Scandal Sheet

by Gemma Halliday

  He cocked his head, his eyes assessing.

  It was kind of unnerving, and I felt myself fighting the urge to fidget. I took another sip of wine.

  Finally he said, “An ordinary childhood would have bored the shit out of you.”

  I laughed. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

  He gave the picture one more glance before reaching across me to set it back on the end table…and I felt his arm brush against my chest. I bit the inside of my cheek against the not-completely-unpleasant feeling. How sad was it that was the most action I’d gotten in months?

  “Tell me more,” he prompted, completely unaware of my body’s alarms going off beside him. He leaned casually back into the sofa cushions.

  “Uh, more?” I cleared my throat, my voice suddenly husky. Jesus, who was I, Lauren Bacall? It was an accidental touch. I needed to get a grip.

  “About your childhood. You spent time in Egypt. Where else?”

  “Oh. Um…well, there were the catacombs in France. That was a fun summer. Then the year we spent in Peru excavating Incan ruins.”

  “Your parents had eclectic tastes.”

  “They’re both forensic anthropologists. They specialize in figuring out how people died. Everywhere you find ruins, there are dead people.”

  “Kind of morbid.”

  I shook my head. “Not at all. It was fascinating. Learning about how they lived, how they worked, how they died. It was all connected. It was like a private glimpse into their lives.”

  “Hence your fascination with other people’s lives.”

  I grinned. “I guess I’ve always been interested in gossip, huh?”

  “What about your life?” Cal asked, cocking his head at me.

  “What about it?”

  “There don’t seem to be any photos past the age of pigtails. For all your fascination with other people’s lives, I don’t see evidence of much of a life of your own.”

  “Ouch.”

  He grinned. “I didn’t mean it that way. What do you like to do?”

  “Work, I guess.”

  “What do you do on the weekends?”

  “I don’t know.” I shifted in my seat, the sudden Dr. Phil analysis unnerving me. I wasn’t sure I really liked looking that deeply into myself. Let alone letting someone like Cal look. “Ordinary stuff.”

  He leaned in close, so close I could feel the heat radiating off his chest, smell the faint scent of wine on his lips. His eyes went dark, intense, like he could, in fact, see right into my psyche. Then his voice went low and intimate.

  “I have a feeling there’s nothing ordinary about you, Bender.”

  For a second I was terrified that he was going to kiss me. Terrified, because I had no idea whether I’d kiss him back.

  Luckily, before I had a chance to decide, he stood, picking up another abused cushion from the floor.

  “I think I should sleep here tonight.”

  My breath caught in my throat. Shit, had my thoughts been that plain on my face?

  As if he could read my mind, the corner of his mouth quirked upward. “On the couch.”

  Right. I cleared my throat. “Um, yeah. Sure, yeah. That would be fine.”

  I got up, wiping my sweaty palms on my jeans, and grabbed a couple blankets from the hall closet, throwing them down on the sofa.

  “So, um, bathroom’s in there, fresh towels under the sink if you need them.”

  Cal nodded. “Thanks.”

  “So…good night.” I did an awkward little wave in his direction.

  He smiled, his eyes still giving me that look like he could see right through me. “’Night, Bender.”

  I quickly hightailed it to my bedroom, ignoring the mess of clothes and papers and files the intruder had made of my floor. Instead, I kicked off my shoes, stripped off my jeans, and jumped in bed. I slipped under the covers in my T-shirt, feeling just how tired the drain of earlier adrenaline had left me. I closed my eyes, letting the distant sounds of the freeway lull me to sleep.

  It wasn’t until I was just drifting off that I realized I’d completely missed my cyber date with Man in Black.

  I awoke the next morning to the sound of Matt Lauer’s voice coming from my living room full blast. Reluctantly, I peeled myself out of bed and stumbled though the bedroom door. I’m not exactly what you’d call a morning person. I’m more of a don’t-talk-to-me-until-I’ve-hooked-up-my-coffee-IV person. Preferably after noon.

  “Jesus, what is that racket?” I asked, stumbling into the living room.

