“There’s not a lot of room in this hall.” He stepped back, got poked in the ass by the hilt of a cheap replica cavalry sword, jumped forward, and very nearly tangled with the taffeta again.

“There is, however slight, a clear passageway and the fire marshal has given his approval.” The fire marshal also had a teenage son looking forward to a career in television, but CB saw no point in mentioning that. “The soundstage door is just ahead.”

It was, in fact, a mere dozen paces ahead although impossible to see until the last corner had been rounded and a rack of white hazmat suits passed. He’d picked the suits up cheap from another show’s going out of business sale and instructed the writers to make use of them. Their ideas to date had been less than stellar but he knew that eventually one of them would dream up something the show could use—after all, if an infinite number of monkeys could write Hamlet . . .

His hand was actually on the door when the bell rang and the red light went on.

“Why are we stopping?”

“Cameras are rolling,” he said, inclining his head toward Constable Danvers. “We’ll have to wait.”

“How long?”

He shrugged. “Until the director feels he has what he needs.”

“Jack . . .” She turned to her partner who shook his head.

“No. I want a look around that soundstage and I want another word with Mr. Foster.”

“We could come back.”

Elson folded his arms. “We’re here.”

He translated the female constable’s expression to read: You wouldn’t have half as big a bee up your butt if this wasn’t television. She was probably right. Television, invited into homes 24/7 remained a mystery; to add mystery on top of that would be more than such a man could resist. Although the odds of him actually discovering anything were slim; he wouldn’t be waiting to enter the soundstage if CB believed otherwise.

Running feet, pounding between the costumes, pulled all three of them back around the way they’d come.

Baseball bat held across her body, Arra stumbled to a halt by the hazmat suits and stared at the red light beside the door. Damn! Had CB been on his own, she’d have taken her chances with a line of bullshit and charged right on in. But with strangers standing there . . .

Put them to sleep; you can call it a gas leak!

“Problem, Arra?”

Now would be the time . . .

Time.

11:16.

Too late anyway. Tony was on his own. She lowered the bat. “No. No problem.”

“Arra Pelindrake?” The blond man stepped forward. “I’m Constable Jack Elson, RCMP. As long as we’re all waiting here, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

Beyond the constable, CB’s expression said much the same thing.