Second Honeymoons Can Be Murder (A Baby Boomer Mystery Book 6)

by Susan Santangelo

  “And I, of course, did completely misinterpret, overreact, whatever,” I finished.

  Jim smiled. “No, you were just being yourself,” he said. “I’m the one who didn’t handle it right. I should have prepared you in advance. I guess I figured that you’d be so starry-eyed about working on a television show that you wouldn’t immediately be caught up in the details.

  “As a matter of fact,” Jim continued, “I’m not too clear on exactly what I’m supposed to do, either. But that’s the way Mack operates. He calls himself a ‘seat-of-the-pants’ thinker. Says planning ahead with too much detail stifles his creative juices. That’s one of the reasons why I found working with him so frustrating, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  “How can anybody run an important public relations agency like Gibson Gillespie that way?” I asked. “It’s nuts.”

  “I agree,” Jim said. “But Mack needs me to make this project a success.” He reached over and gave my hand a squeeze. “Correction: He needs us. Both of us. We’re typical of the audience The Second Honeymoon Game is targeting. As a matter of fact,” he rose from the kitchen table and headed in the direction of his computer, “I’m betting there’s an email from Mack this morning detailing what he wants us to do for the next few days.”

  In less time than it took me to clear away the remains of our breakfast, Jim was back. “No time for that now, Carol. We’ve got to get a move on. Mack wants us in New York in three hours to meet the show’s production staff, some possible contestants, and the host of the show.”

  “But Jim,” I protested, “I can’t possibly be ready in three hours, much less get to New York by then.”

  I had already planned a leisurely morning, beginning with texts to Jenny and Mike to bring them up to date on the unexpected turn their fuddy-duddy parents’ lives had taken. These texts would be immediately followed by calls to Nancy, Mary Alice and Claire to tell them about our (my) foray into the field of television. I was sure that each call I made would be met with a combination of squeals of excitement tinged with a pinch of envy.

  Finally, a quick call to Deanna, to plan a hair appointment calendar so my locks would be lovely all throughout this adventure. Which brought up an interesting idea: Maybe Deanna could become the official hair stylist for the show, and travel to Florida when we did the show’s pilot episode. Wow. That would be so cool.

  If my role in promoting The Second Honeymoon Game was nebulous, I could certainly carve out a job description all by myself. In fact, that’d be preferable. Not that I’d admit that to Jim, of course. Or, heaven forbid, Mack Whitman.

  And now, in a flash, my day was completely turned upside down.

  Oh, well. I guess that’s show biz, and I’d better get used to it.

  I had dithered for too long in front of my closet, trying to find a perfect outfit that screamed “New York Public Relations Expert,” but the best I could do was a woolen, below-the-knee skirt and cashmere turtleneck sweater. Black, of course. I did have time to send a quick S.O.S. to Nancy asking to borrow appropriate footwear for a quick trip into Manhattan. I didn’t tell her why. Pal that she was, she met me and a fuming Jim at the Fairport train station with a Coach tote bag, which she thrust into my hands just as we were about to board.

  “Here,” she said. “Be careful when you walk in these so you don’t trip. I want them back in the exact condition I loaned them to you. They cost a fortune, but they’re bound to impress. And don’t lose the tote bag. Have fun.” And she was gone.

  “I still don’t see why we have to walk,” I said, puffing as I tried to keep up with my sprinter husband. “Wait up, will you? You know I can’t walk as fast as you do.” I looked down at my feet. “Especially since I’m wearing Nancy’s shoes. I should have left my sneakers on instead of changing shoes on the train. But I figured we’d take a cab.”

  Of course, there are no coupons for New York City taxis, I reminded myself, which was probably why we were hoofing it.

  Jim stopped, turned around, and gave me a look. “We could have taken a cross-town bus, and then the subway, Carol. But you didn’t want to.”

  He had me there. I’m extremely claustrophobic, and being underground in a tin can that could stop at any minute and leave me trapped for…well, I think you get the idea. I have the same problem with self-service elevators. I was trapped in one of those for hours in my younger days, and haven’t gotten over it yet.

