Done to Death Page 2

  He and Jeanine, a contestant on his last successful show, Model Behavior, had no more than a two month cushion in the bank and no family safety net. To Barry’s blue collar Jersey parents and Jeanine’s, who survived crop to crop on their Iowa farm, they were the affluent ones.

  His phone buzzed; Celia’s voice came through the speaker. ‘Barry, it’s Jeanine, do you want me to tell her you’re out?’

  ‘No, put her on.’

  The line clicked.

  ‘Hi sweetie,’ Jeanine’s husky voice even better than his magic pill.

  Barry closed his eyes. ‘Hey babe, what’s up?’

  ‘It’s kind of stupid,’ she said. ‘But I felt like I should check before blowing twenty-five hundred bucks on a pocketbook.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I know you’ll tell me just to do it. But I’m looking at all the other high-end real estate agents and the ones who get the million dollar sales are all carrying Chanel or Birkin. It’s part of the uniform − a Chanel suit, a pair of Louboutin pumps and a Birkin bag.’

  ‘Then do it,’ he said.

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Babe, if you need it, you need it.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.

  ‘Migraine.’

  ‘What triggered it?’

  ‘Lenore’s perfume.’

  ‘That bitch! Are you going to be OK?’

  ‘Yeah, actually just hearing your voice helps.’

  ‘Why don’t you take the rest of the day? Screw the purse, I’ll pour you a bath, give you a massage …’

  Barry let Jeanine’s words fill his head. He imagined her soft hands kneading his tense shoulders, the tickle of her silky curls against his skin. ‘That would be what the doctor ordered, but I can’t.’

  ‘Barry, tell me what’s wrong, and I’m not just talking the headache. What’s going on?’

  He didn’t want to tell her. He hated this crushing sense of failure, of letting her down. He also knew she wouldn’t let up until he told her. ‘She hated the pitch.’

  ‘Barry, I’m so sorry. What’s the backup plan?’

  ‘Working on it now. I’ll come up with something.’

  ‘And if you don’t? What did she say? Tell me, please.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. It’ll be fine. Everything’s fine. Really. It’s just the headache couldn’t have come at a worse time. But I got to my pill in time, it’s passing. You know me, it’s all about pulling rabbits from hats. I want you to go out and buy that pocketbook. Because you know what they say?’

  ‘What?’

  Remembering advice from one of his first mentors in the industry. ‘The more you spend, the more you make.’

  ‘You’re sure of that?’

  ‘Absolutely. I’m going to want to see that purse when I get home. Although don’t wait up, it’s going to be a very long night.’

  ‘I love you Barry,’ Jeanine said. ‘And that has nothing to do with a pocketbook.’

  ‘I know. But I want you to have it. I want you and Ashley to have everything, and I’m going to make damn certain that this next pitch blows Lenore away.’

  ‘OK then …’

  He heard the concern in her voice. It was like a knife. ‘I’m going to make this work.’

  ‘I know you will.’

  ‘Buy the pocketbook.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘I love you.’

  ‘I love you too,’ she said, ‘and I hope that bitch Lenore drops dead.’

  ‘Please God no,’ he said. ‘Without Lenore there will be no Birkin bags.’

  ‘Fine, then I guess she can live. And Barry …’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I am going to wait up.’

  After he hung up he felt a familiar tingle that pushed against the migraine. Eight years into their marriage and ten into their relationship, just her voice made everything right. If she wanted a Birkin bag, he’d make damn sure she’d get it. Lenore trashing Bargain Bonanza was not the end of the world … not yet. With his eyes closed he hung on to the sound of Jeanine’s voice. How did you get to be that lucky? It was time to get to work.

  He glanced at his monitor and braced for the stab of pain the light would send to his head. He squinted and focused on unread emails. His vision was clearing. The pill was doing its trick with the pain − holding it back. Sure, he’d have a headache, but he’d gotten to the med in time. Just function, he told himself. That was all that mattered − function, come up with something brilliant − Antiques Roadshow meets The Hunger Games on the set of Gilmore Girls − pitch it and get Lenore to love it. In spite of everything, he chuckled. ‘That won’t happen.’ In his three years with Lenore she didn’t love anything, and even when she did, she’d never let you know. ‘I expect brilliance,’ is what she’d say. ‘It’s what I pay you for.’

