A First Date with Death (6 page)

INT. LIBRARY DAY

Pietro is looking into the camera, his dark hair gelled back away from his face and his eyes gleaming. He has a stubby beard and is dressed in a cerulean blue silk shirt with a red and white scarf around his neck. His legs are crossed and a bright red Italian leather shoe peeks into the frame every three seconds as Pietro shakes his foot around.

CHERYL (O.S.)

Hi, Pietro, can you tell us a little about yourself?

PIETRO

(
shrugs
) Of course. What would you like to know?

CHERYL (O.S.)

How long have you been in the country?

PIETRO

Five years.

CHERYL (O.S.)

Italians are big into love and families, right?

PIETRO

Sì.

CHERYL (O.S.)

So are you hoping to find your dream girl on the show?

PIETRO

(
laughs
) Ah, what a world it would be if we could just go on a show and find a wife!

CHERYL (O.S.)

You don’t think that can happen?

PIETRO

Perhaps, but not for me. I’ve already found the one.

CHERYL (O.S.)

Oh. So you’re on the show in hopes of winning the prize money?

PIETRO

(
waves his hands around
)
A rubar poco si va in galera, a rubar tanto si fa cariera
.

CHERYL (O.S.)

Care to translate?

PIETRO

(
laughs
) It’s an Italian saying. “Steal a little, go to jail; steal a lot, make a career of it.”

CHERYL (O.S.)

You’re going to steal the money?

PIETRO

No, but it feels a little like that. I have to steal the girl’s heart.

•   •   •   •   •   •   •   •   •

T
he police finished questioning everyone and we found ourselves escorted back to the mansion. Cheryl had requested that the cast gather back in the main living room for another meeting. This time I was sure the show was canceled.

I was so relieved.

I could barely contain my excitement. I was planning my immediate departure from L.A.

Although I actually had no plans.

What would I do? Where would I go?

San Francisco no longer seemed like home and I found myself daydreaming about my hometown of Cottonwood. I’d grown up on a small farm in northern California. Could going home—going back to that small town—be an option?

I entered the room and surveyed my surroundings. Becca and the crew were across the room in a huddle. There were no cameras on and the set felt strange without the warmth of the lights, almost as if someone had turned off the sun.

Paul was absent; presumably he was working with LAPD.

Dr. Edward and the cowboy, Ty, were seated next to each other in aluminum folding chairs that had been vacated by the ordinary crew. Ty was leaning in close to Edward, discussing something with him, in a manner that could only be described as urgent and hurried. Ty’s hand was covering his mouth as he spoke and his head bobbed up and down as he rapidly whispered something to Edward.

I cleared my throat as I crossed the room. Ty’s eyes flashed toward me, but he continued his intense talk with Edward. Edward, for his part, glanced up at me and offered me a soft smile.

In the center of the room was Scott perched in the middle of the brown leather couch, his legs crossed with an ankle over his knee and his arms spread open on the back of the couch. He looked about as comfortable and secure as a guy could get—his confidence annoyingly sexy.

God, Georgia, don’t fall for the biggest jerk on the set!

I took a seat on far right end of the couch, but Scott scooted closer immediately, his right knee pressing against my left. Heat surged between our bodies and I involuntarily jerked my leg away. Scott lowered his eyes toward the gap that now existed between us.

After a moment, he whispered, “It’s too much of a coincidence, isn’t it? Two guys dead in within a couple days?”

“Aaron isn’t dead. He’s in a coma,” I said.

Scott shrugged. “You know what I mean, though. It’s like the show is cursed.”

“Cursed? Come on. You’re not superstitious, are you?”

He rubbed at his shaved head and flashed me a crooked smile. “Not at all. That’s why I said it couldn’t be a coincidence.”

The sound of a woman’s hurried footsteps followed by more footsteps brought a close to the side conversations in the room, each of us looking up expectantly. Cheryl flew into the room followed by the other male contestants. The men looked confused as they filed into the room.

Nathan, the surfer, smiled when he saw me and took a place behind the couch where he could stand directly behind me. He put a hand on my shoulder. “Is everything okay? You all look shaken.”

Before I could reply, Harris Carlson entered the room and spoke with Cheryl in hushed tones; the rest of us were quiet, watching their interaction. Nathan’s hand fell away from my shoulder and finally Cheryl turned to the cast. “Listen, we had an unfortunate incident today on the set. Pietro committed suicide—”

I jumped up. “What? Wait a minute!”

