As Georgia walks through the kitchen, phone to her ear, and Brooke begins telling Jack about their ordeal, I get the feeling everything is going to turn out right after all.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
ERIN
The police take Georgia’s and Brooke’s statements, and as they leave, for the third time this week, I’m reeling. I don’t think Presidio Terrace has ever gotten this much police action. I’m sure the neighbors are pissed. We must be in violation of some homeowners association code. I’ll have to look it up when I get home.
Georgia handed Danny’s wallet over to the police. Officer Linard eyed her curiously when she explained the panicked state she was in when she snatched it. They’re going to search Danny’s home and surrounding areas for signs of Robert. They said the show might help bring attention to his disappearance.
Jack came straight from work to console Brooke, who looked a bit stronger with her husband there. He seemed to fold her against him, and wrap her in a cocoon-like embrace. For a split second, I envied her marriage, longed for that. Mason went to work after our therapy session, and I haven’t heard from him since.
It would be nice for Mason to want to check up on me every now and then. But perhaps he knows I can handle myself. I’m not as fragile or emotionally unstable as Brooke appears to be. It’s clear she’s had some sort of trauma in her past that’s rearing its head now, with the death of this guy. Her answers to the officers’ questions sounded a bit rote, a little too rehearsed, but the police will assume it’s because she’s been frightened.
Poor thing, they’ll say. She’s gone through quite an ordeal.
As expected, the police said they were checking video from the parking garage. I don’t think they suspect we hired Danny Johnson. We’re going to come out looking like victims in all this.
Striding into Georgia’s bedroom, I plop on the edge of her bed, give my hair a good fluff, and touch up my makeup. I miss Monique styling my hair every day; she’s pure magic. The station sent one van with Monique, Rob, and a woman I’ve never seen before. Apparently they determined that Georgia’s bedroom has the best overhead lighting and preferred I conduct the interview there.
I don’t care where it takes place, as long as it’s a hit…and that it brings Robert home, of course.
Now that Monique is working on Georgia’s hair and makeup and the crew is busy setting up, her bedroom is a flurry of movement. While Georgia perches like some exotic bird in front of a large vanity in the center of the room, her blue dress bedazzled with flecks of red and yellow, Monique touches up her lips. She moves to this side and that, crouching to get just the right amount of lift. Rob cues up the camera, fiddling with the angle and snapping a few practice pictures to get the lighting just right. He pushes a love seat in front of the door leading out to the private patio.
“Hurry and grab those vases. Set them on the ground. By the love seat. Good,” a woman says from behind me. She forces her way into the room, nicking my shoulder without a single apology. “We need flowers. Long-stemmed white ones. Pure white, not that dingy yellow-white.” When Rob drags a potted plant so it peeks from behind the chair, she snaps, “Move!”
“Why white?” Monique asks, applying gloss to Georgia’s lips.
The woman spins on her as Rob leaves the room. “Because we want Georgia to be the only pop of color in this space. And white screams innocence.”
She must be Hillary Gleaves, the perky one Bill mentioned. The one who took my place, the bitch. She’s everything I feared she’d be: lean, young, and fresh-faced, with a spark of ambition in her eyes. She’s wearing a black, wide-legged pantsuit peppered with tiny white dots with a V-neck that plunges down near to her navel. She must’ve taped her nipples to the lapels—it’s the only way they’re not showing. I hope the tape tears her most sensitive skin when she tries to peel it off tonight.
The way she’s snapping and pointing and snarling at the crew makes me think she would rather be a producer than an anchor. Maybe climbing the corporate ladder is her endgame. Wonder if Bill gave her the same revolting “opportunity” he offered me.
Brooke is standing in the bathroom doorway like a statue, champagne glass in her delicate hand, a strange, zoned-out look on her face. She hasn’t said much since the police left. The cotton dress she’s wearing is the palest shade of pink I’ve ever seen. Like wisps of cotton candy. Between the way she’s standing—her legs crossed with her weight on one leg, her ankle twisting coyly against the floor, and knees squeezed together—and her feminine, girlish dress, she appears ten years younger.
