Sweetheart Deal (6 page)

six

Following routine questioning by
the police and the conclusion of whatever was left of the wedding reception, Frank and I collected the boys, confirmed Eloise was still being squired around by Ivan, and returned to our room.

“Exhausted and emotionally drained,” or so he said, Frank headed for the bedroom, tossed a few pillows between our sides, and passed out immediately.

I was as weary and tired as I'd ever been, but my head was spinning. According to the employees gathered poolside, there'd never even been a near drowning at the Hacienda de la Fortuna, much less a fatal one. Could it be any coincidence that my arrival coincided with a visit by the Grim Reaper? Or that a person with whom I was con
nected (or who might have liked to have been connected with given the opportunity) was the Reaper's target?
20

Upset, sleepless, and sure I wouldn't be able to relax entirely until Eloise came back to the room, I waited for Frank to settle into sleep. With his first set of rhythmic snores, I slipped silently out of my side of the bed and out into the living room. Specifically, to the couch beside the coffee table where I'd left my computer.

With all the research I did as a matter of course for each and every
bargain-hunting
expedition or question posed on my blog, there was one thing I'd never researched before I signed on the dotted line:

Reality television.

In fact, I'd gone into the whole experience with a healthy appreciation for DIY shows on the home and garden channels as well as equal parts fascination and disdain for the celebrity, dating, and lifestyles of the
rich-and
-freaky shows. Mostly, I'd agreed to star in
The Family Frugalicious
trusting that the concept of our show was everything Anastasia and the network execs said it was: a
slice-of
-life reality show about a
bargain-conscious
family on the hunt for the best deals for themselves and their viewers.

My growing concern was that I should have pinned down an exact definition for
slice-of
-life.
Did that also include
sudden death
?

I Googled the phrase “How is reality TV made?”

Along with the
how-to
blogs for
would-be
producers and descriptions of how to become a contestant on various types of reality shows were numerous articles about the “realities” of reality television.

The driest but most damning simply asserted:

Reality television shows notoriously depict their topics in artificial, deceptive, and even fraudulent ways. Not only are participants coached and story lines generated ahead of time, but scenes are routinely edited and/or
re-staged
for the cameras in order to slant content. Many reality television shows are designed to humiliate and exploit, while others make celebrities out of untalented people who do not deserve fame. Most shows glamorize bad behavior, materialism, and personal failings.

The site included terminology I had never heard in the short time I'd been a member of the reality TV world, but that sent an eerie chill down my spine. E.g.:

Date producer (n): A specialist who orchestrates reality dating shows. Job description includes coaxing confessions, cultivating jealousies, and ensuring alcohol flows so contestants will make essential “miscues” like hooking up, revealing intimate details, and otherwise behaving inappropriately.

Another website featured an article written by a former producer entitled, “Get Real Before You Try Out for Reality TV.” The author, now an accountant in Chicago, listed five facts about his job on set:

1. Everything you see is preplanned. We wrote the storyboard and we worked out what the story was going to be. We thought of it as dropping guinea pigs (contestants) in an obstacle course we had built to watch how they navigated the various issues.

2. It was my job to make the participants upset with each other by dropping little hints and asides. In fact, that was the whole point. Film a show where everyone gets along and there's nothing to watch.

3. Everyone is edited into a specific character. The editors make you into whoever they want you to be.

4. The primary goal was to make a big story line from the littlest of tense moments.

And, most ominously:

5. The concept we sold to the audience wasn't necessarily the concept we sold to the participants.

I'd already seen about as much as I could take when a final blog post caught my eye: “Unreal: My Brief Foray into Reality TV.”

As I read the story of an attractive blond aspiring actress who thought she was accepted on a reality show about young people and their job struggles, I was certain I was in deeper than I ever realized.

The woman “Michelle” thought a mistake had been made when a production crew showed up at her apartment, handed her a script, and told she'd be starring in a makeover show. Before she could ask any questions, the camera was rolling and she realized that she was expected to play a stereotypical
party-girl
version of herself. A girl in need of a style update.

Unlike me, Michelle quickly overcame her misgivings and decided the situations the producers presented were so far from her real self that no one who really knew her would believe she'd act that way. She watched the producers do their thing and realized she
got
that they were just trying to make the most interesting show possible. In fact, she decided that improvising every scene—from a meltdown over a haircut (which was just extensions attached to her real hair) to pushing around a clerk while shopping for designer duds for her dog was simply good acting experience. She even took it in stride when a
dark-haired
member of the crew was sent to get his back waxed so they could pretend the strips were her leg hair.

As I read the conclusion of her story, in which Michelle recounted how the friendly crew was genuinely concerned for her and her
well-being
during the entire process and how they went out of their way to make her feel talented and invaluable, even apologizing for having to fake situations, I couldn't help but feel worse than I already did. Would Michelle have been smart enough to know she was supposed to play along the moment Alejandro began to flirt on the timeshare tour? Surely
she
wouldn't have protested his advances to the point where producers on her show might possibly feel as though they had to goose the story line along with something dramatic, like, perhaps, a sudden
death?

I shut my computer and leaned back against a throw pillow while I awaited Eloise's safe return, closing my eyes against the throbbing headache that had returned with a vengeance.

“I need for you to scream,” Geo said from under a raspberry beret. He straightened the bow tie of his coordinating tuxedo. “With conviction.”

