Hot Dish

by Brockway, Connie

  “It’s a Jaax, too,” Ken put in importantly.

  “That’s cool, I’m sure? But we’re more interested in its age than its creator,” Wallbank said apologetically.

  “Thanks for coming all this way just to tell us that, Mr. Wallbank,” Paul said. Ken, who was looking disgruntled, having once again been dismissed, clearly didn’t understand the commercial potential here.

  “Ah, thank you?” Wallbank said. “But, ah, I didn’t come here just to tell you it was old.”

  “Oh?” Ken said.

  “What are you here for then?” Bob abruptly asked, New Yorkers being impatient.

  “I’m here to buy it? For the Ripley’s Believe It or Not Museum?” Wallbank said.

  “How much?” Paul asked, Canadians being practical.

  “Ten thousand dollars.”

  Just outside the mayor’s office, Turv, who’d been killing time by pressing his ear against the wall and eavesdropping, slid to the floor.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  1:15 p.m.

  Same place

  Jenn pulled the Subaru into the town hall parking lot and turned off the engine, having dropped off yet more money at Sleeping Beauty’s castle as per instructions given her by a jovial Dunkovich. When she’d asked where she was supposed to find the butter head—not bothering to mention that she’d already been this route once before in the last twenty-four hours—he’d told her the butter head was his problem and hung up. He hadn’t bothered to ask how she’d come up with the cash, which was fine with her because she didn’t intend to tell him. Or anyone else, ever.

  In a way, it was too bad, because her run of luck at the blackjack table had been the stuff of gambling mythology: unprecedented, unanticipated, and unbelievable. Not that she’d been able to enjoy it. She’d been too furious at the fact of having been blackmailed, at the fact that the blackmail material had been handed to her tormentor by one of her Fawn Creek neighbors, and finally, at the fact that she’d had to dress up like a cheap whore in order to keep any of the reporters in town covering the sesquicentennial from looking too closely at her face and thus discovering who she was. A story about Jenn Lind, the Wholesome Honey of the Heartland, gambling would be a whole lot more interesting than how much lye it takes to process a pound of lutefisk.

  Though she hadn’t seen any familiar faces from the local news yet, she knew there were bound to be at least a few around, just like she knew where they’d be hanging out while they waited for the sesquicentennial to get under way, and it wasn’t at Portia’s Tavern. It would be the casino.

  She slouched way down in the front seat of her Subaru and, after a quick look around to make sure the lot was empty, wiggled the cheap prom dress she’d found on Pamida’s sales rack over her head. Just as quickly she slipped on her sweatshirt and jeans and exited her car, heading to Paul’s office to see what he wanted. Probably to torture her with more sesquicentennial duties. As if going ice fishing tomorrow wasn’t torture enough.

  The only person up here she didn’t currently despise—aside from Heidi and Mercedes … and her parents, of course … and that Holmberg kid at the gas station … and Mrs. Unger and, okay, maybe Mrs. Soderberg, but that was still up in the air—was Steve.

  She felt bad about Steve. He’d been looking forward to seeing that butter head. It meant something to him—something decent, you could tell by the fervent look in his eye when he talked about it. And the poor schmuck hadn’t played any part in her current predicament. Not that there was a predicament anymore.

  The thieves had their “reward,” Dunkovich presumably had his butter head, and once more she had a future at AMS. Thank God for that because she didn’t have a whole lot else, like a social life, a home, a dog … a boyfriend. For a while there, she’d thought she saw something else ahead on that metaphorical road of her life but that had been a mirage. She had a career. A good career, she reminded herself. You didn’t blow a good career because some guy you barely knew wanted to see a pile of butter he had whittled decades earlier.

  A woman had to be practical.

  Once inside the town hall, she slipped into the ladies’ room just past the hall’s front door and took off the wraparound sunglasses and the wig that had started their day in Pamida’s Dollar Bargain Bin. She brushed her hair, studying herself in the bathroom mirror. She looked awful. Her eyes were swollen from her little crying jag—and there would be no repeats of that episode, thank you very much—her skin was pasty with the three-shades-too-light pancake makeup she’d troweled on, and her lipstick was so red it looked like she was wearing plastic clown lips.

