“Spill it.”
“She disappeared with Sullivan sometime around midnight. Carter wasn’t too happy about that.”
“Interesting. She did tell us that she’s been with both of them. Seems like it might be a potentially messy love triangle, huh?”
“Maybe so. Carter didn’t really communicate that to me though.”
“Wait,” Skyler said. “Who’s still in the house?”
“Carter requested a rideshare or a cab or something and left last night. Or early this morning, for that matter. And I’m pretty sure Sully is still in Georgia’s suite. I don’t know that for a fact, but I’ll bet John and Anna know. Those two didn’t look too pleased last night. I remember Georgia pleading with them to go to bed, but the cops seemed duty bound to stay awake until the last reveler was snug in a bed and the house was buttoned up tight. Actually—and you won’t believe this—John is the one who walked Mulder and Scully before I turned in. He insisted on it. He said it would be good for him to patrol the perimeter. The dogs were in heaven, too; they just love men.”
“How very nice for all of you.”
“Yeah, because it’s as cold as a witch’s titty out there. And it was super windy last night, too.”
“Witch’s titty,” Skyler repeated with a giggle. She turned around to finish her makeup. “That takes me back to eighth grade. Mrs. Reynold’s class.”
“I remember.”
“Why are witches’ titties so cold?”
“They’re cold hearted bitches, those witches. Can I fetch you some coffee and a croissant or something?”
Skyler lightened. “Coffee, yes. Food, no. I’ll eat something after my meeting with Foster. Maybe.”
“He’s going to love you.” Brenda started out of the bathroom and through Skyler’s room. “Everyone does.” And she was gone.
Skyler wasn’t so sure that she was loved universally, but it was a nice thing to hear from her best friend. She pulled the towel off her damp hair and considered whether she had the energy to blow dry it straight or if she’d let it dry naturally, which would emphasize the curls in her long locks. She opted for the natural method and would pull it back into a ponytail before heading out of the house. Given the relative lack of humidity in the high desert, she wasn’t too concerned about frizziness.
After she downed half the coffee Brenda delivered, Skyler sat down at her laptop and scanned her messages. Besides another sweet missive from Leonard, she was more than a little bit excited to see an email from her longtime contact at Vanity Fair magazine in New York.
Dec 19 @ 9:09am EST
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: April Cover & Spread
Skyler,
I realize that I told you last week that this wasn’t going to be decided until the beginning of the new year, but it’s LOCKED IN. Ready??
Carissa will be the April cover with a seven or eight page spread. Just her. Leibovitz is booked to do the photos sometime in late-February, in Las Vegas, at your request. Dates to be worked out. We haven’t assigned a writer yet; will get back to you on that. Maybe Dylan or Casey—they’re both huge fans without being schmaltzy.
Would she be open to a video crew being at the photo shoot(s)? Might be a great companion piece for the web or social media. Could even be a part of our new BTS doc we’re working on. Annie is always cool with crews on her set. Well, almost always.
Let’s talk the first week of January. Happy Holidays! And, you’re welcome.
Best, Isa
Isabella Bunch
Executive Editor, Vanity Fair
Main: 212-555-5151
Cell: 718-555-2368
Skyler closed her eyes and took a few silent moments to thank the public relations gods. This was one of Carissa Lamb’s lifelong goals and the pop superstar was going to be over the moon with excitement. The monumental ‘get’ might very well come with an extra holiday bonus, too, Skyler hoped. She was certainly doing her P.R. best, and then some.
She forwarded the email to Carissa (and copied Enzo, her right-hand man back in D.C.) with a short note attached:
Dec 19 @ 8:59am MST
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
CC: [email protected]
Subject: FWD: April Cover & Spread
C,
OMG, see below. How much do you love me? Forward your February schedule to Enzo as soon as you can. He’ll make sure everyone is on the same page.
Talk soon. So excited!
