The Scoop

by Fern Michaels

  Sophie and Toots laughed.

  “A Chihuahua on caffeine. I should have known.” Toots got up from the table and went to the cupboard, where she took out a small cup that she filled with milk and a splash of coffee. She set it down on the floor next to the table. “That should keep her happy.”

  “She likes sugar, too,” Mavis added.

  “Well, tough. She’s going to have to learn to live without it, just the way you are. Aren’t you the one who said if it was good enough for you, it was good enough for your dog?” Toots poured Mavis a cup of black coffee. “No milk or sugar, okay?” Toots raised her brows, and Mavis nodded.

  “I can do this. I will do this.” It was said with such grim determination, Toots believed her old friend. “I can’t wait for the girls to see all those gorgeous clothes you bought for me.”

  Toots reminded Mavis that she had an eight o’clock appointment for the stress test. Luckily, it would take less than an hour.

  “I can’t wait either,” Sophie announced drily. “Maybe when we get to LA, where there’s all that open space, we can all hire a makeup artist to do our faces. I’ve always wanted to do that but never had a reason to. Seeing how my future is looking so bright and shiny with Walter barely clinging to life, I’ve never had a reason until now. Maybe I’ll do it for the funeral. I’m sure all of Walter’s friends from the bank will attend. They think I’m a bitch, or so he always said. If I look ten years younger and plaster a smile on my face, I think that might give all the old codgers something to talk about. Yes”—Sophie took a big gulp of her coffee—“that’s exactly what I’m going to do. Women hate seeing other women look good, especially when they’re grieving.”

  “Sadly, that’s true. I remember John’s funeral as the only time I ever truly felt like a grieving widow. John was the love of my life.” Tears welled in Toots’s eyes as she remembered Abby’s father.

  “Look, before we get completely morbid, let’s talk about something else. I don’t do grief this early in the morning,” Sophie said.

  Toots sniffed and dabbed at her eyes with her napkin. “You’re right. We have too much to look forward to in the next few weeks to spend even one unhappy minute moaning about the past. I’ve been to one too many pity parties lately.” Toots paused while Bernice placed a platter of fruit in the center of the table, followed by a heaping bowl of oats. “Though I have to admit that I was truly sad when each of my husbands passed. More or less.” She shrugged.

  Mavis and Sophie looked at Toots, their expressions laughable. “Well, except for Leland. He was so mean and cheap. I was shocked when he stated in his will that he wanted that seven-piece string band to play at his funeral. He really did spring for an expensive send-off, I’ll say that for him. I don’t even know why I was so shocked, since it was for himself even though he was dead.”

  Sophie held her mug high in the air. “Here’s to Walter! May he suffer greatly and die soon!”

  Toots clinked her mug. “That’s not the way to toast one’s soon-to-be-departed husband.” Inside the pantry, Toots had a stash of booze she saved for special occasions, very special occasions, such as the death of a husband. She got up from the table and was back in a matter of seconds with an extremely rare bottle of Glenfiddich that was known to have matured in its cask for more than sixty years before bottling. Leland had paid almost fifty thousand dollars for one bottle. It was the one request he’d made in his will that she denied him. No way in hell was she going to bury him with such a fine, such a rare bottle of booze, as he’d requested. Now seemed like as good a time as any to open it up and make a toast to her future. And to Walter’s imminent demise.

  “Here.” Toots opened the bottle of liquor before she raced to the hutch in the dining room, where she removed four crystal whiskey tumblers. At fifty grand a bottle, if they were going to drink Leland’s high-priced whiskey, they were not going to drink it out of coffee mugs. She placed the tumblers in the middle of the table, pouring a liberal dollop of scotch into each one. “This is the best money can buy. One of Leland’s splurges. He wanted me to bury this with him, but I couldn’t bring myself to do something that stupid.”

  “As if he would know,” Sophie said smartly.

  “Well, there is the afterlife and all. He might be a tad ticked when you meet up again,” Mavis gurgled as she agreed to only a small nip, given the upcoming test.

