motel cable. And stick with this one.” He jabbed a thumb at Ripley, who rolled over and yawned. Dad stood, moved toward the bathroom, and took out his razor.
“Why are you awake early?” I asked.
“I have my meeting with Alan at the Four Jacks. But first I’m going to get the paper and go through the want ads. It’s time I found a plan B.”
He forced a smile, but he looked as if he were preparing to serve a life sentence. As he closed the bathroom door behind him, I tried to imagine how he would feel onstage, playing to a row of senior citizens at the Four Jacks, or to empty bar stools at the Tack & Saddle. Or working retail again, wearing a blue vest and scanning items to a constant chorus of beeps and chimes. I didn’t think it could get worse than birthday parties and backyard weddings—but he did. He found the idea of a “day job” demoralizing. I wondered how he would adjust once we finally settled down, or whether he would adjust at all. He seemed more put together when he came out of the bathroom, his face shaved and his hair combed. As he pulled on his suit jacket, he looked at me. “Stay in the motel,” he said. “You’ve got food here, and I don’t want you wandering off into the city.”
I nodded, but I couldn’t meet his eye.
Thirty minutes later, Ripley and I got into Heather’s Hyundai and headed east on Tropicana toward Renée Turner’s apartment.
Ripley glanced at me from the driver’s seat. “How long have you been up?” he asked.
“Forty-eight hours? I’m not sure.”
“And you’re not tired?”
“I feel like I could sprint from one end of the Strip to the other.”
“I guess I didn’t realize it was that intense.” He sounded concerned.
I shrugged. “Hypomania. It’s the gift that keeps on giving. Until it doesn’t.”
“Do you think it’ll last until the show?”
“I don’t need it to. Once we’ve got the props, Dad will take it from there.”
We pulled into a McDonald’s adjacent to Turner’s complex, and Ripley killed the engine.
“Okay, what’s the plan?”
I looked at the apartments: foil in the windows, laundry hanging from the balconies. It made me nostalgic for the luxury of the Cedarwood Mobile Estates.
“I’m going to pretend to be a journalist. See if she’ll open up about the Devereaux thing.”
“Will that work?”
“You got any other ideas?”
Ripley smirked. “I’m glad you asked.”
A shriveled succulent stood on Turner’s small porch, a lipstick-stained cigarette butt jutting up from the potting soil. I took a deep breath and knocked twice on her door. No answer. It was only 8:17 a.m.; she was probably still asleep. I was considering going back to the car to wait until a more reasonable hour when I heard footsteps approaching.
“Who is it?” The voice coming through the door was low and gravelly, but I was pretty sure it was a woman’s.
“My name is Purcilla Ripley. I’m a contributor to MAGIC Magazine.” It wasn’t a complete lie; they’d printed an essay I wrote when I was in eighth grade. “Could we talk for a minute?”
The door opened a crack, and the woman who peered over the chain at me was definitely Renée Turner. The shoulder-length layers from the blog photo had been replaced by a gray-flecked bun, but the downturned mouth was the same.
“What do you want?”
I hesitated. If I mentioned Devereaux too soon, she might get gun-shy and slam the door. On the other hand, I’d have to bring him up sooner or later.
“I don’t think you ever got a chance to tell your side of the story,” I said.
Turner frowned.
“Your interview should have made the Review-Journal at least. It wasn’t fair.”
“What are you talking about?” she said, but I sensed recognition in her voice.
“I’m talking about how Daniel Devereaux ruined your career.”
Turner blinked, then closed the door. For a moment, I thought I’d blown my chance. Then I heard the scrape of the chain being drawn back, and the door reopened.
“That was a hundred years ago,” she said, still suspicious. “Why ask about it now?”
“Rumor has it he’s retiring soon.” I hoped she couldn’t tell I was making it up on the spot. “Maybe there’s a story here.”
She hesitated. I could feel my pulse surge in my wrists and neck.
“All right, then,” she said, and stood aside to let me in.
Turner’s apartment smelled like Pine-Sol and cigarettes and would have fit right in with some of the trailers back at Cedarwood: battered carpet, scarred linoleum,