Exclusive

by Fern Michaels

  Toots couldn’t help but roll her eyes. “I think we’ve discussed your interest enough. Just tell me what I need to do, Soph. You can’t imagine just how weird I feel in that room. When I put my robe on this morning, I kept looking around to see if anyone was watching me.”

  “Once I’m settled in the room, I’ll know more. For starters, I’ll have to make sure there really is a presence there.”

  With a trace of impatience Toots asked, “And how will you do that?”

  “It’s just something I’ll know. I’ll set up my voice recorder and video for backup, but if there’s truly a ghost hanging around this dump, I’ll know. Once I determine if it’s—shit, this sounds dumb even to me—once I determine if it’s a friendly ghost, then I can do a number of things. For starters, there’s the shoes remedy, and it’s pretty safe.”

  “Shoes? You’re going to rid this place of its ghosts or whatever the hell it is with a pair of shoes? Puh-leeze, Sophie. Even I’m not that gullible.”

  Sophie stubbed out her cigarette. “I know it sounds like a crock, but just hear me out.”

  Toots gazed out at the beach, where the white foamy waves were gently reaching the shoreline. In and out, constant, always predictable. She liked knowing what was happening around her, liked knowing, or at least being able to make a pretty good guess, what each day would bring. After last night’s scare, Toots was sure of one thing—she really did not like the unknown or the unpredictable. No, she liked and needed good, hard facts. But something told her that there would be very few of those available in what she was about to hear.

  Resigning herself to listening to Sophie’s shoe theory, she motioned with her hand. “Go on, tell me about the shoe stuff.”

  Sophie lit another cigarette; Toots was sure she’d smoked at least half a pack already. Then she, too, reached for one and lit up alongside her.

  With the surf as background noise, the occasional seagull cawing with bursts of laughter from an unseen group on the stretch of beach below them, Sophie sat on the edge of her deck chair and explained herself. “I’m not sure of its origins, but somewhere I recall reading about the shoe theory. It’s said when you go to bed at night, the person seeing or feeling the presence of a ghost—and in this case that would be you—is supposed to place the shoes you’ll be wearing the next day at the foot of your bed. You then point one shoe in one direction and its mate in the opposite direction. This is said to confuse the ghosts. After a few nights of discombobulation, the ghosts leave.”

  Toots glared at her in disbelief. “That’s it? Please tell me you’re joking.”

  Sophie instantly appeared deflated at Toots’s reaction, collapsing in on herself like a balloon that had lost its air. “What do you mean, joking? You asked me to tell you about the shoe theory, and that’s what I did. It’s not rocket science, Toots. It’s not something you major in physics at Harvard, Yale, or Caltech to learn. Don’t look so damned disappointed.”

  “Guess I was expecting something more…I don’t know, concrete. I haven’t dealt with this type of…bullshit before.”

  “Most people haven’t and never will, Toots. This isn’t the everyday normal stuff that we’re used to. Why do you think it’s so difficult for the average person to believe?”

  Toots agreed that she had a point. Still, in broad daylight, with the ocean stretched out before her and a warm breeze blowing tendrils of hair loose from her topknot, it was hard to adjust to the fact that they were discussing ghosts and ways to get rid of them.

  “Sophie, if word of this gets out, I could be in real trouble. What if someone at The Informer learns my identity, then discovers I’m seeing ghosts? This would not help Abby or the paper. In fact, it’s this kind of story that could sink us.”

  “What in the hell would make you think the paper could even find anything out about this? It’s not like I’m going to start running off at the mouth. Ida does enough of that for all of us.”

  “Sophie, you should be ashamed of yourself. She doesn’t wag her tongue that much, but don’t you see, that’s just it? We can’t afford to let anyone, and I mean absolutely anyone, find this out. Whatever you do, we have to keep this between us.”

  Sophie held up her hand to stop further conversation. “Remember, Toots, I can keep a secret.”