  “Mavis, I know without a doubt that Leland is roasting in the fires of hell by now, and I do not think we will be meeting up in the afterlife. At least I hope not,” Toots said.

  Ida chose that moment to make an entrance, stopping just short of the kitchen table. She was freshly showered and dressed to kill, in black slacks and a cream-colored blouse and not a hair out of place. “Who’s roasting in the fires of hell?”

  “Toots’s last dearly departed,” Sophie said. “We’re preparing to make a toast to Walter’s demise. Want to join us?”

  Ida took a step forward, closing the distance between herself and the table. She nodded and reached for one of the tumblers. This was the first time in a very long time she’d actually touched something without making sure it was as germ-free as humanly possible. One step at a time, she thought as she held the glass in her latex-covered hands. “Why not?”

  For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, the women gathered around the kitchen table and made a toast.

  “To new beginnings,” Toots said, raising her glass high in the air.

  Ida, Sophie, and Mavis clicked their glasses against Toots’s tumbler. Except for the clinking of the glasses, the kitchen went completely silent as each woman silently wondered what their new future would bring to each of them.

  When Mavis returned, the four of them would embark on the greatest, and unlikeliest, adventure of their lives.

  Chapter 13

  Ten million bucks! By the time he paid off the mortgage on The Informer plus his gambling debts, he’d still be in the hole for two million.

  Rodwell Archibald Godfrey III was in deep doo-doo. Big-time. Unless…

  Rag’s brain kicked into overdrive. Part of him wanted to take the money and run. He could head down to the Cayman Islands, where he’d heard there were dozens of banks that didn’t ask questions about large deposits. A new identity, a new lifestyle. Maybe if he played his cards right, he could pull off a disappearing act without losing his ass, or his life. He had a few connections who were as unscrupulous as he was. He’d need a birth certificate, driver’s license, credit card, and passport. He knew in his gut he would never have another opportunity to literally disappear with ten million smackeroos. In the blink of an eye, he decided to go for the whole enchilada. Another part of him, the stubborn stupid part that he hated, said to stay and fight it out. He also knew his biggest failing in life was that he lived for the moment and never thought things through to a satisfactory conclusion. He’d get an itch, scratch it, and worry about the consequences later. That was what had gotten him into this mess in the first place. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and took a deep breath as he weighed option one and option two. A no-brainer for sure. He was going to grab the ball and run with option one, and the devil take the hindmost.

  Removing the BlackBerry from his pocket, Rag used the mini roller ball to scroll through his address book. When he saw the name and number he was searching for, he removed a TAC phone from his other pocket and punched in the number.

  The phone rang as Rag paced the length of his office, raking a hand through his thinning brown hair. His comb-over was way too obvious, worse than Donald Trump’s because he could feel the slick bald spot at the top of his head. Maybe he’d invest in some hair plugs sometime in the near future. If he was able to keep most of the ten million dollars some crazy person had offered for The Informer.

  Rag took a moment to wonder if the crazy buyer was an alien from outer space. Nothing else made sense to him. He knew a thing or two about space aliens because he published articles about them at least once a month.


  Because he was so antsy, Rag started to think seriously about the hair plugs. Maybe he’d get a face-lift, too. At fifty-two, he wasn’t getting any younger. The women who hit on him now were middle-aged, with brittle bleached blond hair, with skin tanned so dark it resembled a wrinkled cigar, and they wore their eyeliner too thick and their lipstick too bright. They were all pretty much the same. When he tried to puff himself up and told them he owned a newspaper, they thought he was Mr. Moneybags and threw themselves at him. Once they learned he owned a third-rate tabloid and was knee-deep in debt, they moved on to the next willing sucker. Rodwell, Rag, as he was referred to in tabloid journalism, thought it time to move on to greener and younger pastures. Ten million bucks almost guaranteed success in all areas. Oh, yeah.

  “Yeah?” said a rough-sounding voice.

  “I need to speak to Micky,” Rag growled.

  “Yeah, so does half the world. He ain’t here.”

  “When do you expect him?” Rag growled again. He hadn’t even considered this part, that Micky wouldn’t be available. Shit!

