She glared at him over her shoulder. No way was he going to tease her out of this bad mood. She’d earned it.
Blake Montana had light brown hair that reached his shoulders, and the indentation of his show hat was visible around the crown of his head. He had sincerely kind eyes the color of chocolate toffee, a good, strong bass voice, and he could work magic with a guitar, a fiddle and a harmonica.
He leaned forward and inspected her face. “Your eyes are all puffy, but it doesn’t look like a case of Cassidy’s allergies to me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“That guy has so many allergies, if a cat walked across the stage tomorrow night, Cassidy’d probably fall over dead. Did you know he carries an epi pen around with him all the time? He has to, in case he has a bad reaction to something.”
She shoved the cast entrance door open before Blake could beat her to it. Knowing Cassidy Ryder, allergies were the least of his problems. He had an ego the size of Alaska, and he fit right in with a bushel of other hungry wanna-be stars.
“The guy’s always nervous,” Blake continued. “He’s pretty high-strung.”
Delight snorted. High-strung? Was that what they called delusions of grandeur?
“Did you know your makeup’s smeared all over your face?”
“Well, I’m sure Grace’s makeup isn’t smudged,” she snapped. “It’s probably perfect. Grace is perfect. Why don’t you go bother her?”
“Grace?” Blake exclaimed. “I thought you two were buds.”
“I’m her flunky, just there to make her look good. And sound good. And suck up whenever I can so she’ll feel special. After all, she’s the star.”
Blake didn’t reply, and Delight realized how much resentment had spilled into her words. She didn’t care. She’d warned him to leave her alone.
Until tonight, Delight had idolized Grace. But when Henry made those nasty remarks, something inside had snapped. The man treated Grace like a favorite niece even when he was chewing her out. He treats me like an unwanted dog.
Blake followed Delight to her car and waited while she unlocked and opened the door. “You’re not the only person who says things she doesn’t mean when she’s mad, Delight.”
“Can it,” she snapped. “I don’t want a sermon.”
“Don’t let Henry’s words bother you so much. You make those amateur singers sound like a choir of angels.”
Delight hesitated and looked up at him. Did he really think that, or was he just trying to make her feel better?
“Get over it, Delight. Shake it off and go on. You’re more mature than this.”
She scowled. “You’re saying I’m behaving like a kid?”
“I’m just saying don’t let tonight break you,” Blake said. “You can rise above it.”
“I’ll rise above it, all right,” she said, shutting the door on him. “I’ll beat Henry at his own game.”
Chapter Three
On Monday morning Grace awakened to the jarring chirp of her cell phone beside the bed. As she burrowed from under the covers and reached for it, she accidentally knocked it to the floor.
Last night, after the Sunday-evening show, she’d had the sudden urge to get out of Branson for a while, so instead of going back to her condo in town, she’d driven home to Hideaway. Sundays were especially tiring when they did two shows.
She retrieved her cell phone from the floor and glanced at the tiny display panel. Her agent’s number flashed at her, and she opened the flip top.
“It’s about time.” The husky voice of Sherilyn Krueger came over the line.
“I guess you know this is my day off,” Grace groused.
“Where are you?”
“Who wants to know?”
“You’re obviously not home. I tried calling four times, and all I got was your recorder.”
“Did you ever consider just leaving a message? And I am home. I’m in Hideaway.”
“Aha! Who’d you go to see?” There was a teasing tone to Sherilyn’s voice.
Grace curled her lip at the phone. “I came to be home. Period. In my old apartment, above my mom’s antique store.” Since when did an agent have the right to pry into a client’s personal life?
“Oh.” Exaggerated disappointment curled through the phone line. “If you had any brains, you’d make the most of your opportunity with that gorgeous costar of yours.”
Grace scowled. Sherilyn was an in-your-face lady with the charm of a collie and the tenacity of Bertie Meyer’s pet goat, Mildred. Henry had bullied Grace into signing on with Sherilyn years ago. It was a good match. Usually.
