Two Cooks A-Killing Read Free Page B

dream men of her teenage years, would materialize.
    â€œNone of the stars are here yet. Just the set-up crew. The talent will arrive in a couple of days. They’re too big to sit around and wait. Not to mention, they can’t stand each other.”
    â€œWhat’s he like?” she asked, unable to hide her interest.
    â€œBart Farrell?” He sounded surprised at her question.
    â€œOf course!”
    â€œAngie?” called a voice behind her.
    Stunned that anyone was acknowledging her let alone knew her name, she turned to find the perky pigtailed one approaching.
    â€œI’m Mariah,” the woman said, her voice soft. “Em told me to get you and show you to your room and all that stuff.”
    â€œâ€™Em’?” Angie asked.
    â€œEmery Tarleton. The director.”
    â€œOf course.” Angie smiled. “And a clever throwback to James Bond movies, too.”
    Mariah gaped blankly at her. “Whatever. Follow me.”
    As Angie moved closer to Mariah she saw that the young woman was wearing a wig. She wondered what had happened, if she’d lost her hair because of chemotherapy or some horrible accident.
    Angie glanced over her shoulder to say good-bye to Silver, but he had gone.
    She faced Mariah again. “Have you worked with Mr. Tarleton long?”
    â€œI worked on other projects with him. Nothing much panned out, so we’re eager to get started with this.”
    â€œReally? Have you met Bart Farrell or the other stars?”
    â€œSure. They’re no big deal. This way.” Mariah led her through the family room and foyer.
    â€œMy bags…” Angie wanted to ask more about Farrell, but she needed some help.
    â€œLet me get one.” Mariah picked up the little make-up case, then climbed the stairs to the second floor.
    The suitcase wheels did no good on those stairs. Angie slung the carryall back onto her shoulder, the garment bag over her arm, and lifted the Pullman by its grip. She could barely manage to clear the stairs with it, but had to walk sideways, like a crab-turned-stevedore. Someday, somehow, she would learn not to pack so many clothes.
    She was panting and perspiring onto her Oscar de la Renta by the time she reached the landing. To her horror, she saw that Mariah had continued up another flight to the third floor.
    Angie took a big breath and this time tossed the garment bag onto the suitcase and hefted both into her arms. Wordlessly, her knees splayed outward and her legs bowed under the weight, she followed. Nice group here. Friendly. Helpful. Really knew how to make a person feel welcome.
    Mariah walked to the end of the third-floor hallway, unlocked the door, and stepped aside.
    Angie nearly toppled over as she dropped her suitcase and garment bag onto the landing and struggled to find her breath. She set the Pullman back onto its wheels, piled the other bags on top, and steered everything into the bedroom. Thispart of the house had never been shown on TV. No wonder. Her room was little larger than a closet. A single bed covered one wall, a dresser the wall opposite, and straight ahead was a window overlooking the courtyard and hills beyond. “How tiny,” she exclaimed. The room was dark, depressing, and cold. Unnaturally cold. A chill rippled down her spine.
    Mariah leaned against the doorjamb. “This floor was remodeled to add some bedrooms as the cast grew. Since we aren’t going to have a big cast for the reunion special, nobodies like you and me get to stay in the big house.”
    Thoughts of all the actors Angie had hope to meet clutched her. “They won’t all be here?” she asked, her voice strangled.
    â€œNope. Just the big four—Bart Farrell, Rhonda Manning, Kyle O’Rourke, and Gwen Hagen.”
    Angie breathed again. Cliff, Natalie, Adrian, and Leona. They were the ones who mattered most. “Why not the others?” she asked.
    â€œNobody’s saying, but salaries for