"Just tell him to call the office when he gets a chance," I said, watching as she typed the message into a computer and hit the print button. It spit out into a tray, and she handed the piece of paper to an equally cute young Cuban male bellhop, who carried it toward the elevator.

"I'll be sure he gets it," she said.

"Thank you." I hung up the phone and dashed across the lobby to the bank of elevators where the cute bellhop was stepping into an available car. I joined him just as the doors closed.

"How are you today?" I said, smiling.

"Fine, sir. And you?"

Sir? Sir? I wasn't that much older than him. I suddenly liked him a lot less.

"What floor?" he said, finger poised.

I glanced at the floor numbers. Ten was lit up. I turned and nodded. "I'm going to ten too."

"Very good, sir."

When we reached the tenth floor, he stuck a hand out to hold open the door for me. I didn't want to go first. The plan was to follow him.

"After you, sir."

Okay, enough with the damn sirs.

This guy wasn't going to budge. So I stepped off first. I could go left or right. There was a fifty percent chance of getting it right. I went left. After walking a few feet, I didn't sense him behind me so I glanced back to see him heading down the opposite end of the hall. I should've gone right. I walked briskly to catch up with him, but slowed down as he stopped at a room and slipped my phone message under a door. Room 1032. He stood back up and saw me approaching. There was a slightly confused look on his face. I knew I had to offer some explanation.

"Dyslexic. Takes me an hour just to find the right room," I said, laughing.

"I see. You have a good day, sir."

Bastard.

After he turned the corner to get back on the elevator, I loitered outside the room until I saw a tired, overworked maid in a drab gray uniform complete with white apron slowly push a housekeeping cart up the hall. I marched up to her.

"Excuse me, I'm Mr. Pearson in room 1032. I've locked myself out of my room and was wondering if-?"

She looked up at me, and her mouth dropped open. "Sweet Jesus!"

"What?" I said.

"You're not Mr. Pearson! You're that little white kid from Go to Your Room!"

Sweet Jesus.

She howled and poked me in the ribs with a sausage-like finger. "Baby, don't even go there! I loved when you said that! I busted a gut every time!" She then swiveled her head around. "Is this one of those hidden camera shows?"

"You caught me . . . what's your name?" I said.

"Estelle."

"You caught me, Estelle. No, this isn't a hidden camera show. I just wanted to play a joke on my friend Mr. Pearson. I haven't seen him in a while and-"

"You know, I always had a crush on you. I wrote to that show on E! called Star Dates, where they hook you up with some has-been loser celebrity from way back. I told them if they ever tried to get a date for you, I was their girl! I wouldn't make fun of you afterwards like some of them do."

I was close to crying. Talk about hitting where it hurts. But I had to get in that room so I couldn't just walk away and lick my wounds.

"You know, I've thought about going on that show," I said.

"No shit. Really? You'd be a hell of a lot better than some of the jackasses they get. I mean, Eddie Munster? Come on! No. They need bigger names like you and Urkel. You know, real stars."

"Well, I'll make sure they contact you if I go on," I said.

Her eyes nearly popped out of her head. "Oh my word. Are you serious? Me on Star Dates?" I think she was more enthusiastic about being on TV than actually going out on a date with me.

"You're my pick. If I go on."

"You like to bowl?" she said, brimming with excitement.

"Love to."

She clapped her hands, envisioning our night together. And then, almost absent-mindedly, she pulled out her passkey and opened room 1032. "What about Italian food. You eat spaghetti?" she said.

"Every chance I get. Thanks for letting me in my friend's room."

"Please. You're a big star. I don't suspect you'll be stealing anything," she guffawed. I guess she hadn't seen the rap sheets of several of my fellow child stars.

"You're a peach, Estelle," I said as I headed in the room.

"You smooth talker," she said and she pinched my ass. Hard. I liked Estelle. A lot better than the bellhop who called me sir.

Once inside Rudy's room, I shut the door and looked around. I heard a hissing sound. No, more like the sound of running water. It was coming from the bathroom. Someone was in the shower. It couldn't be Rudy. There was no way he could've beaten me back to the hotel. No, Rudy was probably still floating out in the bay, snapping pictures of Juan Carlos and the Martinez boy in a wide variety of X-rated poses. Someone else was in the shower. I figured as long as I heard the water running, I had time to search the place. I went about opening suitcases and drawers in search of clues.

