A First Date with Death (16 page)

B
y the time we finished filming in the Monterey Bay Aquarium, it was only seven in the morning, but I felt like I’d already had a full day. However, I still had a one-on-one date to go, and then an elimination ceremony.

One of the techs dropped me off at my trailer; Cheryl had told me I was allowed up to a half hour of rest and then I needed to get ready for my one-on-one date with Scott.

I was ready to tuck myself back into bed and was already having sleepy thoughts as I jammed the key into the lock. When I realized the coach was unlocked, I automatically went into cop mode.

I pushed my shoulder into the door and leapt inside, screaming, “Freeze, freeze!”

Of course, this was probably why I made a bad cop. One should never rush into a situation unarmed, especially when they didn’t know what they would find.

But this was my little place. My home away from home and someone had been to visit without leaving a calling card.

No one was inside the coach, thankfully, but it had been trashed. All the kitchen cabinets were pulled open, their contents dumped on the floor. The drawers in my bedroom were also upturned; even the bathroom had been ransacked.

The feeling of being violated zipped through my body.

Someone had very deliberately gone through my stuff.

Was anything missing?

I felt I had to get out of the coach immediately. I didn’t have anywhere to go and not even a phone to call for help!

Darn it, I couldn’t wait to be done with this show! I hated not having any communication with the outside world. I exited the coach and walked toward the corner.

As I was about to cross the street, I spotted Becca’s car advancing. She pulled over to the curb and rolled down the passenger-side window. “Hey, hot stuff, what are you doing out and about? Are you out of coffee?”

I pulled open the passenger door and hopped in. “No, I was looking for a pay phone to call you. Someone ransacked my Prevost.”

Alarm showed on her face. “What? What do you mean, ransacked?”

“I’d show you, but I actually want it dusted for prints. Can you call the police?”

Becca put the car in park and dug out her cell phone. “Here, you call.” She passed me the phone.

“Florencia didn’t show up today on the set. Cheryl said she was going to Mexico, but my money is on her actually searching my trailer instead.”

“Why would she do that? What would she be looking for?”

“The folder Martinez gave me is missing.”

“What folder?” Becca asked.

A wave of guilt swept over me. Becca didn’t know about Martinez’s visit to me the night before. She didn’t know that I’d actually cheated at the game and now suddenly I didn’t want her to know.

If she knew, she might feel obligated to go to Cheryl and then she’d probably mess up her chance of getting promoted.

“Uh, he brought me some information on Teresa Valens,” I said, only mildly wincing at the half lie.

Becca looked excited. “What did you find out? Do you think Florencia really is her?”

“Teresa was released on parole eighteen months ago.”

Becca recoiled. “And they never told you she was being released? That’s just wrong! It’s crazy!”

“I know. Maybe I was notified. I can’t say for sure, because everything was crazy at the department at that time. That’s when we got our new chief and . . .”

Becca grabbed my hand. She knew that eighteen months ago was the start of my troubles. “Oh, God,” Becca said. “What a mess. Call the cops.”

“Is Cheryl going to be all right with that?” I asked.

“I’ll call her after you talk to the police.”

I dialed the police and it took a good fifteen minutes before I was able to connect with anyone who would come down to our set and look at my coach.

Becca and I bought lattes and hung around outside my Prevost, while she talked to Cheryl. Cheryl agreed that phoning the police was the only way to go, but before they even showed up we had the press to deal with.

“Did Cheryl call the news about this?” I asked.

Becca shrugged. “I don’t know, but that’d be my guess. She wants publicity for our show and there’s no publicity as good as the
National Enquirer
.” She handed me the keys to her VW Bug. “Go hide out in my car. I’ll fend them off.”

I gratefully ducked into Becca’s car and watched her expertly handle the press. No matter how much they begged for the scoop, she remained stone cold. Finally, she positioned them across the street, stating that my coach was part of the set and basically was private property.

She was able to hold them at bay long enough for the Carmel police to dispatch a lone officer. I ducked out of the VW Bug to greet her and pull her into the Prevost.

She had an angular face and looked haggard, but she listened patiently as Becca and I brought her up to speed.

