Something About Eve

by Debra Salonen

  “I’m tired, Barry. I—”

  He turned on her. His face contorted. “Tired? We don’t have time for tired, Eve. I guaranteed Communitex I’d deliver your beautiful face—your very recognizable, bankable face by December first. It’s almost Christmas, and you have yet to make more than a token appearance in the office. No press conferences, no glad-handing with the public, no parties, nothing. Do you know how ridiculous that makes me look?”

  He’d punctuated each of her shortcomings with a Nazi goose-step until he stood directly across from Eve, his skin a blotchy red that made his Rhett Butler mustache and microgoatee stand out like white Breath Right strips.

  His breath smelled of garlic. A wave of nausea made Eve shrink back to avoid vomiting on his shoes. Barry apparently read her retreat as some sort of victory. He pressed his advantage by leaning in closer. “I took you to a doctor, Eve. He gave you pills, but you refuse to take them.”

  Just the mention of those pills made Eve gag.

  “They made me sick. Remember your car?” She’d been so out of it on the trip to Atlanta, she barely recalled a moment of the ordeal, with one notable exception—emptying the contents of her stomach all over the back seat of Barry’s beloved Rolls-Royce.

  Barry snarled. “That’s right. You still owe me two hundred bucks for cleaning the seats and carpet.” He snorted, “Hell, dating you was no picnic from the start. The company ought to give me hazard pay.”

  So, that’s it. All that sweet-talk of love and settling down was just blue sky to hook me. To Eve’s immense relief, he backed up enough to take a seat on the coffee table. He rested his elbows on his knees and eyed her gravely. “Forget the car. I’m more worried about you, Eve. Do you have a death wish where your career is concerned? If you don’t buck up and make an effort, you’re going to disappear into the land of has-beens. Entertainment Tonight will feature you on its Where Are They Now? segment.”

  Just like that, Eve’s temper snapped. She hated bullies—from Saddam Hussein to Arnie Zelderman, a classmate who’d tied her to the playground swings with a jump rope during third-grade recess. Gathering strength she didn’t know she possessed, Eve drew her stocking-clad feet back, placed them squarely on Barry’s chest and pushed. He didn’t tumble over as she’d have liked, but he was obviously stunned. And angry.

  “You ungrateful bitch,” he swore, pushing her trembling legs aside. “I gave you the chance of a lifetime and you’re blowin’ it. That may be your choice, darlin’, but I sure as hell don’t plan to sink into this hellhole with you. It’s high time I protect my derriere.”

  His sanctimonious attitude fueled Eve’s sense of outrage. I’m sick, dammit. Can’t you see that? She pulled her knees beneath her and sat up straight. “Get out, Barry. I hope Communitex fries your ass with a plate of chitlins or grits or whatever it is you southerners eat. That doctor you took me to was a quack. Those pills weren’t even from a legitimate pharmacy. I told him about the Panama thing, and he didn’t even call my doctor or ask to see my files.”

  She had to stop to draw in a deep breath. Tremors coursed through her body—whether from fury or fatigue she didn’t know. “I’m run-down. All that over-the-counter crap you keep plying me with doesn’t do a thing. I told you I wanted to see another doctor, and suddenly you just stopped showing up.”

  “I had to go to Chicago. Some of us work for a living,” he said snidely.

  “Well, I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I’m never going to get well this way.”

  Barry made a motion toward the kitchenette where opened cans of chicken soup mingled with cartons of orange juice and pill bottles of every size and shape. “You kept telling me all you needed was rest,” he argued. “I didn’t have time to find you a doctor before I went to Chicago. I couldn’t call just anybody. Do you want the whole world to know about this? Weakness of any kind is a deal-breaker in this business.”

  She had to concede that point, but it was moot if she wasn’t able to drag herself into her bedroom let alone to work. “But things have changed. I’m not well. I’m a person, Barry, not a commodity. If Communitex can’t deal with that then screw them. And screw you, too. Just get the hell out of here, Barry LaPointer.” She pronounced the word without the French twist he preferred. “You’re making me sicker than I already am.”