  A moment of silence. “Who the hell are you to ask where my boss is? The president? When do I expect him?” The last sentence sounded so ominous, Rag felt the fine hairs on the back of his neck move.

  Time to suck up. Micky was a good contact he couldn’t afford to lose or mess with. Rag wasn’t sure, but he rather thought Micky had Mafia ties. Shit, that was a lie. He knew Micky had mob ties. “It’s urgent that I speak with him; otherwise, I wouldn’t be calling his private number. Tell him there is a very large sum of money involved. He can call this number if he’s interested.” Rag rattled off his cell number, the one he used to call his bookies and other unsavory friends. He hung up, and ten seconds later, his cell rang.

  He looked at the caller ID. Micky.

  “Hello.”

  “You called me. I’m returnin’ the call.” The deep voice sent a chill up Rag’s spine.

  Tough guy. Rag felt a whole second’s worth of guilt hit him before he pushed it aside. This was a once-in-a-lifetime chance to start over. He wasn’t going to let anything get in his way if he could help it.

  “I need some documents. Fast. Like in instant fast! Birth certificate, passport, driver’s license, credit card, the whole megillah. How soon can you get them?”

  “Wait a minute…we ain’t discussed my fee yet. We always gotta discuss my fee first,” Micky said.

  Rag thought him as crass and tacky as the guy who had answered the phone seconds ago. He knew crass and tacky, he lived and worked in Hollywood. What happened to manners in the mob? He also knew if he wanted a class act, he should have gone to JPMorgan Chase and borrowed ten million dollars. “I’ll pay the going rate.” He had no clue what the going rate was, but he wasn’t stupid enough to name a price.

  “A hundred grand,” Micky said, then added, “each.”

  “Four hundred thousand dollars! You must be out of your mind. I can get fake documents on the Internet for a thousand.” There was no way in hell he was forking over four hundred grand for a new identity.

  “Sure ya can, but will they pass customs? I don’t think so. It’s your life and your nickel. Do what you want.”

  Damn! “Okay, let’s negotiate. I’ll give you fifty grand for everything. That’s all I have. Deal or no deal?” Wasn’t that the name of a new game show? Rag held his breath, waiting to see if his offer would be accepted.

  Silence. “Yeah, for you I guess I can bend the rules a bit, seein’ as we’ve done business before. When do ya want ’em?”

  “As quick as you can get them, like as in an hour ago,” Rag said, suddenly more excited than he’d been in a very long time. Screw Los Angeles. He was sick of all the phony stars who thought they were royalty, even sicker of chasing after some damned story that wasn’t really a story just so he could one-up his competition, a ploy that never worked anyway. Screw it, he was on his way to bigger and better things, he could feel it. Hell, he could smell it.

  Christopher Lee Clay, Chris to his friends, had a nagging suspicion something was wrong with the pending sale of The Informer. Something wasn’t right, but he couldn’t put his finger on exactly what it was. Rodwell Godfrey had a nasty reputation for being a con man. Chris had drawn up the papers for the sale of The Informer for Toots just as she’d asked him to. Was that when he started to rethink the whole deal, or was it when she’d wired the money to the required bank and he knew it was official? He’d gone over the paperwork numerous times; then, as an extra precaution, he’d faxed the papers to one of his tennis buddies, a corporate attorney, just to make sure all the t’s were crossed and all the i’s were dotted properly. Yes, said his buddy, all appeared to be on the up-and-up. Still, Chris felt something was off. He hadn’t told Toots yet, figuring he would wait until she and her friends arrived later that afternoon. Maybe he was just being overly cautious where his stepmom was concerned. Though she had millions, he’d hate to see her bilked out of them unnecessarily. Hoping his paranoia was unfounded, Chris scrutinized the legal documents one last time. It all looked good on paper, but there was something nagging him. Godfrey was making out big-time, that much he was sure of. Maybe it was the outlandish price Toots had paid. Of course she had asked him to double any offer that had already been made. Sure, that was what it was, it had to be. Chris knew the paper was worth a pile of dung, but he also knew when Toots set her mind on doing something, there was no stopping her. Her daughter, Abby, was the same way.

