The Book Stops Here (31 page)

Seeing her here brought to mind all the hateful things she had ever said or done to me. There were too many and they were too vile to mention.

Otherwise, it was just dandy to see her.

I rarely had such unpleasant thoughts about anyone, but she brought out the meanie in me.

Who could’ve possibly recommended her for this job? If it was Ian, he’d only done it to keep her from begging for work at the Covington Library. Still, that was no excuse to ruin my life.

I was going to kill him.

“Minka tells me you two know each other,” Tom said jovially. “I guess it’s a small world.”

I nodded and she grunted.

Tom glanced back and forth, still smiling. “I’ve got to get back inside, so I’ll leave you two to chat with each other. Glad to have you with us, Minka.” He ran off, deserting me.

I mentally girded my loins and waited for the insults to roll off her tongue.

“I can’t believe they hired you for this job,” she said in a hiss. “I would look so much better on television than you.”

“Because orange teeth are so photogenic,” I drawled. As an insult, it was weak, but when she was around I always felt winded. The air grew thick and oppressive and it was hard to breathe.

Rather than listen to more of her slurs, I turned and walked away with only one thought in mind.

Ian was a dead man.

•   •   •

T
wenty minutes later, I was still fuming in my dressing room. I couldn’t believe I was being forced to work with Minka. She was useless! She didn’t know a thing about appraising books. She barely knew anything about bookbinding. She couldn’t tell a kettle stitch from a slipknot. And I was still certain she’d tried to stab me back in college when the knife she’d handed me had “slipped” and almost sliced the tendon in my hand. She’d physically attacked me more than once and blamed me for every bad thing that had ever happened to her. Not to put too fine a point on it, but she hated me with the heat of a thousand suns and I felt the same way about her.

I knew that if she could find a way to sabotage my job, she would do it. I didn’t have the time or energy to worry about what she might do, but now I would have to anyway.

Derek knew Minka, too, and he was almost as annoyed as I was. She had caused way too much trouble for both of us over the last year.

I finally decided to telephone Ian. I couldn’t be too angry with him because he had set up my meeting with the fabulous Edward Strathmore. Still, it wasn’t right for him to sic Minka on me.

“Hello, Brooklyn,” Ian said cheerfully.

“I can’t believe you recommended Minka!” So much for not being angry with him.

“What are you talking about?”

“She’s working here.” All of the fury drained away when I realized Ian had no idea what I meant. “I take it you didn’t suggest her to the producers.”

“Absolutely not,” he insisted. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“I appreciate that. But somebody did. I don’t think I can take it.”

“I remember what she did to you the last time she came to see you in Dharma.”

I scowled at the memory. Minka had interfered with a murder investigation and almost gotten us both killed. I had been forced to save her life, but had she thanked me? Of course not. She’d blamed me for causing the problem in the first place. Horrible woman.

I sank onto the couch. “I’m glad it wasn’t you. But who do you think recommended her?”

“Maybe someone at BABA?” he suggested.

“Oh, maybe so,” I said slowly. BABA was the Bay Area Book Arts Center, where I occasionally taught bookbinding classes. The director might have recommended Minka for the job in order to get rid of her. I couldn’t blame her.

Nobody liked having Minka around. Maybe we could send her an anonymous letter suggesting that she move far, far away and never bother us again. But I doubted she would take the advice. Meanwhile, I was stuck with her for the next five days.

•   •   •

A
n hour later, I had finished my first segment and was back in the dressing room, studying my next book. My cell phone vibrated, so I grabbed it and checked the screen. “Alex, hi. Everything okay?”

“Hi, Brooklyn. Um, no.” She sounded distracted and ill at ease, which wasn’t like her at all.

“What’s wrong? What is it, Alex?”

“I hate to tell you this, but somebody tried to break into your apartment.”

•   •   •

T
he producers tweaked the schedule to allow Derek and me enough time to rush back home to see what had happened.
The studio was barely a mile away so it didn’t take us long, but I was on pins and needles the whole trip.

As soon as the elevator door opened, I saw Inspector Lee standing outside in the hall, talking to Alex. I had called the Inspector as we left the studio and she had rushed to our place in minutes.

“Thank you for coming,” I said to her.

