Change of Scene: A 100 Page Novella Read online

  Greer looked up at the room clerk. “A rollaway? He stole a rollaway bed?”

  “And a laundry cart,” the clerk added. “Fully loaded.”

  In all, the tab ran to $9,678.42. Which meant that the movie company had dished out nearly $25,000 to lease property from a man who didn’t own it.

  CHAPTER 2

  A week earlier, as her charcoal gray Explorer bumped slowly along a rutted gravel road in the hills above Paso Robles, Greer studied the passing landscape. It hadn’t rained in longer than she could remember—going on a year in L.A. where she lived, and for sure not in a long time in the central California coast.

  Dust swirled up from the roadbed, covering her windshield and caking in her mouth and nostrils, but she kept driving. The pastures here should have been green and verdant this time of year, according to her research. Instead, everything was a sepia print of beige and brown. Her mission was hopeless, she felt sure.

  According to her GPS she’d traveled exactly 3.2 miles down old Trading Post Road, as instructed by the clerk in the convenience store back in town. “Look for a big gray barn, and a pasture with cattle,” he’d said. She’d seen a field a ways back, with a couple of bored-looking goats scrambling over the rocky terrain, but not another living thing, unless you counted the buzzards gliding in the currents overhead.

  The road wound around the hillside and climbed in altitude. Where the hell was she? At least thirty miles from town, that much was sure.

  Her phone dinged, signaling yet another incoming text, probably from Hank Reitz. She felt a bead of perspiration trickle down her back. Today was Friday. Principal shooting on Moondancing had started two weeks ago, and the cast and crew were scheduled to move up the coast for the exterior shots by Monday. Despite the hundreds and hundreds of miles she’d searched and photographed in the central coast of California, she still hadn’t found the exact right spot the director was seeking.

  “GREEN!” he’d texted in all caps, like she was either stupid or blind or both. “Get me a green field, with trees with green leaves. And a barn.”

  Barns were a dime a dozen here. The steep cliffs and rolling surf of the Pacific was only an hour away, but this was still an agricultural area, with plenty of vineyards and small wineries dotting the countryside. Lots of cows, too—or was she supposed to call them cattle? Greer didn’t know or care. She was a city girl, born and raised in L.A. The green part was the problem. They could fake the seasons with spray-paint and artificial snow and all kinds of movie magic, but Hank Reitz and his art director, Helena Freed, were emphatic. For this film, nothing less than real green trees would do.

  She was still pondering the cow/cattle question when she saw it, just ahead in the bend of the road, where the terrain flattened out. Fence posts strung with barbed wire separated it from the gravel roadway, but the big gray barn was unmistakable, and as she stared, three cow-type creatures ambled across a rolling pasture that was the most beautiful, the most emerald green pasture she’d seen all summer.

  “Finally,” she muttered. She drove around the corner and parked at a metal gate that blocked passage to a wide gravel drive. The gate was padlocked, and there was a large NO TRESPASSING sign tacked to a towering pine tree on the right side of the drive.

  Trespassing for a film location scout, Greer always claimed, was in the eye of the beholder. And as long as nobody at the other end of this road was beholding a loaded shotgun, it was all good.

  She scrambled out of her truck and walked over to the gate, a slight figure in dusty jeans, a navy tank top, and her ever-present red low-top Keds. A navy Dodgers cap was jammed over her curly shoulder-length blond hair.

  From here, she could see a low, red-shingled house with a weather-beaten porch, maybe a quarter mile up the road. A rusting white pickup truck was parked beside the house.

  “The owner, Old Man Miller, he don’t much like strangers,” the convenience store clerk had warned. “In fact, he don’t like locals much either.”

  Greer had thought about that the whole way up the road. She was used to dealing with difficult people, had been doing it her whole life. It was her gift, talking to people, winning them over, persuading them that her way was the best way.

  She used her hands to shade her eyes as she walked the fence line. Off in the distance, she could see rows and rows of trees with thick, glossy leaves. This, the helpful clerk said, was an avocado grove, irrigated with water from a small lake. The grove was fenced off from the cow pasture, where a dozen or more large dark cows milled around a galvanized metal trough.