Grace peered at her bedside clock. “Sherilyn, it isn’t even eight. I came here to get away from work.”
“It’s the beginning of a new week,” Sherilyn said. “Perfect time for you to start your new diet, and it sounds as if I’ve caught you before breakfast.”
Grace shoved the covers back. “Not this morning. I’ve got a date with waffles and an old friend.” She missed Bertie Meyer almost as much as she did her own mother.
At the extended silence on the other end of the line, Grace frowned. Sherilyn’s comment about diet suddenly registered. “Okay, who’s been talking to you about Friday night’s meeting?”
“What do you mean, talk? All I had to do was open the magazine and read all about it. Right there on the second page of Across the Country, pictures and all, especially you in that suede gunnysack you call a dress.”
“You can’t believe what they print. Jolene Tucker distorts the facts beyond imagination.”
“Honey, you’re changing the subject. You and me are going ’round and ’round about this weight problem until you get it licked,” Sherilyn said. “No pun intended. I want you in shape for Christmas.”
Grace leaned back against the headboard and groaned. “Did I mention this is my only day off?”
“Did it occur to you that I don’t give a rip about your days off?” Sherilyn drawled. “I work 24/7 for you, and I need you in top form. Tell you what, I’ll read this article to you if you want, word for word, and if that don’t make you lose your appetite, honey, then nothing—”
“Don’t bother. I’m changing my cell phone number.”
There was a dark chuckle. “I’ll just show up on your doorstep.”
“Who leaked the meeting to Jolene?”
“I don’t know, and it doesn’t matter,” Sherilyn said. “We’ll turn those lemons into lemonade. This morning all you get for breakfast is eggs and Canadian bacon or lean ham. No bread, no fruit, no pancakes.”
“Sorry, but I plan to have black walnut waffles for breakfast this morning.” Bertie Meyer was famous for them. To drive to Hideaway and not have Bertie’s waffles was almost heresy around these parts.
“You don’t want me hunting you down,” Sherilyn warned.
In spite of her irritation, Grace couldn’t resist a smile. “You can join me if you want.”
“Unlike some folks, I’ve got work to do. Now, about that magazine article,” Sherilyn said. “Do you have a copy?”
Grace knew her mother read those gossip magazines faithfully, cutting out any articles that mentioned Grace’s name or the show. There would be a copy of it around at the house somewhere. “Okay, I’ll stick with the diet for today.”
“That’s a start. Hurry back to town. I’ve got a present for you.”
“What’s that?”
“A gift membership to a health club.”
“Don’t you have other clients to harass?”
“None as important to me as you are. Give me a month—we’ll get you into better shape. Meanwhile, I’ll be stalking you.” She hung up before Grace could argue further.
Michael parked his Harley in the sunshine outside the Classical Impressions Theater, just east of the Branson Medows Mall. He was chilled to the bone.
Why hadn’t he driven his Mountaineer, like any sane person would have done?
He lingered in the sun for a moment, hoping
the heat would seep through the black leather of his jacket. It was an unseasonably warm day for late November, and tourists crowded the streets and sidewalks. He’d counted eight tour buses on Highway 76 as he’d driven to town. It was still nothing like what they experienced during high season, but colder months were increasingly becoming attractive to tourists. So far this week they’d sold out shows three nights in a row.
Henry’s sleek black Mercedes was parked next to the cast entrance of the theater. Besides that, only a couple of other cars—including Delight’s Dodge Viper—graced the lot. Michael hadn’t seen this place so quiet in a while.
He unzipped his jacket and carried his helmet inside, where he paused to allow time for his eyes to adjust to the dimness after the bright light outside.
He found the director upstairs in his office, which overlooked the auditorium and stage. Any time Henry saw something he didn’t like during practice, he simply slid open the window and shouted his orders to those onstage.
