A First Date with Death

by Diana Orgain

  “I just told you I didn’t see anything.”

  “You’re infuriating, you realize that, don’t you?” I said.

  He cupped a hand around his ear. “What?” he asked. “You prefer the gold gown?” He flung it at me, saying, “Me, too.”

  • • • • • • • • •

  When I stepped back into the mansion, candles were glowing from every corner and rose petals were strewn around the furniture, creating the ultimate romantic illusion for our TV viewers. The scent of the roses was cloying and I was almost able to ignore the crew members busily darting about, duct taping cords to the floor and adjusting lighting.

  Except for the fact that I was shaking.

  How were the producers going to explain Pietro’s absence?

  Harris Carlson was already in the room, primping and preening as he stood waiting for me.

  “I discussed the situation with Cheryl,” Harris said. “We’re going to be up-front with the audience about Pietro. His suicide is already on some of the news channels—”

  “We don’t know that it—”

  He held up a hand to quiet me. “I’m following marching orders.” The look he gave indicated I’d be smart to follow the same orders.

  Cheryl sauntered into the room. “All set?” she asked, then a strange expression crossed her face. “What’s that smell?”

  “We got an active leak. I’ve called a plumber,” one of the techs who was working on a light answered.

  Cheryl scrunched up her nose, but didn’t say any more about it. She stepped toward Harris and me. “All right. We got Harris to give the audience a brief rundown about Pietro. So you don’t need to address that, Georgia. Just give us a quick recap about your dates and how torn you are to have to choose between all these great catches, capisci?”

  Yeah. I capisco, all right.

  She was closely guarding how the information about Pietro was released and she wanted to be sure I had nothing to do with it. She gave a whole new meaning to public information officer, and I’d already proved I couldn’t do that job.

  Cheryl stepped away from us and called, “Action.”

  Harris proceeded to ask me about the rock-climbing date. I gave a lame answer, something to the effect of, “It went about as well as could be expected.”

  Then one by one the men came into the room. They were dressed in formal wear, each looking more handsome than should be legal.

  I was to call the men’s names and ask if they would accept a glass of champagne. If I offered a man a glass and he accepted, he would remain on the show. I called out to Paul, Ty, Edward, Scott, Nathan, Richard, and Derek and handed each a glass of champagne. When the seven flutes were handed out, Mitch and Bruce were left standing with their hands folded in front of them.

  What should have taken a few minutes to film seemed to take forever. Cheryl kept interrupting us and readjusting the camera angles. Then she’d instruct the men to look either overly confident, charming, or distressed. The distressed look seemed to be the easiest for the guys to master because they all looked completely frazzled by the time the scene was finally done.

  Harris took a step forward and said, “Mitch, Bruce, I’m sorry. Please take a moment to say your good-byes.”

  Mitch and Bruce shook hands with the other men. Then Mitch stepped away and approached me. “Georgia, it was a pleasure to meet you. I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”

  “I’m sorry, too,” I said sincerely. And then I had to ask him the question that Cheryl had instructed me to ask. “Mitch, I have to know. Were you looking for love or money?”

  He took a deep breath. “Georgia, I was looking for money.”

  I smiled, relief wafting over me.

  At least that’s one Mr. Wrong gone.

  Mitch turned and walked out of the mansion.

  Bruce moved closer to me, took my hand, and kissed it. “It was nice meeting you,” he said.

  I nodded and asked him the same question I’d asked Mitch.

  He tilted his head to the side and said, “I’m looking for love.”

  My breath caught. I’d just lost one of my eligible bachelors.

  “You’ll find it,” I said.

  He pressed his lips together and nodded. “I hope so. Good luck to you.” He turned and walked out the door, and part of me—well, most of me—wanted to follow him right out.

  Harris Carlson clapped his hands together. “Well, Georgia, seven men remain. You’ve eliminated one who was in it for the money and one who was in it for love. And, as our viewers are aware, we lost Pietro.” He glanced down a moment and the cast joined him in an unrehearsed silence. “Our confessional videos reveal that Pietro was on the show for the money.”

