Holiday Grind

by Cleo Coyle

  Before I could express surprise, a spotlight appeared in the center of the main stage. The beam illuminated a man and woman perched side by side on tall stools. Both were surrounded by a bevy of assistants, several cameras, and a pair of teleprompters. I didn’t recognize the renowned man-and-wife counselors until excited chatter, then a smattering of applause, broke out around me.

  “I love you, Dr. Chaz!” a lone woman’s voice cried out from the middle of the studio audience.

  “I love you, too!” he replied.

  Laughter—mostly female—followed.

  While a technician slipped a tiny microphone under his tie, Dr. Chaz continued grinning and returning waves from various women. Tall and fit, he exuded an easy, boyish charm. Adding an air of sagelike distinction to his appearance, the handsome face was crowned with thick waves of prematurely white hair.

  In contrast, Therapist Phyllis was a short, slender brunette with a cropped, no-nonsense ’do. Unlike her effusive husband, she completely ignored the audience during the last-minute stage prep. Oblivious to the female adoration her husband was garnering, she remained deep in conversation with a leanly built man visible only in silhouette.

  Finally, from a glassed-in control booth, the director ordered the stage cleared. That shadowy figure Phyllis Chatsworth had been speaking with gave her arm an affectionate squeeze. Then the man stepped into the glare of the spotlight.

  It was James Young, looking very much like his ID photograph.

  A minute later, the show’s upbeat theme song began to play. The digital prompters ordered APPLAUSE! and the audience complied.

  Then came the announcer’s voice: “Husband-and-wife relationship therapists for two decades, Dr. Chaz Chatsworth and Therapist Phyllis will guide you through the pitfalls and pleasures of love, romance, and marriage. And now, the most understanding, compassionate, and insightful couple on television . . .”

  The spotlight reappeared in time to catch the couple casually smooching. Then Dr. Chaz and Phyllis pretended to look guilty at being caught in a kiss. They clasped their hands above their heads, jumped off their stools, and faced the audience.

  “Bills! Gift lists! Company parties! Prickly family members! Pricklier in-laws! Are you feeling the pressure to create the ‘perfect’ Christmas, Chanukah, or Kwanzaa?” Dr. Chaz asked.

  Phyllis stepped forward. “If all this holiday tension is ruining your marriage or romantic relationship, stick around. Today we’ll deal with holiday stress, and ask the question, can love survive it?”

  “Our ‘Chatsworth Survival Guide’ may just keep this holiday season from ending in divorce,” Dr. Chaz added, “or worse . . .”

  “Worse?” I muttered. “What’s worse? Homicide?”

  Madame chuckled. “It’s The Chatsworth Way, dear, not Nancy Grace.”

  The monitor blinked: APPLAUSE!

  Almost immediately, the show segued into its slick B-roll, showing couples arguing at holiday parties or on shopping trips. Quoting a list of statistics, Dr. Chaz and Phyllis discussed the dangers of high “perfect holiday” expectations versus disillusioning realities. They cited the troubles that come from reuniting dysfunctional families or attempting to work out fair visitation in divorced ones. They spoke about dealing with disapproving in-laws and demanding grandparents, while keeping your sex life from slipping into a coma. By the time the opening segment ended, the audience could come to only one conclusion—

  The holidays are hazardous to your mental health!

  “Time for a break,” Dr. Chaz finally said. “When we come back, we’re going to meet two couples. One husband and wife who learned how to cope with the season’s stress—”

  “And another couple that didn’t,” Phyllis said, exaggerating a frown.

  Then the pair turned their backs on the audience, lovingly clasped hands, and strolled back to their seats while the stage faded to black. After the cameras cut away, the stage crew appeared to carry in stools for the day’s guests.

  Dr. Chaz and Phyllis remained in their chairs, and I noticed that the kissy-kissy couple was far less cordial when the cameras weren’t rolling. At one point, Phyllis, script in hand, swept aside her husband’s assistant to point out what she obviously felt was a glaring error in the next segment. I regretted that their microphones were off, because the animated argument went on for nearly thirty seconds.

  James Young’s arrival put an end to it. The lanky African-American executive producer seemed to be a calming presence on the set. After a few minutes in a heads-together conference, Young made changes that both of his media darlings could live with. Then the exec producer was off again when a technician alerted him to a problem backstage.