“What happened?” Derek asked.

“You go ahead and tell them,” Inspector Lee said, waving to Alex.

“I happened to be home in the middle of the day because of an appointment I had.” She was avoiding meeting my gaze and I realized she must have been meeting up with one of her handcuffed men.

“I heard a noise out in the hall,” Alex continued, “so I peeked out and saw a big guy wearing a ski mask, trying to jimmy your lock.”

“With what?” Derek said caustically. “It’s impossible to jimmy that lock.”

“He had a tire iron,” Alex said. “I called the cops right away. I thought he was going to rip the door off its hinges.”

“What an idiot,” I muttered. “He should be arrested for stupidity.”

“I went out into the hall to get in his face.”

“Oh no. Alex, you could’ve been—”

“I happened to be carrying a whip.” Alex glanced at Inspector Lee. “Don’t ask.”

“I don’t want to know,” Inspector Lee said, holding up her hands in mock surrender.

“I yelled at him,” Alex continued. “I told him I’d already called the cops. He hesitated a second and I figured he would attack. I was ready to fight him, but instead, he took off in the opposite direction and ran down the stairs. I didn’t want him to get
away, so I raced after him. I managed to crack the whip at his feet a few times. It caused him to trip and fall down the stairs.”

“All right!” I said, clapping my hands.

“Smart move,” Inspector Lee, sounding impressed.

Derek flashed her a grim smile. “That was fast thinking, Alex.”

“He still got away,” she said, scowling. “But the good news is, he was limping. So I was just telling Inspector Lee that they should be on the lookout for a big, ugly guy with a limp.”

•   •   •

“O
ne minute to air!” Angie shouted.

I took my seat on the stage. We had rushed back to make it in time, so I was a little out of breath. But I still managed a smile for the book owner sitting across from me. “Hi. You must be Joanne. I really enjoyed your book.”

“You must be the blonde the screener told me about,” she said, her tone a little haughty. “I hope you plan on giving me a fair appraisal.”

“Of course I do,” I said, my smile faltering. “I’ve done quite a bit of research on your book and I’m looking forward to talking to you about it.”

She folded her arms tightly across her chest. “That makes one of us.”

“Am I missing something?”

“Somebody is,” she said, her tone still snide. “What I don’t understand is why the show hired you. Based on what I’ve heard, they made a big mistake.”

I did a slow burn. I so didn’t need this aggravation. “What exactly did you hear and from whom?”

“The book expert.”

“Which one?” I asked, as if I didn’t know.

“The chubby one with the black hair. She may be a little sloppy, but at least she’s honest.”

“No, she isn’t honest,” I said through gritted teeth. “She doesn’t know the meaning of the word. You’ll get a fair appraisal from me, but you were wrong to believe a word she said.”

Angie leaned close and whispered, “Everything okay here? You look pissed.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Everything’s just great.”

“Okey dokey, then.” She stepped back and shouted, “Ten seconds!”

•   •   •

J
oanne left in a happy mood. I was still annoyed with her for believing one word of Minka’s nonsense.
Stupid woman.
I had given her book a fair appraisal and, in fact, it was worth substantially more than she’d thought it would be.

My last words to Joanne off camera were not the most pleasant, but I didn’t care. It had taken a lot of nerve for her to sit there and accuse me of being unethical. And anyone who would believe one word coming out of Minka’s snarly, orange-stained mouth deserved the short, succinct rant I delivered.

I knew it wasn’t right, but I also wanted to run after Joanne and smack her upside the head. Just once. I was pretty sure it would’ve made me feel better, though it probably wouldn’t be too good for the show.

Instead, I hiked back to the dressing room, anxious to tell Derek what that jackass Minka had done this time. As I passed Randy’s half-opened door, I heard moaning and my brain went on automatic red alert. I hesitated to knock, wondering what fresh hell might await me inside, but concern for Randy made me push the door open wider.

Randy lay on the couch, writhing in pain.

“What in the world?” I rushed over to him. “What happened? You look awful.”

“I’m so sick,” he cried.

“I thought you got over whatever was making you feel bad.”

“I thought so, too. But it came back.”