  I surveyed the remaining men. All were holding their champagne flutes and looking at me expectantly. The odds had tipped in my favor. Now of the seven men remaining, four were in it for love.

  I held up my glass. “Well, gentlemen, thank you for accepting this toast. May we all live long, happy lives.”

  Everyone clinked their glasses together.

  “Here’s to you, Georgia,” Paul said.

  “Tomorrow there will be a group date for five of you and a one-on-one,” Harris Carlson announced. “You’ll all receive your date cards in the morning.”

  That was my cue to leave the mansion alongside Harris. I walked next to him, feeling completely numb. Somehow, I’d agreed to continue on this godawful show and now I felt more alone than I’d felt when I’d been abandoned at the altar.

  My life had truly reached a low.

  • • • • • • • • •

  I slept a fitful night, reliving the image of Pietro hanging from the ceiling in my dressing room over and over.

  Did his death have anything to do with me?

  My worst fear was that he’d seen or known something and had been silenced for it.

  I couldn’t believe it was suicide, but what about the note they’d found?

  I finally drifted off to a deeper sleep, only to have the alarm jolt me awake. Bright Los Angeles sunshine was peeking through the blinds, but my head hurt and I still felt fatigued. I stumbled toward the miniature kitchen and fumbled for coffee. Someone on the production crew had stocked the refrigerator for me and I pulled out some cream for my coffee and some fresh raspberries to top my cereal.

  As the smell of coffee wafted through my trailer, there was a small sound from outside. Gravel crunching in a slow and even pace. Not a cat or a raccoon.

  This was definitely human.

  Why was someone creeping up on me?

  Through the blinds, I could make out the figure of a woman and she seemed to be dressed like my best friend, Becca, with a billowing jacket and skin-tight yoga pants. The woman’s long curly hair bounced as she walked.

  My shoulders dropped and air rushed back into my lungs.

  Yes, this was definitely my friend Becca.

  “G?” she called as she rapped softly on my door. “Are you up yet?”

  I pulled open the trailer door. “You scared me.”

  “Sorry,” she said, tumbling into the trailer and seating herself in the tiny eating area.

  “Why are you sneaking around?” I asked.

  “I wasn’t sneaking.”

  “You were kind of skulking.”

  “I was? I don’t know—I’m totally freaked out. I thought I heard something behind me, but I think it’s just my mind playing tricks on me.”

  I remained standing and peeked out of my windows. I couldn’t see much and I tried to shake the spooked feeling.

  “Anyway, I came over to get the list from you,” Becca said.

  “What list?”

  “Your date list. I have to make out the date cards now. Who are you going to take out?” Before I could answer, she added, “Is that coffee I smell?”

  I poured her a cup, then one for myself, and took a seat across from her. “I can’t believe we’re going to continue this charade.”

  She put a hand over
her heart. “I know. Poor Pietro. I tried to talk Cheryl out of continuing, but when you all voted to stay on—”

  “I didn’t! I didn’t vote to stay on.”

  “Well, you were outvoted, but what can I say, she thinks the ratings are going to be through the roof. We’re already getting press inquiries like you wouldn’t believe and, man, these people are vultures.”

  “I can believe it. Remember I was the public information officer in San Francisco. I know how the press can get. Speaking of which, were you able to get copies of the footage we shot in San Francisco?”

  Becca shook her head. “No, sorry. I asked around and everyone seems to think we gave the footage to SFPD.”

  “All of it?”

  “Yes.” Becca sipped her coffee, then asked, “So, who’s it going to be?”

  “Where are we going for the date?”

  “Amusement park.”

  I quirked an eyebrow. “Disneyland?”

  Becca smiled. “Girl, we are low budget. We don’t have the dough to close Disneyland for the day.”

  “We got the bridge in San Francisco.”

  “That’s different. The city encourages producers to film there. They want the business. Disney doesn’t need our business. Do you know how much they pull in a day?”

