“I’d never rob you of your plausible deniability, Troy.”
“You know how easily influenced Shawn is. He heard me say the cameras were down—”
The tape devolved to static, and Greta moaned in the back seat. “After fifteen years wearing a mic, I should know how to get better sound. PB’s recorder wasn’t even worth stealing.”
“Everything helps,” I assured, gunning Zara’s car back home. Surprisingly, it hadn’t taken much convincing for Zara to loan it once we caught her up, allowing Imogen and me to intercept Greta before she left the hotel. Zara agreed Greta had to corroborate the journal. Her written account wasn’t concrete proof alone, and the tape only implied Troy leaked the footage.
Imogen shook her head, still leafing through the journal. “So once Barnes approached the network about returning, Troy had you take the tape recorder to justify booting Camdon?”
“He apparently overheard PB setting up the boys at the airport. Troy said if I didn’t get the recording, then he’d ensure bothBeverly BlondeandEndeavordropped my contracts. He only wanted the tape though, so I kept the recorder for myself.”
“He threatened to ban you from the network if you didn’t do what he said?!”
“The story of a ‘beck-and-call’ girl,” she huffed. “He’s been blackmailing me since Cortona. He cornered me the first night, then shoved me at Luke.”
“When did you know he and Barnes were together?” I asked. “Did you introduce them?”
“No, Barnes introduced Troy tomea while back, but he was always cagey with details when it came to that leech. I figured Troy was manipulating you as a favor for Barnes, but I never imagined Shawn was involved or that he’d bring Barnes here.”
“So you knewyears agothey’d had an affair?”
“Was I supposed to tell you at our monthly slumber parties?”
“Stop,” Imogen interjected as we pulled in the drive. “You both have the same enemy.”
Zara emerged with Erika from behind the G&E truck when we parked. “Did you get the photo from Melange?” I asked her.
“Yes, but we still need hard evidence that Troy sabotaged youduringthe game.”
Greta flipped to an entry in her journal. “Would video footage of this little gem work?”
Zara grimaced as she read it. “It’s a start. The dailies are in the production office. With Troy. Luke, do you still want Barnes there when it goes down?”
I nodded. “Don’t give them time to get their stories straight.”
Zara called over Fortune, who was doing tai chi by the overlook. “Fortune, bring Barnes to the PO. Once you’re there, block that door. No one leaves until I say.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Fortune agreed, eternally unbothered.
We reached the production office, and—ever dramatic—Greta kicked the cracked door wide open, prompting Troy to leap from his desk. She strode to the bulletin board bearing our headshots, red X’s over the eliminated cast, and peered at her own crossed photo. “Didn’t even wait until the body was cold, did you?”
“You’re supposed to be in a departures lounge,” Troy said, eyes darting between us.
Zara deftly plugged a drive into her laptop as Fortune ushered in Barnes. “I was summoned?” Barnes asked glibly, then halted at the sight of Greta.
“I’m sorry, what the hell is going on?” Troy demanded.
Greta nudged me. “Only fair it comes from you, Sherlock.”
I tried to maintain an even temper as Erika handed me a copy of Melange’s photo. “You’ve been sleeping with my husband. And you’ve been rigging this game for him to win.”
Barnes immediately paled, but Troy just burst out laughing.
“I wouldn’t laugh,” Zara said. “Based on Greta’s pretty thorough documentation of how you blackmailed her, you’ve sabotaged Luke’s game all season.”
“Blackmail and sabotage? Zara, come on, that’s bullshit.”
“Then explain this.” She rotated her monitor to show footage of the mountain in Huangshan, Imogen and I fretting over the pagoda. Zara rewound, indicating Troy on the sidelines. A white speck fell along his leg to the ground; then he gently kicked it toward us.