Cheryl put a hand up. “Hold on, Georgia. Let me finish—”

“No!” I said. “We don’t know that he committed suicide! He was—”

“The police are investigating. Certainly,” Cheryl said. “But right now the main thing they’re looking into is suicide.” She flashed me a strange look, a cross between pity and something else, as if she thought I came from another world and she wasn’t sure what to do with me. “Given that this is the second incident on our show, I’ve spoken with our attorneys and they’ve instructed me to give you all the option of resigning.”

The cast stood frozen. It felt like a cold gust of air had hit us; my skin pebbled and I shivered involuntarily.

“What do you mean, resign?” Derek, the Afghanistan vet, asked.

At that moment, Paul stepped into the room and crossed to where the cast was seated. He said, “The production staff is giving us an opportunity to get off the show.”

Yes! What a relief!

I would get to go back home to Cottonwood, or even San Francisco if I wanted, but mercifully I would be off the show.

I jumped off the couch. “Thank you!”

All eyes in the room traveled to me. I nervously smoothed down my jeans, staring back at the cast. “What?” I asked.

“You can’t just bail out!” Nathan said.

“I’m not bailing out. Two guys are . . . this is wrong. We can’t keep going with the show!” I said.

“Why not?” Richard, the attorney, asked. “Obviously, Aaron had an accident and Pietro was severely depressed. All that is sad and all, but what really does it have to do with us?”

“No! I’m not staying on the show. This is totally morbid and I don’t buy that suicide thing someone is—”

Paul stepped toward me. “G, can we talk?”

I felt more uncomfortable now than before. Not only were all eyes on me, but it felt like they were boring holes right through me.

Can I say no?

“Uh . . .”

Paul wasn’t actually waiting for an answer, though; he’d already crossed the room and had a hand on my elbow.

Scott stood up. “Hey, no private one-on-ones! It’s a rule. I mean, if we’re going to continue with the show, then we should be following the rules!”

Edward nodded in agreement. “Yes! Why does he get one-on-one time? That’s not right!”

Paul held up his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. No problem.” He smiled conspiratorially at the other men on the cast. As if he wanted them to think he was just like them. I figured he’d probably been about to pressure me to stay on the show, perhaps so he could continue to investigate, but now he’d struck a nerve with the other contestants. He must have thought I’d feel the peer pressure and stay.

I glanced around at the men’s faces. “You all want to stay on? I mean, seriously? Every single one of you?”

“I do,” Scott said.

“Me, too,” Richard chimed in.

There were various nods and agreements, but I noticed that Bruce, the techie, and Mitch, the real estate investor, were both silent.

“You two don’t want to stay on?” I asked hopefully, reaching for a lifeline.

“Well,” Mitch said, “it’s definitely been an adventure, but I have to be honest, I really would like to be off the show.”

“Me, too,” Bruce said. “No offense to you, Georgia. You’d be any man’s dream, but I don’t think I’m the reality show type of guy.”

“Especially when the reality is that people are getting hurt or worse,” I said, flashing an angry look at Cheryl.

She studied her hands for a moment, as if searching out an answer from her nails. Suddenly she looked up. “You both don’t have to stay on the show. We’ll have a champagne ceremony tonight. You can choose to be eliminated. Will that work?” she asked.

Bruce and Mitch exchanged glances.

“I don’t see why not,” Bruce said.

“Wait, wait,” I said. “Is any of this up to me?” I felt the warmth of Scott’s hand on the small of my back.

“It’s okay. Let them go,” he said.

“But I don’t want to stay.
I
want to go.”

Edward turned to me. “Oh, Georgia,” he said. “We’ve all had a big shock, but really you came on the show for a reason. Don’t you want to see that through?”

Paul was upon me. I could feel the weight of his frenzied energy pushing at me. “Georgia, you need to stay on.”

I don’t know if I imagined him saying it through gritted teeth or if he actually did, but either way it seemed like it was another
order
. I glanced around the room and saw Becca, her face a mixture of pleading and support. I knew she’d be my friend no matter what I decided to do, but finishing the show would probably launch her career and bailing out on it meant she would have to start over.

Cheryl’s eyes seemed to bore holes through me. “We can get everyone into hair and makeup right away,” she said. “Film the scene and then take the night off.”

