Please Don't Feed the Mayor

by Sue Pethick

  “Everything okay in here?” Chad said.

  Melanie took a calming breath and tried to sound cheerful.

  “I’m fine. I’ll be out in a minute.”

  “Is Shep back there with you?”

  She looked at the collie and gave him another hug.

  “Yeah. We were just having a mutual support session.”

  “Well, Mick is almost done out here, so your boy needs to be camera-ready ASAP. Coat brushed, collar on, eyes clear—you know the drill. Chop-chop.”

  “Got it.”

  As she said it, Melanie realized that Shep wasn’t the only who was getting tired of Chad’s high-handedness.

  “We’ll be ready when you are.”

  She went to the sink and splashed cold water on her face. Calling Chad may not have been prudent, but she still believed that the story he was doing would improve Fossett’s prospects and she was determined to see it through. Even if every other idea she’d had hadn’t worked, that didn’t mean that this one wouldn’t. She wasn’t going to quit this close to the finish line.

  Melanie handed Mr. Stuffy back to Shep and the two of them walked out to the table where she kept his brush and “wardrobe” of collars and props. Soon, TV audiences all over the country would be falling in love with her dog. And after the vote tomorrow, she thought, as she snapped the shirt collar around his neck and straightened his tie, he’d be a terrific mayor, too.

  While Shep was getting ready, Mick had been setting up the final shot—the one showing Mayor Shep conducting business at his desk. In the middle of the scene was a wooden desk, on which a small American flag and a brass nameplate that said: MAYOR had been placed. On the wall behind it was a green screen—a six-by-seven-foot sheet of bright green cotton that hung from a thin metal rod suspended between two spindly-looking stands. This, she’d been told, would allow Chad to fill in the rest of Shep’s “office” during post-production.

  Surrounding the simple scene, however, was a forest of equipment that took up more than half of the coffee shop’s dining area. Light diffusers that looked like white umbrellas atop spindly black stands; a soft diffuser that resembled a veiled black shroud; a video camera mounted on a tripod; a boom mic, a shotgun mic, and a third mic that could be used to cancel any stray sounds from the street; and snaking through it all was a mass of cables and wires that made a trip to and from Shep’s position behind the desk akin to walking through a minefield. Nevertheless, Melanie thought, they’d gone over his “script” several times at home and each time her collie’s performance had been flawless. All Shep had to do was hang in there for a few more takes and it would all be over.

  Mick gave a nod and Chad pointed to the small black leather office chair sitting behind the desk.

  “We’ll need the dog to take his mark.”

  Melanie looked down and gave Shep a nod.

  “Okay, you know what to do. Let’s go.”

  As they started forward, ready to make their way through the maze of cables, light stands, and mics, Chad stepped forward and snatched Mr. Stuffy out of Shep’s mouth.

  “We don’t need this in the scene,” he said.

  Shep whimpered as the doll was tossed aside.

  “Sorry,” Melanie said. “That was my fault. I was going to take it when we got to the desk.”

  She looked down and stroked the collie’s head.

  “Don’t worry. You can have Mr. Stuffy back in a minute.”

  Chad sauntered back to his place behind the camera and crossed his arms.

  “Come on, boy,” Melanie said.

  She patted the leather chair, keeping it steady with the other hand.

  “You know how to do this.”

  Shep leaped up and sat down in the chair while Mick adjusted the camera lens.

  “How does it look?” Chad said.

  The cameraman shook his head.

  “We’ve got light coming in from the window. I’ll have to grab a reflector from the van.”

  Chad sighed.

  “How long will that take?”

  “Five, ten minutes. Not long.”

  “Fine.” He looked up at Melanie. “Let’s take a short break.”

  “Okay.”

  She got Shep down from the chair and the two of them walked back to the table to wait. Shep grabbed Mr. Stuffy and went off to sulk in his bed.

  Mick was at the door.

  “Someone here to see you.”

  Melanie turned and saw Walt standing at the window.

