A First Date with Death (8 page)

N
athan was practically jumping out of his skin. “Bumper cars! They have bumper cars! Can we ride, huh, can we?”

I hooked an arm through his. “Lead the way!”

The small bumper car ring had mini versions of Nascar racers and I realized the network would be covering the races around the time the show aired. No way was Hollywood going to miss a perfectly good promotional opportunity.

Nathan raced toward the cars and I couldn’t help but feel he was more interested in them than me.

That’s okay,
I reminded myself. After all, I was supposed to be trying to figure out who was on the show for the money. I needed to get my mind off the horrific events of the past few days and get my head in the game.

Derek, the vet, seemed sincere and obviously I didn’t have a good handle on Scott yet.

I climbed into the small bumper cars and zoomed toward Nathan. He maneuvered around and raced away from me, laughing.

“I’m gonna getcha,” I yelled.

I sped toward him and missed.

“Ha! What a woman driver,” he screamed at me, then he tilted his head back and his blond curls bounced as he laughed so hard. The word
jackal
came to mind.

I whirled the car around and followed him. He seemed like such a kid. He had to be on the show for the money. He didn’t seem to have the maturity to be looking for a real relationship.

Then again, does anyone go on a reality show looking for a real relationship?

“What’re you looking for in life, Nathan?” I asked as my car connected with his bumper.

He bumped my car back. “Fun!”

“What else?” I asked, as I rammed into his mini racecar.

He grinned. “Love.”

“What else?”

He bumped my car again, this time softer. “A friend. A best friend, I think,” he said, laughing.

“Money?” I asked.

“Sure, lots of that. Fame, too. But love is more important than those things.”

“You’re a walking cliché,” I said.

He drove his car away from me. “I’m not walking, sister. I’m racing.”

I sped toward him. “And I’m doing the chasing, is that right?”

Suddenly our cars lost speed and the whir of the power going off punctuated the end of the ride.

He popped out of his car and helped me out of mine. I was still barefoot and slid on the smooth surface of the bumper car arena floor. He caught me.

“Oh, girl. It’s almost like you’re surfing! Show me your best move.”

“Are you kidding?” I chuckled. “I don’t surf!”

He fell to his knees in a mock death. “You’re killing me. Next date, let’s go to the beach. I’ll teach you!” He took off at a sprint and slid across the slick floor, arms extended in full surf mode.

If only I had control of the dates. I’d love to surf with this crazy guy.

Richard was standing near the exit of the bumper car ride. In an unspoken dance, each guy was patiently waiting his turn with me. Man, group dates were awkward. And what was I really learning?

Nathan wiggled his fingers at me and I blew him a kiss as he disappeared, presumably to return to the blanket picnic—or for all I knew maybe they were all relaxing in their dressing rooms. Suddenly the image of Pietro hanging in mine flashed before my eyes.

I felt off balance and grabbed for Richard’s arm.

“What is it?” he asked. “You look a little pale.”

I covered my face with my free hand and took a deep breath.

“Cut!” Cheryl yelled. “What’s wrong now?”

“Nothing!” I said. “I just . . . I just need some water.”

“I’ll get you some,” Richard offered.

But a crew member was already handing me a bottle of icy water. I nodded at him gratefully, took a swig, then wiped the condensation from the bottle off my hand. “I’m okay now.”

Cheryl eyed me cautiously. “Why don’t we take fifteen?”

I shook my head. “We don’t have to stop on my account,” I said.

Richard rubbed my arm. “It’s okay if you need to take a break.”

“I have to give the crew a break anyway,” Cheryl said.

Oh, my! This was the first time she was actually being nice to me.

What was going on?

•   •   •   •   •   •   •   •   •

I
walked down the corridor toward my dressing room. What should have been a walk to relax myself turned into a death march. I couldn’t get the image of Pietro out of my mind and now walking to the dressing room only made it worse.

I stopped in front of the door, wishing someone were with me, but that was silly. I was a big girl now.

What were the chances of finding another heinous scene in my dressing room? Really? Probably slim to none.

I heard rustling behind the door.

My breath caught.

Was someone inside my dressing room?

I frantically turned the knob and pushed open the door. A man was seated in my makeup chair. He whirled around and I screamed.

I clapped a hand over my frenetically beating heart. “Daddy!”

My father leapt from the chair and embraced me. “Shh. Don’t make too much noise. I’m not supposed to be in here.”

“You scared me! I wasn’t expecting you!” I said, as I buried my head into his chest, emotions overwhelming me.

