A First Date with Death (7 page)

“Nope, and even if I did, you know I can’t tell you.”

I shrugged. “I know. I guess it doesn’t matter, though. I want him gone.”

She studied me a moment. “So, are you going to eliminate him next?”

“Hell yes,” I said.

She made a face.

“What?” I challenged.

Becca shook her head and found immediate interest in her coffee. “Nothing. Got any sugar?”

“You don’t take sugar in your coffee. Now tell me what’s up.”

She played with her coffee cup. “It’s just that I think he’s still in love with you, G.”

It was my turn to make a face. “Puh-lease!” I said. “He doesn’t love me. He loves his job.”

“He loves you and you know it.”

Arguing with Becca was actually pointless. I’ve never won an argument with her.

Ever.

“Well, maybe I don’t love him anymore, Becca,” I said. “He’s not . . . he’s not . . . husband material.”

Becca laughed. “Of course he is! He’s got a great job, he’s got a great ass—”

I held a hand up to stop her. “Having a great ass is not on my list of criteria for making a good husband.”

“Liar.”

“Okay, well, maybe it is. But
having
a great ass and
being
a great ass are two different things and I just think our ship has sailed. Every time Paul opens his mouth I feel totally misunderstood. I’m not on the show to go backward.”

She nodded, a serious expression on her face. “Right, right—and you shouldn’t. You’ve got some great guys on the show and every one of them is just as handsome as Paul. I shouldn’t be so superficial.”

We burst out laughing together.

She held up a finger. “But before you eliminate Paul, remember to think carefully about Aaron. Paul only agreed to what Aaron agreed to.”

I sighed, then took a sip of my coffee. “You really can’t tell me?” I pried.

She shook her head.

We drank our coffee in silence for a moment, engaging in one of our time-tested staring contests. When she didn’t budge, I asked, “You got any favorites?”

“For you? I think—”

I laughed. “What do you mean, for
me
? Do you have your eye on someone?”

She giggled. “No. Well, you know, I don’t want to unduly influence you. You need to be able—”

“Oh, come on, girl. I have more than enough to choose from. Who are you eyeing?”

“The cowboy.”

“Ah! I should have known.”

Becca had a soft spot for anything western. In fact, I couldn’t count the number of times she’d made me sit through old movies with John Wayne or Clint Eastwood or even
Big Valley
reruns.

“You can have him.”

She clapped her hands together. “Really?”

I fanned my fingers at her. “Totally, honey. He’s up your alley. You have my blessing to make goo-goo eyes at him.”

She laughed. “Oh, I’ll make more than goo-goo eyes at him.”

“I’m sure. So, who do you like for me?”

“The writer or the doctor.”

“The writer, Scott? No way,” I said. “I swore to myself he’d be the next one gone. He’s out of here!”

“Really?” Becca played with the salt and pepper shakers on my small table. “I think he’s so funny and you totally light up when you see him.”

“I do?”

She nodded. “The surfer guy is hot, too.”

I thought about it for a minute. The one who had piqued my interest was the doctor, Edward. He was strong and compassionate, although I wasn’t sure about the walking pharmaceutical part of him . . .

Why not take a chance?

“Let’s say for the one-on-one date I’ll go with Edward,” I said.

Becca made a note.

“And then for the guy left behind, I’ll leave Ty.”

She placed a hand over her heart and fluttered it back and forth. “Thank you!” she squealed.

“No problem. So, that means the others go on the group date,” I said.

“Including Paul,” she said.

I groaned.

She stood and jutted her chin out at me. “That means you need to get ready. Remember to flirt like crazy. Cheryl will make you redo everything if you don’t spice it up a bit.”

H
air and makeup were getting easier and easier for me to sit through. The first days I thought I was being tortured or doing some sort of penance, but somehow I’d gotten used to it. Today, the woman doing my makeup was the same lady who ordinarily did my hair, the one with the enviable dye job, whom I’d learned went by Ophelia.

“Have you seen Florencia?” I asked.

“Florencia? Yeah. She’s over at the studio today doing makeup for
Peril
.”

