Not So Model Home - By David James Page 0,21
Turned out to be cramps.”
“Regina, there’s a lot of money at stake. Millions! And I get the feeling that these guys could be ruthless.”
“I would be ruthless for those sums. You expect foul play could raise its coiffed head?”
“I would plan on it.”
“So what are you thinking, Amanda? Sabotaged wardrobes? Preparation H substituted for facial creams?”
“No, murder.”
“Shit!” Regina exclaimed. “One contestant eliminating the other?”
“I know it sounds crazy, but yes.”
“But that would end the show and maybe the contest.”
“Regina, you haven’t met the producer. He wants ratings, and he’s the type to stop at nothing to get them.”
“You mean he might murder one of the contestants just to get viewers?”
“I never thought of it that way, Regina. I was just thinking of one contestant eliminating another.”
“There’s another possibility you haven’t considered, Amanda.”
“And what’s that?”
“Someone murdering Ian.”
“But that would be killing the goose that laid the golden egg. It makes no sense, Regina.”
“Yes, it does, Amanda. It does if someone wants to stop Ian from laying the egg in the first place.”
“Wait a minute. I’m confused with your avian analogy.”
“My what?”
“Your bird theory.”
“What?”
“Skip it. So what did you mean, Regina?”
“That someone would have every reason to bump Ian off before he gives away all that money to some dumb model. This person would want to keep the line of succession just the way it is now.”
“How many mystery novels have been based on that premise, Regina?”
“About a million. You better watch out, honey, or you might find yourself in the middle of one. Let’s have another drink.”
I had two drinks; Regina had a few more than that. She introduced me to a handful of people, but for the most part, this night was just like all the others when I went looking for a man. I met a few, chatted with a few, and went home empty-handed. Not that I was planning on bringing anyone home so soon. The point was, my life hadn’t really changed: No one really paid much attention to me.
We made it home safely that night with me behind the wheel, and after I bid Regina good night, I went promptly to bed. The next morning, I got up and prepared for the day, but I couldn’t get Regina’s thoughts out of my head—nothing you want running around in your head when you’re about to be on television for the first time. How far might someone go to secure a vast fortune? The answer that resounded in my head was simple . . . and frightening: pretty damn far.
CHAPTER 8
I’m Ready for My Close-Up, Mr. DeMille
It was the first day of shooting. We were starting early, but I had to make a stop before I drove over to Ian’s house. I had to check on one of my rentals since the tenants had stopped paying rent and I wanted to make sure they had moved out as promised. I could have had them evicted, but that takes a long time and a lot of money, so I talked them into leaving peacefully and, in return, I wouldn’t report them to a credit agency.
When the money was really rolling in until the economic Big Bang, I bought several condos that I figured I could rent out for a few years, then sell at a big profit since everything was going to go up forever and ever. This one was in a development in central Palm Springs, modern with a two-story atrium, and really very dramatic, inside and out. I fell in love with it the day I bought it.
When I walked up the sidewalk to the front door, something was amiss with the front door: it was a-missing. As I walked inside, I quickly discovered that everything else was missing, too—the stove, microwave, refrigerator, bathroom vanities, even the toilets. Yes, the toilets. Did they take them dirty? Needless to say, I wasn’t in a good mood when I left the condo and headed over to Ian’s house.
As I pulled up to Ian’s house, it looked more like a beehive than a place where an over-pampered multimillionaire hairdresser lived. There were half a dozen trucks parked on the street, with men carrying equipment, and women brandishing walkie-talkies—money was being spent on a grand scale.
I was stopped by a frantic woman with a walkie-talkie who, after ascertaining that I was a member of the show and not a crazed lunatic trying to crash the shoot, waved me into the parking area outside Ian’s garage. Once again, my Toyota Land Cruiser