The Santa Sleuth

by Heather MacAllister

  "Yes, yes of course." Not if she could help it. "I merely meant to suggest that Diana wouldn't actually have to live at the ranch, at least not on camera. Working as a ranch hand doesn't seem to be the sort of fantasy that fits the Diana character."

  Mr. Collingsworth looked mulish. John Paul registered this and sent Olivia a pleading glance.

  Okay, she'd try another argument. "It would save money to allude to the ranch and perhaps tape Diana's return when she's dressed in Western chic. You know, turquoise and suede?" In Olivia's experience, the magic words were "save money."

  "What's the matter with her?" Mr. Collingsworth asked John Paul.

  John Paul cleared his throat. "She's concerned about pleasing the viewers, as we all are. Isn't that so, Olivia?"

  "Oh yes, very concerned."

  "Honest work will do Diana good. Mrs. Collingsworth has been concerned about her moral character."

  Groaning inwardly, Olivia scanned the rest of her story line, something she should have done before shooting off her mouth. What she read made her blood run cold. Not only was Diana inheriting a ranch, she was inheriting a previously unknown cousin, Megan Malloy. In fact, Diana was inheriting Megan's family ranch. Olivia skipped past the convoluted reasons Diana was the heir instead of Megan and searched for the conclusion of the story line.

  The writers obviously hadn't had the time to come up with more than a few sketchy details, but what she read was bad enough. Someone was kicked in the head by a horse and lapsed into a coma.

  "Excuse me," she said, interrupting the murmured conference between John Paul and Mr. Collingsworth. "Whose coma is this?"

  John Paul dropped his gaze and Olivia held her breath.

  "Well--" He shot a sidelong glance at Mr. Collingsworth and puffed out his cheeks "--we, uh, haven't really decided yet."

  In other words, the ratings and the sponsor would decide. Olivia understood perfectly. If the public didn't like Megan, this was an easy way to get rid of her character. And if the public didn't like the new Diana ...

  She exhaled in a reverse gasp. A coma. Olivia had been in the business too long not to know the significance of a coma. It could mean recasting. Or death. And death of a major character would result in months of wonderful publicity.

  This was a disaster. They might kill off Diana and replace her with a younger version. "Is it wise to invest so much time and effort in a story line when we haven't fully thought out the ending?" Olivia tried to sound thoughtful and concerned. A team player. If they'd give her a few minutes, she'd come up with an ending herself. Now, which of the new writers was responsible for her lines?

  "Olivia, darling, I share your concern about developing this new dimension of Diana's character. But you'll grow as an actress. Think of the demands on your talent." John Paul was speaking in his humor-the-big-star voice.

  "Oh, I am, I am." She smiled a big-star smile. "Convincing comas are such a challenge."

  Mr. Collingsworth eyed John Paul with suspicion. The new sponsor was a good judge of character, Olivia noted.

  John Paul's eyes narrowed. "Mr. Collingsworth, why don't we share our ideas on the ranch story with Diana--I mean, Olivia."

  Olivia knew the slip on her name had been deliberate. Just a subtle reminder that she was being difficult.

  She didn't care. So far, being cooperative had landed her a story line with a coma. Definitely a dead end, as far as character development.

  "We'll be shooting on location at Bluebonnet Ranch in Texas," John Paul informed her. "You've heard of the Bluebonnet Foundation?"

  "No," Olivia was forced to admit.

  "We work with juvenile authorities and the schools to find inner-city youth we feel will benefit from a change in environment," recited Mr. Collingsworth. "I handle the New York end, and Luke handles the ranch end."

  "Luke?" Olivia asked.

  "Lucas Chance." Mr. Collingsworth handed her literature emblazoned with bluebonnets. "He started the program and owns the ranch where we send the kids. I want more people to know about it."

  "And they will, they will." Impatiently, John Paul turned to Olivia, who was unfolding the brochure. "It seems Mrs. Collingsworth is a fan of yours, Olivia."

  "Is she?" Olivia beamed at Mr. Collingsworth.

  He nodded. "Never misses a show."

