The Book Stops Here (27 page)

“I’m available tomorrow,” I said promptly, “or anytime he’s willing to meet me.”

He grinned. “I’ll call him and set it up as soon as I get back to my office.”

•   •   •

I
secretly feared I would be struck with some sort of posttraumatic snake stress when I returned to the studio, but it didn’t happen. Randy, on the other hand, looked horrible. I met up with him at the coffee and doughnut table and his face was pale, almost chalky.

“Are you all right?”

He groaned and rubbed his stomach. “No.”

“Why don’t you go home?” I asked.

“Because I’ve got post-segment interviews with the owners
and eight intros, plus a bunch of teasers to tape.” He grimaced and grabbed a can of cola. After popping it open, he took a long swig.

“You seriously look like hell.”

“I appreciate that,” he drawled, but couldn’t quite pull off the sarcasm.

“I’m worried about you. Do you think you have the flu?”

“I never get sick.”

I peered closely at him. “Is this about the snake?”

He shook his head. “No, every trace of it is gone. Derek and George, that new guard, searched my dressing room to make sure there weren’t any more surprises. And then Garth went in and cleaned and disinfected the place from top to bottom. It’s just psychological, I guess.”

“Psychological stress is as real as any other kind.”

“Thank you, Doctor Freud.”

I chuckled as I poured a dollop of cream into my coffee. “You’ve still got your crappy sense of humor, so I guess you’ll be okay.”

“I’ll be fine.” We took our drinks and walked backstage toward the dressing room hallway. “I’m going to have Chuck add a little bronzer to my makeup so I look healthier.”

“Good. We wouldn’t want to have to shut down the show just because you were too ugly to go on.”

“They could always call Gerald,” he muttered. He leaned against the wall of the hall and closed his eyes.

Now I was really worried. He looked exhausted, first of all. And second, Randy always laughed when I teased him about his looks. And I had to tease him regularly. The man was gorgeous, much prettier than any woman on the set.

“Who’s Gerald?” I asked.

“Gerald Kingsley, the former host of the show?” He glanced at me. “Don’t you remember him?”

“Oh yeah, the old guy.”

“He wasn’t that old, but he was with the show from the very beginning. Then last year he had an appendicitis attack while on the road and landed in the hospital. His recovery was going to interfere with the schedule, so they called me in to do a few shows. I guess they liked me because they decided to keep me, and Gerald retired.”

“Do you really think they’d call him?”

He shrugged listlessly. “I think he’s still active. I heard he was working at a local station back in Minneapolis or Cleveland.” He frowned. “Indianapolis? Somewhere in the Midwest.”

“I vaguely remember him. Tall, good-looking older man with glasses?”

“Right.” He shot me a sideways look. “Except for the tall, good-looking part.”

“He wasn’t nearly as good-looking as you.”

“That’s better.” He managed a weak grin. “And he’s not quite as tall as me, either. But I have to admit, Gerald knew this show backward and forward. And he was much more knowledgeable about antiques than I’ll ever be. He got along great with all the owners, whereas I’m just a pretty face with a charming personality. I don’t know squat about the junk these people bring to the show, but I look good on camera.”

“And you’re humble, too.”

He bowed graciously. “That, too.”

•   •   •

L
ater, alone with Derek in my dressing room, I repeated Randy’s story about the former host of the show being replaced by a newer, younger version. “Apparently he’s still working somewhere in the Midwest so he can’t be our stalker, but I wonder if he really did retire gracefully.”

“Use the Google,” Derek said.

I smirked at him. “I’ll get right on it.”

Neither of us said aloud what we were both thinking: that
Gerald had been pushed aside and replaced by Randolph, a newer, shinier model. If Gerald could eliminate his rival, he might get his old job back. What better motives could a stalker have than jealousy, rivalry, and revenge?

I Googled the former host, and a minute later I recited to Derek everything I’d learned about the original host of the show. “Gerald Kingsley not only hosted
This Old Attic
for eight years; he was also the show’s creator.”

Derek leaned back on the couch. “It would be hard to accept that you were no longer wanted by the very thing you had created.”