  I buried my head in my hands. “Actually, I don’t want to know. I’m sure I’ll only find it depressing. Besides, if what happened in San Francisco—”

  Becca clapped her hands over her ears. “Don’t even say that!”

  “Scott’s worried the show is cursed.”

  “La, la, la,” Becca sang.

  “You’re going to ignore me? You’re just like the makeup guy, Kyle! What is this Hollywood denial?”

  Becca shut her eyes and continued to sing to herself.

  Well, what did I expect? It is the land of fairy tales and make-believe.

  “You have to face reality, my dear. Something weird is going on with the show. Do you think it’s me?”

  When she didn’t answer, I closed my mouth and waited her out. After a moment she opened an eye and peeked at me.

  “Are you done with the nay-saying? I don’t want to participate in any bad juju.”

  “The juju is here, darling. Whether we participate in it or not.”

  She ignored me and pulled out a pen. “Who do you want on your date?”

  “How many guys do I need to invite?”

  “Five of the seven. You get to pick one guy for the one-on-one and someone will get left out. Who are you liking the best?”

  I thought about it for a moment. Deep down I didn’t really think I’d find love on the show, but since I was stuck here, I’d better come up with a plan. After all, I had a chance to split the money with someone if I picked the right guy.

  “Paul is out. We know he’s not on the show for love or money,” I said.

  “No, no. That’s not how it works. He took Aaron’s place, so you can’t think of him as Paul. You have to think about him as Aaron.”

  “What?” The cereal I’d poured took on a soggy, unappetizing texture and I suddenly felt sick to my stomach.

  “You have to guess if Aaron was in it for love or money. Paul agreed to that with Cheryl. We had to keep the balance on the show—you know, five guys in it for love, five in it for the money.”

  “Do you know?” I asked, picking a raspberry off my cereal.

  “Nope, and even if I did, you know I can’t tell you.”

  I shrugged. “I know. I guess it doesn’t matter, though. I want him gone.”

  She studied me a moment. “So, are you going to eliminate him next?”

  “Hell yes,” I said.

  She made a face.

  “What?” I challenged.

  Becca shook her head and found immediate interest in her coffee. “Nothing. Got any sugar?”

  “You don’t take sugar in your coffee. Now tell me what’s up.”

  She played with her coffee cup. “It’s just that I think he’s still in love with you, G.”

  It was my turn to make a face. “Puh-lease!” I said. “He doesn’t love me. He loves his job.”

  “He loves you and you know it.”

  Arguing with Becca was actually pointless. I’ve never won an argument with her.

  Ever.

  “Well, maybe I don’t love him anymore, Becca,” I said. “He’s not . . . he’s not . . . husband material.”

  Becca laughed. “Of course he is! He’s got a great job, he’s got a great ass—”

  I held a hand up to stop her. “Having a great ass is not on my list of criteria for making a good husband.”

  “Liar.”

  “Okay, well, maybe it is. But having a great ass and being a great ass are two different things and I just think our ship has sailed. Every time Paul opens his mouth I feel totally misunderstood. I’m not on the show to go backward.”

  She nodded, a serious expression on her face. “Right, right—and you shouldn’t. You’ve got some great guys on the show and every one of them is just as handsome as Paul. I shouldn’t be so superficial.”

  We burst out laughing together.

  She held up a finger. “But before you eliminate Paul, remember to think carefully about Aaron. Paul only agreed to what Aaron agreed to.”

  I sighed, then took a sip of my coffee. “You really can’t tell me?” I pried.

  She shook her head.

  We drank our coffee in silence for a moment, engaging in one of our time-tested staring contests. When she didn’t budge, I asked, “You got any favorites?”

  “For you? I think—”

  I laughed. “What do you mean, for me? Do you have your eye on someone?”

  She giggled. “No. Well, you know, I don’t want to unduly influence you. You need to be able—”

  “Oh, come on, girl. I have more than enough to choose from. Who are you eyeing?”

  “The cowboy.”

  “Ah! I should have known.”

