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their own kind, making his job a little easier.
    Twenty-five.
    Only twenty-four signatures.
    A second count gave him the right number of heads and a third confirmed it. He must’ve miscounted the first time—it wasn’t easy getting an accurate fix on the crowd of guests around the central urn. About to turn, he stopped and squinted toward the back garden, a flurry of movement having caught his eye. It had almost looked as if the claw had stood on its broken handle and waved its little claw-fingers at him. Except that the claw was nowhere in sight.
    Wondering what he actually might have seen—given the absence of the claw—got lost in a sudden realization. If the claw was missing, someone had taken it. Great. We’ve got a souvenir hunter.
    Every now and then cattle calls would spit up a background player who liked to have a little something to help him remember the job. With a souvenir hunter on the set, small, easily portable items had a tendency to disappear. During episode seven, they’d lost the inkwell from Raymond Dark’s desk. After CB expressed his thoughts about the incident—“No one from that group works again until I get my property back!”—they’d had four inkwells returned. Unfortunately, most of the small, easily portable items from this set belonged to the current owners of Caulfield House not CB Productions and the odds were good the crew wouldn’t immediately realize it if something went missing.
    I’d better let Keisha know.
    He grabbed a cinnamon bun on his way through the kitchen, dropped the signed sheet in the AD’s office, and headed for the drawing room. The original script had called for a ball and the presence of a ballroom was one of the reasons CB had jumped at using the house. Problem was, the ballroom was huge and the number of people it would have taken to fill it—even given the tricks of the trade—would have emptied the extras budget. With episode twenty-two and its howling mob of peasants with torches and pitchforks still in the pipeline, the ball became a smaller gathering and the venue moved to the drawing room.
    A huge fieldstone fireplace dominated one end of a room paneled in Douglas fir. Above it, mounted right on the stone, was a massive gold-framed mirror. Six tall, multipaned windows divided the outside wall and glass-fronted built-in bookcases faced them along the inside. The curtains were burgundy with deep gold tassels and tiebacks—the two colors carried into the furniture upholstery. The room seemed essentially untouched by almost a hundred years of renovation and redecoration. Standing in the midst of this understated luxury were Peter, Sorge, the gaffer, the key grip, and Keisha, the set decorator, all looking up.
    â€œThe ceilings are high enough. We can shoot under them,” Peter said as Tony joined them.
    â€œWe are keeping the cameras low,” Sorge agreed. “Keeping the shots filled with the people.”
    Still staring at the ceiling, the gaffer frowned. “A diffuser under each of them might help.”
    â€œCouldn’t hurt,” the key grip allowed.
    Keisha made a noncommittal albeit dubious sound. So Tony looked up.
    â€œHoly fuck.” Those were three of the most hideous looking chandeliers Tony had ever seen. In fact, he wasn’t entirely certain they could even be called chandeliers except for the dangly bits. Although what the dangly bits were actually made of he had no idea. A certain Leave it to Beaver nes s about them suggested the same 1950’s vision that had been responsible for the redecorated parts of the master suite, the bathroom in particular.
    Something.
    Rocking in place.
    Forward.
    Back.
    Not that particular.
    â€œI think Mr. Foster has succinctly summed up the situation,” Peter sighed and Tony looked down to find all four looking at him. “Did you want one of us for something?”
    â€œUh, yeah, Keisha mostly, but you should