  “Hi, Walt! Hold on a second.”

  She made her way across the room, careful not to disturb the web of interconnected equipment, and stepped outside.

  Walt peered over her shoulder, raising an eyebrow at the nameplate on the desk.

  “Isn’t that a bit presumptuous?”

  “I know,” she said. “But they have to finish shooting today. If Rod wins, I’m sure they’ll cut out that part.”

  She smiled sheepishly. The excuse sounded lame even to her ears.

  He glanced in Chad’s direction.

  “Have you got a second?”

  “Oh, sure.”

  When Walt made no move to come inside, Melanie grabbed her coat and joined him on the sidewalk.

  “What’s on your mind?”

  He looked away, shaking his head for a moment, then faced her squarely.

  “I’m concerned about this business,” he said, nodding in Chad’s direction. “What’s this movie, or whatever it is, supposed to be about?”

  “Well,” she said. “It’s about Shep and how he’s running for mayor and what that’ll mean for Fossett. As far as I can tell, it’ll be sort of a promotional video about the town.”

  He gave her a skeptical look.

  “Are you sure? I mean, has this guy said that in so many words?”

  Melanie thought about that for a second. Had Chad actually told her what the focus of the story was?

  “Not specifically, but we’ve talked about it a couple of times and I feel pretty confident that he’s on the right track.” She frowned. “Why?”

  “Well, for starters, people have been coming into the store telling me that he’s been asking a lot of personal questions—things that don’t have anything to do with the town. And they’ve been filming in places that don’t put Fossett in a very good light, like Little Russia and Lou Tsimiak’s junkyard.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Well, those are part of the town. I suppose it’s only fair—”

  But Walt wasn’t going to be put off.

  “They’ve been strutting around here like they own the place, too, taking advantage of folks’ good nature. The big guy walked into Fossett House yesterday, ate up all of Selma’s Beavertails and two pieces of Flora’s apple pie, and walked out without paying. We’re generous people around here, but these two are taking advantage.”

  Melanie was embarrassed. She’d been providing them both with free drinks and snacks since they got there. Mick had probably just assumed that everything in town was on the house. Still, the guy should have at least made the offer to pay.

  “I’m so sorry, Walt. Believe me, I had no idea that any of that had been going on. I’ll say something to both of them right away. Please tell everyone how sorry I am.”

  His expression softened.

  “I know it’s not your fault. I just thought you ought to know. The sooner these two hit the road, though, the happier I’ll be. At this point, I just want to hold the election and put this whole episode behind us.”

  Melanie felt a pang. This whole episode, as he’d called it, was a direct result of her suggestion that Shep be the town’s mayor. Once again, she thought, the folks in town were paying the price for one of her big ideas.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll talk to Chad and make sure he understands what we’re expecting from the video. In the meantime, maybe you could let everyone know that I’m sorry if they’ve been inconvenienced.”

  “I’m sure they’ll understand,” he said. “I know we all w
ant good things to come from this.”

  Walt had been about to leave when he pulled up short.

  “Oops! I almost forgot,” he said. “Mae sent this along for Shep.”

  He reached into his pocket and took out a homemade dog treat.

  “Here you go,” he said, handing it to her. “Peanut butter and oatmeal.”

  Melanie shook her head.

  “No, why don’t you give it to him? We’re on a break and he’s been having a tough day. I’m sure he’d like to see you.”

  “Are you sure it’s okay?”

  She glanced through the front window. Mick was still adjusting the reflector.

  “They’re still getting ready in there. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

  As the two of them stepped inside, she saw that Shep was still lying in his dog bed, his head resting on Mr. Stuffy.

  “Hey, Shep. Look who’s here.”

  Walt held out the treat.

  “Special delivery for the movie star,” he said, holding out the treat. “Peanut butter and oatmeal—your favorite.”

  The collie got up and sidled over, his mouth already forming a doggie-style grin.

  “Ah-ah-ah!”