  Sue me.

  Jim grabbed my hand. “We’ve only got a few more blocks to go. You can do it. Come on.”

  “It better be only a few more blocks,” I grumbled, trying to ignore a persistent stitch in my side. “We’re so far on the West Side now that we might as well be in New Jersey.”

  “The West Side is where all the television studios are,” my husband, the Manhattan expert, informed me as he hurried us along, making me feel like a hick from the sticks. “And at least the sidewalks aren’t icy.” He glanced at my choice of footwear. “Those shoes are killer, though,” he said. “In a good way.”

  “Well, they’re sure killing me,” I said. “And I don’t understand the red soles, either. I feel like I’ve stepped in something. Ketchup, maybe. Or something even worse.”

  We continued on West 69th Street and sprinted across 11th Avenue when there was a small break in the traffic. Well, Jim sprinted. I merely hobbled, hanging onto his arm for dear life.

  “Doesn’t anybody wait for the ‘walk’ light in New York?” I asked, once we’d found safe landing on the opposite side of the street.

  “Only the out-of-towners,” Jim informed me. He checked his phone. “Charles King Productions is on the next block, according to Mack. He’s going to meet us there.”

  “I hope one of Charles King’s productions is a place to sit down,” I said. “Or, better yet, lie down. After this walk, I’m pooped.”

  “Funny, Carol,” Jim said, stopping in front of a non-descript brownstone building with “C.K.P.” etched on the door. “I think this is it.”

  I leaned against a friendly light pole and massaged the stitch in my side, not easy to reach when you’re wearing a faux fur winter coat. Jim, meanwhile, was searching for a buzzer or doorbell or intercom to announce our arrival.

  “Charles King isn’t very welcoming,” I said. “Are you sure this is the right place? And where’s Mack?” Jim ignored me. Something he often does when he suspects that I’m right.

  And then we heard a disembodied voice. “Welcome to Charles King Productions. Please enter the access code, then wait for the green light.”

  “We don’t have an access code,” Jim yelled in the direction of the doorknob. “My name’s Jim Andrews. I’m from Gibson Gillespie Public Relations.”

  I tugged at Jim’s sleeve. “We’re from Gibson Gillespie,” I reminded my husband.”

  Jim glared at me, then continued, “Carol Andrews and I have a meeting here with Mack Whitman and the production staff of The Second Honeymoon Game.”

  Magically, the front door clicked open, and we stepped into a richly appointed vestibule. Normally, I take a lot of time checking out my surroundings so I can report back to Nancy and the gang, but not this time. All I cared about was that the place was warm and had plenty of chairs. I plopped myself down in the nearest one. Ah, heaven. “Stay put, Carol,” Jim said. “I’m going to find out where the meeting’s supposed to be.”

  I nodded and hugged my coat around me. I was exhausted. I checked myself out in my mirror; I looked as bad as I felt. Worse, even. Maybe I had time for a quick power nap before the meeting. I leaned back, rested my head against the chair, and closed my eyes. But not for long.

  In a flash, Jim was back, accompanied by a tall, silver-haired man with movie star looks. Not exactly Swoon City, but close enough. And he exuded power from every pore, which is a potent aphrodisiac, or so Nancy claims.

  Rats. I hadn’t taken the time to freshen my makeup or comb my hair.

  “Carol,” Jim said, “this is Charles King. Mack had an emergency w
ith another client, so we’re starting the meeting without him.” So watch what you say, Jim telegraphed to me. Be professional. No wise cracks.

  I struggled to my feet and held out my hand. “I’m so happy to meet you, Mr. King.”

  Charles King had the strangest expression on his face. Then he took both my hands and squeezed them tight. “No need to introduce yourself, Carol. I’d know you anywhere.”

  Huh?

  King smiled broadly. “You don’t recognize me, do you, Carol?” He paused for a millisecond and, ignoring Jim completely, said, “May I have this dance, Carol? I’m a little taller than the last time I asked you that.”