In spite of Henry’s occasionally caustic persona, Michael admired the man’s passion for producing excellent musical entertainment. Lately, though, his mind seemed to be slipping.
Michael knocked on the threshold of the open door.
Henry peered over his reading glasses. “Wondered when you’d show up.” His bulldog face showed resignation.
“Hi, Henry.”
“Come on in, sit down. You look set on a lecture.” The silver-haired man leaned back in his luxurious executive chair and removed his glasses, frowning at the black leather and the helmet under Michael’s left arm. “You biked to town?”
Michael set down his helmet and pulled off his jacket. Though he hadn’t thawed out yet, he knew he soon would. This room was always hotter by ten degrees than any other place in the theater. “I didn’t come here to lecture you.”
Henry snorted. “I saw your face the other night when I lit in to Grace. Struck a little too close to home, did I?”
Michael pretended he hadn’t heard the gibe. “When did you have your last medical checkup?” He sank into the chair closest to the desk, for once grateful for the heated room.
“A couple of months ago, maybe three.”
“I brought my stethoscope and blood pressure kit.”
Henry closed his eyes and produced a long-suffering sigh. “You’re not playing doctor again, are you?”
“Don’t hurt my feelings.” On good days Henry Bennett reminded Michael of his dad. Michael still missed his father’s quiet strength and encouragement.
“First we need to clear the air,” Henry said.
“Okay. You were mean Friday night.”
Henry fixed his steely-blue gaze on Michael, then glanced toward the door. “Anybody come with you?”
“You’re kidding, right? You think someone else is nuts enough to ride on my Harley with me all the way here just to face down the bear in his cave?”
Henry pulled open the top drawer of his desk. “Funny, I thought I heard someone else down there a few minutes ago.”
“I saw Delight’s car in the lot.”
Henry scowled. “Humor me, then, and close the door.”
As Michael meekly obeyed, Henry pulled out his glucose monitoring kit and pricked his finger. He pressed the droplet of blood onto a strip, waited a moment, then nodded in satisfaction. “It’s been fluctuating lately. I’m keeping a closer eye on it, so you can relax, Doc.”
“When’s the last time you checked your blood pressure?”
“I said relax. I do that a couple of times a week with my own kit. Now, to clear the air,” Henry said, leaning forward, “I’ll apologize to Grace for being so rough on her Friday.”
“And she’ll forgive you, even though our supposedly private conversation did get leaked to the press.”
Henry nodded gravely. “I didn’t mean for that to happen. Ironically, I think it’ll just whet the public’s appetite. Did you see the column?”
“Nope, but I heard a few remarks about it this morning over breakfast in Hideaway,” Michael said.
Henry paused and glanced toward the door again. “Enough about that. This is confidential, Michael. Promise me you won’t share this with anyone but Grace. Not even your horse.”
“That’s asking a lot. I tell my horse everything.”
Henry barely broke a grin. “I had a video cut of the show Friday night.” He clasped his hands behind his head and swiveled in his chair to gaze out across the darkened theater. “I sent it to a country music cable network. They’re thinking about scheduling Star Notes next year.”
Michael could hear the sudden excitement in Henry’s voice, and saw it on his face. “Television?”
“That’s right.” Henry turned back to look at him. “It’s been my dream for fifteen years to have a television production. You and Grace are talented enough to make it happen, Michael. Unfortunately, Denton’s pushing for changes, and even though I’m general partner, he’s got clout.”
“You should have remembered that the other night. You weren’t exactly polite to him.”
Henry frowned, nodding in agreement. “He could make some waves with the other partners.”
“What changes is he wanting?” Michael asked.
“He wants to cut back on Grace’s songs. He’s asking for fewer spiritual pieces.”
Michael stiffened. “Her songs make up more than half our music. Doesn’t Denton get it? She’s the major draw.”
Henry gave an irritable shrug. “Sometimes we have to compromise. He wants to continue doing original music, but include pieces from another new writer he’s discovered. Denton’s the one complaining about Grace’s weight and wardrobe, by the way.” He closed his eyes. “He wants Delight to receive more spotlight time.”