  Toots nodded. How could she ever doubt Sophie? She’d kept Walter’s abuse hidden from her for years. Toots trusted Sophie as much as she trusted herself. This craziness would stay between the two of them.

  “I know you can, Soph. Now that that’s settled, you want to share another ghostbusting theory with me? I am not spending another night in that god-awful purple room. I’ll go back to the Beverly Hills Hotel first.”

  Sophie laughed, her brown eyes sparkling with mischief. “Of course you will. Now, tell me. What do you know about electronic voice phenomena?”

  Chapter 3

  Abby Simpson gazed around her newly remodeled office, which had once belonged to Rodwell Archibald Godfrey III, her former boss and editor in chief of The Informer. Known as Rag to most of his employees, he’d made headlines himself when he’d disappeared several months ago. Days after he’d gone missing, she’d searched his house, called a few old girlfriends, and come up empty-handed. Rag was famous for pulling weekenders in Vegas and not showing up on Mondays, but Abby knew this was more than just your average recovery from a weekend binge. Concerned because it was unlike her boss just to up and vanish—he usually had the decency to at least call or send an e-mail—Abby reported him missing to the authorities, after which all hell had broken loose. The Informer, a third-rate tabloid with its offices housed in the former building of The Examiner, the building in which William Randolph Hearst had printed his first paper, had been set afire by Michael Constantine, a local lowlife with mob connections who’d been searching for Rag since he’d skipped town. Apparently her former boss had ripped Constantine off for fifty grand. Constantine was spotted leaving the scene of the fire and was caught and arrested within hours. The paper had to close for a few weeks in order to undergo cleanup and remodeling. Abby, along with a skeleton staff, had used her garage as a temporary office. Rag was still on the loose, with the authorities on his trail. It was thought he’d embezzled $10 million from the new owners of The Informer, who wished to remain anonymous. Abby had used every source she had, and still she hadn’t been able to learn the new owners’ identity. She told herself it didn’t matter. Whoever they were, they had not only doubled her salary but also appointed her temporary editor in chief. Though not out pounding the pavement for celebrity news, she still made a point to remain in touch with all of her sources. She wasn’t giving up tabloid reporting completely. If a story jumped out at her, something exclusive, she would write it, no matter what her position at the paper. Maybe when the new owners decided to come out of hiding, she would jump back into the swing of things full-time, but for now she had a third-rate tabloid to run, and she was a person who took her responsibilities very seriously.

  Rag’s old office had consisted of a metal desk with an equally tacky lump-filled chair and an outdated computer. Several portable black-and-white television sets had been shelved on the wall opposite his desk. Most were always tuned to E!, Fox News, or CNN. With the fire damage, everything in his office had been destroyed. Apparently the new owners had deep pockets. Abby learned that during the remodeling she was to update all of the offices with nothing but the best. Abby had done her best, and with the help of a professional office decorator, Rag’s office—her office now—was sleek and efficient, equipped with every high-tech gizmo on the market.

  The seventies-style brown paneling had been replaced with modern white walls. The wall that formerly held the old plywood bookshelves now featured custom-made shelves from which six LCD flat-screen televisions glared at her. A giant flat-screen monitor provided constant updates from the Associated Press, even though it was rare that she actually used the information coming through. But one never knew.

  A custom-made desk
sat in the middle of the room. On top were three iMac computers, all top-of-the-line. One came equipped with high-speed Internet, the second gave her instant access to stories in progress at The Informer, and the third was hers to use as needed.

  Though it was old and shabby, Abby had insisted on bringing the old blue Barcalounger from her former office across the hall. She was thankful it hadn’t burned during the fire, grateful a good cleaning was all it had needed since Chester, her ninety-seven-pound German shepherd, had practically grown up in that chair. Come hell or high water, she wasn’t about to part with it. Abby felt sure that Chester wouldn’t appreciate a replacement either.