  Chad snatched the homemade treat from Walt’s hand and set it on the counter.

  “Treats are for dogs who finish their work,” he said. “He can have this when we’re done.”

  “You’re right,” Melanie said. “I wasn’t thinking.”

  Walt turned and gave Melanie a hurt look.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “It’s just for now.”

  Mick had taken his place behind the camera.

  “All right,” Chad announced. “Time for Shep to take his mark.”

  Melanie gave Walt another sheepish look and stepped forward.

  “Okay,” she said, checking to make sure Shep’s tie was straight. “Come on, boy. Let’s get you into place.”

  For just a moment, it looked as if the dog would comply. Compared to the things he’d been asked to do lately, it was easy: sit behind the desk and do a few simple tricks while Melanie prompted him from behind the camera. Instead, he balked. Perhaps he was bored with doing the same tricks over and over or maybe he was tired of being forced to stay indoors, but for whatever reason, Shep had had enough. He glanced from the unreachable treat to the man who’d taken it away and charged directly into one of the umbrella-topped stands.

  “What’s he doing?” Chad screeched.

  As the light stand fell, it hit the next one in line, and the two came crashing down, their bulbs bursting with a sound like party poppers.

  Melanie was horrified.

  “Shep, stop!”

  But the collie wouldn’t listen; he was running amok. Shep grabbed a cable in his mouth and shook it violently. The stand holding the boom mic began to teeter.

  “My equipment!”

  Mick grabbed the camera as the boom mic came crashing down.

  Chad was livid.

  “Grab him! Get him out of there!”

  Melanie made a lunge for Shep, but shattered glass and a jumble of fallen equipment were slowing her down.

  “I’m trying!”

  As the third light diffuser toppled over, she heard laughter and saw Walt holding his sides, howling as tears ran down his face.

  But Shep wasn’t through. As he leaped from the office chair onto the desk, the force of his takeoff sent the chair flying into the green screen, bringing the entire rig crashing to the ground.

  “Walt!” Melanie begged. “Don’t just stand there. Do something!”

  “You want me to do something?” he said. “Okay, I’ll do something.”

  He walked over to the counter, picked up the treat, and gave an ear-piercing whistle. The border collie turned and dropped the cable from his mouth.

  “Here, Shep,” Walt said, tossing the treat high into the air. “Catch!”

  And Shep did.

  CHAPTER 21

  Bryce had finally cooled off by the time he got back to Portland. As the miles passed, his mood had changed from self-righteous indignation to chagrin. He shouldn’t have lost his temper, he thought. If he’d only admitted his mistake in not calling Dave Giusti sooner, the whole thing could have been avoided. Melanie wouldn’t have gotten embarrassed and there’d have been no need to call Chad Chapman. The only problem was, not calling Dave sooner hadn’t been a mistake.

  Melanie was right when she accused Bryce of trying to sabotage her plans. Not at first, of course. When he’d taken off for Fossett, his motivation had been purely selfish—to be free from the threat posed by Jesse Lee Colton. But once he’d seen Melanie, and especially after dinner that first night, Bryce had started to think there was a chance he might convince her to move back to Portland and patch things up. Helping spread the news about Shep’s mayoral run could have delayed or even destroyed his chances.

  But then Rod Blakely had gotten the jump on them, canvassing homes and spreading rumors about Shep that worried Melanie so much she was considering taking drastic action to garner publicity for Shep’s cause. Offering to call Dave had been an act of desperation, something to keep Melanie from trying something on her own. Bryce’s excuse, that she could be taken in by a scam artist, was true as far as it went, but his main concern had been to slow things down enough that he’d have time to convince her to give him another chance. By the time he’d changed his mind and actually called Dave, he was back in Portland, caught up in the changes brought on by Sofia’s arrival. It was just rotten luck that Melanie had called Dave herself before Bryce could give her the bad news. Nevertheless, it didn’t change one fundamental fact.

  Melanie’s right. I’m no good at giving bad news.

