Also by Carol Higgins Clark
Jinxed
Fleeced
Twanged
Iced
Snagged
Decked
He Sees You When You’re Sleeping
(with Mary Higgins Clark)
Deck the Halls
(with Mary Higgins Clark)
SCRIBNER
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2003 by Carol Higgins Clark All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
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Acknowledgments
U p, up and away! I would like to thank the following people who helped me along the way as I wrote this book—from the original concept to the final liftoff.
Gratitude to my editor, Roz Lippel, who always has such wonderful suggestions and advice. Thanks also to her assistant Laura Petermann. Praise to Michael Korda and Chuck Adams for their comments and encouragement.
Many thanks to my agent, Sam Pinkus, and publicist, Lisl Cade, for their continuing guidance.
Kudos to art director John Fulbrook and associate director of copy-editing Gypsy da Silva. Thanks to photographer Herman Estevez.
Long time balloonist Ruth Lind introduced me to the world of hot air ballooning—thanks Ruth! I’m also grateful to Tom Rutherford who was so helpful to me at the Albuquerque Balloon Fiesta. I appreciate the time James Hamilton, aka “Chicken Jack,” took to come down from the Imus Ranch for kids with cancer to show me around the Fiesta. And John Kugler, thanks for taking me up in your balloon. It was a fun landing!
Finally, thanks to my family and friends, especially my mother, Mary Higgins Clark, and my stepfather, John Conheeney, who are always there to encourage me.
You’re all the best!
For Elaine Kaufman
of
Elaine’s
who has welcomed writers into her legendary
New York City establishment for forty years now.
Happy Anniversary!
With love.
Balloonists’ Prayer
The Winds have welcomed you with softness.
The Sun has blessed you with his warm hands.
You have flown so high and so well,
that God has joined you in your laughter.
And He has set you gently back again
into the loving arms of Mother Earth.
Monday, October 6
1
R egan Reilly sat down at the scarred oak desk in her cozy office on Hollywood Boulevard in Los Angeles. Developers were dying to take a wrecking ball to the ancient structure, but so far the building managed to remain standing, which made Regan very happy. A private investigator who worked alone, Regan loved everything about her work, except the fact that it kept her three thousand miles from her boyfriend of ten months, Jack Reilly. Jack was the head of the major case squad in New York City. He was coming out to spend the weekend with her, but that was still four more days away.
Monday mornings, Regan thought, as she took a sip of coffee. They’re the pits even if you like your job. There’s just something about them. For one thing, they certainly put a damper on Sunday nights. I shouldn’t complain, though, Regan mused. This Monday morning brings me one day closer to seeing Jack.
The quiet of the early October morning was broken by the ring of the phone.
“Regan Reilly.”
“Wow. Am I talking to Regan Reilly after all these years?” a male voice asked.
“You’re talking to Regan Reilly,” she assured the caller. “Who’s this?”
“You don’t remember me?”
Here we go, Regan thought. It’s not even nine o’clock on a Monday morning, and the weirdos are already on the horn. Don’t these people ever give it a rest? “I have no idea who you are,” Regan answered simply as she turned on her computer.
“I’ll give you three guesses. But only three.”
All this before my first cup of coffee, Regan thought. “Why don’t you call back later,” she suggested. “I’m sure you’ll have your identity figured out by then. Bye.” She started to put down the phone when she heard a shout from the other end.
“Wait! Regan, it’s Danny Madley. The tree boy!”
Regan’s hand froze in midair. Her mind raced back in time. The tree boy. No, it couldn’t be. She pulled the phone back to her ear. “Tree Boy?”
“Yes!” he replied triumphantly.
“Danny Madley.” Regan laughed. “I guess you haven’t changed a bit.” She pictured the gangly boy from her grammar school days in New Jersey. Danny was the class clown, the one who always had a scheme going. In second grade the teacher refused to give him a speaking part in the school production of The Wizard of Oz because he’d been such a nudge. She cast him as one of the trees. But, of course, trees talk in The Wizard of Oz, and Danny managed to blurt out a few lines he’d written especially for the occasion. He even stuffed apples in his pockets to throw at poor lost Dorothy, a scene the teacher had deliberately omitted from the official version of the play. The kids always called him Tree Boy after that. That is, after he’d spent a week in solitary confinement in a corner of the principal’s office.
“You can tell that I haven’t grown up?”
“That can be a good thing,” Regan replied. “So, Danny, to what do I owe the honor of this phone call?”
“For one thing, I know you’re a private investigator.”
“You know that, huh?”
“Yes. You’re always mentioned in the articles about your mother and her books, and I read something recently about when your father was kidnapped. Your new boyfriend’s name is Reilly. Very cute.”
