Scandal Sheet aka Hollywood Scandals

by Gemma Halliday

  “Infected?” My appetite was quickly waning.

  “Then there’s the antibiotics. Chickens are routinely given these drugs in a vain attempt to keep them healthy, but guess where the drugs go? They’re stored in the chicken’s fat cells. When we eat the meat, we get a healthy dose of those drugs ourselves. Or, unhealthy, as the case may be.”

  I slurped my shake. “That’s gross.”

  “That’s why I don’t eat fast-food chicken. Only organic.”

  I looked down into my bag. Maybe the enchiladas wouldn’t be so bad.

  Half an hour later we pulled into the driveway of Cal’s place. The second I walked in, the scent of chilies and limes hit me square in the face, waking up my growling stomach once again.

  “I’ve got some work to finish up,” Cal said, sinking onto the sofa in the living room and dropping a stack of files onto the coffee table. Which was fine with me. I had a one-track mind-or stomach, as the case may be. I followed my nose into the kitchen where Millie and Aunt Sue were standing at the oven, a half empty pitcher of margaritas in front of them as they giggled at some private joke.

  “Smells good in here,” I said.

  “Oh, Tina, you’re back. How was your day, dear?” Aunt Sue asked me.

  “Good.” I peeked in the oven. So far, nothing was charcoal colored. A good sign. “Yours?”

  “Well, your aunt Millie and I spent the day going through Hattie’s things.”

  I felt that familiar lump of guilt well up in my throat again. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Oh, don’t be. We had a ball. Hattie had such eclectic taste. Anyway, we’re boxing it all up and sending it out to Goodwill tomorrow.”

  I nodded.

  “And the coroner called,” Millie added. “He said they’re releasing her body tomorrow. She wanted to be cremated and have her ashes spread out in her favorite place. The mortuary said we could pick her up day after tomorrow, so we’ll do it then. You want to come with?”

  The last thing I wanted to do was stand downwind while the aunts dumped Hattie Carmichael in her last resting place. But considering she was now resting because of me, I found that guilt answering with an, “Of course.”

  “Good.” Aunt Sue nodded. “You want a margarita, honey?”

  Did I ever. “Fill ‘er up.”

  Aunt Sue poured me a tall glass, which I gratefully drank from as the aunts chatted about what to do with all of Hattie’s photographs and scrapbooks.

  Poor Mrs. Carmichael. I tossed the chicken patties in the trash and took another long sip from my margarita. It was strong, but not half bad. Could have used a little more salt.

  As I watched Aunt Sue pull a tray out of the oven and sprinkle cheese on top, my thoughts wandered to who could have done in Mrs. C. My original suspect list had yielded nada so far. Was I on the wrong track entirely? Maybe this was just some random creep who liked to see journalists squirm. There was no way either Pines or Blain Hall could have killed her, both of them locked up at the time. But both Katie and Jennifer had alibis for when the original call was made.

  Which left me where?

  I took a long drag from my glass.

  Nowhere. No suspects, no leads. The only thing I had was motive. Everyone in town apparently hated me.

  Wow, was I the self-pity queen today or what? I downed the last of my drink, filling up the glass again.

  “The enchiladas are almost done,” Aunt Millie informed us, pulling a steaming pan from the oven.

  “Good. I love enchiladas,” I said. Though somehow it came out more like, “Good, I wuv eshiladas.”

  Aunt Sue looked from the nearly empty pitcher to me. “How many of those have you had, peanut?”

  “One.” I hiccupped. “And a half.”

  A deep wrinkle of concern formed on her forehead. “Well, you might want to slow down just a little.”

  I waved her off. “Ish juss ‘cause I haven’t eaten.” I was sure after I dug into the enchiladas I’d feel better. In fact…I downed a few more gulps…I was beginning to feel better already. Better than I had in days.

  Okay, so what if everyone in town hated me? That just meant I was doing my job well. No one loves a good reporter. And I was a good reporter, despite what Felix thought. So maybe I wasn’t 100 percent sure of this creep’s identity, but in the past week I’d single-handedly gotten the goods on Katie Brigg’s secret online dating life, Blain Hall’s real addition, blackmail on the set of Pines’s last film, and kickass quotes from both Pines and Jennifer Wood. All things considered, I rocked. I was a superstar gossip columnist.