  On the sofa sat Aunt Sue, clad in a fuzzy powder blue bathrobe and matching slippers, and beside her Cal, arms folded over his chest, hair still wet from his shower, his nose just slightly swollen still. Light stubble lined his jaw, telling me he’d been too macho to use the pink razors in the bathroom. Though the five o’clock shadow was a good look on him. Instinctively, my hand went to my bed head, trying in vain to smooth the errant strands.

  On the end table was the source of the full-blast Today show airing—Aunt Sue’s hearing aid, conspicuously not in her ear.

  “You’re going to wake the entire neighborhood,” I pointed out, crossing the room. Cal’s eyes followed me, and I suddenly wished I’d stopped to throw on a pair of jeans first. Instead, I tugged at the hem of my T-shirt, willing it to cover my butt.

  It almost complied.

  “’Morning, peanut,” Aunt Sue said, her eyes riveted to the cooking segment.

  “’Morning.”

  “What?”

  “I said, ‘morning,’” I yelled. “Why aren’t you wearing your hearing aid?”

  She gave me a blank look.

  “Your hea-ring ai-d,” I repeated, pointing to it.

  She waved me off. “I don’t need that thing. I can hear the TV just fine.”

  “So can Canada. Can you turn it down?”

  “What?”

  “Down! Turn it down!”

  “Actually, yes, I’d love some coffee, thanks.”

  I threw my hands up. It was useless. “I’m gonna take a shower,” I muttered instead.

  “With cream,” Aunt Sue shouted after me.

  I ignored her, instead shutting the bathroom door behind me with a click.

  The room was still warm and steamy from Cal’s shower, a lingering scent left behind that was subtle yet very clearly male. As I stepped into the spray of water, I couldn’t help thinking that just moments ago his naked body had been where mine was now. An odd awareness tingled in my belly.

  Yeah, I really needed to get laid, didn’t I?

  I shook it off, opening the tiny window over the bathtub to let the steam out as I lathered my hair.

  Twenty minutes later I was washed, dried, dressed in jeans, a pair of hot pink converse (yes, I owned them in multiple colors), and a white button-down shirt. I swear it had nothing to do with the way Cal had looked at me last night that I matched it with a hot pink bra that showed just the slightest bit underneath. Nothing at all.

  I emerged from my bedroom to find Aunt Sue now engrossed in Regis and Kelly, a cup of java in hand. Cal was manning Mr. Coffee, and as soon as he saw me, he pulled down another mug, filling it to the brim with sweet life-giving liquid. I’ll admit, I was beginning to warm to the guy.

  “My fault,” he said, gesturing to Aunt Sue.

  “What is?”

  “I told her she looked too young to need a hearing aid.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Way to go, Romeo.”

  He grinned. “Sorry.”

  “Apology accepted. But,” I warned, “only because you made coffee.”

  As soon as I was semicoherent, I pulled out my cell, called a locksmith, then began running through my address book for someone who could sit with Aunt Sue that day. Unfortunately, my cousin Brad had to take his dog to the vet. Aunt Sue’s daughter, Catherine, was at Magic Mountain with the kids. My uncle Don was going golfing. Suddenly everyone had dentist visits or dry cleaning to pick up or belly button lint that needed removing. Apparently word ha
d spread of my aunt’s cooking.

  In the end, there was only one person on the list who had the day off and was willing to spend it watching Game Show Network at top volume. Aunt Sue’s older sister, Millie.

  “Tina, look how much you’ve grown,” Aunt Millie said half an hour later when I answered the front door. She immediately began pinching my cheeks and making clucking sounds at how skinny I was.

  Millie was dressed in a frilly turquoise blouse, turquoise slacks, and a pair of huge white sneakers fastened by Velcro. A turquoise cap studded with rhinestones sat on top of her white hair, tiny wisps escaping on the sides. Her face was such a series of wrinkles it was hard to tell where her chin ended and her neck began, and the top of her head only came to about my shoulders. It was as if someone had taken a normal-sized person and left her out in the sun until she’d shriveled into this raisin of a woman. A pair of very dark eyes squinted behind the thickest glasses known to man, bouncing from me to Cal.