Regan’s mind wandered back to Christmastime when her father had been kidnapped in New York City. It was when she met Jack. He had been in charge of the investigation and had worked day and night to get Luke back. Jack always joked that it helped to get on the good side of a girl’s family from the beginning. And Luke always said he’d do anything to contribute to his child’s happiness—even if it meant getting kidnapped. Regan’s mother, Nora, the suspense writer, was just thrilled that Regan finally had a decent boyfriend, however they happened to meet. Regan now smiled and informed Danny, “Jack Reilly is a great guy.”
“I’m sure he is. Regan, I looked you up on Our Lady of Good Counsel’s website and saw that you were registered. That’s how I got your phone number.”
“Those school websites are kind of fun, so I figured why not?” Regan said, leaning back in her chair. “It’s great to hear from old friends, and it’s a good way to network.”
“That’s why I’m calling. Regan, I really need your help.”
Oh, God, Regan thought. Knowing Danny, what can he be up to now? “What’s the matter?” she asked.
“I live in Las Vegas and work in television. I was asked to produce a reality show. There’s a competition to see if my show will get on the air…”
Just what the world needs, Regan thought. Another reality show.
“A guy named Roscoe Parker who’s been out here for years owns a local cable station called the Balloon Chann
el, also known as Hot Air Cable. That’s because he also owns a hot air ballooning company. Anyway, he has a ton of dough. He gave me money to produce a reality show and is backing somebody else who is producing a sitcom. Both shows involve hot air balloons. This week we’re putting together pilots to show Roscoe on Friday afternoon. The one he likes best he’ll put on the air Friday night.”
“That’s competition for you,” Regan commented.
“You’re not kidding. Roscoe’s station is small but it’s growing. This is a big chance for me. If my show is chosen, I’ll have a regular slot on the Balloon Channel lineup. But things have been going wrong on the set lately. Yesterday one of our cameras was stolen. Then I was filming an introduction to the show at the hot air balloon field and the platform I was standing on collapsed under me. I think someone is trying to sabotage my operation. What I was wondering is, could you come to Vegas for a few days and help me out?”
Regan was afraid to ask but somehow she managed. “What is your show about?”
“It’s called Love Above Sea Level. Calamine lotion for the proverbial seven-year itch.”
“Excuse me?”
“I wanted to create a show for married couples. So many reality shows are about singles looking for love. How about one for people who have found love and now need a little help to keep it going? We have three couples who no longer consider themselves honeymooners, to say the least, spending the week in Vegas recapturing the love they once knew. At the end of the week the advice columnists Aunt Agony and Uncle Heartburn will decide which couple truly deserves to renew their vows. We’re flying to the Albuquerque Hot Air Balloon Fiesta on Roscoe’s private plane. We’ll all go up in a hot air balloon shaped like a wedding cake as soon as the sun rises on Friday morning. With a camera, of course. The winning couple will be announced up in the air. Then they’ll renew their vows and come back down to earth with a million bucks.”
I have not words, Regan thought.
“Regan, are you there?” Danny asked anxiously.
“Indeed.” Regan cleared her throat. “Just out of curiosity, where did you find these couples?”
“Roscoe’s people found them. I guess they had plenty of folks to choose from. We wanted couples who needed our help and could benefit from a little excitement in their relationship. I see this as the only reality show that is a real positive contribution to society. If we can get just one couple to rekindle that lost spark, then we’ve done our job.”
The thought of a million dollars would make any couple do a lot of rekindling, Regan mused. “So you want me to come to Vegas?”
“I know I can trust you.”
“Really?”
“Anyone you survived grammar school with you should be able to trust. There’s got to be a permanent bond between two people who sat together in the same class for eight years.”
“That’s true.” Regan laughed. “But I have to tell you: I know at least one person from our class has served time. Credit card theft. I’d never ask him to hold my purse no matter how many years we sat together.”
“Let me guess. Bobby Hastings.”
“Bingo.”
“Well I’m afraid there’s at least one Bobby Hastings kind of character hanging around my show. And I’m afraid whoever it is is going to cause more trouble.”
Regan opened the drawer of her desk and pulled out her trusty legal pad. This is what I get for signing up for that classmates website, she realized. What was the old expression…be careful what you pray for? She picked up a pen. “Okay, Danny. Let me ask you a few more questions. Then I’ll call the airlines. I’m sure I can catch a plane to Vegas this afternoon. But I have to be back Friday night.”
“Don’t worry, Regan. By Friday the show will be finished. One way or the other.”
2
R oscoe Parker banged his fist on the massive mahogany desk and chuckled. He was looking up at one of the sixteen video screens mounted on a wall of his private office. Behind Parker hung a large logo of his Balloon Channel. The photo of a multicolored hot air balloon dreamily floating off into the heavens filled most of the wall behind the desk. A plaque inscribed with the “Balloonists’ Prayer” was mounted nearby. This room was Roscoe Parker’s inner sanctum. Only his most trusted advisers were allowed inside. Not that they advised him much. They did everything he told them to do. The job paid very well.