  Celia, who pre-screened his emails, had divided them into files. He started in with those related to the now tanked Bargain Bonanza. There was one from the field agent who’d been scouting locations − Grenville, CT being a front runner, as Lenore had a country place in Shiloh, the town immediately north. There were several from agents who represented prospective hosts they’d approached, and a small stack from assorted locals at the various sites. He flipped through a couple from freelance show runners and field producers, two of whom he knew well, one he’d gone to school with, Jim Cymbel.

  He opened Jim’s.

  Hey B:

  Wanted to get back with some ideas for your killer new reality show − Bargain Bonanza. Where the market’s saturated with these flea market contests, it’s a tough sell getting a new boy to float to the top. I’ve got several ways we could do this. I’d love to talk it over and see if we could make a marriage.

  Love ya … and Jeanine.

  Jim

  He thought about calling, but only as a last resort. Sure, Jim wanted to help − help himself to Barry’s job. Because that email − and several others in his queue − were a lot like the one he’d sent to Susan Grace, the woman whose offices he now occupied. Last he’d heard she’d fallen down the industry food chain to where she couldn’t even get pitch meetings.

  He looked back at the screen and shifted from prospective producers and their promises to deliver fresh ideas, scanning the ones from talent agents − waste of time till you know what you’re doing. He scrolled past the smattering of locals at various sites. Those were a crap-shoot, everything from mayors and first selectmen, wanting Lenore’s reflected glamour in their town, to B and Bs and prospective locations eager to sign lucrative deals.

  His eye caught on one headed ‘Cash or Trash − Lil Campbell’. ‘That’s as lame as Bargain Bonanza’ – but he clicked it open anyway.

  Dear Mr Stromstein:

  This is in response to the email I received about my syndicated antiques and collectibles column, ‘Cash or Trash’. Yes, I’d love to set up a phone time to talk about one of my favorite things − my hometown Grenville, CT, the antiques capital of New England (possibly the world). The thought of having a Lenore Parks show feature our town is a thrill. Feel free to call any time − the home number is the best, but I do carry my cell.

  Best,

  Lil Campbell

  He replayed his Hail Mary pass that Lenore seemed to like − Antiques Roadshow meets The Hunger Games on the set of Gilmore Girls. Scenic Grenville, in the Litchfield Hills, fit a third of the equation. Through hooded eyes he dialed Lil Campbell’s number and pressed the button for speaker. He leaned back and waited for an answering machine.

  ‘Hello?’ A woman’s voice answered.

  ‘Hi, this is Barry Stromstein, of Lenore Parks Productions. I’m trying to reach a Lil Campbell.’

  ‘How strange is that? I had literally just dialed your number when you popped up on call waiting.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Talk about synchronicity. Do you mind if I put you on speaker? My partner Ada Strauss is with me and we don’t often get calls from TV producers.’

  ‘That�
�s fine,’ he said. ‘So what got you to dial?’

  ‘You’re kidding,’ she said. ‘The thought of having even a single episode of a show shot in Grenville would be a big deal. I mean several of our dealers have been experts on other shows, but nothing in the town itself.’

  ‘Right,’ and Barry recoiled at the familiar scent of want. ‘So,’ falling into his familiar role of gatekeeper to the brass ring, ‘what makes Grenville special?’

  He listened as this Lil woman extolled the town’s beauty. He’d seen the pictures and knew she wasn’t lying. It would be a dream to film: the changing seasons, lovingly preserved Colonial and Federal houses, the tidy greens with their romantic bronzes and ancient cannons. Fine, it’s pretty, he thought, lots of places are pretty. And sure, it probably fulfills two out of three − Antiques Roadshow and the set of Gilmore Girls. He imagined bringing Jeanine and little Ashley out for the shoots; they’d love it. His thoughts drifted, and he made polite noises as though he were paying attention as Lil Campbell talked about the two hundred antique dealers, the weekly flea market and active council − God save me from active councils. He’d heard enough. He gently cleared his throat. ‘It does sound like a place to consider,’ he said, and prepared to launch into his kiss off.

