“Okay,” she agreed.
He gave a sharp nod of acknowledgment, then grabbed the rifle and headed out the door, clicking it shut behind him.
Heather turned to raise her eyebrows. “Explain to me again how you’re not sleeping with him.”
CHAPTER NINE
SLEEP WITH Anthony?
This morning, Joan was seriously considering killing Anthony.
How could he have set her up like this?
“Ms. Bateman?” prompted Charlie Long from the other end of the line. His voice was as smooth and melodious on the telephone as it was on the television. “I asked if you’d consider flying to L.A. for Friday’s show.”
Joan scrambled for an excuse. “I…uh…have to-”
“You’d get top billing,” he continued.
She closed her eyes and tried to think clearly. A network talk show was a really bad idea. But Charlie Long seemed like a very nice person, and who wouldn’t be flattered to get a call in person?
“I’d like to talk about your book, of course. Maybe take the slant that an injustice has been done to the Kane family. It might help to get the case reopened,” he added, sweetening the deal.
Joan hadn’t thought of it from that angle. But it made sense. Her appearance on Charlie Long might actually help Samuel. And she certainly did owe him after yesterday.
But her mother. Oh, her mother.
“I read Bayou Betrayal,” said Charlie Long. “Loved it.”
“Thank you,” said Joan automatically. “And I admire your show, too.”
“You do?” He sounded genuinely pleased. “So…how about helping out a fellow artist? My producers are putting a lot of pressure on me over this one.”
“I hear you,” said Joan, with genuine empathy. She knew all about pressure. Then she grew angry at Anthony all over again. How could he have put her in this position?
“What do you say?” asked Charlie.
“I need some time-”
“Afraid I’ve got to have an answer right now. I’m in makeup, and we’re promoting Friday’s show today.”
He was in makeup. Charlie Long was in makeup before his live network show, chatting with her on the phone. Joan went hot, then cold again.
“Help me out, Joan?”
“Sure.” Even as she said the word, she couldn’t believe she was doing it.
“Great! You’re a trouper. I’ll see you on Friday.”
The line went dead.
Joan clamped her hand around the phone. Deep down, she knew she should be angry with herself. But Anthony made a much more appealing target.
ANTHONY WAS on his feet at the first knock.
“Anthony?” Joan’s voice echoed through the door panel.
“Here!” His voice was hoarse as he grabbed the gun and crossed the bedroom, wrenching open the door, checking both ways down the hallway.
But Joan was alone. She stood hale and hearty, eyes squinting at him, arms crossed over her chest. “That was a low-down, dirty rotten trick you pulled.”
Anthony lowered the gun and raked back his messy hair, struggling to get his bearings. He checked both ways down the hall again just to be sure. “Huh?”
She stormed past him into the room. “Charlie Long?”
Anthony turned, setting the pistol down on a table and pointing it toward the wall. “Charlie Long what?”
“He called.”
Anthony went stone-cold. “He called you?”
“Yes, he called me. Did you know?”
Anthony didn’t answer. He’d asked Bo to test the waters. But he never expected Charlie Long to make the call without giving him a heads-up.
“Anthony!” Joan cried.
“It was before Samuel got shot.”
“That’s your excuse.”
Not exactly. “It was-”
“You’re fired.”
For a second, Anthony thought he’d misheard. But Joan’s expression left no doubt.
She pointed a finger, her voice all but shaking with emotion. “I mean it, Anthony. I’ll go to L.A. and do the show, because I promised-”
“You said yes?” He couldn’t believe it.
Her voice went shrill. “That’s so typical.”
“It was just a question.” If she’d said yes, why was she firing him?
“It’s all about business with you, isn’t it? Every second of every day. No matter what’s going on-bullets flying, nooners with your clients.”
Now that wasn’t fair. “We never had a nooner.”
She glared at him, and he shut up.
“I must be pretty damn important to have Mr. Long call me himself.”
“Of course you’re important.”
“You knew I wouldn’t be able to say no. You knew it.”
“I didn’t-”
“Forget it. You can turn it off now, Anthony. In case you missed it, I’m no longer your client.”
“Fine,” he said.
“Good,” she retorted.
“After L.A.,” he qualified.
Like it or not, she needed him in L.A. Charlie Long was the big time. She needed his advice, and she needed his protection. They had a ten-year relationship, and he couldn’t turn his instincts off like tap water.
“You are no longer on the payroll,” she declared.
“I’m still coming to L.A.”
“You are not going to change my mind.”
“I never thought I would.”
“Suit yourself.” She flounced toward the door. “But after that, we are done.”
“Your choice,” he said, schooling his features, pretending there wasn’t a hot knife slicing its way through his guts.
“Joanie?” came Heather’s cheerful voice, her running footsteps sounding on the staircase.
Joan took a deep breath and carefully evened out her features. “Up here, Heather.” Her voice was unnervingly composed.
Heather appeared in the doorway, followed closely by Samuel.
“That was fast,” said Anthony, suppressing his own emotions and checking out Samuel’s stark white sling. The man was obviously one tough bastard.
Samuel shrugged his good shoulder. “I told them if I wasn’t bleeding to death, I wasn’t staying. Nobody tried to stop me.”
Anthony guessed not.
Heather strode into the room, either oblivious to or ignoring the undercurrents between Joan and Anthony. She perched on his unmade bed. “Samuel has a theory.”
“What kind of a theory?” asked Joan. You’d never know from her tone that their relationship had just crumbled into a thousand pieces.
Samuel leaned against the doorjamb, his gaze seeking out Anthony. “I think we may still be dealing with a fan.”
“I’m listening,” said Anthony, struggling to focus on Samuel.
She’d fired him. Fired him.
“When I first read the book,” said Samuel, “I thought a lot of it was true.”
Heather stood up and paced across the room in her miniskirt and high heels. “Which got us thinking-”
Samuel jumped back in. “Maybe somebody else thought all of it was true.”
“I’m not following,” said Joan.
“The money.” Anthony couldn’t bring himself to look at her yet. “In your story, there’s money stashed in the walls of Samuel’s cottage. Somebody thinks it’s really there.”
Heather snapped her fingers and pointed at Anthony. “Give the man a gold star.”
“But I made that up,” Joan argued.
“They don’t know that,” said Samuel. “And I bet they broke into your house first looking for clues.”
“They did steal my research notes,” Joan conceded.
“Have you talked to Alain?” asked Anthony.
Samuel shook his head. “Thought I’d run it by you first.”
Anthony had to admit there was merit to the theory. And if it was true, Joan was in no danger from the shooter. “So you were in the wrong place at the wrong time,” he said, parroting Alain’s words from last night. His faith in the chief was restored.