Not One Clue_ A Mystery - Lois Greiman [57]
But just then I saw the kabobs. I would have passed them by as too fattening and potentially mermaid-gown messing, but the center of the friendly little skewer held a pineapple chunk and I hadn’t yet had my daily dose of antioxidants. Fetching a plate, I delicately put the skewer in the center, but it looked a little lonely there so I added a little dab of hummus and a splayed stick of celery. My ensemble then seemed to lack color. It was, therefore, my duty to add flare to the palette. A trio of chocolate-dabbed strawberries did that nicely. Their little green caps looked saucy beside the tiny cream puff I added. Then there were small clusters of red grapes. They had been sprinkled with something. Maybe fairy dust. Maybe sugar. Both were good. I popped one directly into my mouth.
“It’s nice to see a woman eat,” my date said, appearing behind me.
Still masticating, I added a triangular sandwich to my plate. “It’s nice …” I began, but in that moment a memory tripped in my mind. I turned slowly, and sure enough, the newcomer wasn’t my date at all. It was someone blond and yummy with a little boy smile and dimples deep enough to drown in. “… to eat,” I finished numbly.
His grin cranked up another notch, then, scanning the buffet, he snagged an unassuming carrot from the assortment, and tossed it into his mouth. “Enjoy,” he said, and ambled away.
I watched, slack-jawed.
“Yeah, it’s the shits,” someone said near my elbow.
“Was that …?” My voice sounded funny, then gave up altogether.
“Brad Pitt?”
I managed a nod.
He chuckled. “Yeah. For the rest of your life you’ll remember that the only words you ever uttered in his presence were ‘It’s nice to eat.’” He chuckled. “Look on the bright side, though. He probably hasn’t heard that line before.”
I turned numbly toward him. He was young and short and as cute as a baby chick.
“I’m Ethan,” he said. “Ethan Engles.”
I blinked, numbly wondering what the hell my alias was supposed to be.
I guess he misunderstood my silence for star shock because he said, “He’s not that good-looking,” in a somewhat insulted tone.
I was going to object, but someone beat me to the punch.
We turned toward the newcomer in unison. He was lean and pale with long-fingered hands and a hooked nose.
“I don’t think we’ve met,” Ethan said to him.
“Kenny Vogue.” They shook hands. “I worked with Pitt on Troy. He spent half the time in nothing but a metal skirt. Trust me—he is that good-looking. And he kept us in stitches half the time.”
“Looks and personality … there ought to be a law,” Ethan said.
“Amen,” I said.
They looked at me.
“Are you in the business?” Kenny asked.
I swallowed, then daintily wiped my mouth with a napkin the size of a plantar wart. “Ummm …”
“Wait. Don’t tell me,” Kenny said. “Didn’t I see you in—”
Ethan snapped his cute little fingers. “You were in Morel’s movie, weren’t you? Taken!”
“The prostitute,” they said in unison.
I choked a little on the first bite of my strawberry. “What?”
“The prostitute that Neeson talks to in Paris.”
“What’s your stage—” Kenny asked, but Ethan interrupted.
“No. Don’t tell me. I never forget …” He paused, then, “Fani,” he said. “Fani Kolarova.”
I gave a laugh and a modest little shrug. I had no idea what they were talking about.
“So you’re French.”
I covered a ladylike cough with my hand. “Oui?” I said.
“Too bad you didn’t get more screen time,” Kenny said.
“You did a nice job with the part,” Ethan added.
I cleared my throat. I meant to deny it all. I really did, but my plate was piled up with enough food to feed Indonesia and I suddenly felt the Hollywood angst like a cancer in my throat. “Just a … petite part,” I said, demure as a kitten.
“You know what they say … there are no small parts,” Ethan said.
“It’s true,” Kenny agreed.
“I disagree,” someone said. We turned. A woman stood beside me. She was dressed in a red, floor-length sheath that skimmed her well-honed body like a crimson wave. Her hair, dark