Just when I thought it wasn’t possible to hate her more…
“Hey, Br—” I begin.
“You ready to do this?” Georgia interjects, glancing at me out of the corner of her eye.
“Ready as ever.”
“Brooke set up the mimosa bar on the bathroom counter.” She slowly opens and closes her eyes so Monique can work her lashes against the brush. “They’re not as good as Grounds & Greens, but close. You should have one before we get rolling.”
“Remember to make her look natural. We want housewife, not home wrecker. Those lips are too garish.” Hillary Gleaves snaps three times over her head. Her boob nearly escapes its polyester hold as she waves her hand. “Five minutes, people! Where the hell did he go to get my flowers? Napa? Are we cued up with the mics? Ready? Good.”
I lean in close to Georgia, more to get Monique’s attention than to share some deep dark secret. “How’s the ‘new me’ measuring up?”
“She’s intense,” Monique whispers, “but she’s good. Ratings are higher than they’ve been in years.”
“Well that’s…wonderful, isn’t it?” I laugh tightly and smooth my hands down my throat when it feels like I’m swallowing fire. “What’s she doing here anyway?”
It’s as if Bill didn’t trust me and sent his new favorite to ensure I’d do the job up to standard. I try not to feel insulted.
Monique shrugs. “Bill sent the list of everyone headed over today. Her name was at the top.”
Cringing inside, I force a tight smile. “Want to run over your answers, Georgia? It might help with your nerves. Or you can borrow some of my meds?”
“I don’t know what I’m going to say yet,” she says, giving the dramatic V-neck of her dress a solid hike. “I looked over the questions you sent, but Hillary thinks it’ll appear more genuine and organic if I answer at the spur of the moment. A little more shadow on my eyes, please.”
Monique is caking on her makeup much too dark, if she wants my opinion. Not that she does, but that doesn’t matter.
“Hillary thinks?” I parrot.
But I’m her best friend. Georgia’s literal partner in crime. I guess to hell with what I think about being prepared. Perhaps she’s not taking this special as seriously as she should be.
“She said it’s important to not seem rehearsed,” Georgia explains. “People won’t relate to me if they think I’ve been fed the questions and answers.”
“How nice of her to want to help you.” Cheeks flushing with a rush of blood, I stand to confront this stupid woman. “I don’t think we’ve met,” I say, forcing myself in front of her and extending my hand. “I’m Erin King.”
“Yes, I know.” Her smile is flat. Faker than fake. “Ted has told me all about you.”
Ted, the tool. I’m sure he had such kind things to say.
“Listen,” I say, lightly touching her shoulder. “I understand you talked with Georgia earlier about the importance of appearing earnest in front of the camera. And while I understand what you’re trying to accomplish, it’s also important that she feels prepared. I don’t think it’s a terrible idea for her to run through a few of the questions I’m going to ask her.”
“If she wants to run through your questions, that’s fine.” Casually glancing around the room, Hillary makes a light hu
ffing sound, and then shrugs. Behind her, Rob enters with armfuls of white flowers and begins arranging them near the couch. “But Bill has his own questions he wants asked, and those should be on-the-spot. About time you show up with those things. Ready, Mon?”
“Mon? Didn’t know you two had gotten so close.” I glare at Monique, then back to Hillary. “Bill didn’t send me any questions.”
“Oh? That’s right. I was supposed to send them to you this morning.” She slips her phone from her pocket, scrolls, and jabs the screen. “My bad. They’re in your in-box now. Let’s get this thing rolling. I don’t want to be here until midnight.”
What the hell?
Why would he send the questions through Hillary? My gut tells me the answer. Because he knew if he sent them to me, I’d warm Georgia up to the questions. And it’s clear he has his own agenda for how this interview runs.