On the desk were two large scrapbooks. I opened the one on top. It was chock full of clippings and press photos of Juan Carlos. Soap articles written by Rudy about Juan Carlos. Any shred of news related to his comings and goings. A couple of candid photos of him leaving the studio. For all his obvious contempt of the soap actor, Rudy was acting like a fan. I picked up the second scrapbook and opened it. My heart stopped. This one wasn't a shrine to Juan Carlos. It was a shrine to me. Every page was filled with TV Guide articles, People magazine profiles, and Polaroid pictures of me when I was twelve years old, holding my mother's hand as we walked along the street in our neighborhood. There was one of me signing autographs for my adoring fans outside the sound stage where we taped the show. There was a signed script from Go to Your Room! that had been auctioned off for charity. There were even recent photos of me hiking in the hills with Charlie and Snickers. A shiver went up my spine. Was Rudy Pearson some kind of freakish fan?

With Rudy's mysterious roommate still in the shower, I poked around some more. On the night table next to one of the two queen-size beds I found Rudy Pearson's passport. I flipped through it and stopped suddenly. On the last page was a stamp from Canada. Nova Scotia. Rudy had been there just last month. The best place to buy monkshead poison. I headed straight for the closet, pulled out two travel bags, and unzipped all the compartments. I found nothing but a few toiletries and paperback novels in the first, but as I sifted through the second one, I discovered a small vial in one of the tiny pockets. It was unlabeled except for a tiny black skull and crossbones emblem on a sticker in the back. I didn't need a label. I knew exactly what it was and where Rudy had got it.

My mind was racing. Rudy must have killed Austin. But why? Should I go directly to the police at this point or try and gather more evidence? Charlie would know what to do. Maybe this person in the shower could shed more light on what was going on. I crept toward the bathroom door with the intent of opening it a crack and getting a peek, but that's when the water stopped running, and I heard someone slide open the glass door and step out of the tub. Probably toweling off. I had run out of time, and didn't want to risk getting caught, so I quickly and quietly left the room. I would have to wait to find out who was shacking up with Rudy Pearson.

When I got back to my own floor, I was halfway down the hall to my room when the door to Juan Carlos's room flew open and Viveca marched out in a huff. Laurette flew out behind her.

"I don't want to see your face anywhere near this room again, do you hear me?" Laurette screamed, her eyes wet with tears.

Viveca kept her face tight, and it wasn't all from plastic surgery. She was stressed out.

Laurette didn't see me in her state. She withdrew back into the room and slammed the door shut. As Viveca passed me in the hall, I gently touched her shoulder. "Are you all right?"

"Of course I'm all right. I knew Juan Carlos was married all along," she said. She was lying. She was fighting back enough tears to fill Niagara Falls, but she wasn't about to cry in front of me.

"Juan Carlos is a boy," she said. "You can never invest much in a boy. I had a bit of fun, and now it's over." This was one steely broad. I had to give her credit. "I'll see you on the set tomorrow, Jarrod."

She kept walking toward the elevators, her heels grinding into the carpet as she went. I pulled out my key and entered my room.

Charlie sat on the bed, his arms crossed, his eyes narrowed and suspicious. "Where the hell have you been?"

Chapter 25.

"I was with Bowie Lassiter," I said. No point in prolonging the inevitable.

Charlie nodded, a knowing look in his eye, as if he already knew the answer to his question before he asked it.

"Why couldn't you have just told me you were going to meet him?" he said.

"I couldn't find you," I said, flushed with guilt. "Nothing happened, if that's what you want to know."

Charlie didn't take his eyes off me. He was reading my face. He knew me better than anyone, and he would know if I was going to try and perform a little song and dance. Full disclosure was my best and only course of action.

"I didn't tell you I was going to meet him because I didn't want you to get the wrong idea."

"And why would I get the wrong idea?" Damn. He just wasn't going to let it go.

"I don't know," I said. "He's a good-looking guy, and we weren't exactly on the best of terms when I left to come down here, and . . ."

"And?"

"And maybe a part of me was a little bit attracted to him, but that doesn't mean I would ever act upon it . . ."

There was an unsettling silence. Had I just ruined the best thing that had ever happened to me in my entire life? Was Charlie going to throw his hands up and finally call it quits? My heart stopped, waiting for him to speak.

"Okay."

"What?"

"Okay, fine," he said.

"That's it?"

"Yeah. I get it. Bowie's hot. I'm not blind. Look, I can't expect you not to be attracted to other people. Hell, I am all the time."

"You are?"

"Sure. Look at all the buff guys in uniform I deal with day in and day out. I wouldn't be human if I wasn't attracted to some of that," he said.

"Which ones are you attracted to?"

"Does it matter?" he shrugged.

"Of course it does. I've been wracked with guilt over this, and now you tell me you ogle half the LAPD!"

He gave me a wink. "It's not like I'd ever act upon it." Point taken.

"You were right about one thing," I said. "Bowie's hot."