  The light bulb went off in my brain. “Chuckie? Chuckie Krumpelbeck? Is that you?”

  Charles King flashed a thousand watt smile and crushed me, coat and all, into a bear hug, while Jim looked on, perplexed and slightly miffed to be immediately upstaged in this Very Important, Professional Meeting, by his lowly assistant (a.k.a., his lovely wife).

  Chapter 11

  Hair today, gone tomorrow.

  “My gosh, Chuckie, you certainly have changed since grammar school,” I said, releasing myself from his grasp with some difficulty. Then I realized how stupid that sounded. It had been a long time (and don’t bother asking me exactly how long because I’m not going to tell you) since we’d seen each other. Of course he’d changed.

  “You haven’t changed at all, Carol,” Charles King said, gazing at me with such fondness that I wanted to melt into a warm puddle right there on the floor. “I’d know you anywhere. You’re just as pretty now as you were then. And you’re the only person in the world I’d allow to call me Chuckie.”

  King turned to Jim. “I hope you know how lucky you are, to land a prize like Carol for your wife.”

  Poor Jim. This business meeting wasn’t going at all the way he’d expected. Or planned. Or hoped for. I, of course, was in my glory. But wifely duties came first. I’d preen and brag later, when I shared the story with Nancy, Mary Alice and Claire. Especially Claire.

  “I’m the lucky one,” I said, taking my husband’s hand. “Jim and I have been married for over thirty years, and we have two great children, Jenny and Mike. We’re still in Fairport, too, in a beautiful antique house on Old Fairport Turnpike.”

  Jim found his voice at last. “This is certainly a surprise,” he said. Well, it wasn’t brilliant, but I was glad he figured out something to say.

  King reached out his hand to Jim. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Jim. I’m looking forward to working with you…” he turned and locked eyes with me…“both of you on this television show for Boomers. I’ve heard great things about your work from Mack Whitman, Jim. In fact, you’re the main reason why our company decided to sign with Gibson Gillespie. You have an impressive track record, and I’m delighted that Mack was able to entice you to come out of retirement to handle our account.”

  King smiled. “I didn’t want some young kid working on promoting The Second Honeymoon Game. I told Whitman that, if he wanted our business, he had to hire a grown-up. Someone who really understand the boomer market.” He clapped Jim on the back. “And you’re absolutely the right man for the job. I can tell right away we’re going to have a great working partnership.”

  How King would tell that so quickly was a mystery to me, since Jim had only spoken five words so far, but what the heck. Points to him for being such a quick judge of good character.

  “I’m looking forward to the challenge, Mr. King,” Jim said.

  “Not Mr. King, please. And,” with a quick glance at me, “definitely not Chuckie Krumpelbeck. I left him behind years ago. I’m Charlie now, at least to my friends and business associates. Speaking of which,” King gave his Rolex a quick glance, “I think it’s time you both met the other key members of our team. They’re waiting to start the meeting in Studio A. Follow me.”

  We trudged behind King down a long hallway decorated with photos of television shows I figured his company had produced over the years. I’ll admit this to you, but no one else—I never heard of any of them. I’m more of a PBS kind of person than a reality or game show fan. Except for Jeopardy! and Say Yes to the Dress, of course. I never miss those shows if I can help it. Oh, and Dancing with the Stars. I love that one. I have a favorite fantasy where I get to compete on that show and bring home the Mirror Ball Trophy. Much to the surprise of my family and friends.

  I took a quick detour to the women’s room—it had been a long train ride and I’m only human, after all. So by the time I got to Studio A, all the seats around the square conference table in the center of the room were taken, except for the one to Charlie’s immediate right. I was quick to note that Jim was at the opposite end of the table.

  I tried to act nonchalant, but inside, I was screaming, “I’m actually inside an honest-to-goodness television studio!” I was dying to ask someone to take a picture of me beside one of the cameras that I spotted lined up at the rear of the studio, but I figured that’d mark me as an amateur right away. (Although I was more than ready for my close-up.)