  Too bad. She was tired of always having to be “on” and Fawn Creek sure as hell didn’t appreciate her efforts. No matter what she did or how she looked they weren’t going to embrace her as their own. Nope. She was the perennial outsider here and always would be. There was no reason for her to extend even the smallest exertion. Besides, it wasn’t like Fawn Creek was the real world, at least not her real world. In fact, after this second betrayal, she might suspect it to be some yet undisclosed circle of hell, one level up from the frozen lake. So, if Paul lifted up his skirts and ran screaming from the sight of her, so be it.

  She left the bathroom and crossed the lobby, nodding to the receptionist, Dorie Mallikson (who really ought to bite the bullet and spring twenty-five dollars for a decent bleach job), on her way to the mayor’s office. There she found that slacker friend of Eric Erickson’s sitting on the floor next to the door.

  “Hey” she said, looking down at him and rapping sharply on the door.

  His mouth dropped open.

  Ah! Come on! She didn’t look that bad.

  “Oh! Oh, Ms. Hallesby. I mean Ms. Lind … hey.”

  “Come in!”

  Jenn opened the door and stepped through. “Okay, Paul, what’s got your panties all in a twis—”

  The day, already on track to be one of her life’s least favorites, bottomed out. Bob Reynolds, dashing, decorative, and dapper, perched on the corner of Paul’s desk, his hand wrapped around one of his knees in a pose straight out of GQ. Around him, in various attitudes of boredom, stood the film crew. They all looked very “coast”—east or west, take your pick—especially the guy with the straight black hair and waxed brows. She closed her eyes, cursing herself for forgetting they’d arrived.

  “Jenn!” Bob hopped off the desk and hurried over, throwing his arms around her and kissing her on both cheeks. He draped an arm over her shoulders and spun her around to face the room. “Here’s our star, kids! Jenn Lind!”

  Everyone made appropriately excited noises except Dieter, the director, who remained slumped in his chair. She dipped her shoulder, squirming out of Bob’s comradely embrace, and faced the crew.

  “I’m sorry. The connection was bad. I couldn’t hear Paul. I was out on … errands.” She gave up trying to explain. “I look like crap.”

  “Dear One!” enthused the makeup artist—he couldn’t be anyone else—approaching her and taking her hands in his, his assessing gaze scouring her face. “Do not worry! I live to be needed.”

  “I’m sorry, Jenn,” Paul apologized. Behind him, Ken Holmberg was staring at her in something approaching horror. “I thought you were at the Lodge. I didn’t realize you were”—he searched around for some explanation of why she looked like she did—“doing stuff.”

  “It’s okay.” Best to get on with the work at hand. “So what’s your time frame here?”

  “Two days,” the spoon-chested director stated. “So we have to start shooting like now, if we’re going to get this spot Bob wants.”

  “What spot?”

  “Remember when I said it would be cool if we could actually shoot a segment at the festival?” Bob asked.

  “It’s a sesquicentennial,” Paul said.

  “Whatever.” Bob didn’t even bother looking at him as he said it and Jenn found that really irritating. Paul was a good guy. “We want you doing your tiling during the ses—celebration to appear on the
very first show of Checklist for Living.”

  “What’s Checklist for Living?”

  “It’s your show,” Bob said serenely.

  “No, it’s not,” she said. “My show is Comforts of Home. Did you smoke a little something on your way up here, Bob?”

  He let out a phony, uncomfortable chuckle, watching her with the same expression he might have had if a dog had suddenly started speaking. She understood. The “Jenn Lind” he’d met had gone missing. She’d better find her fast if she wanted to preserve the persona.

  “Go find some coffee in the lobby, why don’t you, kids?” Bob said. The “kids” jumped up and scattered.

  “Could I have the use of your office for a few minutes, Mayor?” Bob asked. He looked at Ken. “And you, too, mis—sir.”

