THE NEXT TO DIE Read Free Page A

she looked into the camera. “I’m Mrs. Richard Marshall, but you can call me Elsie.”
    “Hi, Elsie!” her studio subjects chanted.
    She wandered back to the set: a desk in front of a bookcase, crammed with copies of A Little More Common Sense , the second best-seller by Mrs. Richard Marshall. All the covers were turned forward, of course. On her desk sat a framed photo of her late husband, also turned forward. There were two easy chairs, one reserved for her guest—usually a politician, washed-up film star, or retired sports figure. The other easy chair belonged to Elsie’s son and cohost, Drew, the real force behind the show. Handsome and articulate, thirty-year-old Drew brought in younger viewers and seemed groomed for future presidency, a beacon for fundamentalism in the twenty-first century. Drew gave his mother the first ten minutes of every show, then strolled onto the set to claim his chair and the remainder of the program.
    Presently, Elsie Marshall basked alone in the spotlight. “I almost didn’t make it out of the house this morning,” she said, sitting at her desk. “All my recycling bins are by my back door. I knocked over the cans, and, oh, what a mess! Cans everywhere! Am I the only housewife in America who’s fed up with recycling? Those bleeding-heart ecologists make you feel like Attila the Hun if you so much as toss an old newspaper in the trash. Do our forests really need saving that badly?” She frowned. “Oh, and speaking of forests, isn’t it a pity what happened to Tony Katz and that other young man?”
    The studio audience murmured an affirmative.
    Dennis glanced at the TV and sighed. “Oh, shit.”
    “But I’ll tell you what’s even more of a pity,” Elsie went on. “And I’m sure if my Ricky were alive today, he’d tell you the same thing. The real pity is that Mr. Katz and his—you know, friend —decided to carry on the way they did in the middle of a forest preserve. Can you imagine?
    “Certain segments of the population gripe that they’re victimized. But what do you expect when they’re fornicating—if you’ll pardon me—in parks, public rest rooms, and movie theaters? I think it’s sad what happened to Tony Katz and his friend, but sometimes people bring these things on themselves….”
    “Christ on a crutch,” Dennis grumbled, pulling away from his desk.
    Clipboard in hand, he hurried out of his office, down the hallway, and out of the climate-controlled building. A gust of warm air hit him. Dennis put on his sunglasses. His boss was filming in a soundstage around the corner.
    He’d be back in time to catch the end of Elsie’s show. Watching the program was a true masochistic experience. For three years, Elsie and Ricky Marshall had had a syndicated half-hour talk show, expounding their ultraconservative values. They peppered their dialogue with cutesy, domestic chatter and good-natured bickering. Their popularity grew and grew. Then Ricky dropped dead of a heart attack. Elsie carried the banner, but the show’s ratings sagged until Drew came aboard as cohost. The mother-son raillery became a crowd pleaser. America’s Most Eligible Bachelor, Best-Dressed Man, Sexiest Hunk was smart enough to know his mother still held a big influence over their audience. The sweet old widow with “common sense” could get away with those cutting remarks about a murdered homosexual actor, but Drew might not fare as well. So at times, she was his mouthpiece. Elsie attacked anything and anyone who didn’t fit in with The Marshalls’ idea of American family values. She even made a list of celebrities whose films or TV programs “ought to be missed by decent people.”
    Dennis Walsh’s boss was on that list.
    The soundstage door’s red light wasn’t on, which meant they’d taken a break in filming. Dennis stepped into the vast hall, threading around all the sound equipment, cameras, cables, and lights. “Is Dayle in her trailer?” he asked one of the camera