My dad was in his early fifties and more handsome than any Hollywood actor could get. He had a full head of black hair, with just a little gray around the temples and a wicked smile. My mother had passed away when I was young and the only family I had was Dad.

I cried into his flannel shirt and inhaled his scent.

He smelled like the outdoors, fresh and breezy and woodsy at the same time. He was as solid as an oak and was always,
always
in my corner.

Dad was an almond farmer. He’d been my champion since before I even knew what a champion was.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“I’m your surprise guest!”

I covered my heart with my hand. “Thank God. Part of me feared they’d pull out old Mrs. Windbag.”

Dad laughed. Mrs. Windbag was the nickname we’d given my first grade teacher, who’d sent scads of notes home complaining about my inability to sit still at school.

Dad had ignored those notes, saying in his best hick voice, “Sitting all day ain’t natural. Kids oughta be out running all day. Helping out with the farm.”

And, of course, that was what I did every day of my life until the age of fifteen, when I’d suddenly discovered boys. Then the farm and our small town seemed like a waste of time. I’d set my sights on a city. I wanted to grow up to be a city girl.

Cosmopolitan allure.

Who knew it would turn out to be overrated?

Dad stroked my hair. “What’s wrong, honey?”

“Oh, Dad! If only you knew! But I don’t have time to fill you in right now. I have to be back on the set in a few minutes. When can I see you next?”

“Well, I’m free all afternoon,” Dad said.

“Come to my Prevost coach after we finish filming here, okay?”

Dad nodded. “Oh! And remember, you’re not supposed to know it’s me. So act surprised when they announce me.”

I glanced at my watch and smiled. “I have to go.” I kissed his cheek. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

I turned toward the door of the dressing room. I couldn’t wait to get my date over with so that I could sneak another chat with Dad. Seeing him had felt so right. Like a prayer answered by God. Now I suddenly felt I could continue with the charade of the show.

With Dad as my counsel, I might actually have a chance of winning. Not that I harbored any hopes of actually falling in love, but maybe if I figured out who was on the show for the right reasons we’d get to split the prize money. And maybe, just maybe, I could figure out what had happened to Pietro and Aaron.

•   •   •   •   •   •   •   •   •

I
pulled open the door to exit my dressing room and ran right into Ophelia. She straightened when she saw my dad standing in the middle of the room.

I shut the door and stuttered.

“I didn’t see a thing,” Ophelia said. “Let’s get back to the set and I’ll do a quick touch-up on your hair there.”

We walked in silence.

When we got back to the set, Ophelia straightened the ends of my hair and gave me a thumbs-up.

I resumed my position near Richard. He was smiling and welcoming. I tried to look enthusiastic about our date and plastered a grin on my face.

Cheryl called, “Action!”

Richard linked his arm through mine and we strolled toward the popcorn booth.

“Want a snack?” he asked.

I didn’t really, but felt bad saying so, so I conjured up a little excitement in my voice. “Yum. Popcorn.”

I must not have done a great job, though, because Richard said, “You don’t have to if you don’t want it. We can sit on the bench and chat.”

I glanced over toward the canoe rides. “Or, we can go for a ride.”

He followed my gaze. “The canoe ride?” he asked, incredulity thick in his voice.

I giggled more from nervousness than anything else and then regretted it. Giggling always made me feel like a ninny.

“I don’t think I’ll fit in it,” Richard said.

“You never know until you take a chance,” I said over my shoulder, starting toward the canoes. My voice sounded more confident than I felt.

I approached the attendant and held up two fingers. He pulled over the nearest canoe, with an image of an Indian chief painted on the side, and motioned to us.

“I could sue for that, you know,” Richard said.

“For me forcing you to ride a canoe?”

“No. For that! The image of the Indian chief on the side of the canoe. It’s—”

“Cut!” screamed Cheryl.

We looked up, startled.

“Uh, let’s not go with the lawsuit talk,” Cheryl said. “We don’t want to encourage any frivolous litigation.”

“I assure you,” Richard said, “to the peoples affected by discrimination and harassment it is anything but frivolous.”

“Right,” Cheryl said, managing to sound almost bored. She pointed back toward the vending booths. “Popcorn! Much safer. The lighting is better there anyway.”

She gave Richard a curt look and I felt that either I was growing in her estimation or she had a name to add to her doghouse list.

We reassembled over at the popcorn booth. A crew member handed us both bags of salty, stale popcorn.

I popped the first few pieces in my mouth and tried not to make a face. “What kind of law do you practice?” I asked.

“Labor and employment law.”