  “Ah … sure.” Paul left.

  “Holmberg. Ken Holmberg,” Ken snapped irritably, adding with a hard look at Jenn, “Don’t do anything stupid to screw this up like you done at the state fair pageant, Jenn. This is important to more people than just you.” He marched out.

  She really despised him.

  Bob slung his arm over Jenn’s shoulders again. “Walk with me.”

  Walk with me? Oh fer—And he’d seemed like such a nice guy. Still, he was as close to a boss as she had here, so she walked.

  He led her to the window. “We’re all really excited about shooting up here. Deter is orgasmic. He loves this. He loves you.” She doubted this. Orgasmic Deter had seemed much more interested in poking at a pimple on the back of his neck.

  “We have some great ideas. Great ideas,” he went on. “Marketing has been working overtime devising fresh ways of presenting you and the show and the first thing they did was to change the name.”

  “Fine,” she said, trying to sound reasonable. “Comforts of Home may have been a bit hokey. But, Bob … Checklist for Living? It sounds like a catalog for medical screening: mammogram, colonoscopy, cholesterol.”

  “Yeah.” He sighed, his expression commiserating. “But it turns out that the viewing public is getting sick of the idea of homes and hearths. They want things that help them facilitate and streamline their lives. You know: techno tips, downloads, charts, itineraries, tables.” He lifted his hands, wiggling them on either side of his head.

  She wondered if he was trying to be amusing. His hands dropped.

  “Anyway, we’re going to call your show Checklist for Living. Which is frankly way nipper than Comforts of Home.” He leaned his head closer to hers and whispered, “Between you and me, I always thought you were way too sexy for a show about making muffins.”

  From his suddenly sleepy expression, she concluded he was attempting to express a manly interest in her. She looked back, making no effort to hide her lack of womanly response. Unexpectedly, the memory of Steve’s face closing fast toward hers, his expression unpremeditated and natural, filled her mental vision. It shook her. Not that she remembered Steve’s kissing her—he was a really good kisser and well worth remembering—but that this young stud who embodied everything she generally found appealing—success, good grooming, financial security, sophistication, efficiency—should hold no appeal for her whatsoever.

  He released her shoulders. “It’s going to be cool, Jenn. At the beginning of each show, we’re going to display a checklist geared specifically to that episode which people can download from our Web site. We’ll have checklists for putting together the perfect party, for power parenting, for model pet owning, for the ideal romance. People love lists. It’ll be fabulous.”

  Checklists? She was supposed to make checklists for people on how to live? This couldn’t be happening to her.

  “What about small-town values and back-to-basics lifestyles?” she asked.

  “Yeah. Well. Marketing thinks that boat has sailed.” He pressed her hand apologetically. “It’s all about numbers now. People are freaking in love with numbers. How many, how often, how much … By the way, next month is National Immunization Month. So be prepared.”

  “What? You’re going to make a checklist of the shots I need and give them to me every ten minutes on air?” she spat sarcastically.

  “Well …”

  “What about Dwight Davies?” she asked, becoming frantic. They really meant it. They’d really entirely reformatted her show without consulting her! “What about his commitment to values-oriented programming?”

  “Dwight’s down with this,” Bob assured her. “What could provide better values than to give people a way to make sure they haven’t missed any steps in life? Dwight said—and let me quote—’People need help. We’re going to help them.’ Isn’t that nice?”

  She didn’t want to help people. She wanted to cook. And maybe give people a few tips on taking care of their house plants. Not that she had any of those, either. Even house plants took more care than she could responsibly give.

  “This checklist thing is going to work,” Bob went on. “People love knowing they’re making headway and what better way to do that than with a checklist?”

  “But that’s not what I do! I cook. Occasionally I bleach something. Once in a while I rub some candle wax on the bottom of a drawer to make it pull easier.”

  She couldn’t make a checklist for the ideal romance; she couldn’t even make a checklist for a failed romance!

  “Oh,” he scoffed gently, “don’t worry about that. It doesn’t matter what you do on the show. We’ll take care of everything. You just do the magic you were hired to do, babe.”