Peril
was the game show that was supposed to steal ratings from
Jeopardy
. So far, it was halfway through its pilot season and rumor had it its future was in “peril.”

Ophelia fiddled with her makeup case, holding several bottles of foundation against my skin, seemingly trying to decide if I was tan enough for the darker color or if she should just accept reality.

I was as pale as a ghost—thanks to years of living in foggy San Francisco.

“Have you worked with her long?” I asked.

She applied foundation to my face with a small sponge, then topped it off with powder. “Sure, I guess. Why?”

“Do you know much about her?” I asked.

She shrugged and turned to pick up a blusher brush. She dipped it into the pot of color and then dusted it on my cheeks, telling me to smile. “Uh, I think she’s single. Works late. Always wants overtime. Says she’s got no one to go home to and gets kinda mopey about that, but who doesn’t?”

I bit my tongue. It certainly wouldn’t help matters to say, “Oh, she’s got no one to go home to because I put her behind bars for killing her husband.” Instead I said, “How long have you worked for the studio?”

“Six years. Florencia came on board about a year and a half ago or so. I have to say she’s a quick learner and mostly keeps to herself.”

Eighteen months.

Had Teresa gotten out on parole? Considering she’d probably have served five years of the twenty-year sentence, it was possible, but it didn’t seem plausible after the brutal murder she’d committed. I’d have to find Paul and see if he’d found anything out.

The woman finished my makeup and moved on to hair. “Terrible about that Italian hottie, huh? What was his name, Pietro?”

I nodded.

“I’ll never understand what drives someone to kill himself,” she continued. “Can you imagine what would drive a man to do that?” She didn’t wait for my reply; instead, she blasted the hair dryer and our conversation ceased.

•   •   •   •   •   •   •   •   •

I
was dropped off outside another studio. Maybe the execs figured that going back to the same studio where Pietro had met his fate would be too much for us to bear. Either that or LAPD had it closed down as a crime scene. I guessed it was probably the latter, but, hey, Hollywood would try to score points where it could.

Becca was waiting for me outside. “G! You look beautiful.”

I laughed. The costume team had laid out skin-tight pink jeans for me, along with an animal print top reminiscent of a corset. I wore stiletto sandals that could have been weapons on their own.

I reached for her arm. “I can’t walk in these things!” I complained.

She grabbed my elbow and waved her free hand around. “You don’t need to walk; just hobble onto the set and have a seat. We’ve laid out a gourmet picnic for you and you can take off the sandals and flash your beautiful toesie-woesies for the camera.” A worried expression suddenly crossed her face. “They did give you a pedicure, didn’t they?”

After years of wearing police uniform boots my feet were hammered, and no one knew that better than Becca. Fortunately, once I’d been promoted to public information officer, I’d been allowed to wear plain clothes, including normal footwear, and my feet had healed.

“Yes, the beauty team gave me a pedicure a couple days ago. And besides that they also waxed me to within an inch of my life. They gave me a touch-up today.” I wiggled my eyebrows at her. “See?”

“Oh, yeah. I know those brows weren’t the only things waxed!” Becca said.

There was a catering cart parked in front of the studio doors and Becca grabbed a powdered doughnut from a tray of decadent pastries.

“It’s painful,” I said. “Can’t you request I get laser hair removal? I wouldn’t mind never having to shave my legs again!”

“It’s not fast enough for TV,” Becca said, taking a bite out of the doughnut and then wiping the sugar from the corners of her mouth. “That process takes months. Plus I heard it hurts, too.”

I made a face and she added, “Why does it have to hurt to be beautiful?”

“Not you,” I said.

Becca had a natural beauty that always seemed easy. Curly hair that looked even better when unruly and curves that forgave if she took an extra bite from a sugary treat.

She waved a hand at me. “Aww, shut up. I’m not gorgeous like you. I could never be the on-screen girl.” She pushed open the door to the studio. “You go take your spot on the picnic blanket. The men are backstage already, but we want to capture you greeting them each on camera.” As I turned to go, she called out, “Hey, want to hook up for cocktails tonight? I’ll smuggle you out of your coach, but don’t tell anyone.”