  The taping resumed and the audience was introduced to an onstage couple whose last holiday season could best be described as a model train wreck.

  Sobbing, a thirtysomething blonde identified only as “Tracy from Memphis” described her “worst Christmas ever,” which took place last year.

  “It was a week before Christmas when I found out the truth, Dr. Chaz. I arrived late to my husband’s office party to find Todd and a coworker doing the nasty under the Rudolph the Reindeer display in the company break room!”

  Members of the audience gasped.

  Dr. Chaz nodded knowingly. “And how did that make you feel, Tracy?”

  “Angry!”

  The audience began to mumble unhappily. Sitting beside his estranged wife, Todd shifted in his seat and worriedly eyeballed the disapproving (mostly female) audience.

  “So, Todd, tell me. What the heck were you thinking?”

  Todd’s shrug was sheepish. Then he glanced at the sea of frowning females and cleared his throat. “I guess I was hurt, Dr. Chaz. Really, really hurt.”

  The crowd around us began to mumble again. They seemed less angry now and leaned forward with interest.

  “Hurt, Todd? Why?” said Dr. Chaz, feigning extreme curiosity. “Who hurt you?”

  “My wife.”

  Now the women in the audience began whispering. Todd began to act reluctant to speak, as if this were very hard for him to do. At the doctor’s slightest urging, however, he cut loose.

  “I was hurt by my wife when she ran up our credit cards buying gifts we couldn’t afford for a ridiculously long list of family members and friends.” He shook his head. “I felt our kids’ futures were at stake, you know? That’s how I felt about it. Can you blame me?”

  “I see. Anything else?” Dr. Chaz prompted.

  “Yes! I was hurt that my wife couldn’t find the time between decorating the tree and stuffing the stockings to pay attention to my needs!”

  “Sounds like you both made some mistakes,” Dr. Chaz said, nodding sagely.

  In the second half of the program, Therapist Phyllis took over the questioning. Ironically the story of “Mona and Bill from Columbus,” aka the happy, functional couple, was far less interesting to the audience.

  “Sad but true,” Madame remarked to me. “Train wrecks make front page news, not on-time arrivals.”

  The final segment was a regular feature called “People Are Still Having Sex,” where both Dr. Chaz and Phyllis advised couples to keep romance alive during stressful times. “It’s important you find those little pockets of intimacy with your lover, especially during this crazy, hectic season.”

  Film footage rolled, showing couples kissing beside a Christmas tree, embracing on a winter sleigh ride, exchanging perfectly wrapped gifts in bed.

  “Mistletoe and music,” Therapist Phyllis suggested.

  “Candy canes by candlelight,” added Dr. Chaz.

  By the time the springy closing theme filled the studio and the hosts waved us all good-bye, the audience had swallowed enough soma to jump to their feet in teleprompted APPLAUSE!

  As the music died, the exit doors opened and the crowd filed out. Madame and I gathered our things and approached an usher.

  “Excuse me,” Madame said. “My daughter-in-law and I have a backstage pass. I wonder
if—”

  “Oh, you need to see Heidi,” he said, gesturing to a slender, ice blonde in a tightly fitting gray business suit. “Heidi Gilcrest.”

  The woman took tiny steps, her high heels clicking like castanets as she hurried from the opposite end of the studio to greet us. “Well, hello!” Heidi’s eyes went nearly as wide as her pearly grin. “Mr. Dewberry told us to expect you, Ms. Dubois. Isn’t he a wonderful man? And those dogs of his are just scrumptious. Follow me and I’ll show you the place.”

  The long-limbed dynamo led us through a maze of cables, curtains, and equipment. She paused patiently at a metal fire door, waiting for us to catch up.

  “Here we go,” she finally said, pushing through to a long, carpeted hallway. “Back here we have our dressing rooms and offices.” She pointed to a line of mostly closed doors along the hallway. “If you’ll wait right here, I’ll see if—”

  Right beside me, a door with a silver star on it suddenly jerked open and Phyllis Chatsworth charged out.

  “Watch out,” she said, nearly knocking me over.