I feigned interest. I knew right then and there I was not a fan of Richard’s. He seemed overly confident, bordering on arrogant. This guy had to be on the show for the money, and even if he was there for love, there was no way I’d want to split the prize with him. He continued to drone on as we took a seat on the park bench.

I popped a few more kernels into my mouth, then suddenly gagged. I had a coughing fit.

Cheryl yelled, “Cut!”

Richard clapped my back and I spit out the popcorn, realizing that it was actually packaging popcorn.

“Oh, God!” I yelled.

Cheryl and the crew were laughing.

“Is this some kind of joke?” Richard roared.

“Not at all,” Cheryl said, still laughing. “No one actually eats the stuff! We just put a few real ones on top for looks, but the bags are always filled with packaging popcorn.”

“That way they last forever,” a crew member said, “and we don’t end up with greasy bags.”

They all continued to laugh.

I began to giggle, too, but Richard was still fuming.

“I was making a critical point,” he said.

Part of me wanted to say, “You were?” but that would have been rude.

Cheryl laughed even harder and said, “Really?”

Richard reddened.

Ah, suddenly I was beginning to soften toward Broom-Hilda—even she had a sense of humor.

R
ichard and I somehow stumbled through our torturous scene, or at least Cheryl finally felt she’d gotten enough footage to use and her shout of “Cut!” came at last.

I sauntered toward the picnic blanket and collapsed. All the men were there, smiling except for Paul. “When’s my turn?” he scolded.

The men had propped up the giant penguin and stuffed part of the baguette under a wing. It looked comical, but I refrained from laughing because I didn’t want Paul to think I was laughing at him.

I jumped up. “Oh, yes. Of course.”

“Saved the best for last, huh?” he said, standing up to join me.

We strolled toward some benches. The crew had put on a wind fan and my hair blew around my face.

Paul stopped in his tracks, brushed my hair back, and cradled my face.

“Georgia,” he said, “I’m here for love. I came to . . . I’m on the show for love,” he repeated. Heat surged between us and he bent to kiss me.

Was it true?

Could he be trying to send me a signal or was he . . . was he only doing this all for show? The thought made me nauseous.

I put my hands on his chest, separating us and pushing him away gently.

“Thank you for sharing your feelings,” I said guardedly, aware of the cameras all around me. “I don’t expect anyone to tell me to my face that they’re on the show for money.”

“I know,” he whispered. “Sometimes life gives us surprises we don’t expect. Sometimes they’re good—”

I dropped my hands, breaking our physical connection. “And sometimes those surprises aren’t so good.”

“Cut,” Cheryl called.

Paul held out his hands. “What’s going on?”

“We’re done. It’s a wrap for now. Thanks, gang.”

The other men began to leave the set. The crew started to take down the lights.

“But that’s not fair,” Paul said. “The other guys got a lot more time with her. They got to go on rides and stuff.”

Cheryl shrugged. “I’m not in the business of fair.”

•   •   •   •   •   •   •   •   •

I
was ecstatic to be back at my trailer. My face was scrubbed and I was in my sweatpants and tank top, waiting for my dad to sneak off.

The filming for the carnival group date had taken up most of the morning and afternoon, but I still had an hour before I needed to get to hair and makeup for my evening one-on-one date with the good doctor Edward.

A pebble hit the side of my trailer and a man’s voice called out to me.

“Georgia?”

I jumped to open the door. “Daddy! In here.”

He smiled broadly as he entered my trailer. “Aw, my little girl, living in a trailer!”

“Shut up and have a seat.”

He chuckled, then seated himself in my eat-in area, only he looked squeezed in between the wall and the table, sort of like a jack-in-the-box.

“Although, I gotta say,” Dad said, “this is a really nice trailer.”

“Technically, it’s not a trailer; you know that. It’s an RV.”

Dad winked at me. “Sure it is.”

We both laughed.

“Why don’t they have you staying in that fancy mansion next door?” he asked.

“The men are staying there. Apparently they negotiated better than I did.”

“Well, if the comforts around these parts aren’t so comfortable you can always come home.” He looked at me hopefully.

“Don’t think I haven’t been thinking the same thing.”

Dad sat up straighter. “Really?”

I opened the fridge and pulled out a Budweiser for him. “I don’t know.”

“Your room is ready for you.”

I laughed. “Well, Dad, by going back home I didn’t mean back to my old bedroom.”

Dad chuckled. “No, no, of course you didn’t.”

I handed him the beer can. “The booth may not be comfy, but at least the beer is cold.”

