A First Date with Death

by Diana Orgain

  Nathan strode toward me and wrapped his free arm around my waist. He easily lifted me off my feet and twirled me. “Wow,” he gushed. “When I signed up for this show I was sure hoping the girl would be hot and you are. Doll, you’re smoking.”

  Every alarm signal in my body went off.

  The first time around, Nathan had done exactly the same thing, only I’d thought he’d been sincere. How had he managed to do and say exactly the same thing in the same way? Edward had needed prompting and even then it came off flat, but not Nathan. No, this was just an act for him. Now I knew he was definitely on the show for the money.

  I pasted a smile on my face. “Nice to meet you.”

  He gave a little shake of his head and his longish blond curls shook. He licked his lips and headed toward the door.

  As soon as he’d disappeared through the door, Harris came out to make small talk with me.

  “Cut,” Cheryl called. She took Harris aside and whispered something to him.

  A team of hair and makeup people descended upon me. One stylist was doing something to my hair and the other woman was touching up my face powder. The one doing my makeup was the same woman I’d been trying to place earlier. I studied her while she fluffed me up.

  Suddenly I pictured her in another setting . . . a courtroom.

  My stomach lurched.

  This woman touching up my makeup bore a striking resemblance to Teresa Valens, a woman I had put behind bars five years before.

  “Clear the set!” Cheryl yelled.

  Teresa flitted off.

  Good God. What would Teresa be doing here? And she’d been on the set in San Francisco. My breath caught as I recalled standing on the railing of the bridge and the hand pressing against my back just at the moment when I needed my balance most. Could that accident have been intended for me?

  Before I could process the thought the limousine arrived again, with its second load of passengers.

  Richard, the attorney, stepped out. He wore an ascot and a top hat. I smiled inwardly because he looked like the type of guy my dad would want me to end up with.

  He oozed class. He introduced himself, kissed my hand, and walked into the house. I liked the simple introduction.

  Next was Bruce, the techie geek. He smiled, revealing a slightly crooked front tooth, which reminded me of my first boyfriend in fifth grade. I had trusted him immediately.

  Then out of the limo came Mitch, the real estate investor. He walked with confidence and then read me a cheesy poem from one knee. I laughed and thanked him for the poetry.

  Next out of the limo was Derek; he used a cane and slightly hobbled. He had a military crew cut and I learned the first night that he’d been injured in Afghanistan and had a few bolts in his ankle. He was expected to have a full recovery but it was still early for him, thus the cane.

  Finally, Paul got out of the limo. Unexpectedly my entire body began to shake. I wanted to run into his arms and tell him about Teresa Valens and finally feel like there was something in my life that I didn’t have to go at alone.

  Paul walked over to me and smiled stiffly. He said, “I’m Paul.”

  My breath caught and I felt a pain in my chest as if my heart had just cracked. I fought the tears threatening to spring into my eyes. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry. He gripped my hands. “Georgia, you’re shivering.” He released my hands and immediately took off his coat and wrapped it over my shoulders.

  “Here, this will keep you warm.”

  My heart sank. He’d misunderstood me yet again.

  He put his arm around me and led me toward the house.

  “Cut!” Cheryl yelled.

  Six

  INT. LIBRARY DAY

  Bruce is looking directly at the camera. Behind him are some nondescript bookshelves and a small low table with a lamp. He is about thirty, wearing a green polo shirt with khaki pants. He has a few days’ stubble on his checks and his hair is slightly long and unkempt.

  CHERYL (O.S.)

  So tell us, Bruce, you’re a Silicon Valley guy?

  BRUCE

  (smiling) Yup, yup. Living the California dream. I have a high-tech company in Palo Alto. We design video games. Our latest release is Mad Bees. Have you heard of it?

  CHERYL (O.S.)

  No.

  BRUCE

  (sitting up straighter and jiggling his legs) Oh, sure, sure. Not everyone’s heard of it. But, you know, we’re exploring the plight of the bumblebee.

