A First Date with Death

by Diana Orgain

  • • • • • • • • •

  Two champagne glasses were delicately laid out on a small butler’s tray that was covered in red velvet. The scent of jasmine coming from the surrounding gardens was intoxicating and I wished I were here in this romantic paradise under different circumstances.

  I stood before the champagne glasses and studied the bubbles floating up from the bottom and then popping when they reached the top. That was how I felt, I reflected. High at one moment and then my bubble bursting the next.

  Harris Carlson joined me by the poolside. He said nothing until Cheryl called, “Action,” then he said, “Well, Georgia. We’re almost to the finale date. Tonight you will be releasing one of your eligible bachelors.”

  “Or not so eligible,” I said.

  I knew there was still one man left on the show for love.

  What would happen if I released him today?

  The show would basically be over, wouldn’t it? I supposed Cheryl would make me continue—after all, there was still a prize to be won, even if I would be out of the running to win it.

  Scott, Paul, and Edward entered the courtyard, all looking stunning in their tuxes. They lined up in front of me. Scott’s eyes were full of mischief and he mouthed “olive juice” at me.

  Paul kept shooting Scott dirty looks and Edward appeared uncomfortable.

  I wondered about the dynamics between the men. Why did Paul have so much animosity toward Scott? Did he know Scott had lied to me?

  I held up a glass of champagne. “Paul,” I called.

  Surprise splashed across his face. “Yes?”

  I held the glass out to him. “Will you toast with me?”

  He advanced quickly, looking relieved and nervous at the same time. I felt awful to be giving him false hope. I wasn’t interested in a relationship with him at all, but I wasn’t sure if Aaron had been on the show for love or money.

  Paul accepted the glass of champagne from me.

  Harris Carlson stepped up. “Gentlemen, only one glass remains.”

  The cameraman panned tightly on Scott and Edward.

  I called out Scott’s name.

  He smiled, his shoulders dropping and a look of relief washing over his face. He came up to me and took a glass of champagne. “Thank you, Georgia.”

  Our hands touched as he took the glass from me and I fought the onslaught of butterflies in my stomach.

  Paul and Scott stepped aside.

  I lowered my eyes. “Edward, I’m sorry,” I said.

  He nodded. “I understand.”

  “I have to ask, were you in it for love or money?”

  He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up. “I was on the show for money, Georgia. I’m sorry. I needed to get a start on my medical school bills.”

  “No Great-Aunt Vivian?” I asked.

  He laughed. “Oh, I have a great-aunt Viv, but she’s poorer than dirt. Would have been happy to see me win the money.”

  “You’re a nice guy, Edward. I hope you find what you’re looking for,” I said.

  He smiled easily. “Well, in that case, I better get back to work. Good luck to you.”

  I looked back at Scott and Paul.

  I was going to need it.

  • • • • • • • • •

  Becca drove me back to my coach as I moped. It had been put back together by a few runners on the show, so it was tidy, but still strange. Knowing somebody’s gone through your underwear drawer without your permission always feels crummy.

  “Want to get some drinks?” Becca asked.

  “No, thanks. Sorry, but I’m beat and I feel . . .”

  “I know. It’s been a long day and tomorrow we have the finale,” Becca said.

  Relief wafted over me. After tomorrow I would be done with the show! Free to do whatever I wanted.

  And what exactly was that?

  “Who are you going to choose for the final date?” she asked. “Or do I even need to ask?” She wiggled her eyebrows at me and a part of me ached. I was dying to tell her that Scott had lied to me, but that would only compromise her position at work.

  “Who do you think I should ask?”

  “Duh, the sexy writer. You’re not thinking about Paul again, are you? I might have to bash your head in if you say yes.”

  I laughed. “Pfft. You couldn’t bash my head in if you tried.”

  Becca laughed with me, and then fluttered her manicured fingers in my face. “I wouldn’t want to break a nail. Anyway, since you’re not up for drinks, then I’ll have to call on a certain cowboy.”

  I smiled. “Is he still in town?”