I laughed. “Of course I want to go out with you tonight! But I have the one-on-one date.”

Becca waved a hand. “After that! I’ll pick you up.” She put a finger over her mouth to remind me of the secrecy.

I nodded. “Mum’s the word.”

T
he set was made to look like a carnival-style amusement park. There was a huge Ferris wheel in the center of the set and on both sides of it were additional rides: one was a canoe ride and the other bumper cars.

A popcorn stand and cotton candy booth were on display and in the middle of everything was a picnic basket laid out on a plaid blanket. I took off the stilettos immediately and flopped onto the blanket, although I was nervous that the skin-tight jeans might give if I moved too erratically.

I peeked inside the basket: a crusty baguette, warm cheese, and chilled fruit. There was a bottle of wine opened and several glasses ready to be filled. I marveled at how the set resembled the outdoors. On flats were painted trees that were so realistic they actually looked three-dimensional.

Cheryl appeared from between the popcorn and cotton candy booths, startling me. I sat up straighter; somehow her mere presence put me on high alert.

“Hello, Georgia.” She attempted a smile. “Have you already been prepped for the scene—I mean, date?”

I nodded. Cheryl nodded back, seemingly satisfied with my response, and muttered, “Good.”

Several cameramen followed her and took up positions surrounding the picnic area. Cheryl put on a headset, then walked out of sight. Suddenly the amusement park came to life. Actors playing the parts of vendors took positions at the popcorn and cotton candy booths and a few more actors manned the rides and game booths, including one where you had to throw a ring around a bottle in order to take home a stuffed penguin the size of a small child.

The entire scene was a bit surreal and creepy. I half expected a clown to jump out and scare the bejesus out of me.

Cheryl called, “Action!”

Nathan, the surfer, suddenly peeked his head out from between the popcorn and cotton candy booths. I jumped up and raced toward him. More than anything, I was happy to be able to talk to someone.

Nathan grabbed me around the waist and swung me around. “Hey, girlie!”

My feet lifted off the floor and I enjoyed the feeling of weightlessness. I pressed my cheek against his shoulder and tried to surrender to his joyful energy.

What would it be like to go through life so carefree?

“Are you always so happy?” I asked.

He looked puzzled, then laughed. “Sure. It beats the alternative.”

He was quickly followed by Scott, the writer, who seemed genuinely pleased to be there. Richard, the attorney, who undeniably had a beady-eyed look about him. Derek, the Afghanistan veteran, who was reasonably sure-footed with help from his cane; and Paul, who didn’t seem the least bit happy to see me.

I hugged each one of them and when I got to Paul he whispered in my ear, “I was hoping for the one-on-one date.”

“Be glad you even got this date,” I whispered back.

He frowned at me, his expression clearly showing his dismay.

I ignored the look and asked the group, “What do you all want to do first? Picnic or rides?”

There was a mixed shout from the group and we decided that it’d be a shame not to sample the fine wine while it was chilled. Richard took charge of pouring the wine, while I broke the bread and passed it around.

Nathan popped a handful of grapes into his mouth and asked, “What’s your favorite ride?”

“Oh, I haven’t been to an amusement park since I was a kid,” I said.

“Where’d you grow up?” Nathan asked.

“Cottonwood,” Paul answered.

All heads turned to him. I assumed no one, including Paul, had told the cast that Paul and I had once been an item. So he got a few strange looks from the others, but he simply drank his wine and said nothing.

“I grew up near Anderson,” Scott said.

I studied him for a moment. “We were practically neighbors, then.”

Scott nodded. “Place gave me nightmares.”

“Is that why you write horror stories?” I joked.

He studied me, giving me an appraising look, as if he didn’t know how to answer, or maybe wasn’t sure if I’d understand his answer. “No, I write for another reason altogether.”

“What’s that?” I probed.

“Oh, God,” Richard said. “Let’s not get into the deep, dark psyche of a thriller writer.” He held up his glass. “Instead, I propose a toast to Georgia.”

