Exclusive (12 page)

The Jolie/Pitt interview would put The Informer up against The Enquirer and The Globe. They would pay millions for this interview, she knew that. Hell, The Informer would pay big bucks if they could. But luckily for them—and for her—they didn’t have to.

A germ of an idea began to form in the back of her mind. What if she were to build up this interview before it actually took place? What if she hinted to the readers that The Informer was about to land the mother of all exclusive interviews? She could do it, build up reader momentum, not to mention sales, then boom. She’d have every tabloid reader in America lining up to buy The Informer when her interview, with pictures, was front and center at every grocery store, airport, newspaper stand, and every discount department store in the nation. Yes, she could do it. She was sure it would be at least two to three weeks before the interview actually took place. That would allow her enough time to write the teasers. She’d do them herself. Of course, she would have to have the approval of the new owners, but Abby figured if they were smart businessmen, or women, they would give her the go-ahead. The only way she could contact them, though, was via e-mail.

“Come on, Chester. We’ve got work to do.”

Upon hearing his name, the German shepherd raced to Abby’s side. She stooped down so he could cover her face with dog kisses. She ruffled his ears, then patted his muzzle. “You’re such a smart boy, you know that? I do believe you’re smarter than Mr. Clay, the jerk.”

Chester barked.

Abby grinned. “I see you agree with me. A smart move, old boy.”

Back inside her office, Abby refreshed Chester’s water and grabbed a Coke from the minifridge before sitting down to draft an e-mail to her unknown employer, LAT Enterprise. How was she to address them? she wondered as she clicked on her e-mail account. She went with the obvious.


Dear LAT Enterprise:



Yesterday I received an e-mail from the publicist for the Pitt/Jolie team. They have granted The Informer an interview. They also requested photographs of their twins. As of this writing, we have not scheduled an exact date. I would assume two to three weeks before all involved are ready. I believe The Informer’s sales would skyrocket if we were to build up our readers’ anticipation with teasers on the upcoming exclusive interview. As editor in chief I will take full responsibility for writing them and doing the upcoming interview.

I ask your permission to begin this project immediately.



Respectfully,



Abby Simpson,
Editor in Chief 



She read through the e-mail twice before hitting the SEND button. That was direct and right to the point. She had no clue if the actual owners would read it, but assumed the information would somehow reach the decision maker. If they were smart, they’d jump on this like white on rice. Done properly, the interview could launch a whole new readership and keep their regular subscribers satisfied as well.

Abby scanned her new e-mails, hoping for a response from the publicist, but so far, nothing, nada, zilch. “Damn, come on, answer your e-mail,” she thought as she typed short, succinct answers to her three stringers covering Revlon’s Woman of the Year luncheon, which amounted to nothing more than older out-of-work actors vying for a chance to rub shoulders with producers and directors. Still, one never knew. She’d instructed Elizabeth to hide in the ladies’ room on the off chance she’d hear something newsworthy, tabloid newsworthy. She hated to sink so low, but it was commonplace in the business nowadays, almost so much so that it was next to impossible to overhear the tiniest bit of gossip. Today’s stars were savvy where the press were concerned, yet they knew how to play right into their hands when they needed a headline. Trouble was, The Informer’s “hands” always seemed to be last in line.

When she finished answering her e-mails, Abby turned off the computer, covered her keyboard with a protective plastic cover, and grabbed her purse and Chester’s leash. “Come on, boy, it’s time to go home. Maybe we’ll both get lucky tonight.”

Chester leaped off his chair and followed her to the door and down the long hallway to the back exit. Once inside her MINI Cooper, Abby strapped Chester’s seat belt in place before adjusting her own. She had promised Chester a steak that night. She’d make a pit stop at Ralph’s. She needed food, real food. She’d been existing on takeout for weeks. Between running The Informer out of her garage, then settling into her new office, not to mention trying to stay on top of her remodeling projects at home, Abby hadn’t bothered with grocery shopping, let alone cooking. As her mother would say, that’s what restaurants are for. While she agreed wholeheartedly, she was sick of fast food.

She weaved the little car in and out of traffic, stopping every so often for one of LA’s world-famous traffic jams. Forty-five minutes later, she hit Brentwood, where she lived just minutes from a Ralph’s grocery store.