  ‘Lil, don’t forget to tell him about the murder rate,’ a new voice popped in.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘The murder rate,’ this other woman, with a slight New York accent, repeated. ‘Grenville had the highest per capita murder rate in Connecticut for two years running. And if you think about it, all of the victims were in some way connected to the antiques industry, although in that horrible fire at the assisted living center it was mostly that doctor.’

  ‘Which doctor? And I’m assuming you’re Ada.’

  ‘Ada Strauss. Long story short: it was a huge Medicaid fraud, we’re talking millions, that centered on this doctor − who apparently was both an antique clock collector and a hoarder. We’d see him every week at the flea market. It wound up as an arson slash multiple murder at one of the biggest assisted care facilities in the state. And, considering the total population of Grenville is twelve thousand, it doesn’t take much to bump our numbers up. That pushed us to the top for 2011, and in 2010 there was a serial killer who was taking out high-end antique dealers. Come to think of it, another doctor − what is with them? That one was a dentist. The freaky thing is he actually worked on a crown for me that came off when I was eating a crème brulée … sorry, too much information. Although both Lil and I barely made it out when he torched his place.’

  ‘What? Wait a minute!’ Barry was forward in his seat. ‘Not too much at all.’ His complacency and the throbbing in his head had suddenly been blown away like leaves in a storm … meets The Hunger Games. Ding ding ding. ‘Tell me about the murders. It seems like you know a fair amount about them.’

  ‘Please, we were there … I mean really there, as in almost got killed. You see Calvin Williams, the psychopathic dentist, had a lifelong crush on Lillian, and apparently his mother, who had Alzheimer’s, had been selling off the family heirlooms to local dealers who’d essentially robbed her blind.’

  Barry was mesmerized as plots and twists fell from this Ada Strauss’s lips. A town filled with competing dealers, a supply of merchandise that was hotly contested, corruption, bribes, small-town scandals, a child-molesting dentist … murder. Too good to be true. He tried to picture Ada Strauss. She sounded a bit older, knowledgeable and funny. At one point he interrupted her. ‘Do I have your headshot?’

  She laughed. ‘Why would you?’

  ‘Right … not an actress or on-screen personality, I’m assuming.’

  ‘Hardly. I don’t know if you’re old enough to remember Strauss’s department stores.’

  ‘I remember them.’ He laughed. ‘I remember my mother putting us in matching caps so she wouldn’t lose us during the back to school sales.’ He felt a twinge of regret. She might be too old for on-screen talent, or she could be a total dog. ‘You’re that Strauss … and Mr Strauss?’

  ‘Passed several years ago.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You didn’t kill him. But it’s kind of you to say.’

  ‘You’re quick.’

  ‘You’re surprised.’

  His usual defenses were down. There was something here − at least he hoped there was. You’re desperate, Barry, this is a reach. ‘Is there any way I could get you – I mean the two of you – into the city for a pitch meeting this afternoon?’

  ‘I have no idea what that is,’ Ada Strauss said. ‘I mean aside from what you read in Jackie Collins novels. Lil? What do you think?’

  ‘We could be there in two hours. It’s the middle of the day, and traffic shouldn’t be bad.’

  ‘Fantastic!’ And he gave them the address.

  After they hung up, he buzzed his assistant. ‘Celia, we’ve got an Ada Strauss coming in from Connecticut. I want some test shots, and get Jason to get her on tape. Have her talk about anything: antiques, murder, whatever.’

  He hung up and realized his headache was gone. Please, he thought, feeling the dangerous seed of hope take root. Please, please, please.

  THREE

  ‘What the hell was that?’ Ada asked, after they’d disconnected with Barry Stromstein.

  ‘Not quite certain, but he seemed rather taken with you.’

  ‘Please, I was rambling.’

  ‘Yeah, but you do it well.’ Lil looked at Ada. ‘Did we just say we’d be in midtown in two hours?’

  Ada nodded. Lil was in her robe, hair mussed and in a messy ponytail after their morning’s romp. ‘We can do this. I say business casual in under fifteen minutes − ready, set, go.’

