Fan Mail

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  “Go on,” I said.

  “Also, a few weeks ago, I wondered whether someone was following me.”

  “You didn’t mention it when we met for lunch the other day.”

  “And sound like a nutcase? As if.”

  Candace peeked over my shoulder, trying to read the note. “Miss Morning, I think the word glory is a play on your name.”

  “I thought the same thing.” Gloria began her thumb chewing routine again.

  I felt for her. Being the target of this kind of campaign could be unsettling. “The sheriff’s team is interrogating anyone related to Tony Vittorio as well as Dr. Fisher. Relatives, employees, you name it. I’ll tell Nick about the letters you’ve received.” Before leaving the house this morning, I’d phoned him but hadn’t reached him, so I’d left a brief message, sans details. “In the meantime, I’d like to meet your coworkers.”

  “Why?”

  “If the author of the note has a crush on you, it could be someone you know. I’ll also need to meet your fiancé and your neighbors.”

  “Beau works here. He’s the director of the show.”

  How did I not know that?

  Gloria took the letter from me. “Tell me honestly. Do you think this guy, this fan, killed Tony Vittorio and Kristin Fisher?”

  “A woman could have written them,” I stated.

  “A woman? No. Uh-uh.” Gloria began to gnaw her lower lip. “You don’t think I faked these, do you? Please tell me you don’t.” There was no guile in her doe-shaped eyes. Only fear. And exhaustion.

  “I was thinking your producer might have.”

  “Ha! Camille wouldn’t take the time.”

  “Who is on-site right now?” I asked.

  “Everybody from this morning’s taping is around, except Vaughn.”

  “What happened between you two?”

  “I stepped on one of his lines on the morning segment. He said I did it on purpose. He’s such a Neanderthal.” She glanced at her watch. “FYI, I’ve got a ‘This Is Your Tahoe’ segment scheduled at two. I’m interviewing a casino owner.”

  “Then let’s get cracking.”

  Gloria set the envelopes aside, grabbed a tissue, and wiped mascara from under her eyes. “Follow me.”

  Chapter 9

  The soundstage was huge. It not only housed office cubicles, but it boasted three distinctly different sets. One, a living room–type set, was fitted with a royal blue couch, floral winged-back armchairs, and potted silk plants. A mural of a sunny day at Lake Tahoe adorned the set’s wall. On the center set stood a blue lacquer news desk and a pair of hard-backed chairs. The logo for KINC was written in white across a blue tweed wall. Multiple mini-televisions were latched to a metal rod on the left. Beyond the array of TVs, a gigantic white screen hung from the rafters. The rightmost set was decorated like a library, with bookcases and rattan furniture and beautiful pictures of Emerald Bay, the jewel of the lake.

  “Wish I had a sweater,” I said as we moved deeper into the area. Gel-covered lights glowed overhead, but none offered warmth.

  “The temperature in here can freeze an Eskimo,” Gloria said. “Want me to send someone to fetch one from my dressing room?”

  “No, I’ll survive.”

  Candace threw on her zippered hoodie and wrapped her arms around her torso. She peered overhead and gasped. I followed her gaze. Teetering on one of the catwalks was an older man with winter-white hair. He was adjusting a pair of spotlights.

  “That looks dangerous,” Candace whispered to me.

  “Don’t worry. I’m sure he’s done it for years.”

  A woman in overalls with a tool belt slung around her hips passed by us whistling the show’s theme music. I admired her dedication.

  “Gloria, you’re on in thirty,” a voice announced through a speaker.

  Gloria said, “Aspen, Candace, follow me. I’ve got to review the questions for my guest, but I can introduce you to a few people before I do.” She climbed onto the living room set.

  Candace followed her. “What kind of questions?”

  “Good ones.” Gloria grabbed a notepad that was sitting on one of the wing-backed chairs. Already she seemed more relaxed, as if telling me about her fear had eased the strain. She made a beeline toward a glass-enclosed booth that held bays of audio equipment.

  Outside the booth sat two men on director chairs. The one with salt-and-pepper hair reminded me of a scruffy middle-aged pirate, home after a four-month journey; the younger man resembled a choirboy dressed in his Sunday best.

