Death in Advertising
Page 23
If looks could kill . . .
He rolled his eyes upward and then frantically wiped his tongue with the sleeve of his cable-knit sweater. “Ugh, how on earth can you eat this stuff?”
“Same way you just did, my friend. One yummy spoonful at a time.” I winked and popped some Puffs into my mouth. I knew I was being ornery, but I couldn’t help myself. Let’s face it, I’d endured more pontificating about my eating habits from this man than I could possibly recall. So, this was, in a way, sweet justice. Comeuppance at its finest.
“My mind was compromised.” Carter released a long, slow sigh and wiped his tongue one more time. “I swear, Sunshine, that woman will be the death of me yet. Mark my words.”
I took the bowl from his shaking hand and set it on the end table to my right. It never ceased to amaze me how fast the sugar rush hit the chocolate virgins. Especially the stressed ones.
“What’d Ms. Princess do this time?”
“In the interest of time, it might be better if I tell you what she didn’t do.” Carter pushed off the couch and wandered over to the window.
“C’mon, Carter. What’s the deal with Fiona?”
He let the curtain slip through his fingers and I scooted over on the sofa to make room as he dropped his wiry body down with a thud. “I told you we just started casting for Rapunzel, right?”
“Yup.”
Carter stretched his feet out and propped them on my new-to-me coffee table. “I like this table by the way. Nice lines.”
“Impressive topic shift, but it’s not gonna fly.” I bent my legs at the knee and pulled them under me, hugging a throw pillow to my chest. “So . . . Ra-pun-zel?”
He stuck his tongue out at me and rolled his eyes. “Okay. So, of course, Old Man Renoir wants the lead to go to his amazingly talented niece.”
Did I sense a defrosting in Carter’s opinion of his one-and-only nemesis? “Correct me if I’m wrong, but did you just call Fiona amazingly talented?” I asked for clarification purposes.
“Renoir’s words, not mine. I’d choose something more, oh, I don’t know—fitting. Like world-class troublemaker or irritant extraordinaire.”
So much for defrosting.
“I take it you’d rather she didn’t get the part?” I giggled as he touched his index finger to his nose and then continued on.
“This is Rapunzel, Sunshine. Fiona’s hair barely touches her collar. And she won’t even consider hair extensions.” He stopped, inhaled sharply, and then threw his head back against the couch. “She wants to wear a wig.”
Carter’s unexpected tumble off the broccoli wagon was suddenly crystal clear. If anything, I was stunned it had stopped at Cocoa Puffs. This little development could have landed him at the checkout counter of Death by Chocolate on North Euclid.
“A wig? Does she not realize what you do?”
“Oh she realizes it. She just gets her jollies out of pushing my buttons. Has since the day her precious uncle Frank introduced us. Probably because my greeting lacked a bow and the obligatory peck on her hand.”
It’s true. Carter is hands-down the nicest, sweetest, most genuine guy I’d ever met. But he doesn’t kiss up to anyone. Ever. He speaks with his heart 24-7 and doesn’t give a hoot who you are or what you do for a living.
“Are you going to let her use a wig? I mean, isn’t the whole hair thing why you’re there in the first place?”
He pulled his legs off the table and sat ramrod straight. “Exactly! And I was salivating at the idea of doing this show. Think about it—the extensions, mixing up just the right shade of golden blonde. Oh my God, it was going to be so awesome.”
It was hard not to notice the way his wistful tone morphed into anger as he continued, his voice growing deeper and more wooden with each subsequent word. “But now, I’m not sure I’ll even have a job come Monday morning, thanks to Princess Fiona.”
I’d never seen Carter quite like this before. Sure, he was theatrical, it was part of his shtick. But there’s a difference between being theatrical and being a drama queen, and Carter was suddenly blurring the line.
“C’mon, Carter. Just because she doesn’t want you to do her hair doesn’t mean you’re going to lose your job. You know that.” I tugged at a loose thread on my throw pillow and waited for him to come to his senses.
“You might’ve been right, Sunshine, if I hadn’t let her bait me into a fight. With her uncle standing less than ten feet behind me.”
Uh-oh.
“You didn’t know he was there?” I asked, though why I’m not quite sure. The answer was obvious, wasn’t it? Carter had, after all, resorted to chocolate.
“Nope. Not a clue. But Fiona did. I’m positive of that.” Carter pushed off the sofa and wandered around my living room, stopping from time to time to look at a few framed photographs he’d seen a million times over the past two years.
“But you just disagreed with her on the hair stuff, right?”
Carter snickered. “Disagreed? Oh no. Let’s just say I kinda unleashed the past six months of Fiona-inspired frustration. And once I started, I couldn’t stop.”
I gulped. “How bad did it get?”
“Depends on what you call bad.” Carter stopped at my draft table and picked up a sheet of long white paper with colorful block letters across the top and rough sketches in a series of hand-drawn boxes along the bottom.
“Try me.” I tossed the throw pillow onto Carter’s empty spot and stood. I’d spent the better part of the day working on my campaign ideas for Pizza Adventure but wasn’t necessarily ready to share them with anyone yet. Even Carter, my biggest fan of all.
“Well, let’s see—I told her how sick I was of her temper-tantrums during rehearsals, her constant screaming at the lighting guys, her Gestapo-like tactics when it comes to making sure no one even so much as thinks about eating something with peanuts anywhere in the building lest she break out in hives or whatever the hell happens to her, and, of course, her blatant hogging of the press anytime the theater gets coverage.”
My mouth dropped open.
“Wait.” He held up his hand, crossing-guard style. “Trust me, Sunshine. It gets better.”
“There’s more?” I asked.
Carter nodded. “I called her a spoiled brat with no chance in hell of ever making it as an actress.”
Ouch. Okay, so maybe the notion of a new job wasn’t so drama-queenish after all. What to say . . . what to say . . .
Carter continued with a sigh. “Let’s face it—Fiona’s not going anywhere. Not until she lands a real acting gig. And unless the little princess has a yet-to-be-discovered uncle living in Hollywood or happens to stumble across a role that doesn’t require a whole lot of depth or ability, I’m toast at the theater house.” Carter shuffled over to the four-by-four-foot square of linoleum that denoted my entry foyer and grabbed his navy blue parka from its perch on the door knob.
An acting gig . . . A role that doesn’t require a whole lot of depth . . .
And then it hit me. Maybe I could get Fiona a job—the kind of job that would make Carter look like a hero and save his sanity at the same time. Sure, there’d be a few kinks to work out (like rescinding a semi-promise to someone) but if I could pull this off it might—
“I think it’s time I face facts, Tobi,” Carter said, his voice strained and tired as he slipped his arms into his coat and zipped it to his neck, his eyes meeting mine for the first time since he walked through my door an hour earlier. “A premature curtain call is about the only way I’ll ever be rid of Fiona Renoir.”
Photo credit: Carrie Schechter Studios
As a child, Laura Bradford fell in love with writing over a stack of blank paper, a box of crayons, and a freshly sharpened # 2 pencil. From that moment forward, she never wanted to do or be anything else. Today, Laura is the national bestselling author of several mystery series, including the Tobi Tobias Mystery Series, the Emergency Dessert Squad Mysteries, and the Amish Mysteries. She is a former Agatha Award nomine
e, and the recipient of an RT Reviewer’s Choice Award in romance. A graduate of Xavier University in Cincinnati, Ohio, Laura enjoys making memories with her family, baking, and being an advocate for those living with Multiple Sclerosis.
Visit her at www.laurabradford.com or on Facebook.