  “Oh, Mrs. Chatsworth!” Heidi exclaimed. “I’d like you to meet two dear friends of Mr. Dewberry’s. This is Ms. Dubois and—”

  Ignoring us completely, Phyllis Chatsworth addressed Heidi. “Did Simon get my e-mail about the bottled water?”

  Heidi’s head bobbed. “I’m sure he did, Mrs. Chatsworth. I printed it out as a reminder and put it on his desk myself.”

  “Well, there isn’t any water in my dressing room! The refrigerator’s empty, Heidi. Empty! And it’s been that way since before the taping started.”

  “I’ll find out what happened—”

  “I love the way you make sure my husband’s snacks are delivered like clockwork, but I have to wait for a few lousy bottles of water.”

  “I assure you, Mrs. Chatsworth, I want to make you happy—”

  “Then you tell Simon to straighten it out. Now. And while you’re at it, tell maintenance the overhead light in my bathroom has died. I don’t care if one of these guild bums has to work overtime for once. I want the light fixed today!”

  Before the statuesque assistant could play doormat again, her “understanding, compassionate, and insightful” therapist boss slammed the door in our faces.

  SIXTEEN

  MADAME and I squirmed during Phyllis Chatsworth’s cranky fit, but the nasty tone of the confrontation didn’t appear to dampen Heidi Gilcrest’s enthusiasm one iota.

  “You can see how busy things get around here!” she chirped, lifting the receiver on a wall phone. “Let me buzz Simon, then we’ll continue our tour.”

  A moment later another door with a star on it opened.

  “What’s Phyl griping about now?” the male half of the Chatsworth duo garbled around a mouth stuffed with food. Then he noticed us and froze.

  I have to admit, Dr. Chaz was even more striking up close. Still armed with easy charm and a ready smile, he also possessed a kind of natural elegance that even a pair of snack-stuffed chipmunk cheeks failed to diminish.

  Stuck on the phone, Heidi mimed an apology to the doctor for not introducing us. Finding the situation amusing, Dr. Chaz crunched and crunched and finally swallowed his potato chips.

  “Sorry about the food,” he said with a sheepish laugh. “I’m always ravenous after a taping. It’s the intensity of the show, I guess. Would you like one?”

  Dr. Chaz offered the bag to Madame first.

  “No thank you, Doctor. I prefer pommes frites!”

  The doctor chuckled warmly at that. After I also declined the snack, he tossed the half-empty bag back into his dressing room and wiped his hands with a handkerchief, winking at us to dispel any awkwardness.

  Madame introduced herself, then me, adding, “I enjoyed your show today, Doctor. I’m not able to watch every day, you understand, but I did especially like your episode on men who remarry but still love their first wives,” she said, shooting me a meaningful glance.

  Oh, brother.

  “That was one of our most popular episodes,” Dr. Chaz replied. “Especially among first wives!”

  Madame laughed. I didn’t. (Matt’s wedding was supposed to put an end to that particular argument. From the look on Madame’s face, however, I could see old habits were going to die hard.)

  Then Dr. Chaz fixed his eyes on me. “Did you enjoy today’s taping, Miss Cosi?”

  “It was, uh, memorable,” I said diplomatically.

  He gestured to Heidi, still on the phone, clearly having an intense argument. “It seems you lost your tour guide.”

  “She’s got an issue with Simon,” I explained.

  “Simon’s a good guy; he’s just busy and can’t do everything for everyone every day,” Dr. Chaz said, rather loudly—loud enough, no doubt, for his wife to hear behind her own star-marked door. Then he changed his tone to a much warmer one. “Is there something I can show you?”

  Madame glanced at me. “Well—”

  “Actually,” I said, taking the cue. “I’ve come backstage to meet your executive producer, James Young. He and I are . . . neighbors, as it turns out. Though we’ve never actually met, I’ve, uh, seen him around.”

  Dr. Chaz studied me for a rather long moment and then raised an eyebrow. “Lucky for James, he isn’t married.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “You are interested in James, aren’t you? I mean, that’s why you asked, right?”

  “Sure,” I said, forcing a smile.

  “Phew! I’m glad about that.” He laughed. “Can’t have a ‘relationship specialist’ getting something like that wrong, can we? And I do like a woman who knows what she wants and goes for it.” He winked again. “We’re doing an episode on that next month—maybe you’d like to be a guest?”