The men around me nodded.

Cheryl smiled. “Besides, we have a special guest arriving tomorrow and I know you’ll want to see him.”

“A special guest? Who is it?” I asked.

“Someone who will help you through all the decisions you have to make.” Cheryl dangled the offer in front of the others, baiting me to ask again.

Normally on these shows a best friend was brought in to consult with the bachelorette on her choices, but my best friend was already here. Cheryl glanced at Becca. She knew I’d stay on the show for Becca’s sake, no matter what.

“Who?” I asked again, pressing.

“A
very
special guest.” Cheryl smiled triumphantly, as if declaring she had the ace in the hole.

INT. LIBRARY DAY

Mitch is looking directly at the camera. He is seated in the library on a gold wingback chair. His ankle is crossed over a knee and he picks an imaginary piece of lint off his pants. He has a chiseled face, with a strong chin and nose, and is alarmingly handsome.

CHERYL (O.S.)

Hello, Mitch, can you tell the audience a little bit about yourself?

MITCH

(
nods slowly, his expression calculating
) I’m from Los Angeles. I am a real estate investor and I’ve done pretty well in the market . . .

CHERYL (O.S.)

Good for you.

MITCH

Until recently . . .

CHERYL (O.S.)

Sorry to hear that.

MITCH

Well, everyone has ups and downs. And it’s certainly not fatal. All I need is a quick infusion of cash and I’ll be right on track.

CHERYL (O.S.)

Are you hoping to find that here?

MITCH

Cash?

CHERYL (O.S.)

Yes. Are you on the show for love or money?

MITCH

(
laughing
) Well, love would be great, if she was rich, too. Can’t beat that combo.

CHERYL (O.S.)

Let me be clear. Are you searching for love?

MITCH

Well, ultimately yes. But I’m too young to settle down right now, plus I’m sort of in a bind. (
He makes a pained expression.
) Need the cash right now. So I’ll pass on love if it gets me the prize money. (
He nods repeatedly to himself.
) I’m on the show for the money.

•   •   •   •   •   •   •   •   •

W
e were taken to hair and makeup. Florencia was curiously absent again and I longed to talk about that with Becca, but she’d been dispatched to the control center, a studio where she’d watch the live feed from the various cameras during our elimination ceremony.

Kyle did my makeup quickly and even though I wanted to talk to him about Pietro, I felt oddly self-conscious, not sure who to trust or confide in. Someone dropped off a rack of dresses and Kyle picked through them.

“What do you think? Green sleeveless chiffon or do you prefer a slinky gold gown?” He held out the dresses for me to look over.

I shrugged. “Whatever.”

He made a face. “Whatever?”

“Sorry, I’m just not feeling it, Kyle.”

He swirled my chair so I could see my reflection in the mirror. “Come on, girl. Look at your face. I’ve made you stunning! Well, even more stunning than you normally are. Smile! You got a squad of hunks who wag their tongues every time you walk into the room.”

I looked into his eyes through the glass. “I’m spooked.”

Kyle shook a finger at me. “I won’t talk negative.
No, ne, nyet, nein
.” He fixed a glare at me in the mirror. “You shouldn’t, either.”

“He was in my dressing room, Kyle! Do you know if anyone else went in there?”

“Oh, honey, don’t you know all good stylists have a mantra for success?”

“And what is that?” I asked.

“See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.”

“Come on, this is a serious matter. If you saw something, you have to tell me.”

“I just told you I didn’t see anything.”

“You’re infuriating, you realize that, don’t you?” I said.

He cupped a hand around his ear. “What?” he asked. “You prefer the gold gown?” He flung it at me, saying, “Me, too.”

•   •   •   •   •   •   •   •   •

W
hen I stepped back into the mansion, candles were glowing from every corner and rose petals were strewn around the furniture, creating the ultimate romantic illusion for our TV viewers. The scent of the roses was cloying and I was almost able to ignore the crew members busily darting about, duct taping cords to the floor and adjusting lighting.

Except for the fact that I was shaking.

How were the producers going to explain Pietro’s absence?

Harris Carlson was already in the room, primping and preening as he stood waiting for me.

“I discussed the situation with Cheryl,” Harris said. “We’re going to be up-front with the audience about Pietro. His suicide is already on some of the news channels—”

“We don’t know that it—”

He held up a hand to quiet me. “I’m following marching orders.” The look he gave indicated I’d be smart to follow the same orders.

