A First Date with Death (17 page)

He straightened, a look of concern flashing across his face. “I hope you’re not pretending with me. You’re starting to feel something, right? That’s not all just an act, right?”

“What do you mean?”

“You get a look in your eyes when I come close and you shake a little when we kiss.”

“I do not.”

He winked at me. “Okay, me neither.”

Cheryl came up behind us. “We need to move things along. Georgia, you have a scene with your dad next. Scott, you have to go change for the elimination ceremony.”

He glanced at me, a worried expression on his face.

Good, let him sweat.

“Georgia?” he said. “Olive juice.”

•   •   •   •   •   •   •   •   •

B
ecca retrieved me from hair and makeup. I was dressed in a red cocktail gown that weighed more than a house. It had a strapless sweetheart neckline and a nude underlay but the bright black beading sewn into it was heavy. I’d complained to Kyle, but he’d simply said that I wouldn’t be hiking in the dress and to suck it up.

Obviously, I’d lost any negotiating power I’d had with the hair and makeup people after I’d tackled Ophelia—if I’d ever had any negotiating power at all, which, actually, given my luck, seemed unlikely.

Becca and I walked together toward the set.

“What was the deal with the olive juice stuff?” I asked.

She laughed. “You still don’t get it?”

“Fill me in.”

Becca mouthed the words “olive juice” at me.

“Oh, my God!” I said. When mouthed it looked exactly like “I love you.” “You’re going to edit and splice that scene, aren’t you? So it looks like Scott and I were declaring our undying love for each other, right?”

She laughed. “You got it, toots! Come on”—she grabbed my arm—“Gordon is waiting for you.”

•   •   •   •   •   •   •   •   •

W
e strolled through the La Playa Carmel Hotel gardens and into the library salon. Dad was already seated in one of the leather chairs and chatting with Harris Carlson, who stood next to the empty chair, presumably waiting for me to occupy it.

Dad jumped up when he saw me and gave me a bear hug. “Peaches! Did you know Steve Jobs unveiled the Macintosh computer prototype to his development team here?”

“Uh, no. I didn’t know that.” I hugged him, feeling safe momentarily. I wanted to tell him I didn’t care right now about Macintosh computers, that I only cared if Lisa or Stinky had called with an update, but the room was filled with crew members and Cheryl was rapidly approaching me, so I bit my tongue.

A technician seated me and fitted me with a microphone.

Cheryl adjusted her headset and called, “Action.”

Dad squeezed my hand. “Only three men left, huh, honey? Anyone got your heart?”

“It’s a tough call, Dad,” I lied. I knew exactly who I’d be eliminating, but the viewing audience wouldn’t want to know until the final moment. Cheryl had made that clear already, so I blathered on, giving Dad and the audience a summary of the dates at the Monterey Bay Aquarium and the martini bar.

Dad listened attentively and then said, “Peaches, if you want a recommendation from me, get rid of the insurance guy.”

I smirked. Dad was no fan of Paul’s and he wanted the world to know it.

“You don’t like him, huh, Dad?” I asked.

Dad stroked his chin, clearly enjoying the invitation to publicly lash out at Paul. “I want you to pick someone
dependable
, Georgia. Someone you can
count
on.”

“Cut,” Cheryl called out. “Terrific, Gordon. You gave her great advice. Let’s move on to the courtyard for the elimination.”

Cheryl led the crew outside toward the courtyard.

I grabbed Dad and whispered in his ear, “Daddy, did Lisa or Stinky call you and leave a message for me?”

He nodded, but before he could answer, Becca breezed past us, saying, “Your mike’s still on.”

INT. LIBRARY DAY

Edward is facing the camera but his eyes dart about. He looks ill at ease and, worse, appears as if he is trying to look relaxed. He is in his early thirties, wearing chinos and a white button-down shirt.

CHERYL (O.S.)

Edward, would you like to tell our audience a bit about yourself?

EDWARD

I’m a physician at University of California, San Francisco. Uh . . . what else would you like to know?

CHERYL (O.S.)