Roscoe saw himself as a combination of Howard Hughes and Merv Griffin. But unlike Howard Hughes, Roscoe liked to get out of bed and socialize. No holing up in a hotel suite for years, trying to take over Las Vegas without seeing anyone. No eating the same boring food all the time with the drapes permanently drawn. Roscoe wanted to get out in the limelight and have fun as he made his mark. Like Howard Hughes, he wanted to make a difference in Las Vegas. And like Merv Griffin, he wanted to build an empire. He didn’t own a big hotel like Merv yet, but he did have a hot air balloon business and a cable station that he envisioned as the next HBO. It bothered him that, unlike Merv, he hadn’t thought of an original idea for a successful game show. The ever popular Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune were Merv’s creations, and they showed no signs of wearing out. What Roscoe did dream up was a competition pitting a reality show against a sitcom to see which one would have the most appeal.
These days it was all about reality shows versus scripted television. Which was more entertaining? What was the future of television? It was driving a lot of people in the entertainment business crazy. But Roscoe loved the frenzy. His motto was “Competition is what makes America great.”
Roscoe watched as the video screens depicted the goings-on at Love Above Sea Level and the sitcom Take Me Higher. Both groups were agitated, which delighted Roscoe to no end.
“Survival of the fittest,” he cried, banging his riding crop against the desk. Roscoe wasn’t a horseback rider. He was actually afraid of horses but liked the effect. Roscoe did most things for effect. Recently he’d taken to buying studded cowboy boots and chunky jewelry. The jewelry was for himself, much to the dismay of his long-suffering, ever-present girlfriend Kitty who was curled up on the red leather couch reading a romance novel and chewing gum. In her fifties, Kitty knew that it was impossible to find a man who was perfect. She had been with Roscoe almost a year, and even though he could be eccentric and obsessed, she stuck it out with him. She listened to his ramblings with one ear because most of the time he could be fun, and God knows he was rich. Lately it was bugging her, though, the way this TV project had taken over his life. And she did think it was just a little macabre the way he got such pleasure out of other people’s misery. Worst of all, he’d just bought himself another gold chain.
Roscoe was a sixty-four-year-old average-looking guy, slightly paunchy, with a receding hairline that he dyed every three weeks whether it needed it or not. He had made millions over the years in various ventures. Recently he inherited a nifty sum from a long-lost uncle who he was glad reached out to him from the hereafter, and he’d even managed to win a million in the lottery back when a million actually meant something. Two years ago, after a health scare, Roscoe had a revelation. He decided to have more fun with his money as he tried to take over the town, even if it meant putting his money at risk.
In other words, he stopped being cheap.
Now his two trusted advisers, the top executives at Hot Air Cable, sat in the red ultrasuede chairs facing his desk.
“What have we got going?” Roscoe asked the man and woman sitting in front of him. Erene, in her late twenties, was a sharp-featured, no-nonsense kind of gal who had taken lots of business courses in college and liked to quote surveys and studies. Her light brown hair came to her shoulders, and she always dressed in nondescript business suits. She was a practical numbers kind of person who had fire in her eyes. Leo was a stocky redheaded guy in his mid-thirties. He’d had several jobs in advertising, dressed in Hawaiian shirts, and considered himself the creative force at Hot Air Cable.
“Well, sir—” Erene began.
“W
ell what?” Roscoe queried, tapping the desk with his riding crop. “What are our plans to pump up the competition so Hot Air Cable ends up with a hit?”
In the corner, Kitty rolled her eyes as she turned the page of her book.
Erene cleared her throat and began again. “We have come up with a number of ideas that we hope you will find satisfactory….”
3
R egan made a reservation on an afternoon flight to Las Vegas, closed up her office, and drove home to her apartment in the Hollywood Hills. She unlocked the door, stepped inside, and felt that sense of peace she always experienced when returning to her abode. The two-bedroom apartment, nestled in the Hills, had a soothing quality.
Except when Regan opened the front hall closet.
The closet was where she kept her suitcases and a host of other assorted items, including athletic gear, Christmas decorations, umbrellas, and two old tape players that she would probably never use again but couldn’t throw away. Everybody has a closet like this, Regan told herself as she pulled a medium-sized suitcase with wheels from the top shelf and dragged it into the bedroom. She set it on the bed, sat down, and called Jack.
“You’re going to Vegas? Maybe I should meet you there for the weekend,” he suggested.
“Let’s see how this goes,” Regan answered. “I might want to escape from the bright lights by then.” She looked at the picture by her bed of the two of them. Jack had sandy hair and strong, even features, and was six feet two inches tall. Regan had inherited the black Irish looks from the Reilly side of the family: raven hair, blue eyes, and light skin. Jack was thirty-four; she was thirty-one. People often remarked that they complemented each other perfectly.
“You know this guy from grammar school?” asked Jack. “I hope you don’t rekindle any old crushes.”
“Believe me,” Regan said with a laugh. “I remember him as being a cute kid, but he’s not my type.”
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