  CHERYL (O.S.)

  Like in Fantasia?

  BRUCE

  No, no. Plight, not flight. And anyway, Fantasia was . . . uh, never mind. The point is the declining population of the bumblebee is alarming—

  CHERYL (O.S.)

  Bumblebees or honeybees?

  BRUCE

  Both, really, but our first merchandise release was about the bumblebee. It was more of a marketing decision rather than ecological, I’ll admit. Bumblebees are brighter yellow and our focus groups consistently kept picking the bumblebee over the honeybee, and, hey (flashes a winning smile), you gotta listen to focus groups, right?

  CHERYL (O.S.)

  Right. Right. So, your business is doing well. You said you’re living the dream?

  BRUCE

  Business is booming, yes. More than I’d ever imagined. But there is something missing in my life.

  CHERYL (O.S.)

  Let me guess. You’re on the show to find love.

  BRUCE

  Now, that would be a dream come true.

  • • • • • • • • •

  The crew ushered us to the back of the mansion, poolside. The sun was setting lower in the sky, casting a romantic feel around the patio. Everyone was handed a fake cocktail by a crew member and told to mingle and smile.

  My drink was blue-colored soda water with a lime on top. Cheryl had positioned herself behind me, within earshot but out of camera range. I sipped at my drink and tried to clear my head, finding it difficult to concentrate with Cheryl breathing down my neck.

  The men were clustered around, talking to each other. When Edward saw me alone, he broke away from his group and approached me. “Can I steal you away for some chitchat?”

  “What are you hoping to get out of this?” I asked him.

  I heard Cheryl snort behind me.

  Battle-ax.

  Edward smiled. “Love, of course.”

  Well, they were all going to say that, now, weren’t they? They weren’t going to tell me to my face that they were in it for the money. No wonder Cheryl had snorted. I was an idiot!

  Edward gazed at me and I felt a mild nervousness.

  Were those butterflies in my stomach?

  A huge splash came from the pool. Edward and I turned toward it. Nathan had flopped into the pool and now was climbing on top of his surfboard.

  “Come on, guys. I need some waves,” Nathan yelled.

  It didn’t take much; within seconds Bruce and Mitch were in the water splashing about and causing a tidal wave. Nathan did a backflip off his board with a great wallop.

  “Someone is going to crack their head open on the side of the pool,” Edward said.

  An involuntary shudder coursed through my body, as images of Aaron slamming into the bay filled my mind.

  Edward placed a soothing hand on the small of my back and I was vaguely aware that the cameras seemed to zoom in on us.

  I swallowed past the horrific images in my head and said, “It’s a good thing we have a doctor nearby.”

  Edward laughed. “Guys will do anything to get your attention, right?”

  I shrugged and took a deep breath. “Tell me about yourself.”

  “I’m from the Bay Area. I graduated from Stanford Medicine two years ago and now I’m an intern at UCSF.”

  If he was from the Bay Area and had lived and worked in San Francisco, then it was possible that he knew about my humiliating departure from my job as a public information officer. My termination had been all over th
e local news. I stuffed down the feeling of disgrace that threatened to surface and focused instead on the butterflies.

  Edward was kind and warm, and I already knew his bedside manner was appealing.

  Before I could speak, a crew member thrust a towel in my hand. I watched Nathan climb out of the pool, his wet shirt clinging to his chest. He made a point of disrobing and tossing the sopping clothes aside.

  I broke away from Edward and tossed the towel to Nathan. “Here. You’re all wet behind the ears.”

  Nathan laughed. He made no move to catch the towel; he simply let it hit him in the chest and slither to the floor.

  We locked gazes, him daring me with his incredible blue eyes to pick the towel up from around his feet.

  “Unfortunately for you, I stoop for no man,” I said to Nathan.

