I’m tempted to remove my sunglasses. If there’s any place I might fit in, it’s here. But I don’t. I need to keep a low profile when meeting with Fiona.
Stage 9 sits in the center of the lot and for all intents and purposes looks exactly like the others—an enormous beige fifty-foot-high block with no windows. I approach a side door where two red flashing lights warn that a recording is in progress. Two studio guards are waiting.
I flash my pass, and one of the guards opens the door for me. I step into an unlit anteroom. When the door closes behind me, I’m shrouded in darkness.
Another door opens, admitting me to a long hall. Thunderous applause breaks out as I move down a familiar passage. As the cheers and clapping die down, Fiona’s amplified voice fills the building. Her rolling R’s and lilting consonants fill the stage like a concert.
“There are two keys to a true and fine sambocade. One, dried elderflowers. You’ll be finding them at your local natural food store or coop. And I cannot stress this enough—accept no substitutes. And two, rosewater!”
I’ve been here enough time to know my way around the base of the bleachers where two hundred captive audience members watch their host. The stage is constructed to look like the inside of an old European cottage. Stone and wood surround all sides, and a wooden kitchen island sits center stage. A plump, energetic woman waddles around the island. Her green apron is covered in flour, as are her hair, hands, and face.
She’s a whirling dervish of energy as she grabs premeasured ingredients and tosses them into the bowl from the top of the key. “Sugar!” Toss. “Egg whites!” Toss. “Vanilla!” Toss.
As much as I’d like to linger and watch the spectacle—one that keeps 3.5 million viewers tuned in every day—I keep moving down the labyrinth of halls until I reach the green room. Its walls are literally green. The room has plush leather seats and a television where I can watch the rest of her show. I help myself to a bottle of water and wait for the show to finish.
My phone chirps with an email alert. Lupe is reminding me that we have an exhibit opening tomorrow in collaboration with the Getty Museum. The curator is currently at the library, making some last-minute changes. Once the finishing touches are completed, someone needs to catalog everything going on display. Apparently, I just volunteered for the graveyard shift for cataloging tonight. I send her an email confirming that I’ll be there.
“Thank you, my darlings. I’ll see you tomorrow!” Fiona waves and sends kisses to her audience before disappearing through a back door.
Cue credit roll. Cut to logo. Fade out…
Fiona bursts through the door and explodes into the green room. She doesn’t even hesitate as she charges toward me with open arms. “Ah, Darcy, my dear! You’re looking absolutely wonderful!” She envelops me in a hug, which lasts a good five seconds and ends with a big squeeze.
She releases then reaches for my sunglasses and lifts them to see my eyes. “And a good afternoon to you, too, Dudley.” My stomach grumbles a response. “I was ever so pleased to hear from you. What brings you to the lot today?”
I reach down, grab the tub, and show it to her. “I brought a present.”
She claps her hands in delight. “Marvelous! Let’s take it to my office.”
Fiona leads me through the halls and out the rear of the sound stage, where her private golf cart waits. She hops in, and I hurry to get in before she peels away. We zip through the narrow streets of the studio lot, maneuvering past construction vehicles, lighting equipment, and large backdrops.
“How have you been?” she says nonchalantly as she steers through a troop of World War II soldiers.
My right hand grabs hold of the roof rail, and my other holds onto the terrarium. “Fine. Still working at the library.”
“Aye, that’s grand. Keeping out of trouble, right?”
I close my eyes when she narrowly avoids a collision with a tour cart. “Yeah. No trouble.”
In less than a minute, we arrive at her Spanish bungalow. Fiona once told me it used to be Paul Newman’s office. She screeches into her private parking spot and jumps out before the cart has settled. I manage to keep up with her while I lug the snake container. Inside is a small waiting room supervised by a receptionist. In a production office, you usually find some pretty young thing, five days out of college, at the front desk. This office is no exception.
“Hiya! You have three messages!” shouts the young graduate. From her Southern accent, I recognize her as Eva Jean, whom I spoke with earlier today.
Fiona burns through assistants faster than I go through toothbrushes. Eva Jean is cute and perky. My prediction is she’ll fail miserably in the next two months then move back to Enid, Oklahoma, and tell everyone how people in LA are fake and that was why she left.
“Not right now, my dear!” Fiona says without slowing down.
I wave politely to the new girl as I keep up with Fiona, who leads me down the hall. Her office is a large and sterile kitchen. A granite-top island with a stainless-steel range top sits at the center, four pots simmering.
