shot Brett a glance that was less than friendly. “We’re so sorry about the bad timing. Dave thought we’d have this straightened out before you flew down. Sadly, that didn’t happen. Now, what Brett failed to mention is that our firm has no intention of allowing this second will to stand. Dave and I are challenging its validity. I was here with him the day Miss Virginia signed the will naming you her sole heir—”
“Cort, you’re stalling,” Brett said. “Get on with it.”
“If you’ll quit interrupting and let me get a full sentence out, it would help! Ms. Nolan, the Brennan firm is contesting this so-called new will. You can’t live here for the time being, but you’ll still be cataloguing the possessions. The catch is you have to do the inventory with the second claimant. I personally think it’s ridiculous, but Judge Winston Rayborn, the nutcase who issued the injunction, thinks this is a fair and reasonable solution.”
“The locks will be changed after you leave today,” Brett added. “The keys will be provided to you and my client once you’ve made arrangements for doing the inventory. Paralegals from our offices will pick the keys up each time you finish. That way no one can sneak back in. It’s tricky and annoying but that’s the judge’s ruling.”
Miranda bit her lip. She’d gone from inheritor to homeless to accused thief, all within the past ten minutes. For a split second she contemplated flying right back to Manhattan, but her spine stiffened and she realized she was going to fight this. She wanted Virginia’s house.
Cort gave her a reassuring wink. “Don’t worry about it. We’re going to deal with this and you’ll be living here in no time.”
Miranda finally had enough presence of mind to say, “I didn’t think Miss Virginia had any relatives. Who’s this pesky other claimant?”
Brett gestured behind her. Miranda turned. Russ Gerik had entered the living room and was standing beside the piano as though it were his. He smiled at Miranda.
“BROOKS, YOU ARE the most incredible agent in the history of show business, but this is nuts! I just got here,” Miranda groaned. “On the other hand here didn’t end up being where I thought it was.”
“What are you babbling about?”
“Never mind. I’m currently at my Dad’s—which means I’m also at Farrah’s—instead of sleeping in my brand-new bed at Virginia’s house. Two days so far.” She shuddered. “She’s trying to teach me to cook.”
Brooks howled. “I’d buy tickets to see Ms. Miranda Nolan in the kitchen! But this is more important. I swear. So book a flight and get up here—like yesterday. You’re perfect for this role. Wendy Konstanza is casting and she specifically requested that you read for the part of Miami Montreville, superspy. I gather she caught your stellar performance in Illumination and was impressed. And Miranda, this is a one shot deal. They’re not doing callbacks. You’re looking at a major film and consequently a major career booster. You won’t need a house in Birmingham—you can buy an apartment in Manhattan if this comes through.”
Miranda was still reeling from the news that one of the best casting directors in the business wanted her to audition. “Konstanza asked for me? Really?”
“She 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