  He picked up his Armani coat and walked to the door. With a haughty nod, he said, “When I’m through with you, Eve Masterson, you won’t be able to show your face outside this building. And you can kiss your dream show goodbye, too,” he added snidely. “Poor little Deeanna West will have died in vain. Think about that while you wallow in your illness.” Then he slammed the door.

  Eve toppled over and crawled beneath the fluffy comforter she’d finally found buried in one of her boxes. Her head throbbed with a hammering pain that seemed timed to her heartbeat.

  Curled in a tight ball, Eve tried to block the memory of the teenager’s suicide. Deeanna’s story had been Eve’s last assignment for the network. Then an insensitive editor had gutted Eve’s in-depth piece. Eve had been furious so when Barry showed up promising that his company would let her produce a show aimed at helping teenage girls, she’d quit the network quite happily. So much for dreams. Eve knew she needed help, but the idea of finding a new doctor seemed twice as daunting as it had yesterday. Do I even own a phone book?

  A fleeting thought crossed her mind: call Sara or Mom. But another voice reasoned that her friend lived too far away to be of help, and her parents were traveling in Australia. Besides, Eve had put off calling them for so long they’d probably given up on her.

  Sleep, she thought, sinking into the darkness. Just a few minutes more, then I’ll figure out something…

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE SOUND OF A PHONE ringing in a distant fog-enshrouded land beyond her eyes woke Eve from her thick, unhealthy sleep. For a person who once thrived on five or six hours a night, this round-the-clock slumber seemed both unnatural and dangerous.

  I wonder if this is what death is like. A tingle of fear made Eve rally enough energy to open her eyes.

  Nothing had changed since the last time she looked. Same neutral walls devoid of decoration. Same pile of unopened mail collecting beneath the mail slot in the door. The off-white blinds were lowered and closed, no sunlight angled through the slats so she had no idea whether it was morning or night.

  All the overhead lights were on because she lacked the energy to get up and turn them off.

  The phone continued ringing until the answering machine clicked on, asking in a chipper tone for the caller to leave a message.

  A voice she’d never heard before spoke. “Eve, this is Matthew Ross. I’m a private investigator working with my cousin, Bo Lester. We’ve been asked by your friends Sara and Ren Bishop to find out if you’re okay.”

  Am I okay? Although at some level the question made sense, the answer confounded her. As a reporter, words were her life source, her job, but now they eluded her, slipping away like ghosts in the mist. The image frightened her, and Eve reached deep for the energy to lift her head.

  “I’m…” she started, but the words got stuck in her parched throat, and whatever answer she’d been trying for disappeared from her mind.

  “I will be in Atlanta tomorrow and I’d like to meet with you,” the voice continued. “The Bishops won’t be satisfied with anything short of a visual confirmation that you’re alive, so…” There was something very inviting about this voice, warm and sunny, like the beaches of Bermuda. Barry had promised her Christmas in Bermuda. Barry’s promises were even less substantial than his kisses.

  “If you get this message and would like to set up a time to meet, my cellular number is…” He rattled off a number the way she used to—fast, crisp and economical. Time was money. Did she have any money anymore or had Barry screwed up that part of her life, too?

  A burning sensation started in her stomach. Curling on her side, Eve brought her knees to her chest. Her ribs felt as though they
might poke through her skin. She needed to get up and fix something to eat, but the thought alone made her dizzy. She closed her eyes and focused on the voice. “Eve, I’m sorry to intrude on you like this, but your friends and your parents are very worried. You could save me a trip if you’d call someone and tell them what’s going on.”

  What is going on?

  His tone became more serious. “If this is a media thing, I promise you I won’t blow it if you come clean. You’re a little out of my usual realm, but I swear I’m legit here—not some screwy fan who somehow got your number. Sara and your folks are frantic. They can’t enjoy the upcoming holiday unless they know you’re okay. So, how ’bout it? Give one of us a call?”

  The cajoling tone almost made her smile, but her mind stalled on the word holiday. In their big blowup yesterday—was it yesterday? Or weeks ago?—Barry had said something about it being almost Christmas, but she’d blanked it out, unable to deal with having lost so much time.