“You’ll have to stay in the car, Chester, but I promised you a big steak, and that’s exactly what you’re gonna get.”

Before she got out of her car, she lowered the windows just enough to allow fresh air to flow through the car, but not enough that Chester could jump out after her.

Abby entered the store, grateful for the wash of icy air. She was about to reach for a shopping basket when her hand collided with another hand, another large male hand. “Wait a minute buddy…”

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite reporter. Abby Simpson. What are you doing in a grocery store? Please tell me you’re not making dinner tonight.”

Her first instinct was to run out of the store, her second was to sock him right in the kisser, but her third, the one she acted on, was to remain calm. She was an adult. She could handle this.

“I suppose I should ask you the same. I hope you’re not making dinner for one of your Hollywood starlets. I might have to report that some of them actually eat real food.” Abby yanked the shopping basket out of Chris Clay’s hand.

He jumped back. “Testy today, aren’t we? News must be slow. I remember that about you. You’re always pissy when you don’t have something to write for that sleazy paper.”

Abby had turned her back on him. She was going to purchase her groceries, go home, and cook dinner for herself and a steak for Chester. But no, Chris just had to remind her what he thought of her chosen profession. Something he knew would tick her off.

Abby turned around to face him. She gripped the shopping basket so hard her knuckles were white. “What do you want? Are you following me?” Damn, why did she say that? Of course he wasn’t following her. Why would he follow her? He knew where she lived. Damn, damn, and double damn.

He laughed, shaking his head. “No, Abs, I’m not following you. It just so happens this is where I buy my mint-chocolate-chip ice cream. I can’t cook, or don’t you remember?”

She felt like jerk of the month just standing there staring at him. But he was so hot to look at. Faded jeans with a few holes in all the right places, a tight black T-shirt that only emphasized his broad chest and narrow waist. She focused on his feet. When she saw the bright orange Crocs on his feet, it was all she could do to keep from laughing. She couldn’t help but smile. What a jerk.

“It was good seeing you, Chris. Have a nice day.” Abby turned and walked away, giving herself a mental high-five. Let him stare at my ass, she thought. Maybe he’d see what he was missing. Shit, now where did that come from? She wasn’t one to play on her looks. She’d been told by more than one person that she should’ve been in movies. Her token reply was always, “Too bad I can’t act.” That usually shut them up. Abby knew looks were important in the movie industry, but they didn’t count for anything in her line of work.

Not wanting to leave Chester alone in the car any longer than she had already, she raced up and down the aisles, grabbing a few items before turning back to the meat counter for Chester’s steak. Of course her luck was tough that day because as soon as she emptied her basket for the cashier to ring up her items, who stepped in line behind her but Chris Clay? She’d been in such a hurry to get out of the store she really hadn’t paid that much attention to what she’d tossed in her basket. She observed Chris as he watched the cashier drag her items across the scanner. One New York strip steak. A pack of hot dogs. Buns. Mustard. Sour cream and onion potato chips. Cherry Pop-Tarts. What the hell was she thinking? Abby thought it obvious her subconscious had chosen those particular items with Chris in the store. She only prayed he didn’t make the connection.

“You should’ve told me you were craving hot dogs, Abs. We could go back to Pink’s.”

She wanted to kick him, but refrained. “Thanks, but they’re for Chester. He likes hot dogs with mustard and relish. I have relish at home,” she added. TMI, she thought. Too much information. More than he needs to know.

The cashier totaled up her purchases. Abby scanned her debit card through the machine. She sneaked a side glance at Chris, praying he wouldn’t discover her PIN number. He was watching. Shit. Before the cashier could ask again, Abby quickly punched her PIN number in the machine—24747—C-H-R-I-S. She was sure she moved her hands over the keypad fast enough. Unless he stood right beside her or directly behind her, she was fairly certain he couldn’t decipher her password. And if he did, tough shit.

“Of course you do,” Chris said as he dropped two gallons of mint-chocolate-chip ice cream on the checkout counter.