  Greer took her cell phone from the pocket of her jeans and began snapping pictures—of the barn, the cows, the green, green pasture, and the line of trees. After each click, she texted the photo to Hank Reitz.

  She was walking over toward the barn when she heard the ding notifying her of an incoming text.

  “PERFECT!” Reitz texted back. “BETTER THAN PERFECT. EXACTLY WHAT WE NEED. YOU’RE THE BEST!!!!”

  Yes, Greer thought as she carefully clambered over the padlocked gate to the Miller ranch. “I am the best. Now, let’s see if I can make Old Man Miller believe that, too.”

  *

  When she got within a hundred yards of the ranch house, Greer sensed a subtle inexplicable darkening of her mood. It wasn’t that the place wasn’t photogenic. The ranch house had seen better days. Its porch roof sagged, and the paint was faded and peeling. An open-air shed held a pile of what looked like junk machinery, including an old truck resting on concrete blocks. A dog wandered up the road, gave a couple of desultory barks in her direction, and then wandered back toward the house. Flies buzzed around a pile of what looked like dog crap. The place literally reeked of Grapes of Wrath–flavored authenticity. If her phone had been equipped with smell-o-vision, Hank would have been orgasmic, she was sure.

  The general state of decrepitude was a good sign for purely practical reasons. If the property owner needed money, he’d certainly be more willing to entertain the idea of allowing a movie to be filmed here.

  She should be ecstatic. She should be experiencing the tingling scalp and racing pulse, the serotonin buzz that always let her know she was on the money. Instead, there was something else, something she couldn’t describe, tickling just at the fuzzy edge of her subconscious. She shook it off and kept walking.

  When she was only a few yards away, Greer decided it might be politic to announce her arrival, given the haphazardly scrawled NO TRESPASSING DAMMIT sign that was tacked to the toolshed.

  “Hello!” she called loudly. “Hello.”

  Nothing. The dog returned. It was reddish brown with a fluffy coat, a mix that could best be described as a little Lassie, a little Big Red, a whole lot of Tramp from Lady and the Tramp. She leaned down and intended to scratch its ears. Greer had done a lot of trespassing in her career, and she’d learned early on that you could usually make friends with somebody if you made friends with their dog first.

  “Hiya, poochie,” Greer said. The dog’s head jerked forward. Its ears pricked and the thick ruff of fur stood up on the back of its neck. Grrrr. A low, threatening growl. Bared teeth.

  She took a measured step backward. “Niiiice poochie,” she said in a low, nonconfrontational tone. She glanced up the road in the direction of the Explorer and wondered how much ground she could cover before Poochie turned into something out of a Stephen King novel.

  “Who’s that?”

  At the sound of the man’s voice, the dog froze, then suddenly slunk away. Later on, she would wish she had, too.

  But instead Greer pasted a bright and peppy smile on her face. A middle-aged man dressed in a grease-spattered T-shirt and saggy khaki slacks climbed down the porch steps and paused in the crumbling concrete driveway. He was barefoot, and his face bore a grayish stubble of beard, but the wild shock of hair on his head was dark, and he didn’t look much older than forty. But then, the kid in the convenience store hadn’t been more than eighteen himself. He probably thought anybody over thirty was ol
der than dirt.

  “Hi there,” Greer called out, slowly advancing on the house, smiling broadly as she walked. “Mr. Miller?”

  “Who’re you?” He hitched up his beltless pants and peered at her through wire-rimmed glasses. “Are you from the county? I’ve told those people…”

  “No, sir,” Greer said. She extended her hand. “I’m not from the county. My name is Greer Hennessey. I’m a film location scout, and I’m wondering if I might talk to you about the possibility of our people doing some filming on your beautiful property here.”

  “What people? Film? Do you mean movies? You want to make a movie here? Right here on this ranch? Why the hell would you want to do that?”

  Finally, Greer got a familiar tingling sensation at the back of her neck. Old Man Miller was hooked. She knew it. The rest was all technicalities. She had her green pasture, her cattle, her barn, her green trees. The last, most difficult location for Moondancing was right here, and by the end of this day, she would have all the signed releases she needed. And Monday, filming would start. She, Greer Hennessey, had done it again.

