LITMIR.BIZ

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Hester gasped. “You can’t. You simply can’t.”

      “It’s not that big a deal.”

      “It’s a disgrace. I’ve worked too hard to let you ruin things.” The woman’s voice rose to a near shout. “If you do this, don’t bother to come back the next day.”

      Sophie shrugged. “You got it. I quit.”

      Miss Hester’s jaw fell open, setting a few of her chins a-wiggling. “You ungrateful, miserable little sneak.”

      Hmm…Miss Hester looked pretty ferocious when she was pissed off. Maybe the next time she included the woman as a character in one of her books, she’d make her the villain instead of just a comic relief secondary character or a gruesomely murdered victim.

      “You’re as shameless as that no-good brother of yours.”

      She’d brought Mick into this? Low. Very low. “I should defend Mick, but I mind my own business and leave my brother alone.” Let her stew on that.

      Miss Hester did, quickly realizing the insult. “You are no longer welcome in this office.” Then, as if she had a direct line to God and could issue his invitations, she added, “Or in this church.”

      Sophie shrugged. “There are other churches.” Just to be evil, she added, “I’ve been wanting to check out the synagogue, anyway. Or maybe that Buddhist temple up in Chicago.”

      Miss Hester clutched a hand to her heart. “You wicked girl.”

      Sophie wasn’t listening. She’d already turned toward the door, giving one last mutter. “Oh, drop dead.”

      Feeling damn good, Sophie breezed into the reception area.

      It was then that she noticed the crowd. The one who’d been listening to every nasty word. Mrs. Carlton who had an appointment with Miss Hester this morning. Dr. Ogilvie, a local dentist, who headed up the food-for-the-needy program. A red-faced Louise Flanagan. Darla from the nail salon. Every last one staring at her.

      Damn, when she burst out of the closet, she did it in a big way. Giving them all a bright smile, she murmured, “Good morning,” then walked out the door into the sunshine.

      

      EARLY THAT AFTERNOON, trapped inside a car with the most exasperating man she’d ever known, Caro was on the verge of a meltdown. Every rental in Derryville had something wrong with it. Either the owners were old, loud and nosy or young, loud and obnoxious. Or the rental room was painted a garish Day-Glo green. Or the chain-smoking owner had created a lot of fragrant memories.

      Nothing suited her. Least of all the man showing her place after place, a faint smile always evident on his lips. That smile told her more than his silence ever could.

      “You’re enjoying this,” she said, watching him wave to yet another local on the streets of Derryville.

      He gave her an innocent look. “Enjoying what?”

      “Enjoying watching me sweat.”

      “I’ve always enjoyed watching you sweat,” he replied, completely unrepentant. “Does you good to get a little worked up once in a while. You look so…” He gestured toward her pressed linen suit, the stylish linen jacket and short white skirt, as if he found the latest fashion lacking.

      “So what?”

      “So buttoned-up.”

      “Professional, I think is the word you want.”

      “I was thinking more like cold.”

      Cold? He thought she was cold? Good grief, one of the most difficult things she’d overcome when arriving in Hollywood was the impression that she was an innocent young girl, big of heart, warm of spirit, always ready to listen to a sob story. Impressionable, exuberant, naive but clever, they’d called her.

      Now Mick was calling her cold. It shouldn’t have bothered her, but, deep down, it did.

      “Let’s stick to the subject—finding me a place to live.”

      “You’re the one who’s being picky. I’ve shown you four reasonable places.”

      “Ugh. Reasonable?”

      “You didn’t have better luck on your own,” he reminded her.

      No, she hadn’t. Not that the jerk had to bring up the fact that she’d tried. This morning, after their initial run-in in his office, she’d stormed off, determined to find someplace to live without his help. She’d been back an hour later, disheartened and frustrated. The local paper hadn’t listed one single rental. Nor would any of the people with For Rent signs in their yards agree to let her come through without a Realtor.

      “Are you the only Realtor in Derryville?” she asked.

      He shrugged. “Nah. I have two associates working with me.”

      Her spirits perked up at that. Then he dashed her hopes. “But they’re both off this weekend.”

      She groaned and stared out the window. “How is it that the only hotel in this town looks like it rents by the hour?”

      “Because it does.”

      “Yeah, well, I guess you’d know.”

      “I’m sure Hollywood doesn’t have such sordid goings-on.”

      She couldn’t hide a smile. “Okay, you got me on that one.”

      The tension seemed to ease somewhat, probably because she’d finally lightened up. Mick had always been able to lighten her mood. Heck, Mick had always been able to make anybody feel better. It was impossible to be down with someone who was always up.

      “Tell me about this TV show,” he said, obviously trying to keep the conversation friendly and impersonal. They both seemed to have reached the same silent conclusion that the past was better left undiscussed, at least for now. “Why’d you decide to film it here? Why the Little Bohemie Inn?”

      Safe ground. They could talk business without Caro feeling the urge to reach over and play with his earlobe. Either that or give his hair a good yank because he’d made her so angry every time she’d thought about him over the years. “We’re always on the lookout for new shows. Reality TV had been really hot the last few years.”

      He sighed. “Yeah. I was wondering when they’d start the live execution show. Or ‘Who Wants to Let Their Dog Marry a Millionaire’s Dog?’.”

      She laughed, unable to help it. Because what he described wasn’t so far off the mark. She felt pretty sure that, somewhere, a desperate Hollywood down-and-outer had thought of just such an idea as a way to try to get back in. “This isn’t going to be anything quite as gratuitous. Actually, the owner of the inn gave us the idea for the show, herself. Gwen…um….”

      “Winchester.” He didn’t so much as crack a smile, but she heard the amusement in his voice.

      She sighed heavily. “Don’t tell me…”

      “She married my cousin last spring.”

      Another Winchester. Oh, joy. Another wonderful day-to-day reminder of the only guy she’d ever loved. Her trip to Derryville should be renamed a visit to purgatory.

      “So how’d Gwen give you the show idea?”

      “A review of the inn in a Chicago paper mentioned they were doing in-character murder mystery weekends. Someone at the network saw it, thought it would be an interesting concept and came up with Killing Time in a Small Town.”

      Mick nodded. “Those in-character weekends at the Little Bohemie Inn are something else. And you should probably thank my cousin, Jared, for inspiring the idea.” He wore a secretive look, as though he had a story to tell, but instead kept the conversation away from personal matters. “I’d heard it was a murder mystery show. I don’t suppose society has fallen

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