Are you looking for love or are you looking for money?

EDWARD

(
looking panic-stricken
) Love?

CHERYL (O.S.)

(
laughter
) Does that make you nervous?

EDWARD

I’ve studied science my entire life. How do you find love? How do you quantify it? How do you even know it’s real?

•   •   •   •   •   •   •   •   •

T
wo champagne glasses were delicately laid out on a small butler’s tray that was covered in red velvet. The scent of jasmine coming from the surrounding gardens was intoxicating and I wished I were here in this romantic paradise under different circumstances.

I stood before the champagne glasses and studied the bubbles floating up from the bottom and then popping when they reached the top. That was how I felt, I reflected. High at one moment and then my bubble bursting the next.

Harris Carlson joined me by the poolside. He said nothing until Cheryl called, “Action,” then he said, “Well, Georgia. We’re almost to the finale date. Tonight you will be releasing one of your eligible bachelors.”

“Or not so eligible,” I said.

I knew there was still one man left on the show for love.

What would happen if I released him today?

The show would basically be over, wouldn’t it? I supposed Cheryl would make me continue—after all, there was still a prize to be won, even if I would be out of the running to win it.

Scott, Paul, and Edward entered the courtyard, all looking stunning in their tuxes. They lined up in front of me. Scott’s eyes were full of mischief and he mouthed “olive juice” at me.

Paul kept shooting Scott dirty looks and Edward appeared uncomfortable.

I wondered about the dynamics between the men. Why did Paul have so much animosity toward Scott? Did he know Scott had lied to me?

I held up a glass of champagne. “Paul,” I called.

Surprise splashed across his face. “Yes?”

I held the glass out to him. “Will you toast with me?”

He advanced quickly, looking relieved and nervous at the same time. I felt awful to be giving him false hope. I wasn’t interested in a relationship with him at all, but I wasn’t sure if Aaron had been on the show for love or money.

Paul accepted the glass of champagne from me.

Harris Carlson stepped up. “Gentlemen, only one glass remains.”

The cameraman panned tightly on Scott and Edward.

I called out Scott’s name.

He smiled, his shoulders dropping and a look of relief washing over his face. He came up to me and took a glass of champagne. “Thank you, Georgia.”

Our hands touched as he took the glass from me and I fought the onslaught of butterflies in my stomach.

Paul and Scott stepped aside.

I lowered my eyes. “Edward, I’m sorry,” I said.

He nodded. “I understand.”

“I have to ask, were you in it for love or money?”

He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up. “I was on the show for money, Georgia. I’m sorry. I needed to get a start on my medical school bills.”

“No Great-Aunt Vivian?” I asked.

He laughed. “Oh, I have a great-aunt Viv, but she’s poorer than dirt. Would have been happy to see me win the money.”

“You’re a nice guy, Edward. I hope you find what you’re looking for,” I said.

He smiled easily. “Well, in that case, I better get back to work. Good luck to you.”

I looked back at Scott and Paul.

I was going to need it.

•   •   •   •   •   •   •   •   •

B
ecca drove me back to my coach as I moped. It had been put back together by a few runners on the show, so it was tidy, but still strange. Knowing somebody’s gone through your underwear drawer without your permission always feels crummy.

“Want to get some drinks?” Becca asked.

“No, thanks. Sorry, but I’m beat and I feel . . .”

“I know. It’s been a long day and tomorrow we have the finale,” Becca said.

Relief wafted over me. After tomorrow I would be done with the show! Free to do whatever I wanted.

And what exactly was that?

“Who are you going to choose for the final date?” she asked. “Or do I even need to ask?” She wiggled her eyebrows at me and a part of me ached. I was dying to tell her that Scott had lied to me, but that would only compromise her position at work.

“Who do you think I should ask?”

“Duh, the sexy writer. You’re not thinking about Paul again, are you? I might have to bash your head in if you say yes.”

I laughed. “Pfft. You couldn’t bash my head in if you tried.”