  With that cheery thought, I dug into my enchiladas with relish, not even caring the slightest that they were just one jalapeno shy of being toxic.

  Three margaritas later, I staggered into the living room to find Cal hovering over a stack of papers in a yellow manila folder.

  “What’s that?” I asked, plopping myself down on the sofa next to him.

  “A new client. Wants me to watch his wife while he’s out of town.”

  I looked down at the folder. A picture of a tall, stacked blonde stared back at me. I hated tall, stacked blondes.

  “She looks high maintenance,” I pointed out.

  He shot me a look, the corner of his mouth tilting upward in a grin.

  “Well, luckily, I don’t have to date her. I just have to watch her.”

  I felt my cheeks flush. “Right.”

  “Anyway, I won’t take it until I’m sure you’re out of danger.”

  Something about the protective tone in his voice made my insides warm. Yeah, I know he was being paid to be protective, but that didn’t make it any less comforting.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  He turned to me. “For what?”

  “For taking care of me. Nobody takes care of me.”

  His eyes softened. “You’re slurring your words a little there, kid.”

  I nodded. “It’s ’cause I’m drunk.” I lifted my empty margarita glass as proof.

  He grinned. “Yes, you are.”

  “It’s okay,” I told him. “I like being drunk. It means I don’t have to think about anything.”

  “Such as?”

  “Suspects, murders, Pines, the paper, Felix, you.”

  “Me?”

  Shit. Had I said that out loud?

  “I mean, the way you follow me around.”

  His eyebrows drew together. “Does it bother you that much?”

  “No. I mean, yes, at first. But, no, that’s not what I meant when I said you and you following me around. I meant, well, I guess what I really meant was…I mean, it’s complicated, I mean…” Truth was, I had no idea what I meant.

  Cal looked at me, concern lacing his eyes. Dark brown eyes. I’d never noticed before, but they were fringed in the longest lashes I’d ever seen on a man. I sighed. “You have nice eyes.”

  The corners of his lips tilted upward. “Thanks.”

  “And nice lips. They look like soft lips.”

  The grin grew. “Honey, you’re really drunk.”

  I nodded. But somehow that knowledge didn’t stop me from leaning in closer…closer…so close I could have licked his lower lip if I’d stuck my tongue out.

  Which I did.

  “Tina,” he whispered.

  But I didn’t let him finish that thought, my mouth suddenly acting all on its own as it latched on to his.

  I was right. His lips were soft. And sweet. And when they started moving beneath mine, gently nipping at my lower lip, I felt a moan curl up from my belly. Wow, he was good at this. Really good.

  His goatee tickled my chin, his arms drawing around my shoulders, pulling me in tight against that body that could make anyone believe in the power of protein shakes.

  I lost all sense of time, but after what felt like a blissful eternity, we finally came up for air. Cal pulled away, his eyes dark and unreadable, his breath coming as quickly as mine suddenly was. His voice was husky. “I think maybe we’d better get you to bed.” />
  I grinned, biting my lower lip. “Anything you say, big guy.”

  A full brass band was playing in the next room, the tuba relentlessly thumping out note after note. My temples throbbed with each beat, my head threatening to explode. I covered my ears with a pillow, trying to drown out the noise. But the damned band kept on playing, louder if anything. God, how many margaritas had I had last night? Thirty? Forty? Okay, it was probably more like four. But that was four too many. Tequila was definitely not my friend this morning. I rolled over, giving up on the pillow, and stumbled to my feet, trying to get my bearings. Four-poster bed. Navy comforter. Fuzzy velvet Elvis on the wall.

  Cal’s room.

  As the band played on, the night before came flooding back to me in one horrible ohmigod-what-did-I-do-last-night rush.

  I remembered sitting on the sofa, saying something stupid about his eyes, and then we were kissing. Then he said something about going to bed…

  I covered my mouth. Oh shit. Had I slept with Cal?

  I looked down. I was wearing the shirt I’d worn yesterday and a pair of pink panties. Inconclusive.

