Mike never showed up on set. Hmm. This did not bode well.
“Did I hear you talking to someone?” he asked.
“Just a ghost.”
He laughed and hugged me.
“You’ll be pleased to know I took your advice about our afflicted guests,” he said.
“It wasn’t advice. If you parade people with Cotard’s in front of the camera, I will walk off the set.”
“I’ve invited relatives instead. They’ll tell their stories in brief clips to be played throughout the special.”
“Tastefully and respectfully.”
A mournful, “Yes.” Then, “I think you’re overreacting and doing a disservice to the sufferers—”
“It’s a mental illness where people think they’ve died. They believe they’re in hell or zombified, missing limbs or internal organs.”
His eyes glittered. “I know.”
“They’ve been known to stop eating and die of starvation. Or test their death theory by committing suicide.”
“Oh, well, we wouldn’t show that.”
I gave him a look as we walked up the front steps.
He sighed. “Yes, yes. There will be no Cotard’s sufferers on set.”
“Couldn’t find any who’d agree, could you? It’s hard to get excited about being on TV when you think you’re dead.”
As we walked through the inn’s front doors, Mike tried to persuade me to go to my room—take some time, fix my hair, freshen up. Ten years ago I’d have hurried off, certain I looked like hell. I knew better now. Mike just didn’t want me going to the party yet.
I was significantly earlier than Mike had instructed—intentionally, because I knew he wanted me to swan in thirty minutes late and start establishing my diva-hood as soon as possible. So I turned my suitcase over to the bellhop and insisted on joining the party.
We walked into the party. There were no decorations that looked as if they’d been hauled out of a musty Halloween box. No decorations at all, which told me this part was not going to be filmed. I could relax a little.
Mike steered me straight to a tall gray-haired man. “Jaime, I believe you know Oliver Black.”
I tried to hide my surprise. I certainly did know the producer. He was supposed to helm the Marilyn show, and I’d been thrilled about that, not just because Oliver seemed to be a genuine fan of my work, but because I was a genuine fan of his. At the last minute he’d been pulled and I got stuck with Todd Simon, beer-commercial producer extraordinaire. When Mike had said Oliver would be producing this show, I’d expected the same switcheroo.
Mike’s up to something, I thought as I air-kissed Oliver’s cheek and told him how thrilled I was to have him here. Before we could chat, though, Mike led me to the next surprise.
“And your director,” he said. “I believe you two have worked together before?”
“Becky!” I said.
It was Becky Cheung, who’d directed Death of Innocence. At the end of that show, I wouldn’t have been nearly so thrilled to work with her again. She hadn’t been bad, simply inexperienced. When her star ascended postshow, her first act had been to cut ties with Todd Simon, which had proved she was brighter than I’d thought.
Becky had never forgotten that I’d contributed to her big break. Anytime we were due to be in the same city, she’d invite me out for dinner. I could have chalked that up to simple networking, but she continued asking even after I withdrew from Hollywood.
The gifts kept coming after that. For the parapsychology pros, Mike had hired Ted Robson, the EVP expert from Death, and Bruce Wong, who’d handled spirit photography. Both ranked high on my list of “pros I’d like to work with again.”
I chatted with the two parapsychologists and was introduced to a third, whom I’d never worked with but had heard great things about. We talked about their plans for the show as I enjoyed a glass of champagne, and I began to relax.
If I saw anything nefarious about the too-good-to-be-true casting, I was being paranoid. With something like this—a group of strangers shoved together in a “haunted” house—there was no need for the interpersonal drama so essential to other reality shows. It was a different audience with different expectations. They wanted to see ghosts and ghouls, not meltdowns and catfights.
“Jaime?” Mike said. “There’s someone else I want you to meet.”
Mike led me into a small room adjacent to the party. Inside, a man sat on a couch, checking his e-mail. He was in his thirties, slender, with slightly shaggy blond hair and horn-rimmed glasses. I didn’t recognize him.
“Jaime, I’d like to introduce you to Gregor Baronova.”
The name meant nothing. When Mike spoke, though, the man noticed us and leapt up.
“This is most unprofessional,” he said, speaking with a thick Russian accent. “I am so sorry. My wife had asked me to tell her when I arrived safely, so I came in here to send her an e-mail message.”
He extended a hand and then realized he was still holding his phone and fumbled to get it into his suit pocket. “It is a great honor, Ms. Vegas. I have followed your career with much interest. When I was told I might work with you, I thought someone was making a joke.”
“No joke,” I said, flashing a smile. “Though you might start to wish otherwise after a few hours on the set with me.”
“She’s kidding,” Mike said quickly. “Jaime is a dream to work with.”
Gregor nodded. “I am certain she is.”
“So you’re joining us on set?” I said. “What’s your specialty?”
Gregor looked anxiously at Mike. “She does not know?”
My smile froze a little. “Know what?”
“I was assured that my participation had been approved by you.” Gregor turned to Mike. “Quite assured.”
“Er, yes,” Mike said. “We … seemed to have a communication gap on that. The producer was very clear about wanting everyone to meet at the same time. Otherwise, I would have been more than happy—”
“He didn’t tell me,” I cut in. “But that only means that I haven’t had the chance to get to know your work better. Your name sounds familiar …”
It didn’t, but never tell someone in showbiz that you haven’t heard of him.
“I am new to this line of occupation,” Gregor said. “I have only performed in Russia.”
“Performed?” I looked at Mike. Sweat was trickling down his face.
“Yes,” Gregor said. “I am a … what do they call it here? A spiritualist. Like you.”
FOUR
There was only one clause that I absolutely insisted on in my contract: no other spiritualists. That might sound like ego. And sure, part of it is. I like to be the star. My last experience, however, had taught me that the risks of working with other spiritualists outweigh the advantages. Namely, that I can—inadvertently—cost them their careers. Or their lives.
On Death, I’d been haunted by the ghosts of children buried in the garden. With Jeremy’s help, I’d investigated and unmasked those responsible. But my young spiritualist colleague, Angelique, had been convinced I was doing something show-related behind her back. She’d tried to insert herself into the investigation … and wound up being the killers’ final victim.
Then there was Bradford Grady, famed British spiritualist with a long-running hit series. While I was investigating the deaths, I’d gotten some advice from a eudemon who’d possessed Grady. Somehow—perhaps proving he did have psychic ability—Grady recalled elements of his possession and became convinced that Satan himself had taken over his body. He quit his show and moved from ghost hunting to demon busting, destroying his career in the process.