Cheryl sauntered into the room. “All set?” she asked, then a strange expression crossed her face. “What’s that smell?”

“We got an active leak. I’ve called a plumber,” one of the techs who was working on a light answered.

Cheryl scrunched up her nose, but didn’t say any more about it. She stepped toward Harris and me. “All right. We got Harris to give the audience a brief rundown about Pietro. So you don’t need to address that, Georgia. Just give us a quick recap about your dates and how torn you are to have to choose between all these great catches,
capisci
?”

Yeah. I
capisco
, all right.

She was closely guarding how the information about Pietro was released and she wanted to be sure I had nothing to do with it. She gave a whole new meaning to
public information officer
, and I’d already proved I couldn’t do that job.

Cheryl stepped away from us and called, “Action.”

Harris proceeded to ask me about the rock-climbing date. I gave a lame answer, something to the effect of, “It went about as well as could be expected.”

Then one by one the men came into the room. They were dressed in formal wear, each looking more handsome than should be legal.

I was to call the men’s names and ask if they would accept a glass of champagne. If I offered a man a glass and he accepted, he would remain on the show. I called out to Paul, Ty, Edward, Scott, Nathan, Richard, and Derek and handed each a glass of champagne. When the seven flutes were handed out, Mitch and Bruce were left standing with their hands folded in front of them.

What should have taken a few minutes to film seemed to take forever. Cheryl kept interrupting us and readjusting the camera angles. Then she’d instruct the men to look either overly confident, charming, or distressed. The distressed look seemed to be the easiest for the guys to master because they all looked completely frazzled by the time the scene was finally done.

Harris took a step forward and said, “Mitch, Bruce, I’m sorry. Please take a moment to say your good-byes.”

Mitch and Bruce shook hands with the other men. Then Mitch stepped away and approached me. “Georgia, it was a pleasure to meet you. I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”

“I’m sorry, too,” I said sincerely. And then I had to ask him the question that Cheryl had instructed me to ask. “Mitch, I have to know. Were you looking for love or money?”

He took a deep breath. “Georgia, I was looking for money.”

I smiled, relief wafting over me.

At least that’s one Mr. Wrong gone.

Mitch turned and walked out of the mansion.

Bruce moved closer to me, took my hand, and kissed it. “It was nice meeting you,” he said.

I nodded and asked him the same question I’d asked Mitch.

He tilted his head to the side and said, “I’m looking for love.”

My breath caught. I’d just lost one of my eligible bachelors.

“You’ll find it,” I said.

He pressed his lips together and nodded. “I hope so. Good luck to you.” He turned and walked out the door, and part of me—well, most of me—wanted to follow him right out.

Harris Carlson clapped his hands together. “Well, Georgia, seven men remain. You’ve eliminated one who was in it for the money and one who was in it for love. And, as our viewers are aware, we lost Pietro.” He glanced down a moment and the cast joined him in an unrehearsed silence. “Our confessional videos reveal that Pietro was on the show for the money.”

I surveyed the remaining men. All were holding their champagne flutes and looking at me expectantly. The odds had tipped in my favor. Now of the seven men remaining, four were in it for love.

I held up my glass. “Well, gentlemen, thank you for accepting this toast. May we all live long, happy lives.”

Everyone clinked their glasses together.

“Here’s to you, Georgia,” Paul said.

“Tomorrow there will be a group date for five of you and a one-on-one,” Harris Carlson announced. “You’ll all receive your date cards in the morning.”

That was my cue to leave the mansion alongside Harris. I walked next to him, feeling completely numb. Somehow, I’d agreed to continue on this godawful show and now I felt more alone than I’d felt when I’d been abandoned at the altar.

My life had truly reached a low.

•   •   •   •   •   •   •   •   •

I
slept a fitful night, reliving the image of Pietro hanging from the ceiling in my dressing room over and over.

Did his death have anything to do with me?

My worst fear was that he’d seen or known something and had been silenced for it.

I couldn’t believe it was suicide, but what about the note they’d found?

I finally drifted off to a deeper sleep, only to have the alarm jolt me awake. Bright Los Angeles sunshine was peeking through the blinds, but my head hurt and I still felt fatigued. I stumbled toward the miniature kitchen and fumbled for coffee. Someone on the production crew had stocked the refrigerator for me and I pulled out some cream for my coffee and some fresh raspberries to top my cereal.