  “Uh—I don’t think—”

  “I’ll be sure to mention it to James.” Then he took my arm and gallantly wrapped it around his. “Let me introduce you two right now. Will you join us, Ms. Dubois?”

  “Oh, no,” Madame replied. “I’ll give those two their privacy. I’m content to wait here with young Heidi.”

  Dr. Chaz led me down the hall to a faux-mahogany door, on which he knocked once, then walked in. We caught James Young in the middle of removing his tailored sports jacket.

  “Someone I’d like you to meet, James,” Dr. Chaz announced. “It seems you and the lovely Ms. Cosi here are neighbors. She’s an acquaintance of Mr. Dewberry, as well.”

  “Mr. Dewberry. I see,” James Young said with an understanding nod and extended his hand. “Good to meet you, Ms. Cosi.”

  “Call me Clare.”

  Dr. Chaz glanced at his watch. “Got to run. Squash at the club. Good luck, Ms. Cosi.” Yet another wink.

  Then the door closed, and I glanced around Young’s office. The room was spacious—but it felt small and cramped. The clutter was the reason. Digital recordings, scripts, and mounds of paper packed the room. I wondered how the man navigated through it all.

  “Won’t you sit down, Clare.”

  He offered me a chair, then sat down behind his desk and coolly steepled his long fingers. “So how long have you lived in the West Village?”

  “A few years now—but I’m a returning resident. I managed the Village Blend coffeehouse, on Hudson Street, right out of college. Then I went to New Jersey to raise my daughter. Now I’m back in the city again.”

  He brightened at the mention of the Blend. “I know the place. A number of friends in the neighborhood are hooked on your lattes. I’m into tea myself—white tea lately—so I don’t frequent your establishment. Nothing personal.”

  “No worries,” I said, realizing this guy’s Rolex wasn’t the only indication he had plenty of disposable income. White tea was among the rarest and most expensive varieties on the planet.

  Young looked at me askance, as if he were trying to place me. “You do live in my building, right? Chaz said you were a neighbor.”

  “Actually, I live seve
ral blocks away. But I’m familiar with your building, and the property around it. It’s usually a fairly safe part of the city, but the other night, there was a murder on your street. You know about that, right?”

  Young nodded. “I read about the shooting. Apparently it happened in the alley right outside my residence.”

  “I knew the victim, Mr. Young. He was a friend of mine.”

  “Oh?” he said. “I’m very sorry.”

  “Thank you.”

  At the mention of knowing the victim, I noticed a subtle change in the man. His coolness began slowly evaporating and he began to fidget.

  “The victim’s name was Alfred Glockner,” I explained. “He was an aspiring stand-up comedian, and he worked as a Traveling Santa. Does his name mean anything to you?”

  Young pursed his lips and then frowned. “I never heard of a Mr. Glockner. Should I know him?”

  “That’s a question I want answered. You see, I’m privately investigating Mr. Glockner’s murder, and just last evening the police received evidence that proves Alf was on the fire escape, right outside your apartment window, just minutes before he was gunned down.”

  Young’s fidgeting form froze. He was silent for a few moments, and then he said, “I’m stunned to hear that. I really am. I mean, I didn’t see or hear anything out of the ordinary that night. Not even sirens.”

  “Well, I was wondering—why do you think Alf was on your balcony?”

  Young’s eyebrow arched, a little cruelly. “I guess he wasn’t delivering presents, was he, Ms. Cosi? I mean, I would have expected Santa to use the chimney for that, wouldn’t you?”

  “I’m serious, Mr. Young.”

  “I know you are, and I’m surprised you’re even asking that question. Burglaries increase during the holidays. That’s one of the things I learned researching today’s show . . .”

  As he spoke, Young glanced several times at his Rolex. His gaze then began darting back and forth between me and his closed office door. Is he hoping for an interruption? Or is he worried who might suddenly walk in and become a party to this conversation?

  “I was out much of that day, holiday shopping,” Young continued. “Perhaps this Glockner fellow saw me with shopping bags around the neighborhood and followed me back to my building with the intent to rob my apartment.”