  *

  His name was Garland Miller. And he wasn’t nearly the pushover Greer had hoped for. As they sat at a splintery wooden table on the porch of the house, she struggled to regain the upper hand in negotiations.

  “Who’d you say is making this movie?” he asked, leaning back in the kitchen chair he’d pulled up to the table.

  “Er, well, it’s a production company called Moondancing Limited, which you probably haven’t ever heard of, but the director is Hank Reitz. He was nominated for an Oscar a few years ago for a film called Racing Home. With John Lithgow and Meryl Streep and Robert De Niro? You probably heard of it.”

  “Nope,” Garland said flatly. “If Stallone ain’t in it, I don’t see it. How much money would this Hank Reitz pay to make a movie here?”

  “It wouldn’t be the whole movie,” Greer said quickly. “In fact, most of the filming is going to take place on the lot, in L.A, with some additional scenes shot in this area. We’d only need access to your property for five days. Starting Monday.”

  “Which pays what?” He crossed his arms over his chest, and she could see the yellow stains on the T-shirt’s armpits. Classy.

  “Well…” Greer looked around. “Generally, for a location shoot like this, in a remote area, the production company would authorize me to pay eight hundred dollars a day.”

  A lie. You always started out low-balling.

  “No way,” Garland said, sitting up abruptly.

  “Way,” she assured him. “It’s pretty standard.”

  He gestured around at the landscape. “For all this? The barn, the cattle, the avocado grove? The pasture? Eight hundred dollars ain’t shit.”

  Greer felt her smile fade slightly.

  “Hmm. Well, I’d have to check with my people and get back to you. This is an indie film, so the producer is working on a pretty tight budget. I’m not really sure if he can go any higher.”

  She gave him a knowing look. “It’s the accountants. The bean counters, right? They scream bloody murder at every line item.…”

  “Twenty-five hundred. A day,” Garland said, narrowing his eyes. “Not a dime less. Or you can go find yourself another pasture and some more cattle. By Monday.”

  Greer swallowed. She had $4,000 a day in the budget for this shoot, but that didn’t give her much wiggle room. Still, she’d been up and down every inch of this area, and nothing else even came close. If something else came up, she’d just have to get Reitz to go to the producer to loosen the purse strings.

  “Okay,” she said finally. “It’ll be a stretch, but I think we can swing that.” She stood up. “I’ll just walk back out to my truck and get you the paperwork.…”

  She was halfway down the porch steps. “Oh yeah,” Garland said, clearing his throat.

  “And a hotel. Gonna need me a hotel. While your movie folks are here.”

  Greer rolled her eyes but did not turn around. “Of course.”

  “With a pool,” he added. “And Wi-Fi.”

  “Naturally. I’ll get the company’s travel manager to book you a room at the Hilton, where the crew will be staying.”

  “A suite,” Garland said. “My lady-friend will probably be joining me. She’s got a couple of kids.”

  “Sure thing,” Greer said. His lady-friend? Ew.

  “And, uh, listen.”

  She stopped and turned to face him. “Yes?”

  “What’s the time frame on my money with this?”

  “Generally, we try to have your check by the time filming is complete.”

  He shook his head vigorously. “That ain’t gonna work. I mean, how do I know you people won’t come in here and trash my place and blow town? No, uh, I’m thinking I’m gonna need my money before anybody else comes on my property.”

  Greer took a deep breath and exhaled.

  “That’s going to be kind of difficult, Garland. This is Friday, we start shooting Monday. Our production offices are in L.A.…”

  He gave her a long, appraising stare, and she felt herself blushing.

  “You look like a girl who knows how to get things done,” he said. And then he winked.

  Greer felt her skin crawl. A girl? He was calling her a girl? The next thing she knew, he’d be inviting her inside for a quickie. She needed to close this deal and get back home so she could shower off some of the slime from his wink.

  “Sunday,” she said firmly. “I’ll leave your check at the hotel desk.”