As the smell of coffee wafted through my trailer, there was a small sound from outside. Gravel crunching in a slow and even pace. Not a cat or a raccoon.

This was definitely human.

Why was someone creeping up on me?

Through the blinds, I could make out the figure of a woman and she seemed to be dressed like my best friend, Becca, with a billowing jacket and skin-tight yoga pants. The woman’s long curly hair bounced as she walked.

My shoulders dropped and air rushed back into my lungs.

Yes, this was definitely my friend Becca.

“G?” she called as she rapped softly on my door. “Are you up yet?”

I pulled open the trailer door. “You scared me.”

“Sorry,” she said, tumbling into the trailer and seating herself in the tiny eating area.

“Why are you sneaking around?” I asked.

“I wasn’t sneaking.”

“You were kind of skulking.”

“I was? I don’t know—I’m totally freaked out. I thought I heard something behind me, but I think it’s just my mind playing tricks on me.”

I remained standing and peeked out of my windows. I couldn’t see much and I tried to shake the spooked feeling.

“Anyway, I came over to get the list from you,” Becca said.

“What list?”

“Your date list. I have to make out the date cards now. Who are you going to take out?” Before I could answer, she added, “Is that coffee I smell?”

I poured her a cup, then one for myself, and took a seat across from her. “I can’t believe we’re going to continue this charade.”

She put a hand over her heart. “I know. Poor Pietro. I tried to talk Cheryl out of continuing, but when you all voted to stay on—”

“I didn’t! I didn’t vote to stay on.”

“Well, you were outvoted, but what can I say, she thinks the ratings are going to be through the roof. We’re already getting press inquiries like you wouldn’t believe and, man, these people are vultures.”

“I can believe it. Remember I was the public information officer in San Francisco. I know how the press can get. Speaking of which, were you able to get copies of the footage we shot in San Francisco?”

Becca shook her head. “No, sorry. I asked around and everyone seems to think we gave the footage to SFPD.”

“All of it?”

“Yes.” Becca sipped her coffee, then asked, “So, who’s it going to be?”

“Where are we going for the date?”

“Amusement park.”

I quirked an eyebrow. “Disneyland?”

Becca smiled. “Girl, we are low budget. We don’t have the dough to close Disneyland for the day.”

“We got the bridge in San Francisco.”

“That’s different. The city encourages producers to film there. They want the business. Disney doesn’t need our business. Do you know how much they pull in a day?”

I buried my head in my hands. “Actually, I don’t want to know. I’m sure I’ll only find it depressing. Besides, if what happened in San Francisco—”

Becca clapped her hands over her ears. “Don’t even say that!”

“Scott’s worried the show is cursed.”

“La, la, la,” Becca sang.

“You’re going to ignore me? You’re just like the makeup guy, Kyle! What is this Hollywood denial?”

Becca shut her eyes and continued to sing to herself.

Well, what did I expect? It
is
the land of fairy tales and make-believe.

“You have to face reality, my dear. Something weird is going on with the show. Do you think it’s me?”

When she didn’t answer, I closed my mouth and waited her out. After a moment she opened an eye and peeked at me.

“Are you done with the nay-saying? I don’t want to participate in any bad juju.”

“The juju is here, darling. Whether we participate in it or not.”

She ignored me and pulled out a pen. “Who do you want on your date?”

“How many guys do I need to invite?”

“Five of the seven. You get to pick one guy for the one-on-one and someone will get left out. Who are you liking the best?”

I thought about it for a moment. Deep down I didn’t really think I’d find love on the show, but since I was stuck here, I’d better come up with a plan. After all, I had a chance to split the money with someone if I picked the right guy.

“Paul is out. We know he’s not on the show for love or money,” I said.

“No, no. That’s not how it works. He took Aaron’s place, so you can’t think of him as Paul. You have to think about him as Aaron.”

“What?” The cereal I’d poured took on a soggy, unappetizing texture and I suddenly felt sick to my stomach.

“You have to guess if Aaron was in it for love or money. Paul agreed to that with Cheryl. We had to keep the balance on the show—you know, five guys in it for love, five in it for the money.”

“Do you know?” I asked, picking a raspberry off my cereal.