Was that wrong? Probably. I’ve long since stopped worrying. I make people happy. I give them closure. It’s as close to a money-back guarantee as you can get—in this world or the next.
After the show ended, I held a press conference. Normally, that would be a waste of time. You want the media coverage while folks can still buy tickets. But this had been my first show in Oklahoma City in a decade, so advance media hadn’t been necessary. With proper outreach from my team, tonight’s show had sold out a month ago.
However, as long as I was in Oklahoma, I might as well do a few stops. That’s where this press conference came in handy, letting people know that if they missed tonight’s show, they could catch the ones in Tulsa and Lawton later this week, but they’d better move, because seats were filling fast. Doing the press conference postshow meant the cameras could catch the happy audience members as they departed.
While my audience members had sold the show for me, I’d been resting backstage. Then I swanned out, apologizing profusely for my disheveled appearance, explaining the mental and physical toll a summoning took on me, joking about aging ten years in two hours. I looked fine. Or as fine as I can look at forty-eight without the help of needles or scalpels. Of course, I’d spent the last twenty minutes touching up backstage—I’d rather dive into a pit of putrefying zombies than appear on camera without at least a mirror check. It’s not about vanity. It’s about image. Okay, maybe a little vanity, too.
When I came out, cameras clicked and mics turned my way. I mingled with the crowd, asking after everyone’s health as if we were at a cocktail party. There were even cocktails. Bloody Marys and Zombies. When you do this schtick, you either embrace it or try to dignify it. I’ve learned long ago that I’ll get a lot more laughs—and a lot less ridicule—if I play it up.
I was making my way through the crowd when a pert blonde rattled off a TV station call sign so fast I didn’t catch it. I focused on her name instead, which I’ve always found to be more important. It was Brittany. I’m guessing at the spelling, though I’m quite sure there was really an extra i or silent h in there somewhere. There always is.
“Ms. Vegas!” she squeaked. “Is it true you’ve signed on for the Amityville show?”
“Amityville?”
She raised her voice. After you reach a certain age, everyone mistakes confusion for hearing loss. In showbiz, that age is about thirty.
“The charity event?” she said. “For Cotard’s syndrome?”
I opened my mouth to give a gracious response, something about my schedule. But she kept going.
“I heard you signed on. That is so amazing. It’s a great cause. My father has Cotard’s. It’s such a tragic disease that no one ever hears of, but that’s going to change.” She put out her hand. “Thank you. Really. On behalf of the families of Cotard’s sufferers everywhere.” Her eyes brimmed with tears. “Thank you.”
All around us, camera bulbs flashed, and I knew I was screwed.
TWO
“I’m going to kill you,” I said when Mike finally answered his phone. “I’m going to murder you, then summon your spirit and stick you in a very small, very dark box. No, wait. I’ll stick you in front of a television, where you are forced to watch reality TV reruns for eternity. Reruns of your own shows.”
“I—”
“I did Death of Innocence as a favor because I owed you for my first Keni Bales appearance. So I signed on to help raise the ghost of Marilyn Monroe. And when it all went to hell, was it my fault?”
“No, but—”
“Your first big show was about to be canceled. But then one of your performers discovered a child’s body in the garden. Who did that?”
“You, but—”
“I found that poor girl, and soon no one gave a crap about Marilyn, because you had something even juicier. Death of Innocence: Satanism in Brentwood. A smash hit. Who gave you that?”
“Well, it was a joint—”
“Joint effort, my ass. It was me. I even went along with the wildly inaccurate satanic cult angle for you. I put up with Todd Simon and Bradford Grady, and I turned a train wreck into a ratings smash hit. Five years later, the video is still selling enough to send you to Venice every spring. And how do you repay me?”
“By giving you another smash,” he blurted. “Star billing in a brand-new special. At double the rate I paid you for Death.”
“I am not—”
“With a cut of video sales.”
I paused. “Net or gross?”
“Net, of course. I can’t—”
I hung up. I counted to three. My phone rang.
“Okay, gross, but it will be a much, much smaller percentage than you’d get for net—”
“A smaller percentage of something is better than a huge cut of nothing. I know how your accounting works. I’ll take gross—if I agree to do it, and we’re a long way from that. Setting me up with that fake reporter tonight—”
“Fake?” he sputtered. “I don’t know what you’re—”
“Cut the crap and this will go much smoother. You sent her. She nailed me on camera. That means I have to at least listen to what you have to say or I’m the diva bitch who couldn’t spare a few minutes to raise public awareness of zombie-itus.”
“We’d prefer to call it—”
“Whatever. Yes, Cotard’s is a real condition. Yes, people suffer from it. But that’s not why you’re using it, so let’s cut the crap and stop pretending you care. You know that if I do this, I’ll treat it seriously, even if I’m the only one who does.”
I let him sputter. Then I cut in with, “So what’s the gig?”
“Yes, that Amityville.”
I was lying on a hotel bed with my feet propped against the wall. I’m sure I looked like a sixteen-year-old on the phone with her boyfriend. Which was pretty much accurate. I was on the phone. With my boyfriend. I may be a long way from sixteen, but there’s something about Jeremy Danvers that makes me feel like a teenager even after five years together.
I’ve had friends look at our long-distance arrangement and question just how committed I am to Jeremy—and he to me. After all, we aren’t kids. To them, we should be living together by now, if not married. Which goes to prove, I guess, that those people aren’t actually friends, or they’d know there’s no question about what I feel for Jeremy.
Yes, we aren’t kids. That’s the point. I have my career, which keeps me on the road. He has his, as werewolf Alpha, which keeps him in New York State. I suppose, to some of them, if I was truly in love, I’d give up my job for him. Which again proves how little they understand me. I love Jeremy. I love my job. I can have both. He’s already planning to step down as Alpha, and when he does, he’ll join me on the road more often, but neither of us is talking about a permanent move. Maybe someday, when I do retire, we’ll grow old together at Stonehaven. Until then, I’m ecstatically happy with exactly what I have.
“It’s not actually being filmed at the Amityville house,” I said to Jeremy. “Mike couldn’t get that. So he’s renting a similar-looking place and renovating it to match the movie set. He won’t claim it’s the Amityville house … but he won’t try to avoid confusion, either.”
“I see.”
“Yes, totally cheesy. But the charity angle helps. Also, I’m the only spiritualist, which means no ego clashes like we had in Brentwood. The other pros are parapsychologists. Then there are the extras. They’ll start casting those slots after the press release goes out tomorrow.”