  He lunged at me and gripped me around the waist. “Unfortunately for you, I love being wet.” He lifted me in his arms and jumped into the pool. We went under for a moment, and I struggled to break his hold, but he held tight as we surfaced. I shook my wet hair out of my face and was ready to scream when he planted a kiss on my lips.

  He pressed against me and the kiss lasted longer than I expected, sending a chill throughout my body.

  He grabbed at my boobs and I pulled away, angry.

  He grinned. “I guess you don’t mind getting a little wet, either.”

  I disentangled myself from his arms and swam to the side of the pool. My eyes caught Paul’s, shooting daggers at me.

  Pietro was standing at the edge of the pool with a towel. I reached under the water and freed my feet from the beautiful designer shoes. I handed first one and then the other to Pietro. He grabbed the shoes and made a cute little pout, saying, “Poor Sergios.”

  I laughed.

  Earlier in the evening I’d thought a close-up of the shoes would have been nice, but now everything seemed hopeless.

  I hoisted myself out of the pool, the halter dress dripping and clinging to me.

  Pietro wrapped the towel around me and whispered in my ear, “Georgia, we need to find a place to speak without cameras or microphones. I have urgent information.”

  I tensed.

  Pietro made a fuss about rubbing my back. “Oh, you are cold! We must go inside and sit by the fire.”

  “Cut,” Cheryl yelled.

  The cast seemed to move about quickly, more or less disappearing immediately. Pietro gave me a discreet look to make sure I’d understood him. I nodded.

  The only remaining people on the set were myself, Cheryl, and a cameraman.

  The towel fell from around my shoulders and slipped to the ground. As I reached for it, I noticed my breasts protruding rather scandalously from the dress.

  “Crap,” I muttered to no one in particular. “I’m practically falling out of this dress.”

  Cheryl raised an eyebrow at the cameraman. “Maybe she’ll make an okay bachelorette after all.”

  Seven

  Cheryl gave me curt instructions to get back to my RV and rest. The reshoot of my first date would take place early the next morning.

  I was happy to be done for the day; my head seemed ready to explode. I wrapped the towel tight around my shoulders and walked around the mansion toward my coach. As I walked, I thought about Pietro’s comment. What could he need to speak to me about that was urgent? Did it have anything to do with Aaron? Perhaps he had seen something, but if so, surely he’d have told the police.

  I heard my name called and I turned to see Becca running down the walkway toward me. “Hey, Georgia, the scene was great! Cheryl is very happy.”

  “Really?”

  “Hell yes. Your boobs flew out of your dress when you jumped into the pool. How could she not be happy?”

  “What?” My hands instinctively flung toward my chest. My cleavage seemed intact. “No,” I said, relieved.

  Becca nodded emphatically. “I was monitoring camera one from inside the studio. The girls showed up. They’re already editing the scene for the promos.”

  “But it’s impossible—it’s some phony camera angle or something.”

  Becca laughed. “Oh, please—”

  I opened my towel and showed her my dress. “Come on, how could my boobs fall out of the dress and then magically fall back in? I mean, I didn’t fix my—”

  I stopped short, recalling my kiss with Nathan.

  “What?” Becca asked.

  “Nathan. I thought he was copping a feel, but he was actually—”

  “Aww. How sweet! He was trying to protect your dignity.”

  I buried my face in my hands. “Unbelievable! I’ll never live it down!”

  Becca pooh-poohed me. “Ah, a little skin, so what?”

  “Can you lose the scene?” I asked.

  Becca looked at me incredulously. “What do you mean, lose the scene?”

  “I don’t know, pour coffee on the film or something?”

  “We’re digital—”

  “Well, erase or delete or whatever.” I shrugged. “Come on, it happens all the time, I’m sure.”

  Becca straightened. “We’re not cops, you know, who can just tamper with evidence any ol’ way they choose.”

  “What? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Now, that probably happens all the time—I’m not saying you, but you know. Dirty cops. Like—”

  I grabbed her by the arm. “Shh.” I glanced around us to make sure we were still alone.