Becca laughed with me, and then fluttered her manicured fingers in my face. “I wouldn’t want to break a nail. Anyway, since you’re not up for drinks, then I’ll have to call on a certain cowboy.”

I smiled. “Is he still in town?”

“Yeah. Tomorrow I finish on the set and then I get a little time off. We might go to Cancún.”

“Really? I’m shocked! You barely know each other!” I said.

Becca pushed open the door of the Prevost. “Look at you going all mother hen on me. Since when do you need to know someone to share a margarita on the beach?”

“I’m sure that’s not all you’ll be sharing.”

Becca feigned a surprised expression. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She giggled as she leapt out into the parking lot. “Lock your door, okay, G?”

I leaned out into the parking lot and watched her get into her car. “I will. Stay out of trouble!”

She yelled over her shoulder as she pulled out of the lot, “Don’t count on it.”

After she drove away, I washed off the day’s makeup and slipped into a black top and sweatpants, waiting for night to fall. I wanted to run over to Dad’s hotel and ask him about the message, but it seemed too risky. Better to wait until the crew had tucked themselves in for the night. It wouldn’t do me any good to get caught cheating so late in the game.

To kill time, I pulled out Scott’s book and curled up with it. The book began on a dark and stormy night.

How quaint.

The writing was tight, though, and I was immediately drawn into the story. A man haunted by demons, running for his life, then ending it prematurely by . . . I dropped the book suddenly as if bitten. The man in the story hung himself.

Oh, God!

What were the chances?

I grabbed the book and scanned the rest of the page. A suicide note! Panic overwhelmed me as I read: “Your indifference to me has made all the difference. I’ve tried so hard to make you notice me, but your plans don’t include me.”

What had Paul said, when I’d asked him about Pietro’s note? Something about indifference.

Is it a coincidence?

I grabbed my sneakers and frantically shoved my feet into them.

I had to take my chances and get over to Dad’s. I put the book into my shoulder bag and left the Prevost, locking the door carefully and looking over my shoulder out of habit.

A noise rang out across the parking lot. There was a border of shrubbery and it seemed to vibrate, as if someone were hiding in there.

My heart began to hammer out of my chest.

Someone was watching me, stalking me!

Why?

Waiting to get back into my Prevost coach for something?

Maybe they hadn’t located whatever they were looking for the first time.

Plan!

I needed a plan. Retreating back into the Prevost was hopeless. I didn’t have a phone in there and, more important, no gun.

Instead I took off in a mad dash toward a light post. The only thing on me that could conceivably be a weapon was my shoulder bag with Scott’s hardcover book.

It’d have to do.

I wrapped the strap around my right hand as I ran. With my eye on the shrub, I pivoted at the light. Nobody was chasing me.

There was someone there in the shrubs, though. I had no doubt.

Teresa?

Whoever it was, I wasn’t ready to confront them. Never willingly go into a situation you can’t control; that was a mantra drummed into me at the police academy.

Funny, I didn’t listen to that piece of advice when I signed up for this godforsaken reality show.

I raced out of the parking lot and down the street toward Dad’s hotel. There were a few couples on the street, who seemed peeved when I rushed past them, but at least no one slowed me down.

The lobby of the hotel was empty, the clerk absent from the front desk. I sprinted toward the elevators but then took a detour into the stairwell instead. Better to have control than be caught standing still, waiting for an elevator. As I ran up the stairs, I pulled the key to Dad’s room out of my shoulder bag.

Once on the third floor I raced toward his room and inserted the key, a vague thought squirming its way through my mind.

God, I hope Dad’s alone!

The door came open almost in an instant. It was dark inside and it took only a few seconds for my eyes to adjust. The light was on in the bathroom and Dad called out, “Peaches?”

I stood in the dark in the main room and whispered, “It’s me, Dad. Sorry to barge in on you.”

He exited the bathroom. He was still in his dress clothes but was holding a hand towel and looking freshly scrubbed. “What’s going on, honey?”

He moved to turn on the lights in the main room. My hand shot out and blocked his. “No, Don’t. I’m being stalked. Let’s keep them off for now.”