Finally, she agreed to dust for prints and call LAPD to see if they had an update on Pietro’s case.

A knock came at the door and we all jumped.

“Who’s there?” the officer demanded, pushing me toward the back of the coach.

“FedEx,” came the reply.

The officer turned toward me. “Are you expecting a package?”

I nodded, but Becca frowned. “You are?” she asked. “You know it better not be a disposable phone or tablet or—”

I waved a hand at her. “I can’t believe after everything that’s happened you’re still such a stickler for the rules.”

The officer looked from Becca to me, not sure what to do.

“He’s probably legit,” I said.

Nonetheless, the officer cracked the door and peeked out at the deliveryman. He wore a clean uniform and had a smile on his face as he quirked an eyebrow at her. “Georgia Thornton?”

“I’ll take it,” she said.

The deliveryman looked at his instructions, and then said, “Okay, I don’t need a signature anyway.”

The officer accepted the package, then closed the door behind him. She dropped the package onto my small kitchen table and said, “So, you don’t need me to examine the package?”

“I don’t think it’s anthrax, but thanks.”

Becca wrinkled her nose. “Well, I’m going to examine the package!” She swiped it out from under me and ripped open the tape. “What did you order?”

Scott’s book
Death Thief
fell out of the package, his sexy author photo peeking up at us from the floor.

The officer picked up the book. “Oh! This is one of my favorites! I love this guy.” She hugged the book to her chest and I suddenly felt possessive and embarrassed at the same time.

Becca broke into a fit of giggles.

The officer handed me the book. “It’s a great read. You’ll love it. The author’s really twisted. Packs a punch.”

I took the book and slipped it into my shoulder bag.

What did she meant about him being twisted?

The officer finally dismissed Becca and me from the Prevost, so she could dust for prints. She told Becca she would call her when her crew was done. It was well past ten thirty in the morning. We were totally behind schedule, but glad to be back on our way.

•   •   •   •   •   •   •   •   •

M
y date with Scott was scheduled to be a bay cruise, but with the foggy weather and the delay we’d had after the cops finished at my place, Cheryl had changed directions quickly.

Scott and I were going to have a simple date at a make-believe martini bar. The set looked immaculate and again I was impressed with what the crew could create in such a short amount of time. They’d designed a faux interior reminiscent of the 1940s. A huge red mahogany bar—well, it looked like mahogany; in reality it was painted polystyrene—polished brass bar stools, and mirrors framed in chrome. It was sexy and dark and breathtaking.

Until, of course, you touched the bar and realized it was all an illusion.

I was the first on the set; Kyle had only had to do a touch-up on my makeup from earlier in the day, but insisted I be crammed into a pair of black leather pants. When I complained, he said mom jeans were better left off TV and then pulled out a fuchsia halter top and told me to “fill it.”

At least he’d let me wear decent shoes. They were flats that matched my top, with little beads all around them. Very cute and sassy, and, hey, I could even walk in these.

The sound guy fitted me with a microphone and then I was able to watch the lighting engineers go to work on wiring the set.

They worked around me, an unwritten rule somewhere that cast and crew didn’t interact.

When I greeted them or tried to engage them in any conversation they only nodded politely and went about their business.

Cheryl came onto the set and examined their work; when they finished discussing booms and reflections and all sorts of other technical issues, she turned her attention to me.

“We have to make it snappy here, because we still want the scene with your dad and then the elimination scene tonight. How are you holding up?”

“I’m a disaster!” I admitted.

Cheryl’s shoulders dropped and, for the first time since I’d met her, she looked overwhelmed. “I’m so sorry about your Prevost getting broken into. I thought our security was pretty tight. I can’t imagine what happened.”

Really?

How could she think the security was tight, with all the disasters going on around us left and right?

And she’d been the one to notify the press . . .

I stared at her, suddenly suspicious. She did have a lot riding on the success of the show. The way all the incidents were lining up she was going to be the one cashing in . . . Were there lines she wouldn’t cross?

Before I could reply, Becca came onto the set. “Cheryl, we’re ready on our end.”

Cheryl nodded, abruptly back to business mode. “All right, places, please,” she called.