  Cal raised a questioning eyebrow my way.

  “Cal, I’d like you to meet my aunt Millie. Aunt Millie, this is Cal.”

  Millie looked up at him, her eyes magnified to twice their size behind her super glasses. “He’s hot.”

  I could swear I almost saw Cal blush.

  “So, where’s my baby sister?” she asked, eyes scanning the condo.

  “In the living room.” I took Aunt Millie by the shoulders, pointing her in the right direction.

  “I see her.” Millie nodded, then shuffled up to a floor lamp and started making conversation.

  Cal grabbed me by the sleeve. “Okay, what’s granny doing here?”

  “I told you I’d get someone to watch Aunt Sue today.”

  “This is your bodyguard?”

  “I never said bodyguard.”

  “She’s a hundred.”

  “She’s only eighty-nine. And she’s very sharp.”

  Cal threw his hands up. “Oh, well then!”

  “Look,” I said, “she’s all I could get on short notice.”

  “May I remind you that someone broke in here last night? What about taking this threat seriously?”

  “I know she’s no Rambo. But she’s very spry. Aunt Millie was an Olympic fencer in her day.”

  “And which century would that day be in?”

  “She’s sharp,” I repeated.

  “She’s talking to a lamp.”

  I pursed my lips together. “Okay, she’s a little nearsighted. But she’s got a mind like a steel trap.”

  He ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t have a good feeling about this.”

  I followed his gaze, watching as Aunt Millie navigated around the lamp and bent down to pet one of Aunt Sue’s fuzzy slippers, murmuring, “Nice kitty.”

  “I really don’t have a good feeling about this,” he repeated.

  “Hey, you said yourself, it was probably just someone trying to scare me. What are the chances I’ll get scared twice?”

  Cal didn’t look entirely convinced. Especially as he watched Aunt Millie greet her sister.

  “Sue, darling, when did you get a cat?”

  Aunt Sue cocked her head to the side. “What?”

  “The cat. When did you get the cat?”

  “Speak up.”

  “Cat! I like your cat!”

  “Oh. Why, yes, I did notice your hat.”

  Cal shot me a look. Then shook his head, mumbling, “God help the guy who tries to break in here.”

  “So, what’s the plan today?” Cal asked, once we’d left the gruesome twosome happily chatting about Sudoku and blood pressure medication.

  “Well, Blain Hall’s next on our list,” I replied.

  “Blain Hall,” he rolled the name over his tongue. “Where’s he drying out?”

  “Sunset Shores. It’s a chi-chi place in Malibu.”

  “You think they’ll let us in to see him?”

  I scoffed. “Not a chance. But if he’s our guy, he had to have hired someone else to make that first call. The PW number was a landline and, I already checked, it’s not associated with Sunset Shores.”

  “That’s pretty risky. Hiring someone to do your dirty work in a town where everyone squeals to the press eventually.”

  “Yeah, well, Blain isn’t exactly known for his brilliant decisions. Hence the rehab.”

  “You think he called this accomplice and told him what to say?”

  I shook my head. “No, all calls coming in or going out are monitored. It would have had to be someone who visited Blain in person. We need to get a look at his guest log.”

  “They’ll let you do that?”

  I gave him a wink. “Oh, I have my ways.”

  Chapter Eight

  Malibu is about thirty-five miles north of L.A. proper, along the historic Pacific Coast Highway, which hugs the California coastline in single lanes. And which between the hours of three and eight resembles a parking lot. Thankfully, at ten in the morning, things were relatively free of traffic heading north. Relatively. We were still stuck behind a slow Mercedes (hybrid of course—this was, after all, L.A.) the entire way. Though, in the towering oil hog, we were a good three feet above the car, a completely unobstructed view of the morning sun glinting off the ocean as we snaked past crab shacks, brightly colored sushi joints, and towering glass-walled mansions.

  Half an hour later we rolled up to the Sunset Shores rehabilitation clinic. Of course, the term clinic was completely misleading. This was nothing like the crowded waiting room of the place that gave out free condoms in Burbank. This looked like something out of a Club Med brochure. Only nicer.