  With Chester sleeping in his chair, Abby checked her e-mail to see if she’d been one-upped on any breaking news. She skimmed through a dozen messages and, seeing nothing earth-shattering, checked the Associated Press wire. Again, she came up empty as far as tabloid news went. Then she used the master remote control to flick through all of the local TV stations. Apparently it was going to be a slow news day. Abby hated days like that, wished she could zap up some headline-making news herself. If only. Deciding there was nothing that required her immediate attention, she read through tomorrow’s copy one last time before it went to press. Half an hour later, she figured it was as good as it was going to get and decided that she and Chester were due for a quick break.

  “You ready for a trip outside, Chester?”

  At the sound of his name, the big dog sprang into action. “Woof, woof!”

  Abby laughed. What would she do without Chester? He was her best friend in the world, at least he was her best male friend in the world. She didn’t want to think about men right now because doing so brought Chris Clay to mind, and she absolutely, positively did not want to have thoughts about him. Her brow furrowed in disgust as she followed Chester to the exit.

  “Woof!” Chester held the leash in his mouth as though he were walking himself. Abby always got a kick out of this. He was such a smart animal. When she was working a story, she’d always taken him with her. He was her very own second-stringer/doggy guard.

  Abby led Chester to the fenced-in parking lot, still amazed every time she walked outside. With its lighting at night, plus security cameras, Abby felt very safe there now. Before the fire, anyone could walk in and out of the back door leading to the offices. No more. The new owners had hired a well-trained security crew that worked around the clock. Abby guessed they weren’t taking any chances on their investment. She and her staff were very well protected. No crazy-ass wannabe arsonist or anyone else who wasn’t authorized could get past the tight security. The building was very old, and Abby truly respected its history, but she was smart enough to realize some things simply had to be brought into the twenty-first century.

  The new owners had insisted on keeping the original printing presses downstairs and asked that they remain untouched. Abby didn’t know what their future plans were, but that was fine by her, since she rarely went downstairs anyway. The last time she’d been downstairs, she’d given her mother and godmothers a tour. That was right before the fire.

  After Chester personally anointed each and every newly planted shrub, he ran back to the entrance. “Okay, boy, let’s get back to work.” Abby bent down to allow Chester a doggy kiss, then headed inside to her office.

  As soon as Abby returned to her desk, Chester jumped on his chair, and she sat in her own plush leather chair behind her sleek onyx desk. With news so slow, Abby logged on to her e-mail account and what she read about blew her away. She read it a second time, then a third time. No frigging way! Tabloids and legitimate magazines across the country were offering millions for this story. She instantly became suspicious. Was it possible that Rag, wherever the hell he was, was screwing with her? This seemed like something he would do, but Abby wasn’t sure he’d go this far just to mess with her.

  She was being offered an exclusive interview, with pictures, of Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie’s new kids!

  Why The Informer? Why not People magazine, or Time. They’d offered millions for a story and pictures in the past and the couple had turned them down. Abby read the e-mail again. It was from their publicist. She recognized the name, so at least that part was true.

  An interview like this could put The Informer back on the map. What back on the map? Shit, it hadn’t even been on the map, but with this, it would be all the push Abby would need to put it on top and keep it there.

  “Chester, we just hit pay dirt!”

  “Woof,” Chester responded to his name.

  Abby swore he was part human. “We’ll stop at Ralph’s on the way home for a big juicy steak.”

  “Woof, woof!”

  Abby laughed because she was 100 percent sure that Chester knew Ralph’s was a popular grocery store in California. He must associate the name with beef.

  For the fourth time, Abby read the e-mail from the Pitt/Jolie publicist. They were offering an interview with pictures—that was the part Abby found difficult to believe, because most of Hollywood’s biggest stars usually wouldn’t allow photos of their offspring unless millions were being offered. Something didn’t seem quite right, but then again, Pitt and Jolie were well-known for their charitable acts, so it was highly possible this was just another act of charity. She hoped so, because there was no way The Informer could pay for such an exclusive. If the e-mail proved to be for real, Abby had her work cut out for her. She’d need an absolutely first-rate photographer. For some crazy reason, she thought of Ida, her godmother. In her day, Ida had worked as a photographer in New York City. Abby had seen some of her work, and it was fantastic. Maybe…no, she couldn’t. Her mother would kill her if she asked for Ida’s help and not hers. Certainly something to think about. She made a note to ask anyway. It couldn’t hurt. The photographers currently employed at The Informer were just so-so. Too bad she didn’t know the new owners. She could have asked them for a top-notch photographer. Abby felt sure they would have fit such a request into their budget, but for the moment there were other details to attend to.