  I looked wildly around for any sign of Cal, but I was thankfully alone. Which could mean I’d dreamt the whole thing or that he’d already gotten up from our post-coital bliss to make me breakfast. Think, Tina, think! What happened last night? I wasn’t sure. My memory was covered in a tequila haze. I licked my lips and swore I could still taste Cal there. I’d kissed him…Oh, God, I’d kissed him. I buried my head in my hands. How stupid could I get? And why the hell was that band still playing?!

  I threw the covers off, willing my feet to hold me up. One foot on the ground. Two. Okay, so far so good. I took a couple tentative steps, and, while my stomach wasn’t thrilled with the idea of movement, last night’s enchiladas stayed firmly put. Which I took as a good sign.

  I threw a pair of jeans on, then opened the bedroom door. And the brass band grew louder. By the time I shuffled into the kitchen it was all I could do not to gouge my own eardrums out at the sound. I walked in to find Aunt Sue at a blender, throwing chunks of bananas in as she danced to the forties big band coming from a radio in the corner.

  “Could you turn that off?” I pleaded, one hand on my head to keep my brains from oozing out my ears.

  “What?” Aunt Sue yelled.

  “Turn it off!”

  She turned the knob on the radio, bringing with it blissful silence. “What did you say? I can’t hear you with the radio on!”

  I took a deep breath. Blew it out. Reminded myself how much I loved my aunt. “Coffee. Is there any coffee?”

  “Here you go, tequila queen.” I looked up to find Cal handing me a mug of steaming liquid.

  His hair was still wet from a shower, his eyes crinkling at the corners, dancing with some secret knowledge. I sincerely hoped it wasn’t about me.

  Self-consciously, I took the cup. “Thanks.”

  “How you feeling?” he asked, sipping from a mug of his own. If he was feeling any hint of the awkwardness consuming me, he didn’t show it, casually leaning against the kitchen counter as if it were the most natural thing in the world for him to get his clients drunk and take them to his bed.

  Maybe it was.

  A thought which did nothing to settle my angry stomach.

  “Um. Good. Fine,” I lied, sipping my coffee.

  “You look like hell.”

  I stuck my tongue out at him. “Gee, thanks.”

  He grinned. “Hangovers are a bitch, aren’t they?”

  “Just shut up, keep the coffee coming, and no one gets hurt.”

  “You got it, sunshine,” he said. Then gave me a wink.

  My stomach rolled again, but this time I kinda liked it.

  “So,” I said, purposefully clearing my throat and turning to Aunt Sue. “What have you and Aunt Millie got planned today?”

  Aunt Sue poured her thick banana shake into a glass and started sucking it through a straw. “Got more packing to do at Hattie’s. Then we’re shipping some boxes of photos to her nephew, and we’re gonna hit up the lunch buffet at the senior center. Today’s chicken dumpling day.”

  “Sounds thrilling.”

  “Felix called,” Cal told me, dropping a piece of bread into the toaster.

  I groaned. “What did he want?”

  “Wanted to know when you might be coming in to work today.”

  I glanced at the clock. Eleven already. Geez, I’d slept half the day away. Curse you, tequila.

  “Ten minutes,” I said, downing the rest of my coffee.

  I took the fastest shower on record (even though the hot water on my hangover brain felt like heaven), then quickly dressed in a pair of jeans, pink converse, and a stretchy black top with purple rhinestones spelling out the words, “Yes, they’re real,” across the chest. I grabbed my notebook and purse and was ready to go just as Millie walked in.

  “Sorry I’m late today,” she said. “The bus wasn’t running on time.”

  Last year Aunt Millie had driven her boat of an Oldsmobile right up onto the front lawn of St. Mark’s Episcopal Church, nearly taking out the bronze statue of St. Mark himself in the process. To her credit, she promptly got out of the car and apologized to the statue. That is, until he didn’t answer back, and she thought the rude man was giving her the cold shoulder, at which point she whacked him on the arm with her purse and started questioning what his mother would think of his ill manners. Needless to say, after this incident the DMV had decided that her twenty/one-fifty vision was not entirely safe for operating a motor vehicle. Since then, Millie had been riding the bus, and the rest of us on the streets had been breathing a little easier.