  Huge glass windows spanned the front of the building, capitalizing on the natural California sunshine. Dark woods framed the structure, punctuated by palm trees and flowering agapanthus circling the perfectly manicured lawn. A small slate fountain with three coy fish circling in the pond at its base sat off to one side of the ornately carved front doors.

  Cal did a low whistle. “Nice place.”

  “No kidding. It has a nice price tag, too. Rumor has it, two weeks here is more than my yearly salary.”

  “I’m in the wrong business.”

  Cal pulled up the circular drive and handed his keys to the valet before we pushed inside the impressive mahogany doors.

  The interior smelled faintly of lavender and Pine Sol as we made our way across the expanse of marble floor to the large granite counter spanning reception. A young woman dressed more like a cruise director than a nurse sat behind it, typing away at a computer. She looked up as we approached, a name tag reading “Sandy” visible on her lapel.

  “May I help you?” she inquired in a soft, evenly modulated voice that I’m sure the patients found very soothing.

  “I hope so,” I answered. “My name is…Laura. Laura Petrie. This is my associate, Rob,” I said, gesturing to Cal. “We work with Blain Hall’s publicist.”

  The receptionist nodded. “How can I help you, Laura?”

  “Well, we’re trying to head off a little potential trouble before the media gets wind of it. We’d be extremely grateful if you could help us, Sandy.”

  Her brows furrowed, creating teeny lines on her forehead that suggested she’d yet to hit that thirty-year mark when, in Hollywood, Botox became as necessary as flossing. “What sort of trouble?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, straightening my spine. “We’re not at liberty to discuss that.”

  Sandy looked disappointed. “Oh. Well, I’m not sure how I could help.”

  “We need to know if Blain has had any visitors recently. Say, in the past three days? You do keep logs?”

  She nodded slowly. “Yes, we do,” she agreed hesitantly. “But they’re private.”

  “I understand, I really do. But this could mean the end of his career if this got out. It could be, well, tabloid suicide. And, I’m sure you can agree, that’s the last thing he needs right now when he should be focusing on his recovery.”

  She nodded. “I understand. But the records a
re private and…”

  “Let me level with you, Sandy,” I said, leaning both elbows on the desk. Instinctively she leaned back a fraction. “If I have your word that you won’t tell a soul—I mean a single solitary soul—I’ll tell you what we’re dealing with here.”

  Sandy immediately perked up, nodding vigorously. “I swear.” She leaned in close. “What is it?”

  “Okay.” I made a big show of looking over both shoulders, then leaned in again. “A woman has come forward claiming that she’s pregnant with Blain Hall’s baby.”

  “No!” Though I could see her eyes light up like Christmas.

  No one is immune to the power of good gossip.

  I nodded. “Yes! This certain woman claims she’s been seeing Blain for the past year, that they’re currently an item. Well, I tell you this is the first I’ve heard of it.”

  “Who is she?” Sandy asked.

  I shook my head. “I can’t say.”

  “Oh.” Her shoulders slumped.

  “But I will tell you…”

  She leaned in again.

  “…she rocks.”

  Sandy gave me a blank stare.

  “And she’s like a dog with a bone with this dirty story.”

  Again with the blank stare.

  I mentally threw my hands up in surrender. “It’s Cherry Chase. The Dirty Dog’s bassist?”

  Sandy gasped. “No!”

  I nodded. “Yes.” Okay, a total fabrication. As far as I knew Cherry and Blain were the proverbial “just friends.” But she’d totally denied me an interview backstage at their latest concert, so I only felt the teeniest bit guilty throwing her under the gossip bus now.

  “Wow, no wonder they have such chemistry on stage,” Sandy mused.

  “But you didn’t hear it from me,” I reminded her.

  “Riiight.” She winked at me.

  “Anyway, we need to know if there’s any truth to this before it gets out to the media. And having Blain’s visitor records sure would help us out a lot.”

  Sandy nodded. “Absolutely.”

  “You can see why this is a very delicate matter that must be handled with the utmost discretion.”

  She nodded again. “Totally. Let me see if I can find those records for you. Hang on.”