The others raised their glasses.

My skin began to crawl. I couldn’t shake the feeling that the entire production was eerie. Really, all these men had come on the show to meet me?

It didn’t feel right. It never had.

But then again, in front of me was sitting the one man I’d thought I’d marry in real life and he was clink-clinking along with the rest of them and pretending to be an insurance salesman, no less.

“Georgia, I think I can win you a penguin,” Derek said, wiggling his eyebrows at me.

I jumped up. “As long as I can go barefoot, I’ll follow you anywhere,” I said, heaving him to his feet.

His cane was laying on the plaid blanket and he bent to retrieve it.

I held out my arm. “Don’t worry about the cane. You can lean on me.”

He smiled and wrapped an arm around my waist. This drew protests from the others. “Aw, man, what a ploy!” and “I wish I had a bum leg.”

We ignored them and headed over to the ring toss booth.

The man working the booth was wearing a red apron with deep pockets. He had a handlebar mustache and was standing with his hands folded in front of him.

He eagerly welcomed us, yelling out, “Five bucks gets you three tries.”

“Five bucks!” I laughed. “That’s kind of stiff. When I was a kid it was a quarter or something.”

Derek reached into his pocket. “I think I can cover it.” He handed a five-dollar bill to the man, who in turn placed three silver rings in front of Derek.

Derek tossed one and missed, the silver ring clanging against the empty milk bottles.

“What was your time in Afghanistan like?” I asked.

“Oh, probably the same as the others’. A good day was when it was slow. When I was bored. That was a good day.”

“And a bad day?”

“Worse than I could ever put into words. Complete chaos. I think you feel every emotion available to man either at the same time or in the course of an hour. Overwhelming really.” He shrugged. “You were on the police force, so I think you know what I mean.”

I reflected on my very short term as a beat officer in San Francisco. “I don’t think it compares. I couldn’t do what you did.”

Heck, I could barely do what I’d done, hence my unfortunate and premature termination from SFPD.

“You’re not giving yourself enough credit,” he said, tossing another ring and missing. “Pfft. I’m terrible at this game.”

I laughed. “
You’re
not giving
yourself
enough credit!”

He flashed a winning smile. “Third time’s a charm, right?”

“Sure,” I said. “Go for it.”

I hoped he’d make it soon. I imagined Cheryl might make him keep trying until she got her “shot.” Derek tossed the third ring into the air and it landed neatly around the neck of a bottle.

Good! Now they won’t have to reshoot the scene or keep filming.

I leaned into Derek and he smiled.

The man running the booth reached up and pulled the penguin down. He handed it to Derek, who in turn presented it to me. The penguin wore a purple necktie and had a big fuzzy head of rainbow-colored hair. We both giggled.

“It’s the cutest penguin I’ve ever seen!” I kissed Derek on the cheek. “Thank you.”

Before Derek had a chance to reply I felt someone brush against my elbow.

Scott was standing next to me and asked, “Want to ride the Ferris wheel?”

Derek took it as his cue to return to the picnic blanket.

I hugged the penguin to me for protection. “I don’t really like carnival rides,” I confessed. “They scare me.”

Scott’s eyes widened. “They scare you?” He smiled. “Fear! You’re barking right up my alley,” he said. “I love things that go bump in the night. Anything that makes you feel that chill. You know you’re alive then! Don’t worry about anything. You just snuggle up to me. I’ll keep you safe.”

I hesitated, but you only live once and of course there would be nothing dangerous about the ride. I knew that was an irrational fear on my part. Besides, I didn’t want to look like a complete chicken on national TV.

“Actually the Ferris wheel is my least favorite ride ever,” I said.

Scott clapped a hand to his forehead, then rubbed at his shaved head. “Don’t say that! It’s so un-American. And right now you’re looking so patriotic, what with entertaining one of our veterans.” He took the penguin and carried it for me. “You have to go on the Ferris wheel.”

“The Ferris wheel is not American,” I said.

“It isn’t?” he asked.

“No. It’s French or Turkish or something,” I said.