  Becca had a soft spot for anything western. In fact, I couldn’t count the number of times she’d made me sit through old movies with John Wayne or Clint Eastwood or even Big Valley reruns.

  “You can have him.”

  She clapped her hands together. “Really?”

  I fanned my fingers at her. “Totally, honey. He’s up your alley. You have my blessing to make goo-goo eyes at him.”

  She laughed. “Oh, I’ll make more than goo-goo eyes at him.”

  “I’m sure. So, who do you like for me?”

  “The writer or the doctor.”

  “The writer, Scott? No way,” I said. “I swore to myself he’d be the next one gone. He’s out of here!”

  “Really?” Becca played with the salt and pepper shakers on my small table. “I think he’s so funny and you totally light up when you see him.”

  “I do?”

  She nodded. “The surfer guy is hot, too.”

  I thought about it for a minute. The one who had piqued my interest was the doctor, Edward. He was strong and compassionate, although I wasn’t sure about the walking pharmaceutical part of him . . .

  Why not take a chance?

  “Let’s say for the one-on-one date I’ll go with Edward,” I said.

  Becca made a note.

  “And then for the guy left behind, I’ll leave Ty.”

  She placed a hand over her heart and fluttered it back and forth. “Thank you!” she squealed.

  “No problem. So, that means the others go on the group date,” I said.

  “Including Paul,” she said.

  I groaned.

  She stood and jutted her chin out at me. “That means you need to get ready. Remember to flirt like crazy. Cheryl will make you redo everything if you don’t spice it up a bit.”

  Eleven

  Hair and makeup were getting easier and easier for me to sit through. The first days I thought I was being tortured or doing some sort of penance, but somehow I’d gotten used to it. Today, the woman doing my makeup was the s
ame lady who ordinarily did my hair, the one with the enviable dye job, whom I’d learned went by Ophelia.

  “Have you seen Florencia?” I asked.

  “Florencia? Yeah. She’s over at the studio today doing makeup for Peril.”

  Peril was the game show that was supposed to steal ratings from Jeopardy. So far, it was halfway through its pilot season and rumor had it its future was in “peril.”

  Ophelia fiddled with her makeup case, holding several bottles of foundation against my skin, seemingly trying to decide if I was tan enough for the darker color or if she should just accept reality.

  I was as pale as a ghost—thanks to years of living in foggy San Francisco.

  “Have you worked with her long?” I asked.

  She applied foundation to my face with a small sponge, then topped it off with powder. “Sure, I guess. Why?”

  “Do you know much about her?” I asked.

  She shrugged and turned to pick up a blusher brush. She dipped it into the pot of color and then dusted it on my cheeks, telling me to smile. “Uh, I think she’s single. Works late. Always wants overtime. Says she’s got no one to go home to and gets kinda mopey about that, but who doesn’t?”

  I bit my tongue. It certainly wouldn’t help matters to say, “Oh, she’s got no one to go home to because I put her behind bars for killing her husband.” Instead I said, “How long have you worked for the studio?”

  “Six years. Florencia came on board about a year and a half ago or so. I have to say she’s a quick learner and mostly keeps to herself.”

  Eighteen months.

  Had Teresa gotten out on parole? Considering she’d probably have served five years of the twenty-year sentence, it was possible, but it didn’t seem plausible after the brutal murder she’d committed. I’d have to find Paul and see if he’d found anything out.

  The woman finished my makeup and moved on to hair. “Terrible about that Italian hottie, huh? What was his name, Pietro?”

  I nodded.

  “I’ll never understand what drives someone to kill himself,” she continued. “Can you imagine what would drive a man to do that?” She didn’t wait for my reply; instead, she blasted the hair dryer and our conversation ceased.

  • • • • • • • • •

  I was dropped off outside another studio. Maybe the execs figured that going back to the same studio where Pietro had met his fate would be too much for us to bear. Either that or LAPD had it closed down as a crime scene. I guessed it was probably the latter, but, hey, Hollywood would try to score points where it could.