  "Really?" Olivia sent a triumphant look to John Paul. "Doesn't Mrs. Collingsworth sound like a lovely woman, John Paul?"

  "Lovely. But I told the Collingsworths this would be quite a departure for you. And I know the coma presents a challenge to your acting abilities."

  How dare he tease her like that! Olivia stretched her foot under the table and kicked him. "I'm always willing to grow as an actress."

  John Paul gave a strained chuckle. "Mr. Collingsworth, Olivia and I need to talk through a few technicalities. Would you like my girl to give you a tour?"

  Mr. Collingsworth didn't look as though he'd enjoy a tour, but within moments, John Paul and Olivia were ushering him out the door. They maintained their smiles until the door was firmly closed.

  "You kicked me!" John Paul stalked over to the conference table and gathered the script copies.

  "You bet I kicked you!" Olivia snatched her script back from him. "You made me look bad in front of the sponsor."

  "And it wasn't difficult, since you kept griping about Diana's story line!"

  "With good reason! Have you lost your mind? Women don't want to watch Diana commune with nature. They want to see her new wardrobe, her new lovers."

  "It's getting difficult to find a man who hasn't already been Diana's lover," was John Paul's dry comment.

  That was true and silenced Olivia momentarily.

  "So, dear, you'll have a new wardrobe, a new lover, a new enemy and a new story line." He headed toward the door, stopping with his hand on the knob. "Why the complaints?"

  "Because you're deliberately destroying Diana."

  "Don't be absurd," he denied quickly.

  "I'm not being absurd!" She tried another tack. "You see my hair?" She grabbed a hank and held it out. "Dark brown, slightly angled, parted on the left, currently one inch below my chin."

  "Yes?"

  "As specified in my contract," she emphasized. "I can't trim it more than half an inch without prior approval."

  "Olivia, if you want a new hairstyle, we can negotiate."

  She made a frustrated sound. "My point is that my image--Diana's image--is so regulated that I even have a public appearance clause. What I wear has to be something Diana might wear. That's how important Diana is to Lovers and Liars. She's practically a franchise. And they want to change her completely?"

  "Practically a franchise?" John Paul gave a crack of laughter and opened the door. "Contract-renewal time, is it? Don't you leave haggling to your agent?"

  Reaching around John Paul, Olivia slammed the door and wedged her foot against it, preventing his escape. "All right, what's really going on?"

  John Paul muttered, shoved his hands into his pockets and muttered some more. "It's the old golden rule," he said at last. "He who has the gold makes the rule."

  "Mr. Collingsworth," guessed Olivia, staring at the script in her hands. "And so the network's willing to let him ruin Lovers and Liars?"

  "Careful, careful." John Paul patted her on the cheek. "He believes he's injecting a dose of much-needed morality. And at the end of every episode, there'll be a public-service announcement telling viewers how to contact the Bluebonnet Foundation."

  "How very noble."

  "And all the production costs become a tax write-off."

  "Now I see the appeal," she said cynically. "But I've spent twelve years creating Diana. I don't want to jeopardize her for a tax write-off."

  John Paul's eyes glittered. "Either you cooperate, or Diana goes into a coma from which she'll never recover."

  He'd carry through with his threat, too, but Olivia wasn't about to let him see he'd intimidated her. "Is there any way I can change your mind about this ranch thing?"


  John Paul shook his head. "In fact, the set crew is flying there tomorrow. The ranch buildings need a facelift. You'll join us at the end of the week."

  "What?" Olivia stared at him.

  John Paul wore a bland expression. "We need to film outdoor footage, and it's bluebonnet season in Texas. Very picturesque. Lucas Chance, the ranch owner, is on a tight schedule and insists that we come immediately or not at all."

  "Insists?" Olivia's voice rose. "Who does this Lucas Chance think he is?"

  ***

  From Counterfeit Cowgirl, available at amazon.com and other online retailers.

  ***

  Excerpt from Haunted Spouse

  Lizzie Wilcox screamed.

  A hideously deformed mummy glowed in a weak orange light, and then slipped through a hidden door, slamming it behind him. Maniacal laughter taunted her as the orange light winked out, leaving her in total darkness.

