Trouble In Bloom

  "About?" I asked, rolling onto my back. The sky was a brilliant blue, streaked with wisps of white clouds.

  "The future of the show. The meeting starts in an hour. Please be here." She hung up.

  I did the same, closed my eyes and thought about taking a nap.

  "Need help?"

  I popped an eye open. Shay had her hand out to me. I slipped mine into it. She pulled.

  "Thanks," I said, biting back a curse or four. There wasn't enough Advil in the world to help my pain.

  "Do I want to know?" she asked, her light brown eyes shining with good humor.

  I shook my head.

  "Kit sent me out to help you."

  That was nice of him, seeing as how it was his fault I was in this condition. "Go ahead and bring the cart upstairs. Go left just inside the doors and there's an elevator there."

  Duke had mentioned that the more I used my sore muscles, the less they would hurt. Which was why I took the stairs. Slowly.

  Waking Nels was easy, but pulling Roxie away from Jean-Claude wasn't.

  "Where's Kit?" I asked.

  Jean-Claude shrugged.

  "I think he went out to the trailer," Jeff said.

  I took the elevator down. Screw Duke. He was evil.

  Pippi had to be informed I was leaving. I turned left out of the elevator, heading toward the east wing. The hidden panel was wide open.

  "What?" Nels said. "Why're you looking at me like that?"

  "Have you been down here?"

  Roxie kept looking toward the stairs, perhaps hoping Jean-Claude would follow her to the ends of the earth. "He's been sound asleep."

  Odd.

  I pushed the greenhouse buzzer. Heard nothing in return. I pushed it again. "Pippi?"

  We waited a good minute. "Well, okay, then. We can't wait here forever."

  Nels shifted on his feet. "Pippi Longstocking is probably doing Minnie in right now."

  "Minnie's fine! Why don't you two go out to the truck? I've got to find one of Pippi's employees to pass on the news that I'm leaving."

  Backtracking, I headed down the west wing hallway, toward the dining room. I heard raised voices ahead and was surprised I recognized one.

  "You're being ridiculous," a throaty female voice said.

  "What you're doing is dangerous," Kit replied. "I'm worried about you."

  I tried to pick up my pace. Damn Duke!

  "Sometimes we have to do things to protect those we love."

  "And what about you? Who protects you?"

  "I'll be fine."

  "I don't know how long we can go on like this." Kit's deep voice carried easily.

  She said, "That's your choice."

  "No, it's yours. Daisy, you need to think about what you're doing."

  Daisy? I broke into a faltering jog.

  "I don't have time for this, Kit. Good-bye."

  I rounded the corner to the dining room just as the redheaded woman disappeared behind a swinging door leading into the kitchen.

  Kit looked at me. "Did you need something?"

  I saw the tears in his eyes and could barely find my voice. "I need to go . . . to the studio."

  "I'll take care of things here. Don't worry." He brushed past me.

  But after hearing that conversation, how could I not?

  Fourteen

  "You need to use more product," Perry whispered into my ear an hour later.

  "Product?"

  "For your hair, sugar. For volume. Lift. I'll bring you some tonight."

  There was an odd sense of déjà vu floating around the studio. After all, it had been just three days since the last time we all gathered to talk about the show. We even sat in the same seats.

  Although I couldn't help but notice the seat to my right remained empty.

  Louisa informed us all that Bobby had been excused from this meeting. I wondered what he was doing. Packing?

  "Thanks," I told Perry as I finger-combed my hair, trying to fluff it a little. I hadn't put much effort in doing it that morning, and it showed.

  Always do your hair as if knowing you'll be seeing your hair stylist.

  That little lesson was going straight onto my list of things I'd self-discovered.

  No matter how my hair looked, Willie's looked worse. His five-strand comb-over stood on end as he paced the room.

  Red streaked his eyes, day-old stubble covered his sunken cheeks, and he looked to be wearing the same clothes as yesterday—wrinkled Dockers, Converse sneakers, and a B52s' T-shirt that barely covered his slight beer belly.

  "The show must go on," he said for the fifth time since the meeting started ten minutes ago.

  Thad sat across from me. Unlike Willie, he looked great. Freshly shaved, bright-eyed, not a hair out of place. He didn't look like someone who grieved for the death of his mistress.

  He rose to his feet, placed his hand on Willie's shoulders. "I agree with Willie. I'm fully prepared to take this show above and beyond as a solo host. The transition will be seamless."

  Willie smoothed his strands. His tone came out more clipped than usual. "I appreciate the sentiment, Thad, but that's not necessary. A new hostess will take over tonight."

  For a brief second Thad's mask slipped. I saw the pain, the hurt, the anger in his eyes. He blinked, and the emotion disappeared. Slowly, he pulled his hands away from Willie's shoulders. "Who?"