  Tears slipped from beneath her closed eyelids. “Please call if you get this message. Again, my name is Matt Ross with RBL Investigations. On the chance Sara’s fears are correct and something has happened to you, I will be in Atlanta tomorrow and I’m not leaving until I find you.”

  Eve opened her eyes. A single thought crystallized in her mind and stayed there long after the sound of his voice faded. He’s coming.

  A long sigh warmed the spot on her pillow. She closed her eyes and started to sink back into the comforting arms of Morpheus, but her sleep was interrupted by a second phone call.

  This time the caller didn’t respond immediately to Eve’s invitation to leave a name and number. Instead, there was a long, ominous pause. Eve knew that pause by heart. A creepy sensation raced up her spine, making her shiver.

  “I know you’re there, Even Mine,” a raspy voice said.

  A pain knifed through Eve, making her choke on a cry. She lifted her hands to her ears and pressed hard, but the sound of the voice seeped through her fingers. “You know you’re mine, Eve. Why do you try to pretend you’re not?”

  “Leave me alone,” Eve sobbed. Tears gushed from her eyes. Mucus filled her nostrils, choking her air supply. Drawing in racking, hurtful gasps, Eve welcomed the gray fog that descended over her consciousness.

  “SIR?” The flight attendant leaned over to catch Matt’s attention.

  He blinked, pulling himself back from the brink of sleep. Reaching up, he yanked out one of his earplugs. “I’m sorry. What?”

  “The pilot’s turned on the Fasten Seat Belt sign,” the woman said, her pretty, blue eyes both friendly and interested.

  Matt fished for the ends of his belt. “Are we landing already?”

  “Just a little turbulence.” She reached lower to catch the silver buckle dangling in the aisle.

  “Here you go.” The woman had a great smile. And a nice body, a little voice added.

  Wrong time. Wrong guy. Matt took the belt from her fingers and lowered his chin to focus on snapping it across his lap. “Thank you.”

  She straightened. “Sure. Can I get you anything?”

  Matt glanced at his watch: 3:00 p.m. “Black coffee?” A beer sounded better, but he hoped to arrive in time to stop at the Communitex offices, where Eve Masterson was supposed to be employed, before five o’clock. He didn’t want to show up smelling of beer.

  The blonde smiled and pivoted on one heel. Matt watched her walk toward the forward cabin. He’d chosen an aisle seat in business class to accommodate his long legs, but he had to admit the view wasn’t bad, either. Too bad he wasn’t in the market.

  Matt could almost hear Bo chiding him. A little flirting wouldn’t kill you. Pretty girls expect it. You’ve probably totally bummed her out.

  Matt halfway wondered if there was something physically wrong with him. He used to like flirting. He used to be drawn to women, especially attractive women with long legs.

  The flight attendant returned shortly with a steaming cup and a tiny vacuum-packed snack. “Thank you,” Matt said, trying to make amends.

  “My pleasure. If you need anything else, just let me know.”

  Matt ripped open a corner of the bag with his teeth and slowly nibbled the sweetened nuts. Whatever happened to plain old salted peanuts? he wondered. Phased out for a new, improved model. Just like me.

  He took a gulp of coffee, swallowing the bitterness that threatened to choke him. First, the divorce. Ten years of marriage down the drain. Then, the accident. A career—a lifetime of wanting to be a cop—gone in the time it took to ram his squad car into a telephone pole.

  If it had been a movie, his selfless act—meant to keep from running over a child who’d been tossed from the moving getaway car by her junkie stepfather—would have looked heroic. Instead, the kid died from a concussion, the junkie broadsided a bus and was killed on impact, and the dope they recovered from the car wasn’t as much as they’d been led to believe. Just like that, Matt’s right knee had been destroyed, along with his career.

  To distract himself from his dark thoughts, Matt opened the file he’d started assembling on Monday. He laid the manila envelope on his tray table and studied his computer printout. Usually, two days was more than enough time to chronicle a person’s complete history, but for some reason Eve Angelica Masterson remained an enigma. All he knew was what some publicist wanted him—Joe Public—to know.

