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housing arrangements for her just down the coast from the shoot.”
    â€œWait. Kregg? As in, the Kregg? He’s the male lead?”
    Greer didn’t listen to a lot of hip-hop, but even she was aware that the twenty-four-year-old artist formerly known as Craig White had two certified platinum albums and had been heavily courted by every studio in town, all anxious to provide him with a star vehicle and thus to cash in on his newfound fame.
    â€œConsider yourself sworn to secrecy,” the assistant said. “Bryce wants to start rehearsing him right away. We’ve only got Kregg for four weeks before he goes out on his summer concert tour. His people are going to need six bedrooms. Security is going to be an issue, so a gated property is a must. A pool, of course, and a basketball court. That’s how he likes to unwind.…”
    â€œBennett? The thing is, I’m pretty sure a house like that doesn’t exist here.”
    â€œYou’re kidding.”
    â€œI’m really not,” Greer assured him. “Tell Bryce I’ll see what I can do. No promises, though.”
    *   *   *
    Ginny Buckalew looked up from her paperback as Greer entered the office. “Morning. Everything okay with the room?”
    â€œNow that you mention it…” Greer hesitated, not wanting to alienate the older woman. She was going to need an ally these next few weeks.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œWell, the air conditioner doesn’t seem to be working properly. It leaks, and rattles, but it doesn’t really cool the room. My television only gets three channels, and they’re pretty fuzzy. And there was a huge roach in my room this morning. It landed right on my pillow! And since you asked, I have to say, your maintenance guy is a rude jerk.”
    Ginny nodded as Greer enumerated her complaints. She got up and left the room. Two minutes later she returned and plopped a twelve-inch-tall electric fan on the counter. Beside it she placed a plastic flyswatter and a can of Black Flag.
    â€œThis is Florida,” Ginny said. “The Silver Sands was built by my dad in 1946. It’s hot. We got bugs. Deal with it.”
    Greer opened her mouth to protest, but thought better of it. With Bryce Levy and his entourage arriving in three days, she had other, more pressing concerns.
    â€œListen, Ginny, what can you tell me about that old closed-up casino at the end of the pier?”
    â€œIt’s closed,” Ginny said.
    â€œYes, I realize that. But what’s the status on it? It would make an incredible location for the film I’m working on. Do you know who owns it?”
    â€œTalk to Eb,” Ginny said.
    â€œWho’s Eb?”
    â€œThe mayor.”
    â€œDoes he own it?”
    â€œYou’ll have to talk to Eb about that.”
    â€œHow do I reach him?”
    Ginny opened the office door and pointed down toward the end of the corridor. For the first time, Greer noticed that a small wooden shingle was mounted outside one of the motel units, but she couldn’t read the type from where she stood.
    â€œThat’s his office,” Ginny said.
    *   *   *
    The end unit wasn’t like the other motel units. It had a plate glass door, but the interior of the office was obscured by a tightly drawn shade. The wooden shingle proclaimed this Thibadeaux Realty—Eben Thibadeaux, Realtor-Broker.
    A hand-lettered sign taped to the door read “Gone out. Back later.”
    A bulletin board mounted to the wall beside the door held thumbtacked flyers for various homes on the market.
    There were half a dozen advertisements for unpretentious-looking shacks labeled Cracker Cottages, none of them listed for more than $150,000. There were downtown commercial properties, a closed-up restaurant, a former art gallery, even the women’s boutique Greer had photographed the day before.
    She took special notice of three imposing-looking