“If somebody buys it in the meantime?”
“When it’s been sitting here for over four months, even with two price reductions? I don’t think so. We’re going to go give Vicky the disappointment she’s expecting. Then I want to go home, soak in your hot tub and relax.”
RELAXING PROVED PROBLEMATIC because of the half-dozen reporters camped at her wall.
“Not much interest, you said?”
“This is nothing.” And hardly more than she’d expected. “Just a spillover from the statement. They’ll mostly be local, or out of D.C., maybe. We’re close enough for that. You go inside. I’ll handle it.”
“You’re going to give them interviews?”
“Not exactly. A few crumbs. They’ll take the crumbs and fly away. There’s no reason for you to be involved in this. And you’ll just give them another angle.”
But the minute they stepped out of the car, cameras lifted. Like one entity, reporters surged across the road, shouting Cilla’s name, calling out questions. As it struck Ford as a kind of attack, he moved instinctively to Cilla’s side.
“Georgia Vassar, WMWA-TV. Can you tell us your thoughts on the altercation yesterday with James Robert Hennessy?”
“How serious are your injuries?”
“Is it true Hennessy believes you’re the reincarnation of Janet Hardy?”
“I’ve already issued a statement about the incident,” Cilla said coolly. “I don’t have any more to say.”
“Isn’t it true that Hennessy threatened you previously? And, in fact, assaulted Steve Chensky, your ex-husband, while Chensky lived with you? Was that assault the reason for your failed reconciliation?”
“To my knowledge, Mr. Hennessy hasn’t been charged with the assault on Steve, who was visiting me for a short time this spring. We’ve been friends before, during and after our marriage. There was no reconciliation. ”
“Is that due to your relationship with Ford Sawyer? Mr. Sawyer, how do you feel about the attack on Ms. McGowan?”
“There’s speculation that you and Steve fought over Cilla, and he was injured. How do you answer that?”
“No comment. Gosh, you guys seem to be on my property. We’re pretty friendly around here, but you’re going to want to step off.”
“I won’t be as friendly if any of you trespass on mine,” Cilla warned.
“Is it true that you came here in an attempt to commune with the spirit of your grandmother?” someone shouted as she turned with Ford toward the house.
“Tabloid crap,” Cilla stated. “I’m sorry. Most of that was tabloid crap.”
“No problem.” Ford shut the door behind them, locked it. “I’ve always wanted the opportunity to say ‘No comment’ in a stern voice.”
“They’ll give up. It won’t play more than a day or two, and most of that’ll be in the supermarket sheets alongside stories of alien babies being homeschooled in Utah.”
“I knew it!” He shot a finger in the air. “I knew that was the reason for Utah. How about a glass of wine with that soak, while I figure out how to get my dog back?”
“Not a good idea. The wine, yeah, and Spock, but you’ve got a lot of glass in your gym.” She offered an apologetic look, the best she could give him. “Glass, telephoto lenses. No point in handing it to them. They’ve got your name. You’re going to find yourself alongside the alien babies, too.”
“Finally, a lifelong dream fulfilled.” He reached for glasses, glanced down at his answering machine. “Aren’t I the popular guy today? Forty-eight messages.” Even as he spoke, the phone rang.
“You should screen, Ford. I really thought by issuing a short, clear statement I’d head this off. Kim, the publicist, agreed with me. But for whatever reason, some of the media wants to run with it, and turn down cockeyed angles.”
“Let’s do this.” He lifted the phone, switched off the ringer. “I’ll do the same with the others. My family, my friends have my cell number if they need to reach me. I’ll call Brian, see if he’ll take Spock home with him tonight. We’ll take some wine, cook up a frozen pizza and camp upstairs in the bedroom behind the curtains. At last, the opportunity to expose you to a marathon running of Battlestar Galactica.”
She leaned back on the counter as the tension in her shoulders dissolved. Not angry, she realized. Not upset. Not even especially irked. How had she ever managed to connect with someone so blessedly stable?
“You really know how to keep it simple.”
“Unless the Cylons are bent on destroying your entire species, it usually is simple. You get the pizza, I’ll get the wine.”
CILLA WOKE at five A.M. to the beep of the internal clock she’d set in the middle of the night after the alarms had sounded at the Little Farm. Something else she should have expected, she thought as she went to shower. There were some members of some media who routinely ignored the law in pursuit of a story. So she’d spent an hour with the police and Ford across the road.
And she had a lock set on her back door bearing the scratches of a botched jimmy attempt.
She dressed, left a note for Ford. The radio car remained in her drive, where it had been posted after the attempted break-in. Birds chirped, and she caught sight of a trio of deer at her pond. But no reporters camped outside her walls.
Maybe she’d gotten lucky, she thought, and that was that. Using Ford’s car, she drove into town. She was back by six-thirty, and carried a box of doughnuts and two large coffees down her drive.
The cop behind the wheel rolled down his window.
“I know it’s a cliché,” she said, "but.”
“Hey. That was nice of you, Miss McGowan. It’s been quiet.”
“And a long night for both of you. It looks like the invaders have retired the field. I’m going to start work. Some of the crew will be coming along by seven.”
“It’s a nice spot you’ve got here.” The second cop pulled a glazed with sprinkles out of the box. “Heck of a bathroom up there on the second floor. My wife’s been wanting to update ours.”
“If you decide to, give me a call. Free consult.”
“Might do that. We’ll be going off shift pretty soon. Do you want us to call in and request another car?”
“I think we’ll be fine now. Thanks for looking out for me.”
Inside, she set up to finish her run of baseboard. By eight, the hive of activity buzzed. Grouting, drywall mudding, consults on driveway pavers and pond work. Turning her attention to the third bedroom, Cilla checked her closet measurements. As she removed the door, Matt stepped in.
“Cilla, I think you’d better take a look outside.”
“What? Is there a problem?”
“I guess you need to look, decide that for yourself.”
She propped the door against the wall, hustled after him. One look out the front window of the master bedroom had her gasping.
Six reporters had been a nuisance, and not unexpected. Sixty was a disaster.
“They just started showing up, kind of all at once,” Matt told her. “Kinda like there was a signal. Brian called me out, said some of them are yelling questions at his crew. Jesus, there’s TV cameras and everything.”
“Okay, okay, I need to think.” She had at least a dozen crew working between the house and the grounds. A dozen people she couldn’t possibly censor or control.
“There shouldn’t be this kind of interest in me being in a wreck, even with the circumstances. A few blips on the entertainment news maybe, reports locally. I need to make a call. Matt, if you could try to keep the men from talking to them, at least for now. I need a few minutes to…” She trailed off as the gleaming black limo streamed through her entrance.
“Man, look at that.”
“Yes, look at that,” Cilla echoed. She didn’t have to see Mario climb out of the back to know who’d arrived. Or why.
By the time Cilla reached the veranda, Bedelia Hardy stood under the supportive protection of her husband’s arm. She tilted her face out at the perfect angle, Cilla thought with burning resentment, so those long lenses could capture her poignant expression. She wore her hair loose so it shone in the sun over the linen jacket the same color as her eyes.