I crossed the room and peeked out the drapes toward the street. The street was quiet: a few couples strolling by and a group of women, sharply dressed, looking like they were enjoying a girls’ night out. I didn’t see Teresa skulking around and certainly no one else on the street looked suspicious.

Dad stood next to me. He put a hand on my shoulder. “Georgia, you’re white as a ghost!”

I stepped away from the window and out of the light. “Am I? I guess I’m spooked. I didn’t get a chance to tell you earlier today, but someone broke into my Prevost and ransacked it this morning.”

“We have to call the police!” Dad said.

“I did. They came to dust for prints. The only thing missing was the file Martinez gave me.” I sat on the edge of Dad’s bed. “Then when I got back tonight, I was reading Scott’s book—that’s a whole other story—anyway, I wanted to come here and see you and I saw someone hiding out in the bushes.”

Dad crossed the room, his hand hovering over the light switch. “Is it okay for me to turn these on now?”

“Yeah.”

Dad flicked on the lights in the main room and sighed. “Well, who do you think is following you?”

“I thought it could be Teresa Valens, since I know now that she’s been paroled.”

Dad sat next to me on the bed. “I have a message from Lisa and Stinky for you.”

I bolted upright. “Right! What’s the message?”

“Stinky got a hold of the LAX records. He shows Florencia Diaz traveling from LAX to Puerto Vallarta.”

I collapsed back onto the bed. “Seriously? She’s in Mexico?”

“Yeah, you’ll love this part. There is a San Francisco in Mexico.”

I moaned and buried my face in my hands. “I’m so stupid!”

“Don’t say that!” Dad said, rubbing my arm. After a moment he asked, “So, if it isn’t Florencia—Teresa—that’s behind all this—”

I sat up, chills running through my body. “I came here to call Lisa or Stinky. I found something in Scott’s book.”

Dad scratched his chin. “What do you mean, you found something in his book? Like what?”

I grabbed my shoulder bag and pulled out Scott’s novel. “There’s a death in here that’s very similar to Pietro’s. The guy in the book leaves a note, and LAPD said there was a note in my dressing room—”

“Wait a minute.” Dad held up a hand. “You think the writer is behind Pietro’s death?”

My stomach knotted and I felt like I wanted to retch. “I don’t know, Dad.”

“And if he’s responsible for Pietro’s death, what about Aaron’s?”

I cradled my head in my hands. “But how? He couldn’t do it, right? He was on the show the entire time . . . it has to be someone behind the scenes—”

“Hold on,” Dad said. “Scott was one of the people on the set at the Golden Gate Bridge, right?”

I nodded grimly.

“He was on the set when Pietro hung himself . . . or was hung . . . or whatever, right?”

“Yeah, but he couldn’t have gone to San Francisco to pull the plug on Aaron in the hospital.”

“Do we even know that happened?” Dad asked.

“It’s an assumption on my part,” I confessed. “I just thought Aaron was going to get better and figured someone was making sure that didn’t happen. But that’s when I suspected Florencia and now it looks like she wasn’t in San Francisco at the time.”

Dad walked to the small fridge and pulled out two mini bottles of bourbon. “I hope you’re not making this a habit, Georgia.”

“Making what a habit? Figuring out who the criminal is?”

Dad laughed as he cracked the bottles open and poured the drinks into the hotel glasses. “No, I know that’s a habit.” He handed me a glass. “I meant drinking bourbon late at night.”

I laughed, too. “You’re the enabler,” I said, sipping the amber liquid and feeling the warmth in my throat.

I recalled Scott and Ty sneaking out of the house in L.A. to visit with Becca and me at the dive bar.

“God, Dad, he did sneak out of the house one night. He came to see me when I was out with Becca.”

Dad frowned. “So, if it was easy for him to sneak out once, he could sneak out again, to either zip up to San Francisco or ransack your trailer or even hide in the bushes tonight.”

“Uh, I feel sick, Dad. I really liked him.”

Dad wrapped a protective arm around my shoulder. “Honey, we can’t be sure of anything right now.”