Charlie grimaced. He may have declared the obvious, but he hated me agreeing with him.

"But you are so much hotter," I said, crossing over to the bed and kissing him lightly on the lips. And the fuse on this potentially explosive situation was temporarily snuffed out.

Still seated on the bed, Charlie wrapped his arms around my waist and pulled me close to him. "Just remember, though, in order for us to stay healthy, we have to be honest . . . about everything." He wasn't scolding me. It was more matter-of-fact. Years of failed relationships talking.

I was really glad he was there.

Larry Levant shuffled around the shooting schedule and moved up some night scenes in an effort to salvage some of the day after Juan Carlos went AWOL. We were all called back to Coral Gables that evening to film a sequence early in the film where the campers converge after the first sighting of the masked Elmer Fudd madman. Charlie and Laurette accompanied me to the location, where I was rushed through makeup and immediately called to the set to join little Hitler Simon, Viveca, Dominique, and a rather contrite Juan Carlos, who took great pains to explain that he had misread the call sheet. Fat chance. Like anybody would be stupid enough to misread the call sheet. The other inconvenienced cast members had plenty of room to gripe, but I didn't have a leg to stand on.

When Juan Carlos returned to the Ritz Plaza, he never even saw Laurette. Amy Jo was on call to whisk him back to the set the second she laid eyes on him. So everyone was present for the uneasy reunion. Laurette tried her best to put on a brave face, but after a perfunctory hug and kiss, Juan Carlos withdrew from her, clearly uncomfortable by her sudden arrival. He mumbled some feeble excuse about spending the day sightseeing on his own. To her credit, Laurette didn't launch into a litany of accusations about Viveca when she first saw her husband. She was the utmost professional, playing her role of talent manager to the hilt, working overtime to patch up the rift between the production and its star. But Laurette was my best friend, and I knew she would let loose once she got him alone back at the hotel.

Larry was just happy his movie was back on track, and that there was still time to get a few feet of film in the can after a disastrous, wasted day. So he spent little time chastising his leading man. Instead, he barreled forward as if nothing had happened. He offered a quick speech explaining our motivation for the scene, which could basically be summed up in one word: fear. And then, he bounded back behind the camera with his director of photography, and yelled, "Action!"

I was a glorified extra in this scene, holding my son's hand and listening as Juan Carlos explained the importance of watching out for one another, sticking together, and not allowing this maniac to pick us off one by one. It was the third scene in the picture that said the exact same thing. I was losing any hope that this sinking ship could be anything but a direct-to-video bust. But Juan Carlos was giving it his all again, and doing a bang-up job for once. I had to credit David Martinez. His talents in the bedroom undoubtedly gave our star an extra dose of confidence and charisma on this particular day.

"Cut!" Larry screamed. "Not bad. Let's reload and go again in five." The cast dispersed for makeup checks. Simon howled at his mother, Caitlin, to bring him some apple juice. Viveca grabbed the nearest mirror to check out her face. Dominique kept her eyes pinned on Juan Carlos, who sauntered over to Laurette with a boyish pout, his tail firmly between his legs. Laurette was on the phone to LA and ignored his arm, which had snaked around her back in an obvious ploy for attention.

I turned and looked for Charlie. He was nowhere to be seen. I snagged Amy Jo as she rushed by with her walkie-talkie. "Have you seen my boyfriend?"

"I think I saw him heading into the woods over there. He's probably taking a leak. It's too damn far to hike back to the port-a-johns from here if you really have to go." She kept moving, and with five minutes to play with, I decided to walk down the trail to find him.

It was dark now, and the trees took on a life of their own, blowing in the breeze, sweeping down over me as if I were a lost cherub in a spooky illustrated children's book. I saw some movement ahead, and as I drew closer, I saw the figure of a man, his back to me. I assumed it was Charlie zipping up his jeans. But as the wind blew through a thicket of trees to the right, enough light from the moon seeped through to illuminate the man in front of me. It wasn't Charlie. This man had a much wider frame and was about a foot and a half shorter. When he turned around, I saw the sad-sack face of Rudy Pearson.

"Well, funny how fate keeps bringing us together," I said, surprising him.

"What do you mean by that?" he said, fingering the camera looped around his neck.

"First I see you boating around Star Island taking all sorts of interesting pictures and now I run into you skulking about in the woods," I said.

"I'm not skulking! I'm just getting a story."

"I know. Juan Carlos. You're going to ruin him. Big yawn. The real story is Austin Teboe."

"Who?"

"I think you know who I'm talking about. The poor man who choked down some pretty awful poison at your buddy Juan Carlos's wedding?"

"Oh, right," he said, his eyes darting around to see who else was around.

"How was your trip to Nova Scotia?"