As Monique finishes applying a second layer of mascara, I excuse myself to the bathroom to talk to Brooke. She’s clutching the champagne flute as if she plans to crush it between two fingers.
“How are you holding up?” I ask, embracing her in a quick hug. For a moment, it seems as if she’s quivering. But it’s not cold in the house, and when I brush my hand down her shoulder, her skin is warm to the touch. “You okay?”
“I’m all right. Worried about Robert. I hope they find him.”
“Me too.”
“Do you think they will?”
“I don’t know, but this interview should draw attention to what’s happened. We can only hope someone’s seen him, or knows where Danny might’ve taken him.”
“I wonder if Georgia has thought about finding him on her own,” Brooke says, after a long drink. “You know, going out there, to Danny’s house, and looking for herself.”
I hadn’t even thought about the possibility that she would do something like that without the police’s help. I suppose I should ask her after everyone leaves. If she wants, I could go with her, be the friend I should’ve been earlier, when she was attacked by that madman.
“Let’s get started,” Hillary yells. “Places, people!”
Hillary snaps one, two, three times in a helicopter move over her head. I sit on the edge of an upholstered chair beside the love seat in front of the windows leading out to Georgia’s private patio. She leans into the love seat’s cushions, resting her arms on the back as she crosses her legs. Monique leaves the room, and Rob is ready to start filming. A stationary camera is set up at another angle nearby. There’ll be a camera on each of us, so as not to miss a single reaction.
Hillary moves behind Rob, surveying the scene, and I know she won’t be in my anchor position long. From the way she’s studying every angle of this special, she has her sights set on directing. Despite my envy—God, I hate that it’s the word that came to mind—I have to admit, Hillary created the perfect environment for the shoot. Georgia flares her blue skirt over her knees. Moonlight streaming through the windows envelops her beautifully. Georgia is the focal point, the vivid blast of color against a soft white backdrop.
I pull Hillary’s questions up on my phone, skim past Bill’s introductory email, my eyes catching on the title of the special.
Georgia St. Claire: The Sinful Life of a Trophy Wife.
Doesn’t sound like this is going to be sympathetic to Georgia at all. But I suppose that was to be expected. Whatever it takes to hook viewers in. I scroll to the list of questions, and read furiously through them.
Holy hell.
This isn’t what I had in mind at all. This isn’t what I signed up for.
“Erin…” Georgia reaches over and squeezes my hand. “We got this.”
I look up from my phone. The camera lights blink red.
Good God, we’re live.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
BROOKE
“Good evening, I’m Erin King, and thank you for watching…” She pauses, glances at the phone in her lap, and clears her throat. “…Georgia St. Claire…”
It’s silent for so long, I don’t know whether she’s going to continue at all. Hillary stamps her foot behind the camera and glares. Georgia leans toward Erin and whispers something. Whatever she says seems to jar Erin back to reality.
“Thank you for watching tonight’s special, Georgia St. Claire: The Sinful Life of a Trophy Wife. We are in the prestigious gated community of Presidio Terrace, conducting an exclusive interview with the rumored Black Widow, who some believe has killed two husbands over the last ten years. Tonight we will set the record straight and hear from the Black Widow herself, for the first time in a live interview. Good evening, Georgia.”
Now she’s rolling, and I’m not sure what made her stumble in the first place.
“Good evening.” Georgia’s voice is strong, laced with confidence, as always. “I’m happy to answer any questions I can—anything to bring home my fiancé, Robert Donnelly.”
“I wanted to touch on that for a moment, to brief the public on what’s been happening over the last few days.”
As Erin goes over the details of Robert’s disappearance and our horrific incident earlier, her voice seems to muffle and zone out, as if she’s moved into a tunnel far, far away from me. My ears fuzz with static. My vision swims. I brace myself against the bathroom door and finish my mimosa. The sweetness from the sugar on the rim lingers on my lips as the alcohol left in the bottom of the glass burns my throat. I’m not sure how long I’m standing there, slowly swaying back and forth, focused on the blinking red light of the camera, but when I finally regain awareness, Erin’s brought everyone up to speed.