  “Yeah. Tomorrow I finish on the set and then I get a little time off. We might go to Cancún.”

  “Really? I’m shocked! You barely know each other!” I said.

  Becca pushed open the door of the Prevost. “Look at you going all mother hen on me. Since when do you need to know someone to share a margarita on the beach?”

  “I’m sure that’s not all you’ll be sharing.”

  Becca feigned a surprised expression. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She giggled as she leapt out into the parking lot. “Lock your door, okay, G?”

  I leaned out into the parking lot and watched her get into her car. “I will. Stay out of trouble!”

  She yelled over her shoulder as she pulled out of the lot, “Don’t count on it.”

  After she drove away, I washed off the day’s makeup and slipped into a black top and sweatpants, waiting for night to fall. I wanted to run over to Dad’s hotel and ask him about the message, but it seemed too risky. Better to wait until the crew had tucked themselves in for the night. It wouldn’t do me any good to get caught cheating so late in the game.

  To kill time, I pulled out Scott’s book and curled up with it. The book began on a dark and stormy night.

  How quaint.

  The writing was tight, though, and I was immediately drawn into the story. A man haunted by demons, running for his life, then ending it prematurely by . . . I dropped the book suddenly as if bitten. The man in the story hung himself.

  Oh, God!

  What were the chances?

  I grabbed the book and scanned the rest of the page. A suicide note! Panic overwhelmed me as I read: “Your indifference to me has made all the difference. I’ve tried so hard to make you notice me, but your plans don’t include me.”

  What had Paul said, when I’d asked him about Pietro’s note? Something about indifference.

  Is it a coincidence?

  I grabbed my sneakers and frantically shoved my feet into them.

  I had to take my chances and get over to Dad’s. I put the book into my shoulder bag and left the Prevost, locking the door carefully and looking over my shoulder out of habit.

  A noise rang out across the parking lot. There was a border of shrubbery and it seemed to vibrate, as if someone were hiding in there.

  My heart began to hammer out of my chest.

  Someone was watching me, stalking me!

  Why?

  Waiting to get back into my Prevost coach for something?

  Maybe they hadn’t located whatever they were looking for the first time.

  Plan!

  I needed a plan. Retreating back into the Prevost was hopeless. I didn’t have a phone in there and, more important, no gun.

  Instead I took off in a mad dash toward a light post. The only thing on me that could conceivably be a weapon was my shoulder bag with Scott’s hardcover book.

  It’d have to do.

  I wrapped the strap around my right hand as I ran. With my eye on the shrub, I pivoted at the light. Nobody was chasing me.

  There was someone there in the shrubs, though. I had no doubt.

  Teresa?

  Whoever it was, I wasn’t ready to confront them. Never willingly go into a situation you can’t control; that was a mantra drummed into me at the police academy.

  Funny, I didn’t listen to that piece of advice when I
signed up for this godforsaken reality show.

  I raced out of the parking lot and down the street toward Dad’s hotel. There were a few couples on the street, who seemed peeved when I rushed past them, but at least no one slowed me down.

  The lobby of the hotel was empty, the clerk absent from the front desk. I sprinted toward the elevators but then took a detour into the stairwell instead. Better to have control than be caught standing still, waiting for an elevator. As I ran up the stairs, I pulled the key to Dad’s room out of my shoulder bag.

  Once on the third floor I raced toward his room and inserted the key, a vague thought squirming its way through my mind.

  God, I hope Dad’s alone!

  The door came open almost in an instant. It was dark inside and it took only a few seconds for my eyes to adjust. The light was on in the bathroom and Dad called out, “Peaches?”

  I stood in the dark in the main room and whispered, “It’s me, Dad. Sorry to barge in on you.”

  He exited the bathroom. He was still in his dress clothes but was holding a hand towel and looking freshly scrubbed. “What’s going on, honey?”

  He moved to turn on the lights in the main room. My hand shot out and blocked his. “No, Don’t. I’m being stalked. Let’s keep them off for now.”