  He grinned, bearing a set of feral-looking teeth. “That’d be real good.”

  As she hiked back toward her car, she kept a watchful eye out for the dog. The shadowy feeling settled over her again, and she shivered despite the heat.

  CHAPTER 3

  Greer worked the phone furiously on the drive back to the hotel in Paso Robles.

  “Hank?”

  “You did it, babe,” the director exulted. “I friggin’ love the look of this place. Helena’s crazy about it, too. It’s like you channeled my exact image of what Eleanora’s farm would look like. Amazeballs!”

  Eleanora was Moondancing’s protagonist, a young widow struggling to eke out a living on a hard-scrabble farm in an unnamed New England locale. It would have been wildly expensive to move the entire cast and crew someplace like Vermont, which was why Greer had been scrounging for zip code–friendly Vermont look-alikes for the past few days.

  “I’m glad you like it so much, because I basically had to sell the farm to get the farm,” Greer told him. “Twenty-five hundred. A day.”

  “Jesus!” Hank squawked. “For that dump?”

  She’d expected the director to balk.

  “Fine. I’ll find someplace else, someplace cheaper. Only it’s not gonna be green. It’s gonna be gray. Or maybe brown. Because today is Friday, and your shoot starts Monday. Also? Eleanora’s cattle, the ones she converses with after her young son dies of a fever? You might have to make them goats. Because up here, you don’t get a ranch with trees and cattle for a dime less than twenty-five hundred a day.”

  “It’s cows or nothing. You get the cows signed, I’ll deal with the budget.”

  “Good. We’re also giving the owner a suite at the Hilton during the shoot. And boarding his dog.”

  “You’re killing me,” Reitz said. “But tell me about those trees. Helena’s nuts for them. She wants to know what kind they are. She called the screenwriter, and he’s going to try to work something into the script.”

  “That might be a problem, Hank. They’re avocados. I don’t think they grow avocados in Vermont.”

  “Helena can deal with that. Make ’em cherries or something. Apples maybe. They grow apples in Vermont, right?”

  “I don’t know, Hank. I’m not a botanist. Just a location scout.”

  “Whatever. You got everything else lined up, right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Even the old-school house? With the bell to
wer?”

  “Yes,” she said crisply. “I sent you pictures yesterday, remember? Although the bell tower isn’t actually on the school. It’s on a church in the next town over. So I figure we do interiors at the real school, and exteriors at the church.”

  “That’s fine,” Reitz said. “But wasn’t that church in your pictures white?”

  “It was. But it’ll be red by the time we start shooting.”

  “Sounds expensive,” Reitz said. “Okay, kiddo, I gotta go. Meetings and more meetings. So what you’re telling me is we’re all set up there. Right?”

  “All set,” Greer said, which was only a relative lie. She still had a couple of more locations to nail down, some releases to get signed. Things like that.

  “Oh. Just a little thing,” she added. “I’m gonna need to get a check cut for the Miller place. The fullamount. By Sunday. Or he doesn’t allow anybody on his property come Monday. And I can’t take a chance on FedEx. I’m gonna need one of your production assistants to drive up here with the check, so I can hand deliver it to Garland on Sunday.”

  “You’re killing me,” Hank said.

  *

  She unlocked the door of her hotel room, dropped her keys, laptop, phone, and backpack on the bed, and started shedding clothes on the way to the bathroom.

  It was nearly eight o’clock. She’d spent most of the past twelve hours either driving and dialing or pounding the streets of Paso Robles and vicinity, tying up the last loose ends of all her locations before the weekend started.

  As she stood in the shower, she mentally ticked off the day’s to-do list. This was only the second movie she’d done with Hank Reitz, but the first she’d done with him since he’d gotten nominated for an Oscar. Hank liked working with a team on his movies; the same cinematographer, art director, cameraman, grips, everybody. If things went well on Moondancing, she’d have the closest thing to a regular gig that she wanted. She needed things to go smoothly.

  Dressed in a camisole and a pair of drawstring pajama bottoms, Greer sprawled out on the bed and reached for the phone to order dinner from room service.