  Charlie immediately rose and gestured for me to take the seat next to him. I couldn’t help but notice that my chair had seen better days, as had the conference room table. Truth to tell, the furniture in the room looked like it had been purchased from a low-end thrift shop. Not that I was being critical, understand. No siree. I figured Charlie saved the big bucks to spend on his shows. He always was good in arithmetic when we were in school.

  “Everyone, this is Carol Andrews, also from Gibson Gillespie Public Relations,” Charlie said. “She and Jim will be working as a team on The Second Honeymoon Game.” He flashed me a thousand watt smile. “Carol and I go way back, and I can’t tell you how delighted I am that she’s here.”

  I wasn’t sure how to respond to my sudden role in the spotlight. A royal wave? A smile? A humble look? No, that last one would be too tough for me to carry out.

  I noticed that Jim was shifting in his chair, a sure sign that he was uncomfortable. And shooting me a look that reminded me to “Be Professional.” So I settled for a brief smile at my subjects. I mean, the members of the production team.

  “Now, people, we can all get acquainted after this meeting,” Charlie said, effectively putting a stop to my woolgathering. “For now, let’s get down to the business of putting together this television show. Please introduce yourselves to Carol and Jim so they’ll know what your role is.” He flicked his eyes to a young brunette woman, seated directly across the conference table. “Carol Ann, why don’t you begin?”

  “I prefer to be called Carrie,” she said, locking eyes with him. “As you very well know.”

  Jeez. This girl, whoever she was, was looking to get fired. Nobody should talk to a boss like that.

  Charlie, to his credit, ignored her rudeness. “Of course,” he said. “You’re absolutely right. Old habits die hard.” He laughed. “A little Catholic school humor for my old friend, Carol.”

  Carrie cleared her throat and sat up straight in her chair. “I’m the assistant producer for The Second Honeymoon Game,” she said. “I guess you could say that I go back a long way with Charlie King, too. I’m his daughter. And if you’re the Carol I think you are, I was named after you.” She flashed me a huge smile. “I can’t tell you how thrilled I am to meet you after all these years.”

  Chapter 12

  My best ideas seem to come when I have no clue what I’m talking about.

  Wow. I mean, WOW! Talk about a shock. It was like being told I had another child, and Jim wasn’t the father. I was at a loss for words, something that doesn’t happen to me very often. Like, never. I searched my memory for an appropriate comeback and came up empty. I was sure my face was beet red.

  “My goodness,” I said. Well, it was lame, but I had to say something.

  Uncomfortable silence followed.

  “Did I miss anything?” Mack said, breezing into the studio and searching for a place to sit. “Sorry I’m late, people, but another cl
ient had a crisis and just had to talk to the big boss at the agency. No one else would do.”

  Talk about great timing. The atmosphere in Studio A changed immediately as everyone (except Charlie King) shifted positions to allow for an additional chair, which had magically appeared at the opposite end of the table, next to Jim.

  I could tell that Charlie wasn’t pleased that Mack was late. As for me, I wanted to throw my arms around Mack’s neck and whisper my thanks into his ear. Don’t worry. I restrained myself.

  Instead, I jumped up and gestured for Mack to take my place at Charlie’s side, then scurried to the safety of the other end of the table and plopped myself down beside the comforting presence of my husband. I reached under the table and gave his knee a reassuring pat. (At least, I thought/hoped it was Jim’s knee and not one belonging to a complete stranger.)

  Carrie cleared her throat. “Yes, well, as I was saying just before you arrived, Mack, I’m the assistant producer for this show. That means I do all the nuts and bolts work that putting together a game show like this requires. And other duties as assigned. I’m looking forward to working with everyone. I’m sure we’re going to have a great time and produce a great show.” She sat back in her chair and looked at her father. “Right?”

  Charlie nodded his head. “Absolutely right. This one’s going to be a ratings blockbuster with all those Boomers as a potential audience.”