He kept groaning and I was tempted to back away a few feet, like all the way out into the hall. I didn’t want to catch whatever he had. But he was so miserable, I couldn’t leave him. I grabbed a bottle of cold water from his mini fridge and opened it for him. “Here, drink this.”

He moaned again. “I can’t.”

“It’ll help. God, you’re sweating.” I pressed the cold bottle against his forehead. “You need to go to the hospital.”

“No,” he croaked. “I have to tape the intros.”

“Not tonight, you don’t.”

“I just need a little extra makeup. Call Chuck, would you?”

“Yeah, sure.” I jogged down the hall to find Tom, but ran into Derek instead. He followed me back to Randy’s room.

“What did you eat for lunch?” Derek asked.

“Nothing bad,” he whispered. “A tuna sandwich.”

I exchanged a glance with Derek.
Bad tuna?

Randy grunted in pain.

“I can bring you some soda water,” I said.

He grunted in response.

“He looks like he’s lost weight,” Derek said. “His skin is clammy and pale. I’ll go find Tom, but I think he’ll agree that Randy belongs in the hospital.”

•   •   •

T
he following day, Randy remained in the hospital. His condition was improving slowly but he was still dehydrated and the doctors weren’t ready to release him.

Tom and Walter were borderline frantic when I ran into them at the coffee table.

“Tomorrow we’re taping our three ‘Collector’s Corner’ segments,” Tom explained. “I’m concerned that we still won’t have a host.”

“What are you going to do?” I asked.

Walter sighed. “We’re tempted to call Gerald to do the interviews with the collectors.”

“Gerald, the former host?” Trying to look innocent, I asked, “Is he in town?”

“No, he lives in Cleveland,” Walter explained. “So we’ll need to decide soon if we want to get him onto a plane and out here in time for tomorrow’s taping.” He turned to Tom. “I’d like to check on Randolph in the morning to see if—”

“Forget it,” Tom said brusquely, signaling his assistant to join them. “We need to get Gerald Kingsley on the phone right
now.”

Chapter Eighteen

The next afternoon, I had just finished taping my book segment when Edward Strathmore strolled onto the stage. He looked positively jaunty in tan trousers, a navy sports jacket, a crisp white shirt, and an ascot.
Not enough men wear ascots anymore,
I thought. I waved and walked his way.

“Brooklyn,” he said, smiling brightly.

“Hello, Edward.”

He took my hands in his and squeezed, then gave me a light kiss on the cheek.

“Thank you again for meeting with me Sunday,” I said. “I had the best time.”

“It was good fun for me, too.”

Tom and Walter approached and I asked, “Have you met Edward Strathmore?”

“Not officially,” Tom said. “It’s an honor.”

Edward shook hands with both men. “What a delight. I’ve been watching
This Old Attic
for years. Thank you so much for inviting me on the show.”

“We’re the grateful ones,” Walter insisted. “I’ve heard rumors that we’re going to be treated to many wise and witty stories.”

“I hope I don’t disappoint,” he said, bowing his head ever so slightly.

“You won’t,” I said loyally, and earned myself a wink in return.

In every town the show visited, they always featured several of the local antiques collectors. The experts would come on to talk about their personal collections and the different antiques favored by the show’s audience. Sometimes they brought odd or interesting items and would share stories of their adventures in the antiques world.

“Ten minutes, people,” Angie shouted. She listened on her headset, as usual, but this time she grimaced in disgust. She seemed edgier today than usual, so I caught her as she was walking over to the side of the stage.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m pissed off.”

“Why?”

“Where the hell is Randy?”

“I thought you knew. He’s in the hospital.”

“Really? Because I just tried to call and they said he wasn’t there.”

I frowned. “Maybe the switchboard was told not to disturb him. He’s sort of a celebrity, right?”

“A celebrity?”

“Well, he is the host of a popular TV show.”

“Great, Brooklyn. Glad to see you’ve turned into yet another groupie. Well, I’m sick of all you bitches.” She turned and walked away.

“Hold it.” I went after her. “I’m not a groupie, damn it. And I’m not a bitch. What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing.” But then I noticed that her eyes were damp with tears. I’d never seen Angie cry, not once. She was tough. All-powerful. She practically ran this place. Her superhero motto should’ve been, “Have headset; will kick ass.”