“How tragic,” Erin says, shaking her head solemnly. “You’re lucky to be sitting here right now.”
“I am.” Georgia swallows hard. “But I can’t count my blessings because I don’t have my fiancé, the love of my life, here with me now. Whatever sins I’ve committed in the past are mine, and mine alone. It’s not fair that he should have to atone for them. He’s innocent—a good man, and he doesn’t deserve this. If anyone has any information that can help bring Robert Donnelly home, please, I beg you, call the police. I just want him back where he belongs.”
“Your wedding was scheduled for tomorrow.” Erin glances down at her phone and frowns. “Do you have any hope he’ll turn up in time to marry you?”
Georgia flinches. “Of course. No one knows what tomorrow brings.”
Erin looks down at her phone again, and this time there’s a pregnant pause before her question. “People know you as simply the Black Widow. What’s your real name?”
A soft blush rises to her cheeks. “My full legal name is Georgia Jane Coventry–Dalton–St. Claire. Legally, I still carry my maiden name, along with the last names of each of my husbands.”
“Well that’s fitting, considering you still carry their money as well.” As the words leave Erin’s mouth, scolding and harsh, her expression softens, almost apologetically. “Some of the viewers may not know the details of your past, so I’d like to enlighten them a bit. Were you ever formally charged with the murders of your husbands?”
Frowning, Georgia presses her lips together firmly. “I was never charged. Because like Eli, and Andrew, and now Robert, I’m a victim in all of this.”
“Their killers have never been brought to justice…” Erin goes on. “I just want to be clear.”
“Oh yes, let’s make sure everyone has the complete picture.” Georgia uncrosses and recrosses her legs as if she’s suddenly uncomfortable. “Eli and Andrew were not murdered. There are no killers to be found. Eli slipped and fell down our stairs. Andrew shot himself. Robert…” She hesitates, her chest ballooning with a deep breath of air. “…was kidnapped by the madman who attacked me earlier. He’s still out there, and I won’t rest until I find him.”
Between the tension, the shifting of her eyes, and the way Georgia’s voice is now laced with d
oubt, I realize this is ratings gold. The story of Erin’s career.
Erin glances at the phone in her lap. “Georgia, would you say you have a lot of enemies?”
Georgia slides to the edge of the love seat. “I’m starting to think so, yes. Comes with the territory, I suppose.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“People have a hard time being friends with someone they envy.” Georgia’s eyes bore into Erin’s, and I feel the tension sparking between them. “Don’t you agree?”
Erin purses her lips in annoyance. “You were married to your first husband, Eli, for a year. Remind us how he was murdered.”
“He died, Erin. It wasn’t murder.”
“But the autopsy revealed large amounts of medication in his bloodstream at the time of his death. He’d been drugged.”
“He’d just had knee surgery, and was in a lot of pain. The doctor had prescribed him those painkillers.”
Erin skims her finger over the phone’s screen. “Your second husband? How long were you married that time?”
“Andrew. Eight months.”
“You were home asleep when he shot himself?”
She nods decisively. “I was.”
Erin reads something on her phone and grimaces. “You received ten million dollars upon his death. Is that right?”
“Actually, I didn’t receive a dime from Andrew. He donated all of his money to charity. He was a very noble man.”
From what I’ve read online, Andrew was a philanthropist who often donated millions of his hard-earned dollars to charity. But he was also abusive, and according to what I’ve been able to dig up, he was charged with domestic violence on more than one occasion—not with Georgia, but I’m certain he was abusive to her as well. I’m assuming she didn’t want to report him because of the negative attention she’d receive. Easier to kill him, apparently.
The Sinful Lives of Trophy Wives Page 17