  I crossed the room and peeked out the drapes toward the street. The street was quiet: a few couples strolling by and a group of women, sharply dressed, looking like they were enjoying a girls’ night out. I didn’t see Teresa skulking around and certainly no one else on the street looked suspicious.

  Dad stood next to me. He put a hand on my shoulder. “Georgia, you’re white as a ghost!”

  I stepped away from the window and out of the light. “Am I? I guess I’m spooked. I didn’t get a chance to tell you earlier today, but someone broke into my Prevost and ransacked it this morning.”

  “We have to call the police!” Dad said.

  “I did. They came to dust for prints. The only thing missing was the file Martinez gave me.” I sat on the edge of Dad’s bed. “Then when I got back tonight, I was reading Scott’s book—that’s a whole other story—anyway, I wanted to come here and see you and I saw someone hiding out in the bushes.”

  Dad crossed the room, his hand hovering over the light switch. “Is it okay for me to turn these on now?”

  “Yeah.”

  Dad flicked on the lights in the main room and sighed. “Well, who do you think is following you?”

  “I thought it could be Teresa Valens, since I know now that she’s been paroled.”

  Dad sat next to me on the bed. “I have a message from Lisa and Stinky for you.”

  I bolted upright. “Right! What’s the message?”

  “Stinky got a hold of the LAX records. He shows Florencia Diaz traveling from LAX to Puerto Vallarta.”

  I collapsed back onto the bed. “Seriously? She’s in Mexico?”

  “Yeah, you’ll love this part. There is a San Francisco in Mexico.”

  I moaned and buried my face in my hands. “I’m so stupid!”

  “Don’t say that!” Dad said, rubbing my arm. After a moment he asked, “So, if it isn’t Florencia—Teresa—that’s behind all this—”

  I sat up, chills running through my body. “I came here to call Lisa or Stinky. I found something in Scott’s book.”

  Dad scratched his chin. “What do you mean, you found something in his book? Like what?”

  I grabbed my shoulder bag and pulled out Scott’s novel. “There’s a death in here that’s very similar to Pietro’s. The guy in the book leaves a note, and LAPD said there was a note in my dressing room—”

  “Wait a minute.” Dad held up a hand. “You think the writer is behind Pietro’s death?”

  My stomach knotted and I felt like I wanted to retch. “I don’t know, Dad.”

  “And if he’s responsible for Pietro’s death, what about Aaron’s?”

  I cradled my head in my hands. “But how? He couldn’t do it, right? He was on the show the entire time . . . it has to be someone behind the scenes—”

  “Hold on,” Dad said. “Scott was one of the people on the set at the Golden Gate Bridge, right?”

  I nodded grimly.

  “He was on the set when Pietro hung himself . . . or was hung . . . or whatever, right?”

  “Yeah, but he couldn’t have gone to San Francisco to pull the plug on Aaron in the hospital.”

  “Do we even know that happened?” Dad asked.

  “It’s an assumption on my part,” I confessed. “I just thought Aaron was going to get better and figured someone was making sure that didn’t happen. But that’s when I suspected Florencia and now it looks like she wasn’t in San Francisco at the time.”

  Dad walked to the small fridge and pulled out two mini bottles of bourbon. “I hope you’re not making this a habit, Georgia.”

  “Making what a habit? Figuring out who the criminal is?”

  Dad laughed as he cracked the bottles open and poured the drinks into the hotel glasses. “No, I know that’s a habit.” He handed me a glass. “I meant drinking bourbon late at night.”

  I laughed, too. “You’re the enabler,” I said, sipping the amber liquid and feeling the warmth in my throat.

  I recalled Scott and Ty sneaking out of the house in L.A. to visit with Becca and me at the dive bar.

  “God, Dad, he did sneak out of the house one night. He came to see me when I was out with Becca.”

  Dad frowned. “So, if it was easy for him to sneak out once, he could sneak out again, to either zip up to San Francisco or ransack your trailer or even hide in the bushes tonight.”

  “Uh, I feel sick, Dad. I really liked him.”

  Dad wrapped a protective arm around my shoulder. “Honey, we can’t be sure of anything right now.”