—Skyler Moore
Skyler Moore Public Relations, LLC
Washington, DC and Worldwide
www.SkylerMoorePR.com
Main: 888-555-1301
Cell/Text: 202-555-1733
Pleased with herself, Skyler jumped into an all-black outfit, tied a red silk scarf around her neck, and threw her laptop, iPad, and an old-fashioned paper notebook into her briefcase. She was out the door and behind the wheel of the rental car—after checking out of the house with Anna, the de facto hall monitor on duty.
Skyler screamed out a short exclamation of glee and pounded the steering wheel as she zipped toward the Plaza. Replaced by happiness of a job well done, the hangover was magically gone.
* * *
Georgia wasn’t completely comfortable with the idea of leaving the house, but she agreed to go shopping with Brenda. Of course, that threw the security team into motion, as last-minute plans were made for a trip downtown—a whole two miles down the hill.
“We’re going to go to the Mea Culpa dress shop, an animation art gallery on Water Street, and then pop into a café for lunch,” Brenda said matter-of-factly. “We’re not advertising it online. How will anyone even know we’re there? What could possibly happen in sleepy ol’ Santa Fe?”
“I bet you didn’t think a bomb would go off in the living room or a stranger would stalk you from the woods or follow you to your hotel downtown,” John said curtly. “So, anything could happen. And probably will.”
Brenda placed her hands on her hips. “Great attitude.”
“We’re just doing the job that Miss Reece hired us to do. At any time, she can send us packing and you ladies can fend for yourselves, Miss Braxton.”
“My name is Brenda. I’ve asked you repeatedly to please call me…” She ran out of steam. “Never mind. How soon can we leave?” She turned and looked at Anna, who seemed to be a little friendlier.
“Give us 15 minutes, okay?”
Georgia and Brenda retreated to the kitchen.
“You have to let them do their job,” Georgia said in a whisper. “For me?”
“Of course.” Brenda was embarrassed by her outburst but decided to brush it off. She took a seat at the bar and fiddled with a book of matches. “It’s frustrating, but I understand how grave the situation is.”
“I’ve considered leaving. I gave it a lot of thought this morning after Sully left.”
“About that...”
Georgia rolled her eyes. “I’m so stupid, Brenda. I can’t be having a sexual relationship with both of them. I mean, how long can this possibly last? They’re already at odds with each other. I’m just making things worse.”
“Do you like one of them more than the other?” Brenda rested her chin in her palm. There was a twinkle in her eye; she loved this kind of stuff, which was probably why she was addicted to reality television shows like The Bachelor, even though she knew many people thought the medium was low-brow.
“They are so different out of bed. In bed…they’re kind of exactly the same. Like, exactly the same.”
“Down there?”
“Absolutely identical. Even how they start, what they do next, the positions they prefer. It’s all so absurd. And confusing.”
“I’m so intrigued. Do you think they compare notes? Maybe they’ve had threesomes so that they know each other’s game plan?” Brenda erupted in laughter. “This is so crazy, Georgia. This sh
ould be a book. Skyler can help you get an agent. She knows everyone.”
“Oh my goodness, I could never do something like that—tell tales out of school. Not me. But they are good. Probably the best I’ve ever had.”
“Wow. What are you going to do?”
“Fly home to New York City to avoid getting killed by a deranged stalker and to avoid having to make a decision on what I do about my twin lovers.”
“I think you should reconsider, Georgia. You have the cops here watching out for you now. Skyler and I are here. The dogs are here. And it’s Christmas. If you go back to New York now, with all of us here, won’t you be all alone?”
“I would be, yes.”
“Then stick it out a bit longer. This is going to come to an end soon. I promise.”
Georgia seemed placated for the moment. “Plus, I can’t be in New York at Christmas time after what happened last year.”
Brenda’s eyes widened.
“I’m sure you read about it in the papers.”
Brenda racked her brain. “Maybe I did, but it escapes me. What happened last Christmas?”