  Even so, Bryce thought, as he checked through his in-box, there was a big difference between avoiding an uncomfortable truth and telling a lie. Communications between loved ones weren’t legal proceedings, and in his opinion there was nothing to be gained from complete honesty with a spouse or lover, especially when feelings could be hurt—Exhibit A being the disaster his “honest” assessment of her Fossett improvement plan had been. Whether or not he was right, there had certainly been kinder ways to tell her than the way he’d done it. For a man who could keep his cool in the middle of high-stakes courtroom proceedings, he’d sure done a lousy job of presenting his case.

  However, none of that negated what now appeared to be undeniable: As much as he loved Melanie—as much as they might love each other—there was too great a gap between them. She would never stop trying to save her hometown and he would never be able to make a life for himself down there. It simply was what it was.

  The rest of the afternoon was taken up with getting his clients transitioned to other team members and replaying the disastrous confrontation with Melanie, and as the adrenaline-fueled self-talk diminished and the effects of too little sleep caught up with him, exhaustion set in. Bryce’s eyelids became heavier and his yawns more frequent. He was on the verge of putting his head on the desk when Sofia knocked on his door.

  “Wake up, sleeping head.”

  Bryce blinked groggily, smiling at her clumsy vernacular—something he suspected she cultivated.

  “How’d the arbitration go?”

  Sofia made a gesture that conveyed both frustration and disgust.

  “No decision yet. Continuation until next week.”

  He nodded. Continuations were always a headache during arbitration. It meant the judge was considering setting it aside.

  “What’s the problem?”

  She sighed dramatically.

  “Please, could we discuss this over dinner? Unless you have other plans.”

  As Bryce considered the question, he suddenly realized that the gnawing in his stomach was more than emotion’s denouement. Even so, he hesitated. With Colton still at large, would being out in public be too much of a risk?

  “No. No other plans, but . . .”

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “You’ll be safe.”

  Sofia ope
ned her purse and showed him the Walther P38 semi-automatic pistol inside.

  “I’m a very good shot.”

  * * *

  They had dinner at a little place on the east side that served what Sofia swore was the most authentic Catalan cuisine in the city. From the outside, it looked like any one of the dozens of bistros that had sprung up in the area, but stepping inside was like entering another world—one that seemed both familiar and exotic. When Bryce commented on it, Sofia looked pleased.

  “It is like the women of my country. No matter how well you know us, there remains always a little mystery.”

  As they waited for a table, Sofia pointed out the symbols of Catalonia displayed on the walls, touching him repeatedly on the arm, the shoulder, and the chest. Bryce knew by now not to take it seriously. Nevertheless, after all the effort he’d expended trying to win Melanie back, it felt good to be petted and fussed over by a beautiful and attentive woman. As the men at the bar sized him up, he felt a flush of unearned pride.

  The hostess appeared and showed them to a booth in back over which a picture of the Madonna and child presided. Sofia crossed herself and genuflected quickly before taking her seat. As she shook out her napkin, she nodded toward the image.

  “Our patroness,” she said. “The Virgin of Montserrat.”

  A waiter approached with their menus and she swatted them away.

  “I will order for us,” she told him. “This is my treat.”

  Bryce leaned across the table.

  “There’s no need,” he said. “This is business; the firm will pay.”

  “The firm can pay if it wishes, but I will not allow you to order hamburguesa.” She sneered. “Tonight, you eat like a Catalan.”

  He sat back and laughed.

  “Very well. I’m at your mercy.”

  The feast began with tapas: slices of rustic bread rubbed with fresh tomato and drizzled with olive oil and sea salt, a spicy sausage called butifarra, and Kalamata olives, marinated in oil and roasted red peppers. To drink, Sofia ordered Inedit Damm, a dark beer with hints of licorice, coriander, and orange peel.

  “What do you think?” she said as Bryce took a sip. “Is wonderful, yes?”

  He licked his lips, savoring the aftertaste.