“Delight? That’s why you blasted her so hard Friday?”
“Partly that, and partly because she irritates me to death. She’s a loose cannon. Too young to handle success.”
“She also can’t bring in the crowds Grace draws,” Michael said. Grace had come into her own on this show. Wasn’t that obvious to everyone concerned?
Henry rubbed his lined face, which showed the recent effects of long hours at the theater. “Denton has a lot of contacts with the television people. He could be our ticket to a broader audience than any of us have ever had before, and that could mean substantially more income for all of us.”
“It doesn’t sound as if the audience he has in mind is the one we’re accustomed to.”
Henry reached for a folder filled with sheet music and shoved it across the desk. “He’s been pushing me to include some of these on the show. Read the top song.”
Michael read the first few lines and realized the song wouldn’t work for them. The lyrics left nothing to the imagination. The words didn’t just imply a relationship between the singers—they spoke of it in overtly sexual tones.
He slid the pages back into the folder. “You know Grace and I couldn’t do this.”
“Denton suggested Delight and Cassidy.”
A quiet bump, like a footfall, reached Michael from the hallway. He glanced toward the door, but heard nothing else. He turned back to Henry. “Don’t become so desperate for a television show that you lose sight of what we’re about.”
“No problem there,” the director said dryly. “I’ll always have you to remind me.”
Delight stood in the hallway outside Henry’s office and stifled a gasp of shock. Television! She felt as if her feet had suddenly been glued to the carpet, and as desperately as she wanted to walk away before someone caught her and accused her of eavesdropping—which she was not—she couldn’t move.
Who else was in there besides Michael and Henry? In spite of her pounding heart, she leaned closer to the door.
“Our fans are conservative and expect a wholesome quality from the show,” Michael said. “They’re the ones who would look for us on television. Denton’s plans threaten to destroy everything we stand for.”
Delight had to breathe slowly and
deeply to keep from hyperventilating. They really were talking about Star Notes making television!
“What about this one?” came Henry’s voice. “Nothing lewd or suggestive, just a simple country ‘you done me wrong with another man’ song.”
Heart pounding so loudly she could barely hear the voices, Delight turned to leave.
“I want you and Grace to sing it, not Cassidy and Delight,” Henry said. “We can keep damage to a minimum.”
Delight stopped and turned back. That old buzzard had always hated her, but why was he suddenly so nasty? As far as she could remember, she’d never done anything mean to him.
“Look, I’m willing to work with you, Henry,” Michael said. “Grace and I both know this isn’t a gospel show, and that we’re just performers, not partners. I’ll talk to her if you’ll let me take this with me.”
“Do whatever you can to remain in Denton’s good graces,” Henry said. “Meanwhile I’m going to make sure Delight stays out of the picture as much as possible.”
“Don’t be too hard on her,” Michael said. “She’s young and energetic, and she adds vibrancy to the show. She needs some room to make mistakes.”
“She can make mistakes on her own time.”
Delight glared at the door, fists clenching so tightly her fingernails dug in to the soft flesh of her palms. That arrogant old blowhard! Why did he hate her so much?
The door opened as she stood there gaping, and her future flashed before her eyes. In agony she watched her career die a horrible death.
Michael hovered in the doorway, frowning. Henry glared at her from his desk.
“May we help you?” Michael asked. His voice was gentle, but filled with an unspoken question.
For several seconds, frozen with mortification, she couldn’t say anything. Suck it up, Delight. They’re watching. “I was lookin’ for Den—uh, Mr. Mapes.” She swallowed through a suddenly dry throat. “I tried callin’ him from home, but his number’s unlisted, and I need to…um…is he around?”
“No, he’s not,” Henry snapped. “You shouldn’t be, either.”
She gritted her teeth. “I wasn’t—”
Note of Peril Page 3