“I was driving on the Long Island Expressway, coming back to the city from a girlfriend’s holiday party. I had three or four drinks, but I felt okay to drive.”
“Oh geez. No. I don’t know this story.”
“I must have fallen asleep at the wheel,” Georgia said softly. “I veered into the left passing lane and sideswiped another car. There was a man alone in that vehicle and he swerved to get away from me and…” Her voice trailed off.
Brenda noticed that the singer was shaking. “Was he hurt?”
“Badly. He went head first through his windshield when he hit…when his car hit a tree.” She lowered her voice to a low whisper. “He died three days later from his injuries. He wasn’t wearing his seatbelt…but it was still my fault. All my fault.”
“Oh, Georgia, honey. I am so sorry.”
Perhaps it was from all of her experience on the stage, Brenda thought, but all of a sudden Georgia composed herself and continued. “I was exonerated after my very powerful, very expensive lawyers arranged for a plea deal. I was supposed to do a month in jail, but due to overcrowding—which is common in the City—I was in and out in 18 hours. Eighteen hours, Brenda. It was just unbelievable. I got 200 community service hours, a hefty fine, and I lost my driver’s license. For life. The saving grace was that I was never given a breathalyzer test at the scene. I claimed I only had one drink at the party and the hostess ultimately lied for me, attesting to the same. She carried a lot of weight with the judge apparently, because she is the wife of the former mayor. I was extremely lucky. The man who died…he was not.”
Brenda just shook her head. “This is a book in itself.”
“No!” Georgia erupted. “It can’t be. If it were, then the real details would come out. As far as the outside world knows, I was exhausted and fell asleep at the wheel. Still liable, but it sounds a hell of a lot better than passing out at the wheel. Nevertheless, Page Six in the New York Post had a field day with it. I didn’t lose any performance gigs, thank goodness, but I’m sure it must have damaged my once squeaky-clean reputation somewhat. Not to mention what I did to that poor, poor family.”
“Did he have a wife and kids?” Brenda asked.
“A late wife who died from cancer a few years ago. But he had a daughter. I really don’t know the details beyond that. I never saw the inside of a courtroom, so I never had to come face to face with anyone. My lawyers and I were scared to death that the daughter would bring a civil suit, but it’s been a year and nothing has popped up. I’m still on pins and needles about it, every single day. I’m not sure what the statute of limitations are for something like that.”
“I’m so very sorry, honey. And I understand why you’d want to stay away from New York at this time of year.” Brenda had trouble processing the astonishing confession and immediately questioned how she felt about the woman and her apparent lack of judgement. But the opera singer did seem genuinely remorseful, unless that too was an act, Brenda thought. She quickly decided it wasn’t her place to judge—she hadn’t caused anyone’s death that she was aware of, but she hadn’t lived her life as a saint, either—so she pushed her shoulders back and put a big smile on her face. “So, we’ll make the best of it and make sure we all have a happy and safe Christmas right here in Santa Fe.”
“I agree,” Georgia said as she took a deep, calming breath. “Now, dear, let’s go shopping.”
“That’s my second favorite sentence, after let’s go eat.” Brenda slipped off her stool and pulled on her coat. “Let’s tell the hired guns that it’s time to go.”
* * *
Skyler pulled her car into the La Fonda hotel garage entrance and was faced with a sign that indicated that the lot was full. A very handsome young man appeared at her open window. “Are you checking in, ma’am?”
“I am not,” she said with a sweet smile. “But I’m late for a lunch date at La Plazuela. Can I please park here?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. We can only accommodate overnight hotel guests at this time of year. We’re quite booked, I’m afraid, and the garage is small.”
She wasn’t a regular practitioner of bribery, but she was desperate and nearly late. She fished a $100 bill out of her wallet, folded it in half, and held it out of the window. She glanced at his nametag. “Just this once, Henry?”
He didn’t blink. He pocketed the Benjamin and handed Skyler a claim ticket. “You can leave the car here, ma’am. I will take care of it while you enjoy your lunch.”