  Louisa poked her head in the door before Willie could answer. "May I have a moment, sir?" she asked him.

  He excused himself. Thad stalked over to the corner and pulled out his cell phone.

  Perry said, "Thad seems a bit disappointed."

  Mario leaned in. "I'm placing odds that he bumped off Genevieve so he could have a solo gig. He knew the show was about to go national and wanted the limelight to himself."

  I shifted in my seat, keenly aware of Bobby's absence. "But he's the one who introduced her to Willie and suggested she'd make a great hostess."

  "Maybe that was all talk on his part," Perry speculated. "What if he met Genevieve at that class he taught, introduced her to Willie, made an offhand comment, and next thing he knew Willie and Gen were hitched and he had a new hot tub buddy? He had to get rid of her."

  "The question is," Mario added, "did Genevieve manipulate both of them to get her face in front of the camera?"

  "So," I said, thinking out loud, "if you're right about Thad, then he's really ticked right now that Willie's bringing in someone else."

  All three of us stole a peek at Thad, who stood in the corner, his back to us. No one could hear what he was saying as he spoke on the phone.

  "Probably calling his agent," Perry surmised.

  Louisa came back into the room, her cell phone to her ear. No sign of Willie.

  "No interviews, no comment. That's final," she said, hanging up. She saw us looking at her. "Those reporters won't let up."

  "Was that Carson Keyes?" Mario asked. "I miss seeing him around here."

  Perry rolled his eyes. "Wipe the drool, Mario."

  I smiled. They were very cute together.

  Louisa sat down in Thad's empty chair. "No, Jim Henman from Channel 6. He's not the only one. All the major networks are calling. As are the national entertainment shows. As soon as Willie clammed up, they haven't left us alone. I heard a rumor a reporter from E! was fl ying in."

  "There's no such thing as bad publicity, right?" I said.

  She glared at me.

  Okay, maybe there was.

  Her phone squawked. She answered. "Yes . . . Yes, I'll be right down . . . No! Don't fill it yet. Let me check the placement." She hung up, pushed her curly hair behind her ears. "The new water bed," she said to our questioning looks.

  "Water bed?" Mario ventured.

  "Our signature hot tub had to go. That would be too morbid."

  I shuddered.

  She saw and said, "Exactly."

  Madonna sang. Mario and Perry joined in, complete with arm gestures. I laughed and answered my cell phone. "Hey,"
I said to Ana.

  "Did you talk to him?" she asked.

  "Who?"

  "Willie!"

  "About?"

  "Carson!"

  "Oh. No."

  She growled and hung up.

  "Ana," I explained to Mario and Perry. "She's upset about Carson being booted off the set."

  "She has amazing hair," Perry said.

  "Nice bosom too," Mario added.

  Perry arched an eyebrow. "Bosom?"

  "It's a word."

  "Not one you usually throw around."

  "Well, it was hard not to notice when she was wearing that tank top last night."

  "That's true," Perry said. "She did look good in it."

  Both looked at me as if I'd have something to add. I didn't.

  I noticed Thad had finished his call but still stood in the corner, looking out the window. I tried to wrap my head around all that had happened. There were so many people who might want Genevieve dead.

  Willie, for one. On the surface, I wouldn't have thought it was because losing Genevieve might mean losing his TV deal. However, she had been cheating on him. It was a powerful motive to kill her—if he knew about the affair. Also, I couldn't help but notice the show was getting a lot of PR from her death. The network executives would take notice. They were after ratings, and the drama behind the scenes of the show were driving them higher than they'd ever been.

  Had Genevieve been an expendable asset? Had Willie married her, made her hostess, all with the plan to kill her to get ratings for the show?

  This was a morbid thought. What if he'd married out of love, found out she was cheating, then plotted to kill her for ratings? Two birds, one stone.

  Sherry, Thad's wife, also had motive. What better way to get even with your cheating spouse than to kill his lover and ruin his career at the same time?

  And Thad? What did he gain by Genevieve's death? Perhaps, like Mario suggested, he'd wanted to be the only host of Hitched or Ditched, have all the glory to himself. If that were true, then he'd killed in vain, because Willie was bringing in someone new.

  Then I remembered . . . it wasn't my business. Police could more than handle it. Weren't they crawling all over the studio? Hadn't they interviewed anyone who'd come in contact with Genevieve?

  I just needed to mind my own business, get through this week, and get on with my self-discovery.

  I listened to Mario and Perry tick off their favorite Madonna videos before—thankfully—Willie came back into the room.

  "I've put a lot of thought into this decision," he said. "I'd like to reintroduce you to Jessica Ayers, the original Hitched or Ditched hostess." He threw his arm wide, and Jessica Ayers stepped into the room.

  I heard Perry whistle softly.

