A Gulf Stream of Trouble
By Blythe Rainey-Cuyler
December 31, 1985
The trawler’s engine was straining to maintain speed against the rough sea. The unlit boat, its high speed, and a moon-less night, due to the storm, prevented detection. Kay, below deck, was sitting on the lower bunk hugging her knees in the hot, dark cabin as the boat rolled and pitched.
A small, sea-splashed porthole across from her showed no discernible difference between the night sky and the pitch-black sea. She was keeping her feet, unprotected in sandals, on the bed, away from the shallow water that sloshed back and forth on the floor. The man crammed next to her on the bed was unconscious, unaware of the wet cloth, dipped in the floor water, she had placed on his forehead. The intense heat in the cabin didn’t keep Kay from shivering with fear, wondering where the boat was going and if her death awaited the boat’s arrival.
Three Months Earlier
Chapter One
“Tell me again why he said Evan and I can’t go with you.”
Kay was watching raindrops trickle down their bedroom’s sliding glass doors that led to the patio, not looking at Craig as she spoke. She longed to be somewhere sunny and warm, away from Los Angeles’ cold October rain, away from her office. Even the crackling fire in their Hollywood Hill’s bedroom fireplace couldn’t lessen the chill she felt nor sooth her irritation. It was important that she and Evan be with Craig on location in Florida, and she was striving to keep her voice calm. Her husband’s television interviews, the publicity tours for his last film, all the hoop-la that came with his stardom, kept him away from her and their son far too much.
She was also upset that his female fans, adoring his craggy good looks, got to see him more on those publicity tours than she did. Kay understood their adoration. His six-foot-four-inch trim body, his tousled blond hair sprinkled with grey, and his twinkling blue eyes were catnip to females, even in his early fifties. Kay, though, had married Craig not for his physical charms or super star status, but because of his wide-ranging intellect, innate goodness, and, yes, his romantic lovemaking. His absences made her miss their special intimacy, their long talks about the latest books, and the quiet discussions about their feelings.
Craig, sitting next to her on the bed, saw her reflection in the wall mirror and marveled that he, almost twenty years older, had the good fortune to marry this kind, very smart, capable woman with an angel’s face framed by strawberry blond hair atop a lithe, curvy body. He was wishing his schedule would lighten up to give them more quiet time together when she turned to face him for an answer.
Taking her hand, he said, “We’ve been over this, honey. Stanley’s worried about directing Stolen Beauty. It’s a departure from his straightforward action films and about art thefts. I’m some sort of smooth art detective, not my usual gung-ho P.I. He thinks you’d be a distraction, believing you somehow attract trouble. He’s wrong. Hell, everyone knows you had nothing to do with the crime wave when we were on location before Evan was born. You actually helped the police solve the crimes!”
Kay started to interrupt, but Craig lightly squeezed her hand to stop her. “I think he’s superstitious but won’t admit it. And there’s something else: he and I have received some death threats. I’m used to getting weird letters at the studio, but he’s not.”
“Of course, he’d be upset about the letters, and I sympathize. It’s also hard for me to know about them, but his superstition about me is crazy.” Kay put her hand on Craig’s cheek as she looked at him. “Darling, I need to talk with Stanley about this Florida shoot. Did Maria take Evan for his bath or is Stanley still in the living room with him?”
“When I came in here, Stanley was talking to Evan who was listening very intently for a two-year-old.”
“Well, the ‘Boy Wonder Director’ seems to have that effect on the men in this family. Relax by the fire a little while longer, honey. Put on those reading glasses you hate and read that book you started. I need to talk with him, alone.”
“Sure.” Craig watched as Kay got up. Her jaw was firm, and he knew she was marshalling her negotiation skills, well-honed as Kay Randall, the hard-working owner of a respected boutique talent agency, the surprise inheritance from her late boss. He thought of her brief stint as an actress and knew those early skills helped with the agency’s contract negotiations. As she left the bedroom, he sighed, almost pitying Stanley, and shook his head.
Stanley Wiseman, their friend and a renowned director, was sitting on the living room floor clad in jeans when Kay entered. His casually coiffed dark brown hair, trim body and his deceptively sweet, fine featured, unwrinkled face made him look thirty rather than his forty-plus years. He didn’t look like someone widely known and respected for a creative, sometimes fierce directing style. As he sat on the floor with Evan, building a tower with blocks while the child watched eagerly, Stanley named each block as he made the tower taller. One block was for the money needed to make a film, another block was for the equipment needed, another for the crew, and one for the director.
Stanley paused, holding the last block to be placed as the tower began to tremble, and said, “And this last block, Evan, is your daddy, Craig Harris, the star of the film.” He placed it carefully, and the tower didn’t fall.
Kay smiled, realizing he had, unrealistically, conceded his “top” position to the child’s daddy. She picked up Evan, smoothed his tousled blond curls, and sat on the couch, putting him on her lap. As Stanley got up from the floor, she patted a place next to her. When he sat down, he knew what was coming and waited for her to begin.
“I want to be with Craig in Florida, but you don’t want Evan and me there.”
Stanley quickly held up his hand in protest and said, “You don’t understand. You’re like family to me, kiddo, all three of you, but Stolen Beauty is going to be an intense shoot of several months with quick moves. First to New York for a fast shoot then to locations on Florida’s West Coast before heading down to Key West. I don’t want Craig distracted. This character is a change of pace for him.”
“Baloney. You know his acting chops better than anyone. His portrayal isn’t the problem. You’re worried about directing this film and about the death threats--yes, Craig told me about them--and you think I’m some sort of ‘black cat’ that will tread on your production.”
Kay, bouncing Evan on her knee, continued, “What I am, really, is Craig’s agent who negotiated his contract with the studio. That contract contains the right to amend it with reasonable stipulations. I’m sure Craig will okay any new stipulation. And the studio’s producers need Craig so they’ll agree to an amendment.”
Stanley groaned and said, “Please give me a break, Kay!”
“Here are your options: you could fly Craig back here every other weekend, disrupting your shooting schedule; you could fly Evan and me to your locations every other weekend, which would distract Craig, or you could rent a condo for us in Florida, reasonably accessible from the various locations there. Added to the production costs, it should be big enough for our family, plus Maria. There should also be a room for Joe, the stalwart bodyguard, when your shooting schedule gives Craig a break. And I’ll need a fax machine, an answering machine, and an extra telephone to keep in touch with my agency.”
Stanley groaned again, melodramatically, and said, “You get the condo, kiddo.” He then duplicated Craig’s reaction to Kay’s determination by sighing and shaking his head. His stomach, churning, rebelled at his surrender. He always felt responsible for everyone in his production group, whether on location or at the studio. Now he would have Kay and Evan to worry about. And being on location always made safety a big concern. A feeling of impeding trouble, accentuated by the death threats, persisted.
(End of Chapter One)
A Gulf Stream of Trouble