She grabbed her bag and climbed out of the driver’s seat. She gave him a wink and strutted into the hotel, proud of herself. It was worth the money, she decided, to save the aggravation of finding parking on the street.
As she passed by the concierge desk, she noticed a middle-aged woman sitting behind a computer screen. Then she looked over at the two ladies standing behind the front desk. And a split second later, Skyler caught a glimpse of herself in a floor-to-ceiling mirror and stopped dead in her tracks. She’d managed to dress exactly like the hotel staff members. Her black slacks and slim-fitting jacket, white blouse, and red scarf were nearly identical to their uniform. All she needed was an embossed gold nametag pinned to her right breast pocket. Horrified, she ripped the scarf from her neck and stuffed it into her bag. But it was too late. Foster Martin was standing a few feet away, directly to her left.
“Are you moonlighting here?” he asked with a chuckle.
Skyler beamed at the old man. “I am not. It was an unfortunate accident.”
“You look very city-corporate, Miss Moore,” he said taking her by the arm and gently guiding her toward the restaurant. “You do realize that we’re in Santa Fe, New Mexico, where blue jeans and a pair of well-worn boots is considered a dressy outfit.”
“I guess I should know that by now. But I have never been here before and I wasn’t sure how to dress for a…” She stopped talking.
“For a billionaire? Is that what you were going to say?”
Skyler could feel her face flush. “I guess I might have if I didn’t stop myself, yes.”
“This billionaire is fairly casual most of the time and he wouldn’t really care if you were wearing a burlap sack to lunch as long as you brought along the public relations and marketing chops that you are so well known for.”
“I’ll remember that for next time,” she said with a chuckle. “Burlap sacks are all the rage this season.”
They were greeted warmly by the hostess and escorted to a small table beside the fountain. After getting settled, Skyler looked around the atrium and marveled at the indoor trees and intricate paintings on the woodwork all around them. “This is quite a beautiful spot.”
“I do enjoy it,” Foster said as he pushed his menu to the side. “I don’t need to look at this thing. I have it all memorized. And it doesn’t matter anyway, because I always get the same thing. I highly recommend the Carne Asada.”
“Perfect. We’re off to a good start,” Foster said. He folded his weathered hands on the table and leaned in. “I think it’s time I told you what I have on my mind.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Hardly,” he said with a sly smile. “Journalistic integrity.”
“Excuse me?”
“This country is off the rails when it comes to the news. Facts aren’t important anymore. Opinion is seeping into every report, every story, every feature. Our top news anchors can’t help but to pepper their reporting with their own thoughts on every issue. Our major newspapers are in trouble. Print is dying. No one wants to pay for news, so they consume crap. They end up with poorly researched innuendo and speculation and, worst of all, sensationalism. Click bait! What is considered breaking news these days troubles me dearly. Celebrity is considered the highest form of life—no offense to your other clients. But we, as a nation, bow down to it. I want to help change that culture. Forge a new path. A return to facts and a return to journalistic integrity. We shouldn’t know who Anderson Cooper voted for in the last election. Peter Jennings shouldn’t have a public opinion on income taxes.”
“Oh goodness,” Skyler said. “Peter Jennings died years ago.”
“Yes, yes. It’s just an example. But see? The evening news broadcasts aren’t important anymore; I don’t even know who anchors those programs.”
She laughed out loud. “That’s not true. You probably pay some of them.”
“Okay, to be fair, you and I know who the anchors are.” He gestured wildly with his arms at the other diners in the restaurant. “But I bet the average American could not even name one. But that’s not the point. The point is the journalistic landscape has changed for the worse. And I want to fix it.”
Skyler considered for a moment what the world’s foremost media titan was saying. “Sir, you control a very sizable share of media outlets here in the United States and around the world.”
“I do. And I don’t.”
“What do you mean?”
The New Mexico Scoundrel Page 12