  Annoyed by the distraction, Abby clicked off the television set. Something was nagging at her, something she couldn’t quite put a finger on. Was it possible the new owners had arranged for this interview? Were their connections that great? She thought it odd that she’d been contacted by e-mail. Wouldn’t a publicist for such an A-list couple at least call her up and ask? No, something wasn’t right, but until something changed, she planned to act as though a major scoop were an everyday occurrence at the paper.

  A simple interview with your average B-list celebrity would be as easy as scheduling a luncheon at one of LA’s top eateries, or, if they wanted to show off a newly purchased McMansion, Abby would simply hop into her bright yellow MINI Cooper. Of course, she assumed that Chester would be welcome as well—she routinely brought him along unless the celebrity specifically said not to. Chester was not just any ordinary dog. If something were to go awry—and with some of the celebrities she’d interviewed it had been iffy, almost scary—Chester would act as her protector as well. Something told her that Chester wouldn’t be allowed to attend this interview.

  Abby knew an exclusive interview with the Pitt/Jolie clan would be anything but simple. First, there would be security. Not just some off-duty cop looking to earn an extra few bucks to send his kid to college. No, the security for the Pitt/Jolie interview would be equal to that of the president of the United States. She scribbled a note to herself to make sure and ask about security arrangements when she responded to the publicist’s e-mail.

  Abby knew the interview would not come without strings, but she couldn’t seem to stop wondering what they were and why Pitt and Jolie had chosen The Informer. She was smart enough to know not to look a gift horse in the mouth, so her first order to herself was to stop questioning why and begin her preparations.

  Abby clicked on the e-mail from the publicist and read through it one last time before she answered.

  Dear Ms. Simpson:

  Your pu
blication, The Informer, has been chosen for an interview with Mr. Brad Pitt and Ms. Angelina Jolie. Photos of the children will be allowed.

  The e-mail named the date, though no location was indicated. All she needed to do was reply.

  Dear Ms….

  The Informer accepts your offer to interview Mr. Pitt and Ms. Jolie. I will await further instructions concerning the location and security.

  Ms. Abby Simpson

  There. She hit the SEND button, and the rest was up to fate and the publicist. She wanted to tell someone but was afraid if she did, she would jinx the interview. No, she decided she would go about her day just as she ordinarily did. As it was a slow news day, she decided to place a call to Ida, feel her out, see how she was doing. Just in case.

  Abby dialed Ida’s new cell number. She was about to hang up when the phone was picked up, and she heard a breathless “hello.”

  “Ida, are you okay? You sound terribly out of breath.” Abby heard a male voice and what sounded like the rustle of covers. “Are you alone?”

  “Oh…Good morning, Abby. It’s wonderful to hear from you. Of course I’m alone. I was…running around the room, making the bed. I have the television turned on to this new soap I’ve become addicted to. I wouldn’t dare leave the bed unmade, you know how your mother likes a neat and orderly home.”

  “And you don’t, huh?” Abby laughed, recalling her godmother’s former affliction with obsessive-compulsive disorder.

  “Not anymore. If it were left up to me, I’d never change the sheets.” Ida laughed.

  “And we both know that’s not true.” It was good to hear the happiness back in Ida’s voice. A few months ago she would barely come out of her room without spending hours scrubbing her hands and every object she touched. Now, with the help of Dr. Sameer, a specialist in treating obsessive-compulsive disorder, Ida sounded and acted like the godmother Abby had always known and loved.