“Yes, it would be,” I murmured. After skimming another few paragraphs of Gerald’s bio, I paraphrased for Derek. “It says he studied acting in college but then inherited his parents’ small chain of high-end antiques stores around Ohio. That’s where he first came up with the idea of having regular people bring their family treasures in to be appraised on television. Because of his acting background, he gave himself the job of host and interviewer, and at first he even did the appraisals himself. The original season was aired on a local PBS station. The studio they used was on the campus of Kenyon College.” I looked at Derek. “That’s in Ohio.”

“Where’s he working now?” Derek wondered.

“I’ll check.” I ran a few more searches and even looked at Wikipedia, which was notoriously unreliable.

“The most recent mention of Gerald Kingsley is in an ad on the Mount Vernon news Web site.” I glanced up at Derek. “Again in Ohio.”

“So he’s back in his own neighborhood,” Derek surmised.

“Close enough.”

“Where everyone would know him. And they would know that he was no longer hosting the show he’d originated.” Derek returned to the couch and leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Could he put a positive spin on why he was no longer working on the
show that made him famous? Tell everyone it was he who’d grown tired of them instead of the other way around? Could he hold his head up high? Or would he be awash in humiliation? Unable to cope with the shame?”

“You’re creeping me out.” I scanned the advertisement. “Okay, this is basically an announcement for a new local talk show. I guess that’s what Randy was talking about.” I clicked on the link and read what came up. “But according to the TV listing, they’ve got someone else hosting the show.”

Derek gazed at me. “So where, oh where has Gerald gone?”

“He seems to have disappeared,” I said. “At least, according to the Google.”

“Can you pull up a picture of him?”

I clicked over to Google Images and typed Gerald’s name, and several dozen photographs flashed across the screen. “Come see.”

Derek crossed the room and leaned over my shoulder. “Do you recognize him?”

I nodded. “I’ve been watching
This Old Attic
for a few years, so he looks familiar. But I’ve never seen him in person. Have you?”

“No.” Derek frowned and stared more carefully at the pictures on the screen. “Do we know how tall he is?”

“I would guess he’s at least five foot ten.” I repeated what Randy had said about Gerald being slightly shorter than him.

“And I’d estimate that Randy is six feet tall, so five foot ten sounds right.” Derek stood. “Let’s go talk to him.”

•   •   •

“T
hey were doing three weeks of shows in Madison,” Randy explained, “and Gerald got an appendicitis attack halfway through. Tom had seen my reel and liked my work, so I was called in to substitute. The producers decided Gerald was getting too old for the gig and he was fired.”

“While he was still recuperating?” Derek said “That must have been devastating for him.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Randy frowned. “He continued coming to the tapings because I guess he felt it was his show, you know? Some people probably thought it was weird, but I didn’t really mind. He’s such a nice guy, and he never took it out on me.”

“So Gerald stayed around.”

“Yeah, he’d go hang out in the guest hall with the antiques owners. They got a kick out of it. Probably thought he was still associated with the show. And nobody ever said anything to the home audience. There was no fanfare. One day, Gerald was hosting the show. The next day, he was out and I was in. He kept coming around for a while, like I said, but eventually he just stopped showing up.”

Derek nodded thoughtfully. “How long has it been since you’ve seen him?”

Randy thought about it. “Probably about six months.”

Derek and I both stared at him.

Randy blinked as he put it together. “Wait. You think Gerald could be my stalker?”

“It makes sense.”

“But he was so nice to me. And he was really helpful during the whole transition.”

Derek wasn’t buying his nice-guy story. “Can’t you see he has every reason to try to get rid of you?”

Randy looked stricken. “You think he wants me dead? Just so they’ll hire him back? That’s sick.”

“Stalking is sick,” I said. “You mentioned that he took a job back in Cleveland, but I can’t find him listed as working anywhere.”

“I can’t imagine he took the enforced retirement well at all,” Derek mused.

I jumped in. “Put yourself in his shoes. Even if we ignore the fact that the producers coldly fired him while he was recuperating from surgery, the fact remains that he created this show. It was his
baby all these years. And then some young whippersnapper comes along and takes it away? It might not make him too happy.”

Derek leaned forward. “Have you seen him in the studio or on the set?”