  “Hello, Rick,” Gloria said.

  The choirboy stood, nodded politely to us, and quickly retreated to the other side of the room.

  “Rick Tamblyn is shy,” Gloria said. “He’s our new broadcast technician and audio engineer. Signed on in May.” She addressed the pirate. “And this is Tom Regent. Tom, this is Aspen Adams and her niece, Candace.”

  Tom stood. His chair was marked with his name. “Pleased to meet you.” His jeans were tattered and his T-shirt stained. He sported a pack of cigarettes in the rolled-up cuff of his sleeve. His powerful arm muscles flexed as he extended a hand toward me. We shook. He didn’t back off on his grip.

  “Aspen is an old friend.” Gloria smiled warmly. “She’s a journalist, and she’s doing a piece on, um, television stations.”

  Candace said, “No, she’s—”

  Gloria bumped Candace’s arm to silence her.

  I shot Gloria a look. I knew she was worried about her job and concerned that news about the notes she’d received might jeopardize it, but lying about my profession was unnecessary. On the other hand, who was I to judge? I’d made up plenty of alternative biographies in order to serve subpoenas.

  “Get you ladies a drink?” Tom asked.

  I eyed the coffee mug in his left hand. He hadn’t disguised the vodka very well. During my teen years, without realizing it at the time, I’d lived the life of a detective out of self-preservation because I’d needed to stay aware of when my older sister was high so I could avoid her frightening mood swings.

  “No, thanks,” I said.

  “What do you do here, Tom?” Candace asked.

  “I’m a cameraman.”

  “I love photography.”

  “Tom is the best in the biz,” Gloria said. “He makes me look good.”

  “Doesn’t take much.” He winked and elbowed my friend, his devotion to Gloria as obvious as his alcohol-laced breath. How long had he been in love with her? More importantly, would he kill somebody to protect her, even if there were no threat?

  “How long have you worked at KINC?” I asked.

  “Since the beginning. Me and Camille go way back.”

  “How far is way back?”

  Tom chuckled low and slow. “Camille and me, we gave massages at a ritzy place in Reno, and then the Hyatt in Incline, and then we bought our own spa, and then”—he let the word hang—“about seven years ago, she invested heavily in the stock market and made a killing. That’s when we talked about putting this setup together. We both love the news. I’m the brawn. She’s the brains and the money.”

  Gloria said, “Camille lives on Lakeshore Boulevard.”

  I whistled. Lakeshore Boulevard in Incline Village was expensive real estate.

  To Tom, I said, “How long ago did you and Camille break up, if you don’t mind my being nosy?”

  Tom pursed his lips. “How did you know we were an item?”

  “I’m paid to be on the ball.”

  Gloria regarded me with respect. Obviously, she had been in the dark about Tom and Camille’s former relationship.

  “We broke up a few years ago. Amicably.”

  “Of course amicably,” Gloria said. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t be working here.”

  “The boss and me, we never lived together. She said she liked separate places. Said we had a sort of Tracy/Hepburn kind of relationship. Truth? We fought like cats and dogs. If we’d have lived together, we would’ve killed each other.”


  I winced at his choice of words. Gloria did, too.

  “Now that we’re working here, with no, you know”—he glanced at Candace; I got his drift, no hanky-panky—“things are good between us.”

  Who had ended the affair? Tom or Camille? Could Camille be carrying a torch for the guy? Did their previous relationship influence Gloria’s current situation? Perhaps Tom was trying to make Camille jealous by flirting with Gloria. Even so, I didn’t see how killing Tony Vittorio or Kristin Fisher fit the scenario.

  Tom said, “Gloria, Finn Ambrose will be here in a few minutes. You ready?”

  “Sure am.”

  “I’ve got to prepare.” Tom grabbed his cup of coffee. “Nice meeting you, Aspen. Candace.” He strolled away.

  Gloria said, “Mr. Ambrose just opened a casino in South Lake Tahoe. Ambrose Alley. It’s ritzy and top-notch with twice as many gaming tables as all the other casinos. We tried to tape the interview in May, but all our equipment blitzed in an electrical storm.”