  Becca stood frozen a moment and then whispered, “I can’t lose the scene. I’d get fired.”

  I nodded.

  I knew what being fired was like. Regardless whether you’re innocent or not, it still sucks.

  “Never mind. I’m sorry I asked. Of course you can’t do that. I wouldn’t want you to do anything that would get you in trouble.”

  Becca nodded. “Thanks.”

  “Speaking of trouble, though, Teresa Valens is here. She’s one of the makeup artists.”

  Becca frowned. “Who?”

  “Teresa Valens!” I whispered. “Do you remember? I put her behind bars for murdering her husband.”

  Becca shook her head, confused, then covered her mouth with her hand and spoke through her fingers. “I remember vaguely. Was she the lady who shot him dead and then stabbed him for good measure?”

  I nodded. “That’s her.”

  Becca suddenly looked frightened. “What is she doing out? I thought she got twenty years. And you think she’s here?”

  “She’s the makeup lady!”

  “Which one? We have several, but no, no, we don’t have a Teresa Valens.”

  “The one who does my makeup. She did my makeup today and yesterday.”

  “That’s Florencia. Not Teresa.”

  “She’s going by a fake name, then. I’m sure it’s her.”

  “What do we do?” Becca asked.

  “Can you look into her file for me?”

  Becca grimaced. “You just said you weren’t going to ask me to do anything that could get me in trouble.”

  “Sorry. Sorry, I know. Can you get me onto the Internet?”

  As part of the standard contract for the show I’d agreed to have no Internet or phone access. Apparently, they didn’t want me spilling my guts to any media outlets before they could control the story.

  Becca shook her head. “No. I’d definitely get in trouble for that. I’ll look her up.”

  “And Aaron, too. Find out what happened. If he’s dead or in the hospital or what.”

  Becca nodded. “Okay, let’s get you out of the wet dress before you shake yourself to death.”

  She put her arm around me and I realized I was shivering.

  I bundled myself tighter in the towel. “One more thing.”

  “Crap. What?”

  “Pietro—”

  “Pietro, mm-mm. Now, he’s hot, isn’t he?” She steered me toward my RV. “You want some time alone with him, off camera, is that it?”

  “He said he needs to talk to me.”r />
  She raised an eyebrow. “After you flashed everyone I’m sure he wants more than just—”

  “Can you arrange it?”

  She sighed. “For someone who says she doesn’t want to get me in trouble, you’re certainly asking for a lot of favors.”

  I cringed. “I know.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Becca said.

  I held up my hand and placed my forefinger and thumb an inch apart. “And one more teeny tiny thing.”

  “You want me to run to the liquor store?”

  I laughed. “Weren’t you going to do that anyway?”

  Becca looked at me through her lashes. “What else do you want?”

  “I’d like to see the tapes from yesterday.”

  • • • • • • • • •

  The following morning I awoke to an incessant banging on the door to the coach. It was a production assistant, there to usher me into hair and makeup.

  This time I was given a proper dressing room inside the studio where we’d refilm a new first date.

  I was given the tightest jeans I’ve ever managed to shimmy myself into and then a top with a deep V cut. Clearly they were hoping to replicate the bosom sensation from the day before.

  When I complained to Kyle, one of the stylists, he shrugged and said, “Girl, if you got it, flaunt it. Ain’t nobody ever made it in this town by being a prude.”

  I hadn’t seen Becca all morning and now I was beginning to worry that I might have gotten her into trouble. Curiously, Teresa Valens was nowhere to be seen, either, and Kyle moved from my hair to my makeup.

  “Where’s the other lady?” I asked, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. Fortunately, sounding nonchalant is practically mandatory for public information officers, so it was a skill I had honed over the few years I’d had the job.

  Kyle shrugged and dabbed a small brush into a black tin and, sounding more nonchalant than I did, asked, “Who?”

  Clearly, I hadn’t mastered the skill as much as I’d thought.

  “The lady who did my makeup yesterday. Florencia, is it?”