Randy paced restlessly. “No. I haven’t seen him in months. It’s got to be someone else.”

Derek and I exchanged glances and I sighed. “Okay. Let’s make a list.”

“Fine.” Randy frowned. “You start.”

I was happy to begin. “It could be a woman. Someone who works here.”

“But who? Everybody likes me.”

“You drive Angie crazy.”

He looked hurt. “What are you talking about? Angie loves me.”

There was a fine line between love and hate, especially when love was unrequited. But that was a little heavy-handed so I kept it to myself. “One of the stagehands, then. Or maybe you pissed off the caterer.”

“No.” He looked doubtful for a second, but then repeated himself. “No. Absolutely not. I haven’t pissed anyone off. It’s a good group. We all have a great time. Don’t you think so?”

“Sure, except for snakes and stage flats and Tish being attacked and . . .”

“Yeah.” He grimaced. “Sorry. No wonder you want to find this guy. You’re the one suffering the brunt of his anger.”

Derek glared at him. “You noticed that, did you?”

•   •   •

“I
t’s been six months since he last saw Gerald,” I whispered on our way back to the dressing room. “And it’s been six months since his stalker started dropping dead animals on his front porch. Coincidence? I think not.”

“But nobody’s seen Gerald around here,” Derek reasoned. His features were a study in frustration, but I could see the gleam in
his eyes, which told me his always razor-sharp mind was working through dozens of scenarios.

“True.” I glanced up at him. “I still think it’s a woman. Have you seen the way Angie looks at him sometimes?”

“You’ve brought her name up before,” Derek murmured. “I thought she was your mate.”

“I like her a lot. But you and I both know I haven’t always been the best judge of character.”

He wrapped his arm around my shoulders. “You’re getting better.”

“Aw, thanks.”

We both chuckled as I unlocked the door.

“So, now what?” I wondered aloud.

“We can ask the crew if anyone has seen Gerald around. But I’d rather not open it up for general discussion. George has been chatting with some of the crew members, so I’ll have him broach the subject in a subtle fashion.”

“Maybe he comes in disguised as a guest and brings a new antique with him each time.”

“It’s possible,” Derek said. “But I doubt he’d waste time sitting around all day in the guest hall. He’s already tried to kill Randy twice. He’s deadly serious. Look at the time he put into changing out the dressing room lock.”

I thought about it. “Maybe he’s working for the caterer. He could get into the studio several times a day if he brought boxes of doughnuts and fresh coffee.”

“Possibly.”

“I’m still dealing with the fact that in all this time, Randy has never considered Gerald a threat.”

“He doesn’t honestly grasp that he’s in danger.”

“Because he isn’t. I am.”

“True,” Derek said, scowling. “It was you who confronted the snake. And you who got trapped under the stage flats.”

“The only close call he’s suffered was the peanuts.”

“And he’s had allergic reactions before, so, if you’ll recall, he didn’t even connect that event to his stalker.”

“And Tish’s attack?” I asked.

“Tom believed it was the stalker, but we know it wasn’t. Randy never said much about it.”

“Maybe because it happened outside the studio. That’s not his realm.”

There was a brisk knock at the door. “Ten minutes, Brooklyn!”

“Thanks, Angie,” I yelled back.

Derek opened his briefcase. “While you’re out onstage, I’m going to text my people to meet me here for a briefing. I want them to be on the lookout for someone matching Gerald’s description.”

“Sounds good.”

As I was closing the door, I heard him mutter, “We just have to figure out what that description
is.”

Chapter Sixteen

Early Saturday morning, Alex stopped by my place to pick me up for her Krav Maga class. Derek offered her a cup of coffee and the two of them began to discuss the short drive to her Hayes Valley gym as if they were conducting a Black Ops incursion into a hostile foreign land.

Alex poured a dollop of cream into her coffee and took a sip. “I’ll work with her from oh-eight-hundred to oh-nine-twenty. That’s when you’ll arrive, correct?”

“Oh-eight-hundred?” I said. “You mean, eight o’clock?”

“Roger that,” Derek said, ignoring me. “I won’t park and take the chance of being blocked in. At oh-nine-twenty you’ll see me pull directly in front of the doorway. I’ll keep the motor running.”