  ‘It’s funny,’ Lil commented as they headed back to the master bedroom.

  ‘What is?’ Ada asked, as they moved with a practiced efficiency to their respective sides of the spacious walk-in closet.

  ‘I’d swear that Barry was about to blow me off right before you piped in with the murders.’

  ‘Why do you think I did that?’

  Lil paused, her hand on a gray skirt suit. She looked at Ada, from her bright silver spiked hair to those amazing sapphire eyes. ‘I sometimes forget.’

  Ada, holding a cream silk blouse against a vintage blue Chanel suit, looked back and met Lil’s gaze. ‘It’s OK.’

  ‘You are amazing.’ Struck by how beautiful she found Ada, and amused by their very different wardrobes − Ada’s side filled with vibrant blues, greens and purples and hers a study in staid New England brown, gray and navy.

  ‘We’re a team, Lil.’ She chuckled. ‘You were striking out, so I decided to take a swing.’

  ‘Baseball metaphors?’

  ‘Sure, we’re going to a … pitch meeting.’

  Lil groaned, ‘That was awful.’

  ‘I can do worse,’ and, grabbing a pair of pumps, Ada exited the closet and threw everything on the bed.

  Twenty minutes later, and looking like Manhattan executives, the two women headed down the steep path toward Lil’s white Lincoln Town Car. Knowing they were being observed, Ada waved and smiled at their across-the-walkway neighbor, Bernice Framm, the mayor’s retired secretary. Out of perversity she also gave a wave to Clayton Spratt’s living room window, assuming he was probably there as well, monitoring their every move.

  ‘Such a vile man,’ she said under her breath.

  ‘I think he’s jealous.’

  ‘Because I wouldn’t go out with him?’ Ada asked.

  ‘You hurt his feelings.’

  ‘Please, the man’s a sociopath. The way he tried to get the Association to tell me I couldn’t have Aaron live with me.’

  ‘Do you still think we should move out of here?’

  ‘I used to,’ Ada said, as Lil clicked open the locks on the car. ‘I mean this is Twilight Town, but God knows it’s convenient.’

  ‘Houses are great,’ Lil said, ‘but the upkeep.’ And she threw the car into reverse. ‘You want
to punch in the address and locate the nearest garage?’

  ‘No problem,’ Ada said, setting the GPS. ‘In the abstract, I love the idea of owning a house, but let’s face it, I lived in Manhattan my entire adult life, and you had the big house with Bradley. I think where we’re at is fine; I wouldn’t mind breaking through the wall between our two places, but you know the Owners’ Association would never go for it.’

  ‘They don’t need to know,’ Lil said.

  ‘Really? Two problems − Bernice and Clayton.’

  ‘Right. Although she’s been much friendlier since our coming out party.’

  ‘Is that what we’re calling having pictures of us sleeping together posted on the Internet?’ Ada asked.

  ‘Hey,’ Lil said, ‘it was our fifteen minutes, not everyone gets that.’

  ‘I’d be happy to return it. Two years later and I still have nightmares about that awful woman we let into our home.’

  ‘I know,’ Lil said. ‘She had everyone fooled … including us. And considering the fact that she was responsible for five deaths, and for setting the fire at your mother’s assisted care facility, having her shoot a few compromising, albeit chaste, candids of us in bed was getting off easy. When I think about what she was capable of … what she did.’

  ‘Let’s not dwell,’ Ada offered. ‘It was two years ago and Alice − may she rest in peace … or in hell – is gone. As to the fifteen minutes of fame − Miss Syndicated Reporter − you get yours every week.’

  ‘You know I’m going to try to turn this thing today into a column.’

  ‘Whatever this is,’ Ada said. ‘Why would that Barry person want to see us? And why did he want to know if we had headshots?’

  ‘If you had a headshot,’ Lil corrected. ‘You were kind of fabulous on the phone.’

  Ada blushed. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, I just didn’t want him to hang up. So what’s the deal with Lenore Parks? I can’t see her actually being on some reality show.’

  ‘I don’t think she would be. It’s like Oprah with all of her spin-offs. Lenore’s a brand, so this would be something like that.’