  She waited for her racing heart to slow before tentatively reaching to the side, her fingers crawling along a wall until it veered sharply and disappeared.

  She waved back and forth. Nothing. Just an ominous blackness. She crept forward, groping in the dark. She could see nothing. Good.

  She took a step. Then another.

  Then jumped as a blast of icy air licked her legs.

  Trying to catch her balance, Lizzie flailed her arms in the inky black before finding a hold on something warm. Something furry.

  Something growling.

  She shrieked, blindly twisting away. At that moment, a green glow illuminated another hallway. The growling next to her had turned into a roar, so she ran.

  As soon as she entered the hallway, the moaning began.

  She was in a dungeon, and these were the cells of lost souls. Transparent wraithlike figures wavered in the air, their skin leathered and wrinkled. She could smell the musty odor of ancient, rotting clothes and hear rattling chains. And, of course, incessant moaning.

  Lizzie rushed to the end of the hallway. In the last cell a figure on the far side of its room held up a glowing orb and beckoned to her. Even though she knew better, Lizzie walked up to the bars. She leaned close and suddenly the spirit appeared right in front of her face. He moaned in her ear.

  She jumped back, too close to the cells on the opposite side of the hallway. Bony hands reached out to stroke her curly hair.

  "No!" she yelled and raced from the green light into more blackness.

  Suddenly the floor tilted. Stumbling, she turned another corner and heard her footsteps echo hollowly. She no longer stood on solid cement.

  The floor glowed yellow. Looking down between the wooden slats, she saw fire, heard screams and felt pounding as monsters beat on the ceiling of their prison.

  Moving as quickly as she dared, she rounded yet another corner.

  Something sticky grazed her face. Lizzie brushed at the tenuous strands. "Oh, ick. I hate cobwebs!"

  "Then leave," ordered a deep voice at her elbow.

  Yelping, Lizzie ran through mist, spurred on by shrieks and screams until she emerged into blinding sunlight.

  She blinked, eyes watering. The muggy heat of a Houston fall warmed her face and hands, reminding her that she hadn't applied sunblock this morning. Redheads, especially redheads living in south Texas, should never forget to apply sunblock.

  Lizzie exhaled, tucking a bunch of wiry hair behind her ear.

  "Well?" demanded a monk with a skull for a face. "How was it? How'd we do?"

  "Did we get you?" asked a werewolf, rubbing hairy hands together.

  Lizzie remembered her scream. They'd heard it, she knew they had. And they'd have realized it wasn't rehearsed like the rest of her reactions. "Yes, you got me," she admitted. "I wasn't expecting the orange fright zone."

  "Awright!" More monsters appeared laughing and whooping. They ripped off their masks to reveal sweaty, and human, faces. "If we scared Lizzie, we'll scare everybody!"

  "Hold it!" Lizzie called to get their attention. "In this case, I don't mind you altering my design, but let me show you why I didn't station a fright zone there."

  Lizzie walked to the entrance of the Panhellenic Haunted House, Shrieks by Greeks, sponsored by the sororities and fraternities of Houston Junior College. The exuberant students who followed her were trying to raise money for a shelter for the homeless by running a haunted house during October. A sign--Being Homeless is Scary--dangled crookedly from a tree.

  Lizzie, actually Elizabeth Wilcox of Elizabeth Wilcox Architects, specialized in designing spook houses and fun houses. For several months out of the year she tried hard to scare people--to make their palms sweat, their hearts pound and their adrenaline rush.

  Flipping on the lights inside the entrance to her latest completed design, Lizzie walked a twisting, turning path to a point near the center of the haunted house. "This is where you added the orange mummy, right?"

  There were murmurs of assent, and the orange mummy peered out from behind the door.

  Lizzie gestured. "Normally this remains closed because it conceals the people operating the mist for the other side."

  "I'm also the mist operator," the mummy announced.

  Lizzie nodded as she studied the door and the wall opposite it. "Do you think you can do both?"

  "Sure," he replied with youthful optimism.

  "I went through by myself," Lizzie pointed out. "Usually several groups tour at once. Their screams are heard by those behind them. That adds to their anticipation, their unease. You must time your scares on one side so you won't miss operating the mist on the other." She hesitated, not wanting to discourage their creativity. "You can do it if you're quick."