He nodded. “Aw, don’t worry about the booth. I’m just glad to see you. When Becca called she said all sorts of strange stuff had been happening during the filming. What’s going on?”

I told him about Aaron’s accident while bungee jumping, then Pietro’s alleged suicide and Teresa’s look-alike going by the name of Florencia.

My father sat grim faced as he listened.

“And you’ll never guess who showed up to replace Aaron,” I said.

Dad looked at me blankly. “What?”

“When Aaron had the bungee-jumping accident off the bridge. They sent someone to replace him on the show.”

“Oh,” Dad said. “Okay, who?”

“Paul,” I answered.

Dad’s face turned white. “Paul Sanders?”

Of course, along with Becca, the other person at my side on that fateful day when Paul had stood me up was my father. Dad had dressed in a tux. It was no small feat, getting him to agree to take off his suspenders and replace them with tails, believe me, but he’d been so happy and proud to be walking me down the aisle that he’d have worn a clown outfit if I’d asked him to.

And then the torturous wait, which had been terribly awkward and had gone on far too long, until we finally realized that Paul was not coming.

It had fallen to Dad to have to announce to the guests that the wedding was “postponed,” with the word “indefinitely” hanging in the air.

My guests had taken it in stride. Everyone making excuses for Paul. “Oh, well, with a police officer you never know—probably an emergency somewhere!”

Dad slammed a fist onto the small table and his beer bounced up and down, nearly toppling over. “I’m going to kill him!”

He leapt to his feet, this time bumping into the table so hard that the beer did spill.

“Dad, no! Come on, sit down. It was a long time ago—”

“It hasn’t been that long, Georgia! No self-respecting man leaves a woman at the altar. That no-good—”

“I’m not concerned with him, Dad. I’m over him.” Even as I said it, the words caught in my throat. “I need to focus on the accidents. Don’t you see? That woman Teresa/Florencia is on the set . . . I was bungee jumping with Aaron. At the same time . . . It could have been me.”

Dad’s face lost some color and he sat down again. “Do you think she’s trying to get to you?”

“Yeah,” I said emphatically. “I think she saw me on the set and figured a little revenge would feel like just what the doctor ordered after serving five years behind bars. But somehow things got messed up and Aaron got the brunt of it instead of me. Then I bet Pietro must have seen something and she had to silence him because he told me he needed to speak with me. And he ends up dead in my dressing room. I think she’s after me.”

Dad’s complexion went from pale to bright red. “You have to stop the show. Get out of here. Come back to Cottonwood—”

“No. I’m not running.” The words rushed out before I knew I meant them, but I did. “I won’t back down. If it is Teresa who’s after me, I need to know. I can’t keep running from things.”

“Honey, you never run from things. You—”

“I do. I did. I ran from the humiliation of losing my job and my fiancé. I ran right into the claws of Broom-Hilda.”

“What?” Dad asked.

I grabbed a rag from the kitchen and wiped up the spilled beer. “Do you want another one?” I asked.

“You got any bourbon?”

I laughed. “I know I’ve given you a shock, but my gut is telling me to stay. I have to figure out who killed Pietro and tried to kill Aaron or—”

“You don’t believe it was suicide?”

“No.”

“Well, isn’t Paul here to figure all that out?”

I fixed my dad with my best “I am woman; hear me roar” look.

“Oh, hell, Georgia, I know you can solve this, I just don’t want you hurt in the process.”

EXT. BEACH DAY

Nathan is in bright pink and orange surfer shorts. He is topless and sports a ripped six-pack of abs. He’s holding a surfboard in one hand and with the other he shades his eyes from the sun.

NATHAN

(
big smile
) Welcome to my office.

CHERYL (O.S.)

Is that what you call it?

NATHAN

Absolutely. I do some of my best work out here.

CHERYL (O.S.)

Do you?

NATHAN

Sure.

CHERYL (O.S.)

Work, I mean.

NATHAN

Sha. I surf.

CHERYL (O.S.)

So, you’re on the show for money?

NATHAN

(
shoulders dropping and a look of extreme displeasure on his face
) No. The big surf’s gonna come in and I’m going to ride it.

CHERYL (O.S.)

Are you saying, in fact, that you’re looking for love?

NATHAN

(
big toothy smile
) Yeah. I’m looking for a little surfer girl. (
He breaks out into song.
) Surfer girl, surfer girl . . .

•   •   •   •   •   •   •   •   •

T
he Lincoln Town Car ride was nice. I knew it was all for show. They needed to film me getting out of it—otherwise, they might have sent a Prius to pick me up—but as it was I was bound and determined to enjoy the ride.