  Babe? This was a nightmare. She had to call Nat. Now. Find out what the hell was happening to her big breakout.

  “So”—Bob stepped back, rubbing his hands together—“what say we get Benjamin in here to do a little of his own magic on this poor face of yours. What have you been doing up here? Using a tanning bed? You are rough and red, babe.”

  She felt fuzzy, disoriented. A little kernel of panic sizzled in her chest. All the lovely control she’d thought she’d had over her career and life seemed to be slipping through her fingers like talcum powder, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. First Dunkovich, now AMS.

  “You feeling ready to go out there and attack this show? We’re going to call the first show ‘Checklist for a Winter Wonderland Weekend.’ It’s gonna be money.”

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  5:10 p.m.

  Highway 73, Fawn Creek

  “It’s like God looked down from heaven and suddenly woke up to the fact that we’ve been getting shafted all these years and has decided to make it right,” Turv said, reverently fanning the wad of bills Jenn Hallesby had stuck in the castle.

  Ned let him play with the cash. He deserved some fun.

  Turv had hightailed it from city hall, making a beeline for Ned’s garage after calling both Ned and Eric en route with the news that their little darlin’ here—Ned paused to give the butter head under her burlap shroud a fond pat—was worth ten thousand dollars.

  The true wonder of all this was that good news had just heaped itself atop good news, because earlier Eric, unemployed and bored, had decided to go check Sleeping Beauty’s castle early and there found the twenty-five-hundred-dollar reward that guy in the hospital had promised them.

  The Dunkovich dude had vetoed their idea of making a swap in the hospital parking lot, which had made Ned a little sorry since he’d planned to tell everyone they found the butter head while they were taking a walk and would then be hailed as heroes. Instead, Dunkovich had insisted on complete secrecy, telling ‘em he’d leave the money and they could call and tell him where to find the butter head, adding to make sure it was well hid and keep quiet about their little “transaction.”

  Of course, they hadn’t gotten around to stashing it and so they hadn’t gotten around to calling him and now it looked like they weren’t going to. Not with so many people interested in buying the butter head.

  “I don’t think it’s God,” Eric said, from where he sat on the Crestliner’s battered prow, his legs dangling over the sid
e as he puffed on a doobie. “I think it’s Storybook Land, man.”

  Eric was high, having on his way back used a portion of the money he’d found in the castle to procure a little celebratory dope. Ned wasn’t sure he liked Eric making executive decisions like that but in this case he couldn’t complain. He was high, too.

  “What’re you talking about, Eric?” Ned asked, sticking the Ziploc bag full of dope back under the pilot’s seat in the Crestliner. They couldn’t afford to be too wasted. They had things to figure out.

  “It’s magic,” Eric insisted. “You make a phone call and brownies come and leave money in Sleeping Beauty’s Castle. I mean, that guy in the hospital is in a body cast—how else do you explain how that money came to be out there? Brownies.” He giggled.

  “Take the joint away from Eric, Turv,” Ned said. “We got things to do and we don’t wanta screw up a real nice deal here ‘cause Eric can’t hold his water.”

  Turv lurched up out of the broken-down sofa and plucked the joint from between Eric’s lips, taking a drag himself before fastidiously pinching off the ember and sticking the rest into his shirt pocket.

  “Okay, let’s figure this out,” Ned said. “Who all wants our little butter beauty here? We got an unofficial offer for ten thousand from Ripley’s.”

  “Ripley’s ain’t gonna pay for stolen property,” Eric said.

  “No. But we can tell Jenn Hallesby that if her folks get it back they can sell it to Ripley’s for ten and we’ll sell it to her for seventy-five. They’ll still make twenty-five for themselves. Then we got this guy at the hospital. He already paid twenty-five. We just tell him we been offered ten and he’s gonna have to match that or forget about ever getting the butter head.”

  “He’s never gonna go for that,” Eric protested. Eric was proving to be something of a killjoy. “Why would he? He can’t sell it to Ripley’s, either. It’s not his.”