A tall, bearded actor came onto the set; he was dressed as a bartender. He took a place behind the bar and looked up. “Is this good?”

“Yes,” Becca said, “you’re right on the money.” She joined him behind the bar and gave him a quick orientation. She turned to me. “Martini bar only. Don’t order anything else, or we’ll just have to stop and start over. Martini, okay?”

I made a face at her. “I hate martinis.”

“It’s eleven in the morning,” Becca said. “You’re not getting a real martini, sister. Only ice water.”

Cheryl motioned for Becca to put on her headphones and then called, “Action!”

Scott came on the set and my breath hitched. He had a magnetism that was undeniable. I felt sucked up into his aura and a little heartbroken at the same time.

Why did he have to lie to me?

He smiled as he approached and took the bar stool next to mine.

“Cut!” Cheryl screamed. She jabbed a hand out at me. “Get up! Greet him! Kiss!”

I stood up and moved the bar stool aside. “You want me to just throw myself at him?”

Scott and Cheryl said, “Yes,” at the same time.

“Okay, okay,” I said with more gaiety in my voice than I felt. Actually I didn’t want to touch him—I was afraid of the sparks between us—but if listening to Cheryl got me out of this awkward situation faster, I would do it.

Scott walked off the set and came back in.

I moved toward him and he opened his arms to me.

“Hi,” I said.

He said nothing, only wrapped his arms around me and lowered his mouth to mine.

I felt the electricity shoot through me, right down to my fuchsia-colored flats.

I closed my eyes for a minute to enjoy him, pretending I didn’t know he’d lied to me about having a wife who died from cancer.

He moved from my mouth to my ear and whispered, “I’ve been looking forward to seeing you. I’ve missed you.”

I pulled away from him, hoping to calm the hormone-induced frenzy that was zipping around my legs, making them quiver. I grabbed my bag from the floor and retrieved his book
Death Thief.
“Look what I got in the mail,” I said.

“Aw, that makes for cozy bedtime reading.” He smiled. “You shouldn’t be reading it alone.” He crinkled his nose at me. “Too scary. Maybe you need someone to cling to—”

“I haven’t started it yet. I heard the author’s twisted.”

He laughed. “I take that as a compliment.”

“You do?” I asked, surprised.

“Well, being that I’m a horror writer, I’d say so. You don’t want your audience saying you’re a nice guy when you write horror.”

It occurred to me then that maybe the reason he’d come on the show was to promote sales, and a little piece of my heart hollowed out.

“I’m hoping you’ll sign it for me,” I said.

He patted his pockets. “I don’t have a pen right now. But I promise I will.”

We seated ourselves on the bar stools and ordered our fake martinis from the fake bartender. We watched him chill the glass and pour water from a gin-labeled bottle into the shakers.

“Do you like it dirty or dry?” Scott asked.

I wanted to say I didn’t like it at all, but I knew Cheryl would make me suffer for it. So, because I didn’t want to open myself up to any jokes, I answered, “Dry.”

Scott didn’t make a crack, though; he simply said, “I like a little olive juice.”

I raised an eyebrow at him. “You do, huh?”

He smiled. “In fact, I love it. Love olive juice.”

The bartender snickered. “Would you like to try it dirty?” he asked me.

“Dirty is with the olive juice?” I asked.

“Cut,” Cheryl called.

I turned to her. “What?”

“Ask Scott the question, not the bartender.”

I shrugged and repeated my question to Scott.

He nodded and smiled warmly at me, then reached out a hand and stroked my cheek. I stiffened, but he leaned in for a kiss anyway, saying, “Olive juice.”

“It’s a wrap,” Cheryl called.

Scott leaned into me. “I love that you bought my book. That is so sweet. I’m kinda nervous now. I hope you like it.”

“I’m sure I will,” I said, although I wasn’t sure I would. “Does it have lots of gore?”

He shook his head. “No, no. Let me know what you think, okay?”

I nodded.

“Are you okay? You seem distracted,” he said.

I shrugged. “I’m getting tired of the pretending.” I knocked on the rigid foam bar to make my point.