  He scanned the high points. Graduated cum laude from both high school and college. Took both the Junior Miss and Miss California crowns. Her first post-college radio show, Shake, Rattle and Roll L.A., went ballistic from day one thanks to the audacious claim that she and her male co-host were doing the show naked. Given her looks and ambition, Eve’s move to television had seemed predestined. Then came her engagement to Ren Bishop. “A well-matched couple,” the media had called them. But they’d split up—Ren had married Sara and Eve had moved to New York.

  Fingering the edge of an eight-by-ten glossy black-and-white publicity photo, he slid it to the top of the stack. His seatmate to the left grunted, “Ooh, baby. Eve Masterson. Wouldn’t I like to start my day off with that pretty face on the pillow next to mine. Know what I mean?”

  Matt glanced sideways. The man was pudgy, in his mid-fifties and nearly bald.

  “Whatever happened to her, anyway?” the man asked in a flat midwestern accent.

  Matt cleared his throat. “Good question.”

  “Are you a fan?” the guy asked.

  “I used to enjoy seeing her do the news in the morning.”

  The man nodded with such force, his jowls rippled. “Me, too. Especially on the weekends when I didn’t have to get right to work. If you get my drift.”

  Matt got it—unfortunately. For the first time since he’d agreed to take this job, Matt felt a connection with his subject—pity.

  “Name’s Gordon. John Gordon. C.P.A. What do you do?” The guy turned slightly and extended his hand.

  With a subtle flick of the wrist, Matt closed the folder and slipped it into his flight bag then returned the social acknowledgment. “Matt Jones. Writer. Freelance. I was supposed to get an interview with this Masterson chick, but she was a no-show,” Matt ad-libbed. He sighed and slouched down as if utterly exhausted from his ordeal. “Celebrities,” he muttered. “Whaddaya expect?”

  Through his lashes, Matt saw John Gordon’s pensive frown. A flicker of conscience made him regret trashing Eve’s reputation, but the last thing he wanted was to be pulled into a conversation about his client. Granted, Eve wasn’t his client, Sara Bishop was, but for some reason, Matt didn’t like the idea of John Gordon fantasizing about Eve—even if her sex appeal was what gathered viewers.

  Thinking about the little yarn he’d spun, Matt wondered—not for the first time—why Eve didn’t have a staff working for her: a publicist, an agent or a secretary. She was sufficiently established that she’d need all those people, and a driver, too. But he hadn’t been able to contact anyone other than Eve’s former agent, Marcella Goodell
, who was out of the office until January fifth. Her secretary said the agent was no longer representing Miss Masterson but refused to elaborate.

  In fact, despite his best efforts, Eve Masterson was looking more and more mysterious—not at all what he’d expected. Her Web page was bright and showy—full of facts about her job and accomplishments, but it hadn’t been updated in five months. Her Webmaster hadn’t spoken to her personally since its inception and there’d been no return e-mail activity in several months.

  Unfortunately, the week before Christmas was not the best time to try to get information from people. Eve’s former secretary at the network was on vacation. Two of the names Bo listed as Eve’s friends hadn’t called him back—either too busy or too distrusting of inquiries.

  A part of him wondered if Eve had chosen to drop out of sight because she no longer enjoyed fame and all the trappings—the negative trappings. He really couldn’t blame her, but she should let her friends and family know what was going on. Unless something or someone was preventing her from making contact with the outside world.

  Where are you, Eve Masterson? What the hell has happened to you?

  MATT INSERTED the key into the door lock of his rented Chevy sedan and tossed his bag in the back and sat down, adjusting the seat for his long legs. He set the mirrors and turned on the engine. The defroster blasted out chilly air. Gray skies made the damp air feel colder than the thermometer suggested. He’d never been to Atlanta, but he’d studied a map of the city on the Internet and had a pretty good idea where to go.

  An hour later, he finally spotted the street sign he’d been looking for and pulled into the parking lot of Communitex, Inc.

  Before getting out of the car, he studied the three-story building with teal-tinted glass and tungsten-colored chrome. Pretty showy for a company teetering on the brink of disaster, he thought. Bringing Eve Masterson on board had been a stroke of genius that might have saved the company from filing for bankruptcy, but in order for her presence to work—they had to use her, flaunt her. Something that had yet to happen.