  "Is that the only problem you found?" asked the werewolf.

  "You were too late with the light on the other side of the cavern. You don't want people to stop and wait as long as I did. Remember--scare forward. You were a bit too heavy-handed with the cobwebs and the exit sign wasn't illuminated. You’d better check that."

  They nodded and she grinned. "Great dungeon scene, though. And what was that smell?"

  "Our laundry," answered the monk.

  "Very creative." Chuckling, Lizzie kicked and pounded at the walls around the mummy's fright zone. "The mummy has to pop in and out fast. We don't want anyone running into the door. They can't see it in the dark. Safety is your most important consideration." She kicked the walls again. "When the mummy appears, people are going to jump back and bash into this wall, -just the way I did. It'll have to be reinforced."

  Groans accompanied her statement. Lizzie laughed. "You've got time. You aren't opening until this weekend."

  "We've got midterms," the monk said. "That's why we wanted to finish early. Are you sure the wall isn't strong enough as it is?"

  "Maybe. Maybe not." Lizzie tilted her chin. "I can't take the chance that some beefy football player will knock it down, and I won't allow you to, either. No one should be in physical danger."

  The monk kicked the wall. It barely quivered. "A hurricane could blow through and this place would still be standing."

  A corner of Lizzie's mouth lifted. "I'll be back on Friday for the final inspection."

  As she climbed into her car, Lizzie wondered just exactly when on Friday she could schedule another inspection. This was supposed to have been the final inspection. She had other houses, other commissions commanding her attention, including the one at her next destination, a haunted hotel in a nearby tourist ghost town.

  Oh, well. Halloween was less than a month away, and the fraternities and sororities wanted to run their haunted house each weekend in October so they could make as much money as possible, a sentiment she heartily endorsed. Besides, her fee would be a percentage of their revenues, since they didn't have enough money up front.

  She chuckled to herself. The orange mummy had been extremely effective, catching her unaware. It had been a long time since anything--or anyone--had made her scream.

  ***

  From Haunted Spouse, available
at amazon.com and other online book retailers.

  ***

  Excerpt from Undercover Lover

  Kate Brandon wanted to shoot Fiona Ferguson. And if the woman would move a few inches to the left, Kate could get a clear shot at her.

  Soft laughter drifted on the late-afternoon breeze as Kate's target lounged behind an open car door.

  "Come on, walk back into the house, Fiona," Kate muttered under her breath. The three-hundred-millimeter telephoto lens scraped the rose-tinted rock of the security wall as she steadied her camera.

  If Fiona Ferguson would take off the sunglasses and hat, Kate was assured of paying her hotel bill. If Fiona stepped from behind the limousine door, it was worth three month's rent and a full refrigerator.

  But if a sunglasses-less, hatless Fiona were photographed with Damian Carney--who Kate suspected was just inside the doorway of the rented villa on the island of Capri--Kate would be sitting pretty for the next year.

  And if Fiona kissed him ...

  Steady. Kate couldn't think about the possibilities without her hands shaking. Of course, that might be due to hunger. She'd been staking out the villa all day, as she had been for the past week. Her sandwich was long gone, and usually by now, so was Kate, but there had been unaccustomed activity at the villa today.

  Fiona and Damian might be leaving and returning to the set of the movie they were filming together.

  So far, they'd been discreet. After all, Fiona was newly married and Damian's wife had publicly stated that one more affair and he'd be involved in a very expensive divorce. Only whispers of the two stars' involvement had wafted back to Kate's contacts at World Eye. But Kate had excellent hearing--especially when it concerned Fiona Ferguson.

  The fiery Irish actress had left her new husband behind in Chicago--her rich, older, Midwestern conservative husband. The same husband who had been talked into backing Fiona's latest movie.

  Kate hadn't been able to get any good photos of the wedding. It had been an alluring mix of Hollywood glitterati and business-world establishment. Security was experienced, tight and professional. Not that Kate wasn't professional, but Fiona had wisely sold exclusive rights to her wedding.