  Speaking of Abby. Chris remembered when he’d first met his new stepsister. She’d been in her early teens, and he’d just finished his last year of high school. They’d hit it off immediately, but after that one visit, it seemed his visits to Charleston rarely coincided with hers, so they hardly saw one another. After his father died, he’d remained close to Toots but hadn’t seen enough of Abby to have any real genuine brotherly feelings toward her. Toots practically begged him to come home for Abby’s college graduation. Chris figured it was the least he could do for a stepsister that he really liked. Though when he saw her after the ceremony, when she’d removed her cap and gown, she about knocked his socks off. No longer the skinny little girl with towheaded curls. Abby Simpson was a knockout. Pure and simple. From that moment on, Chris never looked at her the same way again. The few times they’d been together, he’d always teased her about being so small, telling her she would never grow up. Well, grow up she had. Abby was gorgeous, much more so than the starlets who clung to his arm seven days a week.

  When Abby moved to LA, they got together occasionally for lunch or dinner and usually at his suggestion. Each time they saw one another, Chris felt drawn to Abby in a way that was anything but brotherly. He suspected Typhoon Toots would kill him if she knew, so he kept up the big-brother act. There had been a few times he’d caught Abby looking at him in a way that he was sure wasn’t sisterly love either, though he’d never pursued a relationship with her because it didn’t feel right.

  He dated his share of Hollywood starlets. Being an entertainment attorney had its benefits. He’d negotiated tons of contracts for Hollywood’s finest and was paid out the yin-yang for his services. And then there were those special stars who always liked to give him more than his 20 percent share of their earnings, a little added bonus, as they put it. If he was truthful, and truthful he was, at least to himself, he was tiring of LA’s fast-paced lifestyle. The glitter and glamour had worn off a long time ago. At thirty-three, he longed for something more, something real, which always brought him back to Abby.

  Abby had made no bones about it, she loved LA, loved her job as a tabloid reporter, and made no excuses for her choices. He’d admired her for her honesty and guts. Compact loveliness, he thought, even though he knew it sounded old-fashioned and silly. When it was time to settle down, Chris knew he wanted a woman like Abby, someone sure of herself and secure with her choices. Sadly, he’d probably have to relocate to someplace like North Dakota if he wanted to find a woman as real as Abby, because real wasn’t so
mething LA was noted for.

  Clutching the legal documents in his hand, Chris meandered out to the kitchen for a bottle of Perrier before settling himself on the terrace, which overlooked the ocean. He’d paid a small fortune for the beachfront house, and now he wondered why. It had never felt like a real home to him. Certainly nothing like Toots’s Southern mansion or Abby’s little ranch house. His place was modern with wall-to-wall glass, white pine floors, and absolutely no personality at all. No throw pillows tossed about to lounge on, no stack of magazines placed casually on a side table, no family photos, no green plants growing wildly. Chris reasoned that when he left this behind, all he would need to do would be to pack his clothes and toothbrush and leave. He didn’t really like the furniture, the dishes, the drapes; he didn’t like the pictures on the walls. Actually, he hadn’t liked much of anything about this place since purchasing it five years ago. He blamed the decorator and his own lack of input. He’d given her carte blanche because he was too damn busy negotiating all those nice fat contracts and collecting his equally fat fees. After all, he did little more than sleep here, and with his eyes closed, he didn’t have to look at anything.

  He’d hosted a few client dinners with the help of a catering service, and nothing more. No friends came to visit, no Sunday football days with the guys, nothing. To him, his house was simply a place to sleep and shower. Since he didn’t have an office, he spent most of his workdays at various hot spots and clubs, doing business with clients and potential clients who wanted to “be seen.” As he had been voted one of LA’s top ten bachelors, women both young and old hankered to be seen with him. Chris didn’t think it much of an accomplishment in his shallow world of see-and-be-seen. Though there were those who would contradict him, who would trade places with him in a heartbeat.