  Because of the surrounding ring of mountains and intense heat, huge tempests could crop up around the lake. Hair-raising cracks of lightning, rumbles of thunder, and phenomenal white-capped waves were part and parcel of a spectacular storm.

  Gloria turned to Candace. “Hon, you want something to eat? There’s a table over there packed with food.”

  I put my hand at the small of my niece’s back and nudged her.

  Candace didn’t budge. “No, thanks, I’m not hungry.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “C’mon, Aspen, I ate breakfast,” she said tartly.

  Her teenage patience only had so much elastic. She wanted autonomy. Her therapist had warned her that I might hover for years. I did my best not to crowd her, but no matter how much she blossomed and no matter how much her skin tone improved and the luster of her hair returned, I worried that her battle with food would recur.

  “Can I see what Tom’s doing?” Candace asked.

  Tom was supervising the angling of lights across the room.

  “Sure,” I said, “but don’t get in his way.”

  Candace hurried off.

  “Does Tom often drink during the day?” I asked Gloria.

  “Always, but he’s never missed work. Actually, he’s the most reliable guy here. What I call a functioning alcoholic.”

  “He’s got a major crush on you.”

  “So do some of the other guys. You’d think they’d never seen a pretty woman.” Gloria brushed a stray hair off her face. “Tom’s a rare bird. Keeps super busy so he won’t drink more than he can handle. He’s a dedicated reader, too. He peruses magazines all the time. There are a dozen in that book bag hanging on his chair.”

  And probably a flask of vodka, I mused.

  I watched as Tom showed Candace how to set up the camera. She climbed onto the stage and held his light meter, acting like a carefree kid on a field trip.

  “On weekends, he’s a spelunker,” Gloria continued. “He never drinks when he’s exploring caves. Caving, he says, helps sweat out the poisons.”

  “I visited a few caves near Squaw Valley when I was a teenager. There were old Indian etchings in some of them. Most had bats.”

  “Yeah, Tom told me there’s some rare varieties of bats in the caves near Mt. Rose. Bloodsucking kinds.” Gloria shuddered. “You won’t convince me to go spelunking. We had bats in my grandma’s attic. One time they nested in my hair. I’ll never forget—” She shuddered and then waved to someone behind me. “Hey, Beau, come here.” To me, she said, “That’s my fiancé.”

  Standing in the opened doorway leading to the lobby was a striking man, the glow from the lobby’s bright lights outlining his stalwart form. A hank of straw-colored hair hung into energized eyes. With determined strides he made his way toward Gloria. From the way he strutted, it was obvious he considered himself more man than any woman could hope for.

  He grabbed Gloria in a bear hug and kissed her firmly on the cheek. “Hiya, babe.”

  “Ouch, you jerk, get away.” Gloria pushed him back. “What in the heck are you wearing?”

  “Jeans.”

  Almost painted on.

  “Very funny. I mean this.” Gloria tugged a silver tooled button on his brown-and-white horsehair vest.

  “It’s a gift from my sis.”

  “She has no taste.”

  Beau kissed her again. “That’s what she says about you. Who’s your friend?” The guy’s teeth were as white as Bermuda sand.

  Gloria radiated devotion. “Beau, I’d like you to meet Aspen Adams. Aspen, Beau Flacks.”

  How apropos. His name sounded like a weightlifting machine.

  “Pleasure,” Beau said, a twinkle in his gaze.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Tom glaring in our direction. Jealousy knew no bounds.

  “Aspen is, um, a journalist,” Gloria said. “She’s doing a piece on television stations, so she’s going to be asking some questions around the place.”

  Beau regarded her warily. “Uh-uh, you’re lying.” He slung an arm around her shoulders. “What’s really going on?”

  “Whatever do you mean?” Gloria batted her eyelashes, but she couldn’t keep up the ruse under his steady gaze. “Okay,” she said, “I’ll tell you, but you’ve got to keep this between us. Aspen is a private investigator. I hired her because I received a couple of nasty fan letters. She’s here to do some digging.” She pecked his cheek. “Don’t let on to Camille, okay? I don’t need to deal with her grief.”

  “Aspen, excuse Gloria and me for a minute, will you?” Beau led her away.