Abby felt her face flame, and it pissed her off. Why she should feel so…antsy she didn’t know. This was Chris. Her stepbrother. Sort of. And he’d kissed her fingertips. One at a time after they’d had hot dogs at Pink’s. She hated the feelings brought on by that memory. She did not want to get involved with Chris Clay. No way. He was a heartbreaker, a player, and her mother’s current attorney. She didn’t even want to think about all the stars he dated. They were like revolving doors. In and out, constantly. Everything about him screamed no.

When the cashier finally finished bagging her groceries, Abby grabbed the two plastic bags and hurried over to the automatic doors. She couldn’t get out of the damn store fast enough. She juggled the two bags in one hand while she used the other to dig inside her purse for her car keys. When she located the jangling bunch of keys, she hit the unlock button. Chester was dragging his tongue up and down the passenger window. Lovely, she thought as she slid into the driver’s seat. “You are going to help clean those windows when we get home.”

“Woof!”

“And you’re getting a bath, too,” Abby added. The weather was perfect for grilling that night. While the steaks cooked, she would hose down her car and Chester. After dinner, she would check her e-mail one last time before calling it a day.

If she hadn’t heard from the Pitt/Jolie publicist, she would…wait. What other choice did she have?

************************************************************************************************

“A séance? Are you out of your mind?” Ida exclaimed. “Next thing I know, you’ll be asking us to set up a hotline like that Miss Cleo from the Psychic Friends Network!”

“Oh, get a frigging grip, Ida,” Sophie said. “We’re trying to have fun. If you don’t want to join us, then you can sit out here all night and pout. None of us gives a good rat’s ass. Right, girls?”

Mavis clapped her hands to get their attention. “Sophie, let’s not argue. I think it would be fun. I have to say I’ve never tried this before, but it sounds exciting. I’m all about trying new things now. You’ll enjoy yourself, Ida. Look at this as another new experience. Please join us.”

Toots took one last puff of her cigarette before crushing it out in the seashell. “Make up your mind, Ida, this isn’t all about you and what you think. If you’re scared, just say so,” Toots challenged. If they only knew. She was shaking in her shoes. Her act of bravado was just that. An act. No way would she let Ida know she was the least bit frightened.

Sophie sat on the edge of the deck, finishing her cigarette. “If you’re in, you’re in. I have to get things ready. Toots, you want to help me?”

“Of course. I, for one, can’t wait. Who knows? Maybe we’ll contact one of my deceased husbands. Ida, you might get in touch with Thomas. He might reveal where that tainted meat came from.”

“Okay, I’m in. If you are all trying to pull something on me, tell me now. I don’t like surprises,” Ida said.

“She’s just pure chickenshit,” Sophie teased.

“Count me in. And Sophie, why don’t you just…fuck off?”

Toots, Sophie, and Mavis burst out laughing.

“Now that’s the spirit, Ida!” Sophie cheered. “See? You’ll be cussing and smoking real soon, and before you know it, you’ll be stopping all that prissy-ass behavior. Ida, you and Mavis gather up as many candles as you can find. I’m sure that pop tart has some stashed somewhere in this seaside whorehouse. Toots, come upstairs with me.” She looked at her watch. Mimicking a ghostly voice, Sophie said, “We’ll meet in the dining room in one hour. Don’t be late.”

Together they raced upstairs. Once they were inside Toots’s new bedroom, Sophie sat down on the bed.

“What can I do to help?” Toots asked, then added, “I will not go in that room, so don’t even ask.”

“You don’t have to. All we need are those candles and a tablecloth. I was going to use one of the silky sheets from the ghost room. Maybe our resident spook will be more amenable if they see something they recognize. I’m going to set up the camcorder and the electronic voice recorder, too. Just in case we actually hit pay dirt.”

“Don’t you think this…ghost or spirit—I still can’t believe we’re having this conversation—don’t you think they’ll know where they’re at?” Toots asked. “Because I sure as hell know what I saw, and it was not something normal. Whatever you do, don’t say anything about last night. If—and this is a big if—something appears, don’t say I told you so. Pretend you’re surprised.”

“Trust me, Tootsie, I won’t be acting if something manifests itself. I will be just as scared as the rest of you.”

Suddenly unsure, Toots asked, “Are you sure about this? Shouldn’t we have the house blessed or something before we do this?”