Scott chuckled.

“What?” I asked.

“The original Ferris wheel was designed by George Washington.”

I stopped in my tracks and looked at him. “You’re kidding, right?”

He smiled in a way that made my stomach flutter a bit. Only one side of his mouth quirked up and his eyes twinkled. “Not
the
George Washington. Another one. He designed it for the Chicago World’s Fair.”

We began to move again toward the ride.

“You’re a walking encyclopedia, huh?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Aw, I’m a geek that way. Writer, you know. I like to research stuff.”

The man working the Ferris wheel appeared in front of us. “Step right up, step right up. You’ll get a view of the entire park from up top.”

Scott and I both burst out laughing. It was hard to imagine a fake studio view being enticing, but surely the TV audience would get a screen montage of downtown L.A. or Venice Beach at sunset or something else completely fabulous. Scott and I would get a view of a wall of blinding lights.

Scott helped me into the gondola that was parked in place at the base of the ride. He handed me the giant penguin and I placed him on the floor of the car, so only his beak and hilariously wild rainbow hair were visible.

Scott jumped in next to me and the attendant secured the bar in place. The car jolted as the man pulled on the lever to put the ride in motion. Our gondola rose up a level. We rocked to a stop as a cameraman boarded the car below us.

“Don’t rock the car,” I said to Scott.

He smirked, his face lighting up like a little boy’s on Christmas. “You think I’d try to scare you on purpose?”

He leaned ever so slightly forward.

I grabbed at his shirt.

He grabbed my hand. “You can trust me.” His voice was low and rumbling, the sound sending delicious little goose bumps up my arms.

“I don’t trust you!” I said.

He winked. “You will.”

“Lean back,” I said through gritted teeth.

He eased back into the seat. “Don’t be scared,” he said.

“Isn’t that what you want?”

He shook his head. “It’s only fun when people are enjoying the feeling.”

“How could anyone possibly enjoy it?”

The gondola rocked and started to rise again.

Scott squeezed my hand. “Most people enjoy a little thrill.”

“Thrills are different from being terrified.”

He frowned. “Really?”

Suddenly the ride jerked and images of Aaron slamming into the San Francisco Bay flashed before my eyes.

I yelped and grabbed at Scott again. He put an arm around me, laughing, and said, “Now, that’s what I’m talking about.”

I pinched his arm. “Shut up!”

“Hey, hey. It’s fine,” he said. “The ride always jerks up at the top.”

He was right, of course, and now I was starting to feel like an idiot.

The ride was fine.

It was probably perfectly fine. I’m sure it’d been tested . . .

Tested by . . . whom?

Who had tested any of the equipment?

I took a deep breath.

“I’m skittish today.”

“I understand,” he said.

There was a look of compassion on his face that intrigued me and I decided getting my mind off the ride might be the best thing. “Have you been in love before?” I asked.

He raised his hands as the car descended. It was comical. The ride was so smooth, I wondered why the heck I’d been scared in the first place. I raised my arms alongside him and whooped.

He laughed. “Yeah. Her name was Jean. She was a total babe. I was crazy about her.”

“What happened? She dumped you?” I asked.

He turned to me and said, “No, we married.”

“Oh?”

“Then she got cancer about six months later.” His eyes glossed over and he said quickly, “She went so fast. Didn’t suffer.”

My heart suddenly felt heavy. “I’m so sorry.”

“My first book hit the
New York Times
list the day after she died,” Scott said.

I gasped.

“Life is but a dream, huh?”

Our car reached the bottom and the smiling attendant welcomed us. “Beautiful view, eh?”

Scott picked up the penguin and helped me out of the gondola. We walked in silence toward the group. I felt I needed to say something, somehow try to soothe the wound I’d so carelessly opened up.

“How long ago?” I asked.

Scott handed me back the penguin, a far-off look in his eyes. “Five years ago.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said again.

He reached out and stroked my cheek. “Don’t be sorry; you didn’t know. These are some of the things we have to learn about each other.” There was mischief in his eyes again as he said, “I mean, how else are we going to end up together?”