  When they were about ten paces from me, Beau said something and motioned in Tom’s direction. He wasn’t happy. Reading lips, I could see Gloria say I’m sorry and Relax, and then she kissed him passionately. Appeased for the moment, Beau rolled his neck to loosen the knots and shook out his shoulders. He ushered Gloria back to me.

  “Gloria!” a sharp-edged woman shouted. She clip-clopped across the floor in four-inch high heels, her chic pencil skirt squeezing the spa-honed flesh above her knees.

  “That’s my producer,” Gloria said.

  Camille St. John possessed the kind of cheekbones a jeweler could cut diamonds on. Her eyes, heavy on ice-blue makeup, were probing. In a sinewy hand that had massaged who knew how many bodies, Camille was carrying an envelope. She thrust it at Gloria. “More fan mail for you.”

  Gloria’s body tensed. She didn’t take the envelope. “Who’s it from?”

  “Does it appear to be opened? No, it does not. The girl with the spiky purple hair delivered it.” Camille forced it into Gloria’s hands and crossed her arms, which were a perfect bronze without a blotch of imperfection. Hard to maintain in middle age. “Is the script for the interview ready on the teleprompter?” Camille asked Beau.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Don’t ma’am me, bozo.” Camille turned to me. “Who are you?”

  “Aspen Adams.” I offered a warm smile. “I’m a friend of Gloria’s. I’m a journalist doing a piece on television stations.”

  Camille cut a look at Gloria. “Did I know about this?”

  “I cleared it with you weeks ago,” Gloria stated. Man, she was quick on her feet.

  “Fine.” Camille fingered her short white-blonde hair. A barbed wire tattoo encircled her left wrist. Interesting. My sister had the same, inked on after serving six months in jail. “Finn Ambrose is in the green room,” Camille went on. “He’s been to makeup already, not that he required any. He’s such a handsome man. Go. Now.”

  “On it.” Gloria kissed Beau on the cheek and scurried away. “Aspen, follow me.”

  As we passed her dressing room, she stepped inside and tossed the letter onto her dressing table.

  “Aren’t you going to open it?” I asked.

  Chapter 10

  “I’m scared. If it’s bad . . .” Gloria flapped a hand. “I don’t want to mess up this interview. Afterward, okay?” Before I could argue with her, she said, “Fo
llow me,” and hurried from the room. She stopped in front of a door marked Green Room and knocked. “Mr. Ambrose, we’re ready for you.”

  A man in his fifties with steel gray hair opened the door. He wore a gray linen suit and a plum silk shirt, unbuttoned two buttons, no tie. His skin was a warm brown. Tanning booth or natural, I couldn’t quite tell. He clenched a toothpick between his teeth. “Miss Morning, what a pleasure to see you.” He tossed the toothpick into a nearby garbage can, licked his dentist-bleached teeth, and clasped Gloria’s hand.

  Gloria blushed, a coquettish reaction I hadn’t expected from someone who had earned a bachelor’s degree in sociology and a master’s in political science at Stanford University. “I’m so sorry we had to cancel our first session. The darned storm—”

  “No problem.” Ambrose straightened the three strands of gold chains around his neck with manicured fingers.

  “Are you ready?”

  “Let me get my son.” He yelled into the green room, “Tripp, let’s go.”

  A brown-haired, feebler version of Finn Ambrose exited the room. Like his father, he wore a linen suit, but he was underweight and his freckled skin was pasty. Had he been confined indoors for a long stint?

  “Tripp, this is Gloria Morning. Miss Morning, my son, Tripp.”

  Gloria said, “We’ve met. So nice to see you again. If I recall, you’re into American history.”

  “Ye-es.” The young man stuttered ever so slightly. “And art. I make lamps.” He seemed transfixed by Gloria. I wasn’t surprised. The effect she had on men, both young and old, was astonishing.

  “Follow me,” she said, neglecting to introduce me. I understood the oversight. She was engrossed in her role as hostess.

  I trailed them across the soundstage to the library set. Camille asked Finn Ambrose to take a seat in one of the wing-backed chairs so she and Gloria could go over the schedule with him for the interview. Finn Ambrose asked her to give him a moment. His cell phone was buzzing. He had to take the call. She directed him to her office cubicle and suggested Tripp get something to eat.