“What's my motivation?” I heard myself ask.

He looked over at a receiving line where Frank checked his face in his cell phone and proceeded to congratulate the bride. Instead of kissing her cheek, he sunk his teeth into her face.

“Here's your Frankenbite,” he pronounced with satisfaction, smiling for the camera beside him.

“Isn't being stuck married to that husband of yours motivation enough?” Geo asked.

“He won't be her hubby for long.” Alejandro, who was floating in a nearby pool, raised his margarita glass. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

“I have the ultimate say,” Geo said. “So scream. Both of you.”

I opened my mouth and tried, but no sound emerged.

A deathly gurgle emerged from Alejandro.

“Can't save him now,” shouted Anastasia's sisters, who had materialized poolside.

They began to throw dollar bills into the water at Alejandro, who'd rolled over and was floating face down, margarita glass still in hand.

“Money shot,” one of them sang.

A door creaked open and a policewoman appeared. Her nametag read OFFICER MICHELLE.

“You should have played along,” she said, shaking her head. “That's the reality of the situation.”

“
Vérité
,” Frank said with a grin. “It's all about ratings, in the end.”

I began to cry. “This isn't how it was supposed to—”

“Whose fault is that?” Geo asked.

“Maddie's!” everyone cheered in unison.

“No!” I finally managed to scream as Officer Michelle began to shake me.

“Maddie?”

I opened my eyes.

“Maddie?” Eloise was tapping me gently. “I think you were having a bad dream.”

“Definitely,” I said. But as I got off the couch and headed for the bedroom, I was more afraid of what “reality” would bring.

seven

Despite the upbeat classical
guitar music, fanciful papier-­mâché vegetable centerpieces, and specific instructions for all guests to dress in colorful, casual attire for the cameras, a pall permeated the postwedding brunch.

Not only did the waitstaff look pale and
stony-faced
, but as I stood in the buffet line, it was clear that word of Alejandro's fate had spread to anyone who had missed the disquieting news the evening before.

I can't believe something like this happened while we were dancing the night away …

I had a feeling it wasn't entirely safe to come down here …

I can't imagine how horrified Anastasia and Philip must have been when they went to take pictures and found that poor man …

One of the servers dropped a fresh chafing dish full of chorizo into the heated steamer tray with a heavy plunk.

“Why didn't you say anything to me when I got in last night?” Eloise whispered from beside me as we neared the fresh fruit and pan dulce table.

“I didn't want to bring down your evening with bad news,” I said, ever more concerned about just how bad the news would turn out to be. Particularly after Frank got up early and reported that the day's call sheet had
TBD
written across the front as well as lines through
Timeshare
contract signing
and shots of us
Lounging and swimming
in the very pool where we'd all witnessed the gruesome discovery of a man who might have been my dream date in another life.

“I have to admit, it really was an awesome night,” Eloise said, the same lovesick smile plastered across her face that had kept me from saying anything about the incident last night. She helped herself to assorted melon, an
empanada de pi
ñ
a,
and two aptly named
novias
(brides). “We watched the fireworks from a cliff overlooking the resort and then we went on a really long walk down the coast. ”

“I'm surprised you didn't see any police activity when you came back up from the beach.”

“We came back onto the property by one of the other pools, but it was quiet as could be,” Eloise said. “I wonder if he knows yet?”

A server sniffled as she added a helping of huevos rancheros onto Eloise's outstretched plate.

The waiter next to her shook his head.

The subdued hush that permeated the banquet room was temporarily broken by hoots and clapping as the bride and groom made their entrance with camera crew in tow. They raised an imaginary toast to the crowd and began to work their way through the gauntlet of congratulatory hugs and good wishes.

They'd about reached the first buffet table when Enrique, the general manager, appeared from behind the swinging kitchen doors.

With an efficiency that belied his rumpled polo shirt, the heavy bags under his eyes, and the whiskers on his face, he nodded to two staff members. As they set about preparing plates with a little of everything, he beelined over to the bride and groom and escorted them to their reserved table for two at the front of the room.

Seconds later, the waiters appeared with full plates and placed them on the table. As soon as the happy couple was seated, Enrique took a couple of steps over to the hostess desk that had been turned so it functioned as a perfect makeshift podium. With all eyes on him there was no reason to tap on a glass or otherwise quiet the room beyond clearing his throat.

“
Buenos días, señores y señoras
.” He waited while everyone put down their forks and the room stilled completely. “As many of you are aware, there was an incident here at the resort last night.” His voice cracked. “In fact, it was the most tragic event that has ever taken place here at the Hacienda de la Fortuna.”

He waited for the inevitable chatter to die down.

“Naturally, there has been a lot of concern and speculation among our guests and staff as to the nature of what happened.” The room fell dead silent as Enrique pulled a tissue from his pocket, blew his nose, and took a moment to collect himself.

“A valued member of the Hacienda de la Fortuna family, who some of you had the pleasure of getting to know, was found last night in the Estanque Reflectante.” He waited for the gasps to die down before continuing. “The police conducted a thorough examination and have determined that, unfortunately, Alejandro had far too much to drink.”

“Word is his blood alcohol level was up there,” one of Philip's police officer friends whispered from me beside me.

“I'm afraid he passed out, fell in the upper pool, and floated down under the bridge into the adjoining pool,” Enrique said, bowing his head as he relayed the story. “It is the most awful of tragedies.”