  Jessica was beautiful, no doubt. Tall, short blonde hair, big blue eyes, flawless peaches and cream skin, mile high legs. No tan, I noticed. Had she really been in Mexico?

  "No!" Thad shouted. "No, no, no!"

  "Now, Thad," Willie cautioned.

  Jessica's lips curved into a satisfied smile.

  She might look innocent, but I saw the manipulator beneath the veneer.

  "I will not work with her. She's a lying, cheating bitch."

  Perry leaned in. "Rumor has it she left her boyfriend for Thad, who then refused to leave his wife. Things ended badly."

  "Those who live in glass houses, Thad," Jessica purred.

  "Meow," Mario whispered.

  Thad turned as red as Jessica's lips. "Either she goes or I go," he said.

  "Neither of you are going," Willie said. "The network execs will be here tonight. I expect a dynamite show. This is our last hope. So be good little children and play nice. Understood?"

  Jessica folded her arms. "Perfectly."

  "And if I refuse?" Thad said.

  Willie's beady eyes narrowed. "Then your career is over."

  Fifteen

  "Niiiiice."

  "Work it, work it, work it."

  "Yo, yo, lookin' good!"

  I stopped halfway up my driveway and looked over at the four construction workers lounging on lawn chairs in my front yard. "Um, thanks. Still not crossing the picket line?"

  "Sorry," said the guy who'd told me to "work it."

  The same two picketers crisscrossed the sidewalk. One winked at me, and the other—the one I'd nicknamed Buzz—wouldn't look my way. I wanted to talk to him, see what I could find out about him being paid to picket, but it could wait a few minutes.

  The fourth construction worker sitting there said, "You really ought to think about a new handbag. That thing looks like it's been run over by a semi."

  Actually, it had been run over by a freight train, but I didn't want to dwell on the past.

  "Yo, yo, he's right. Somethin' small and cute. Like you." This from a man sipping an IBC root beer with a straw.

  One of the others, the only one wearing a hard hat, said, "Yeah, yeah. Chanel maybe."

  "No, Kate Spade."

  "Definitely Kate Spade. Hook yourself up."

  I had a sneaking suspicion . . . "My sister's been here, hasn't she?"

  "Has she ever. What a looker, that one," said Hard Hat.

  "Except that dog," the IBC guy said. "Yappiest thing I ever did hear."

  Oh no! I knew that dog! Gracie. She'd been, ah, a kindasorta gift from Kit. One that I regifted to my sister Maria as a wedding present.

  Both being high maintenance and all, they got along well.

  I rushed up the stairs, feeling every muscle in my legs.

  "Don't forget—Kate Spade!"

  "I'll keep that in mind," I called over my shoulder.

  "Hey!" one shouted, "a little more product in your hair will do wonders!"

  So I'd heard.

  Pushing open my front door, I found my mother on all fours, a spray bottle filled with a mixture of water and white vinegar in one hand, a wadded up paper towel in the other.

  I winced at the sharp smell. Yuck.

  There were other smells too. Cleansers. Lemon Pledge, for one. The citrus of Mr. Clean. I looked around. Everything sparkled.

  "Did Gracie go everywhere?" Gracie had bladder control issues, something I learned the hard way when she'd been staying with me.

  "Don't be silly," my mother said. "Help me up."

  Her hand grasped mine and I pulled. "Then why is my house so clean?"

  "You should think about a housekeeper."

  "I don't need a housekeeper."

  "I beg to differ, chérie."

  Deep breath. I smelled, I smelled . . . "Are those cream puffs?" I sprinted into the kitchen, my aches and pains all but a distant memory in light of freshly baked cream puffs. I reached for one.

  "Ow!" I jumped, rubbing the love handle my mother had just pinched.

  "Aren't you on a diet?"

  "Why are you here?" I asked, ignoring her. "There's no construction going on, so you don't need to stay."

  She tsked. "No need to snap at me just because you're hungry."

  "Who are the cream puffs for?"

  She dropped a cookie sheet into the double sink. "Oh, people."

  "What kind of people?"

  "People I know."

  "Why are you being so evasive?"

  "Why are you being so nosy?"

  "It's my house!"

  "Yes, it is. Did I mention you ought to think about a housekeeper?"

  Deep, deep breath. I ignored the sinking feeling my mother was planning something. At this point there was nothing I could do or say that would change her mind—she knew it and I knew it, so I gave up the battle.

  "Where's Riley?" I asked. School had been out for a while—I'd expected to see him camped out on the couch watching reruns of Fear Factor.

  "At Mrs. Greeble's."

  I looked out the window, down the road. "He's been doing a lot of work for her lately."

  Riley had become the neighborhood go-to guy. He raked leaves, cleaned gutters, and did all sorts of odd jobs and errands. It was his new j
ob—and so far he loved it.