Job! Movie Yours!”
“It’s a date,” Brooks said. “Now go pack. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
* * *
SIXTEEN HOURS LATER Miranda was in a Manhattan studio smiling at five men in suits who were apparently producers and the only other woman in the room—Wendy Konstanza. Miranda had just taken a big breath and was ready to read her lines opposite the bored production assistant when a curve ball came sailing past home base.
In the less than twenty-four hours since Brooks had called her, the producers of The Agency (precisely which agency not specified and hopefully non-existent in the real world) had begun to consider options for the character Miranda was reading for, a spy with the unlikely but entertaining name of Miami Montreville. The original script (and the sides) had called for Miami to die.
But the producers and screenwriters were obviously thinking “sequel” and hadn’t decided whether to let Miami miraculously survive what any sane person would consider certain death.
Now, instead of a scripted death scene, Miranda was plunged into the land of “wake up, realize you’re alive and escape,” which translated into “improvise, Miranda.” The character breakdown hadn’t included much of the plot for The Agency apart from, “Miami Montreville, female spy, dies in Indonesia while on a mission.” Miranda wasn’t terribly familiar with the geography of Indonesia but she knew Jakarta was a big city and big cities have restaurants and shopping malls so she figured those would be great places for a resurrected spy to duck into and find a cell phone some poor tourist had carelessly left on the table. Miranda idly wondered if plans were being made for an actual location shoot in Jakarta, hopefully during winter months, but she shelved that thought for later.
All was going well. Wendy liked Miranda’s improv and the guys in suits gulping coffee nodded a lot during Miranda’s attempts to come up with outrageous lines spoken into an imaginary cell phone.
Then came the final twist.
Wendy held up her hand. “Miranda? Nice job. But we’d like to see a little interaction with another human.” She gestured to her assistant, who opened a door and ushered in an actor. Miranda nearly shouted, He’s not human! He’s a rodent!
Grant Spencer stepped inside the studio. He appeared to be as stunned as Miranda.
“Hi, Grant.”
“Miranda.”
Wendy glanced from one to the other. “You two know each other?”
Miranda nodded. “We do.” She hurriedly added, “We actually just finished doing a show together, although it was my impression that Grant was about to start directing Topaz in Delirium.”
Grant’s color changed from red to white to red again “I am. But it’s stalled for who knows how long, so I’m free.”
“Ah.” Why is it I can come up with terrific lines for a superspy, but “ah” is the only thing that drips out of my mouth when I want to be brilliant? She trusted that her improvisational skills would kick in again once she and Grant were given the basics of the next scene.
They did. She and Grant were used to playing opposite one another on stage and both were professional enough not to let any personal issues sneak into their performances. Wendy seemed pleased again, as did the suits. An hour later, Miranda finished calling out goodbyes and began briskly walking down Eighth Avenue to meet her agent.
“Miranda!”
She turned. “Grant.”
“I wanted to ask how you’re doing. I was worried about you after our talk during the Illumination party...uh, a couple of weeks ago. You kind of disappeared.”
Miranda looked directly into Grant’s pale blue eyes. “It was less than a week, Grant. And I didn’t disappear. I flew down to Birmingham, and now I’m here. I fly back tomorrow.”
“Why?”
“Why, what?”
“Why are you going back down to Alabama? I thought your stepmother drove you crazy.”
“She does.”
“So why are you heading back?”
“Why are you being nosy?”
He inhaled sharply. “Whoa! That was rude.”
“No. It was honest. If you must know, I’m doing inventory on the estate of a good friend who recently passed away. And, I’m meeting Brooks in about twenty minutes, so I see no reason to hang out in the street making small talk. Good luck with getting a part in this movie and I trust you wish me the same.”
“Oh.”
“Bye.”
She whirled around and briskly crossed West Forty-Sixth Street at Eighth then headed down Ninth Avenue. She was absurdly pleased that Grant’s last word had been a mere “Oh.” So much more vacuous than “Ah,” which at least signaled the speaker was thinking of something brilliant to say.
Miranda arrived at China Tan’s with seventeen minutes to spare. She ducked into her favorite art gallery, A. J. Rinaldi’s, which was conveniently located next to the restaurant.
“Miranda, great to see you!” the manager exclaimed before enveloping her in a huge hug.
“Hey, Jason. You, too! I know, I know, it’s been ages but I’ve been working nonstop and just haven’t had the chance to come by.” She loved A. J. Rinaldi’s. The gallery sold enough high-end artwork to pay for its midtown address, but the manager, Jason Devere, and the other employees were friendly and just as willing to help clients choose one of the less costly pieces
The staff was not only friendly, they were knowledgeable. After Miranda finishing oohing and aahing over a sculpture she knew she’d never be able to afford, lightning struck. “While I’m here, I wanted to ask if you’ve ever heard of an artist named Benjamin Auttenberg? He was imprisoned in Terezin, the concentration camp in the Czech Republic. He died there in 1945.”
“Auttenberg?” Jason’s interest was apparent. “Talk about a blast from the past. I haven’t heard anyone mention Auttenberg in years. There’s a lot of mystery surrounding him—as there is with most of the artists who were imprisoned.”
“Please tell me.”
“Well, you already know that Auttenberg was a Czech artist. I believe he and his family lived in Prague before the war, which wasn’t far from Terezin. His works had begun to sell not long before he ended up in the camp, along with his wife and child. Rumors have floated for years that he continued to paint while he was at Terezin. The only thing that’s certain is that he was killed in the camp just before it was liberated. I’ve heard from some dealers that a few of his paintings ended up in the hands of private collectors. And of course, there were the Nazi generals who were forced to hand over a piece or two after the war, although those were actually the works he’d done back in Prague. They were stolen directly from his home before it was burned to the ground. The most interesting rumor is that his wife transported his Terezin artwork to America, but Mrs. Auttenberg was never located.”
“Until now,” Miranda muttered.
“Meaning?”