  “I know. But I especially think I’m sick because I just got rid of Edward.”

  “What do you mean?” Dad asked.

  “Well, obviously I can’t pick Scott in the end. So that means I have to pick Paul.”

  Dad groaned.

  “At least if I’d kept Edward—”

  Dad finished his bourbon. “Well, let’s cross that bridge when we get to it.”

  I stared at him. “You’d rather I select someone at the end who I suspect of murder over Paul.”

  Dad shrugged. “We can’t try the guy right here and now. This is the United States of America. Everyone is innocent until proven guilty!”

  “Oh, my God. You do prefer me to end up with—”

  He held up a hand. “Now, honey, let’s not get carried away. Why don’t you call those cop friends of yours, Lisa and Dirty—”

  “Stinky.”

  “Right. See if they can shed a little more light on things.”

  Twenty-nine

  INT. LIBRARY DAY

  Scott is looking into the camera; his eyes are twinkling and he has a smirk on his face as if he’s in on some joke. His head is closely shaven and he’s in his early thirties, wearing a plaid shirt with a dark vest over it and jeans, looking like he’s slipped right off the cover of the latest fashion magazine.

  CHERYL (O.S.)

  Scott, can you tell us about yourself?

  SCOTT

  That’s a loaded question.

  CHERYL (O.S.)

  Would you rather not?

  SCOTT

  (shrugs) What do you want to know?

  CHERYL (O.S.)

  The answer to the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.

  SCOTT

  (smiling) I’m a Leo.

  CHERYL (O.S.)

  Love or money, Scott?

  SCOTT

  Ah. Money is so easy to come by these days, isn’t it? Have an idea, like building a smartphone or tablet, or hell, just create a website where people can share their pet photos, and bingo—you’re a billionaire. But love? That’s a little more complicated, right?

  • • • • • • • • •

  The San Juan Bautista Mission was b
reathtaking. There were five historic buildings facing the center of an original Spanish-style plaza. The plaza was an immaculate grassy square and the adobe mission buildings seemed to glow against it.

  Cheryl had requested the crew set up a tent for us along the northern side of the plaza where the chapel was. One tent had craft services and the other was for hair and makeup.

  Kyle was present, putting the finishing touches on my “look.”

  “We have to take it up a notch, doll face,” he said. “We’re getting to the finale and I want you to look fabulous!”

  He pulled out a ridiculous iridescent violet halter top that was covered in sequins. “Voilà!”

  “What is that? You’re going to make me look like one of the jellyfish from the—”

  Kyle screamed out in shock. “Stop it! You’re not going to look like a jellyfish! You’re going to look hot!”

  “But I’m not hot. It’s forty degrees out, Kyle.”

  “I mean sexy, girl.”

  “The fog is rolling in, big time. I’m not going to look sexy in that; I’m going to look like an idiot. Give me a parka!”

  Kyle prickled like a cat who’d just sniffed an electrical socket. “I’m not giving you a parka. Further, I secured a permit for these!” From one of his varied and multiple what I now considered “magician” bags he pulled out a pair of sequined stilettos.

  I screamed.

  A wicked and cunning laugh that chilled me to the bone escaped his lips.

  “I’m sorry for tackling Ophelia, okay? Didn’t I already say that? If I didn’t, please let me say it again.” I grabbed at his arm. “I’m so sorry, Kyle.”

  He remained stoic.

  “Please don’t make me wear the stilettos. I have blisters.”

  He waved a hand. “Pfft, what’s a few blisters? Want me to call you a wambulance?”

  Cheryl came over, a sour look on her face. “What’s taking so long? The fog’s going to whip us to kingdom come if we don’t hurry up.” She took me in. “Great top. Love it. Get the shoes on and move it!”

  Kyle gave another evil laugh. “I’m going to craft services now to stuff my face.”

  “Good, I hope you choke,” I called out after him.

  He looked over his shoulder and smiled at me, wagging a finger. “Careful, honey, we still have the finale and things could get a lot worse!”