“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!”
? ? ?
Joanne 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.”
? ? ?
The 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.”