  I quickly directed Millie to the kitchen and made for Cal’s Hummer before Felix decided that the Informer could get along with one fewer gossip columnist on staff.

  Luckily, by eleven thirty there was little to no traffic on the way into the Informer’s offices. Unluckily, the talent agency on the third floor was holding auditions for a role in the latest Spielberg movie, so there was no parking to be had for two blocks in either direction. Cal circled twice, finally finding a space six doors down. By the time we’d hoofed it back to the office, I was sweating from places I didn’t know even had sweat glands. I hated Indian summer.

  Finally we rounded the building, cutting across the parking lot to the back entrance. We were halfway to the doors when I spotted my Rebel bike, parked in a space to the left of the entrance, just where I’d left it. Only, unlike the shiny, clean state I’d left it in, it was now covered in large splotches of white birdie doo-doo.

  “Shit!” Literally.

  I looked up to find two pigeons perched on the fire escape directly above my bike, looking innocent as anything. Damned birds.

  “My bike is not a bathroom!” I shouted to them. I thought I heard Cal smirk behind me but chose to ignore him, taking my anger out on the stupid pigeons instead. “Stay the hell away from my bike. Got it?”

  I swear to God, the fatter pigeon cocked his head at me. Then, as if to spite me, he flapped his no-doubt diseased little wings, sailing down from this perch and landing, you guessed it, on my bike.

  “Oh, that’s it. You’re toast,” I said, taking a menacing step forward.

  Only I didn’t get any farther. Suddenly a huge boom filled the air. Bright orange flames burst from my bike, tossing hot pink pieces of metal into the air, and sending me flying backward across the parking lot.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Instinctively, I threw my arms up, trying to shield my eyes from the instant sunburn. I felt my butt slam down on the macadam. Hard. Tiny pieces of debris that used to be my baby raining down on me.

  From somewhere that sounded very far away, I heard Cal yelling my name. Only he must have been closer than I thought, because in an instant his arms were around me, pulling me to my feet and away from the smoldering black spot on the ground that used to be my bike.

  “Tina, are you okay?” he asked, his eyes searching m
y face and limbs, hands feeling for broken bones.

  I blinked, trying to take in what had just happened. “I…I think so.” Which, as I wiggled my fingers, toes, arms, and legs, seemed true. My arms were red and covered in tiny scratches, and I was sure a big purple bruise was already forming on my butt, but other than that I was mostly unharmed.

  More than I could say for my bike.

  “It blew up,” I said, lamely pointing to where the pigeon’s bathroom used to be.

  Cal nodded, his face grim.

  And the full realization of what just happened hit me. “Someone blew up my bike. Someone…tried to blow up me.” I looked back to the charcoaled spot.

  The first threat on my life I honestly hadn’t taken all that seriously. Even the email had been creepy but not particularly scary. But with Mrs. Carmichael’s murder and now this…This was so over the top I needed a new word for scary. I felt myself start to shake as Cal pulled his cell out, dialing who I presumed to be the police. In fact, I was trembling so badly that I slid to the ground against the wall of the Informer’s building.

  “You okay?” Cal asked, the phone still to his ear.

  I nodded. Apparently unconvincingly, as he crouched down on the pavement next to me. “Don’t worry, we’re going to get this guy,” he said, putting a hand on my shoulder.

  I nodded again. But didn’t tell him that I wasn’t trembling solely out of fear. I’d have to be a moron not to be freaked out by this, but, even more than scared, I was pissed. This guy had taken away the safety of my home, my neighborhood, my job. He’d turned my life upside down. And I was ready for it to end. I was ready to take my life back.

  And as I stared at what could very well have been barbequed me, I vowed that I wasn’t going to stop until I did.

  Two hours later the cops had dusted, swabbed, and sprayed the entire parking lot for any trace evidence my would-be killer might have left behind. With no results. They said they needed to take it all back to the lab for more comprehensive testing.

  As soon as the detective in charge said I could go, I bolted, leaving Cal to deal with the rest of the mess. I knew he could handle it. Me? Hangover plus explosion was more than I could take in one day. Instead, I marched up to the second floor and shoved myself in front of my computer. I pulled up a word processing file and immediately started typing.