Cheryl had arranged for a private room at MOCA, the Museum of Contemporary Art, Los Angeles, to be ours for the evening. I was meeting Edward. We’d get to tour the museum at night alone and then enjoy a candlelit dinner.

I was so exhausted from the emotions of the carnival date that I just hoped the evening would go smoothly.

The car rolled to a stop and the driver got out. I expected him to come around and open my door, but instead the door opened to reveal Edward standing there.

“Good evening,” he said, offering his hand to me.

Butterflies danced in my stomach and I suddenly felt shy. I took his hand and stepped out.

He looked me up and down, taking in my citrine gown. It was strapless with a bow on the waist and a floor-sweeping hem. He pressed his lips to the back of my hand. “You look gorgeous,” he said. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Likewise,” I said, putting an arm through his as we walked toward the front door of the museum.

The downtown location’s sandstone building opened in the late 1980s to international acclaim. MOCA is the only museum in Los Angeles dedicated to contemporary art.

The building seemed too modern and plain for my taste, but as soon as we walked down the courtyard steps, I could see what the fuss had been about. The chief exhibition spaces downstairs were lit from above by groups of pyramidal skylights.

We walked down a corridor and into a large room that had high ceilings punctuated with those amazing skylights. In the center of the room was a table set for two complete with a three-tiered silver candelabra. It would have been incredibly romantic, minus the camera crew and production staff.

They were a constant reminder of what I was here to do.

Edward and I decided to tour the exhibits around the room.

On one side were marble statues in an array of sizes and colors and an astounding and almost frightening spectrum of emotions.

The first statue was a man in agony, or at least part of a man. It was a pair of hands and a torso and head, struggling to free himself from the surrounding marble. It was called
Distress
, and I certainly felt distressed as I gazed upon it.

“Wow, that’s something, huh?” I asked.

Edward chuckled. “Sort of how I felt in med school.”

I laughed, but didn’t want to say, “Sort of how I feel right now.”

We moved on to the next statue, a little boy with a baseball bat in his hand and a look of complete joy and rapture on his face.

“That’s more like it, right?” I said, looking up at Edward.

He smiled. “You want to have kids?”

“Sure, don’t you?”

He nodded. “Definitely.”

A warm, fuzzy feeling enveloped me as Edward put a hand on the small of my back and steered me toward the table in the center of the room.

He pulled out a chair for me.

“What manners!” I said.

“My mother would be horrified if she saw that I didn’t pull out a chair for a lady.”

“Especially on national television,” I teased.

“Exactly,” he said, taking a seat across from me. He examined the bottle of wine and then held it up for me to appreciate.

I wasn’t really the hippest wine expert, but I liked that he’d shown me the bottle. Paul had always selected the different varieties we drank, with no regard to what I thought.

“Are you a wine guy?” I asked.

He shrugged. “I know a little. This one is from Glen Ellen, so my guess is it’s gotta be good.”

I flashed back to my popcorn episode that afternoon and wondered if there was actually wine in the bottle or if it was just colored water.

Edward filled my glass and the fragrant earth scent reassured me that the wine was indeed real.

I swirled my wine and watched the wine legs form on the sides of my glass. “Tell me about your mom.”

He took the folded white napkin that was perched like a bird next to his wineglass and fanned it into his lap. “Ah, Mom! She’s something else. She raised me and my brother alone. Single-handedly.”

“No dad?” I asked.

“Dad walked out on us, while she was pregnant with my brother.”

I felt a little pull inside my chest as I watched his melancholic expression. “I’m sorry about that.”

He gave me a sad smile. “Men. Not reliable.”

“Some men are,” I said, thinking about my own dad.

“I’m glad you’re confident about that.”

I fiddled with my napkin, feeling uncomfortable. Edward was giving me a strange look.

Did he know I’d been stood up at the altar?

And if so, did he know it had been by Paul?

We carefully removed the silver platters covering our dishes to reveal delectable salmon slathered in a pesto and cream sauce.

“Looks delicious!” I glanced up at the camera that was closest to me. The lights were so bright by the camera that I couldn’t see anything beyond it. “Can we eat this?” I asked into the white light.

I was answered by a snicker.

Cheryl appeared between the cameras. “You can eat. Take a few bites, but for God’s sake, spice up the date a bit. You’ve got us bored to death.”

“What?” I asked.

“Sit closer to him. Flirt. Feminine wiles—you know. Figure out why he’s on the show. Grill him! Make it exciting for the viewer.”

“Are you saying I’m boring?”