“How about I pay the heat bill?” he replied. “I suppose you’d rather work in a warm office—”
“Actually, it’s not all that warm,” said Phyllis, interrupting and rubbing her upper arms. “Barely above freezing.”
“Well, with adequate heat and electric lights and computers and all—” said Ted.
“Point taken,” admitted Lucy, slipping into her chair and powering up her computer. While she waited she noticed the light on her phone indicating she had a voice mail and dialed the code. Much to her surprise, Mireille Franklin had called and left a message, requesting an interview. Lucy immediately returned the call and was invited to “come right over.”
“Why do I feel like I slipped into an alternate universe?” she asked after telling Ted and Phyllis about the invitation.
“Well, it isn’t often that Ted is actually in a good mood,” said Phyllis. “That alone is rather disconcerting.”
“It’s her sweatshirt that’s disconcerting,” said Ted, chuckling at his little joke. “You need sunglasses to look at it.”
“I got it at the Harvest Festival. It’s handcrafted,” said Phyllis, smoothing the sequins. “I think what’s disconcerting Lucy is the fact that somebody actually called requesting an interview. I don’t think that’s ever happened before.”
“Well, that guy who puts on magic shows in the summer always calls,” said Lucy.
“The Amazing Mr. Magic,” said Phyllis with a disapproving snort. “He just wants free publicity.”
“Not quite in the same league as Mireille Franklin,” said Ted.
“I bet she wants the same thing,” said Lucy, “only in her case it’s called positive spin.”
* * *
Whatever her motive, Mireille greeted Lucy at the door to the mansion, brushing aside the burly fellow dressed all in black—black shirt, black tie, black suit and shoes—who had opened the door. He had a rather obvious lump under his jacket that Lucy supposed was made by a gun.
“It’s okay, Jack. I’m expecting company,” said Mireille, grabbing Lucy by the arm and pulling her inside.
Jack looked Lucy up and down, frisking her visually, then asked for her bag so he could also check it. Finding no threat there, either, he handed it back to her. He turned to Mireille and said in a very serious tone, “I’ll be right here in the hallway if you need me.”
“Good to know,” replied Mireille, who pressed one hand on her lower back and, with a bit of a waddle, led the way to a small library at the rear of the house. The shelves were largely empty, apart from a handful of best-selling thrillers and business books, but there was a huge, wall-mounted TV above the gas fireplace. A comfortable sofa and arm chairs that swiveled were arranged around a large coffee table covered with a messy pile of magazines and newspapers. Both the gas fireplace and TV were on.
Mireille had been watching an old black-and-white Cary Grant movie, which she quickly turned off.
“It’s pure escapism. I watch these old romantic movies. I love Bringing Up Baby, The Philadelphia Story, stuff like that.”
“Me, too,” said Lucy, who was waiting for an invitation to sit down. She thought Mireille was one of those women who couldn’t help looking beautiful, even if her eyes were rather red and swollen, evidence she’d been crying a lot.
She was small-boned and had a touching air of fragility despite being nine months pregnant. Her tummy was a huge beach ball covered by a tight, stretchy turquoise top, which Lucy knew was the current fashion. Her hair was long and wavy, and the blond color seemed to be natural, though Lucy wouldn’t have bet money on it. She knew from Sue, who was always urging her to “do something” with her fading hair, that hair color products had come a long way in recent years.
Mireille was wearing black leggings and her feet, only slightly swollen, were tucked into black ballet flats.
“Oh, please sit down,” she said, flopping onto the couch and putting her feet up. “Would you like something to drink? Coffee? Tea? Herb tea? Kefir? I drink a lot of that.”
“No thanks. I’m fine,” said Lucy, choosing one of the swivel chairs and noticing that Mireille was nervously twisting her fingers.
“It’s no trouble. I can just ring and someone will bring it,” said Mireille, sounding as if this was a phenomenon she had not yet grown accustomed to.
“If you want something, go ahead,” said Lucy. “I’m training for the Turkey Trot—”
She stopped suddenly, embarrassed. She should never have mentioned the Turkey Trot, which Alison had also been training for.
“It’s okay,” said Mireille in a voice that was almost a whisper. “I know Alison was looking forward to running in the Turkey Trot. It was one of the positives in her life.” She paused. “I’d run, too, if it wasn’t for this,” she said, patting her tummy.
“When are you due?” asked Lucy, pulling her notebook out of her bag. Spying her cell phone, and not wanting any interruptions during the interview, she turned it off.
“Any day,” replied Mireille with a sigh.
“Well, thanks for the interview. I know our readers will be interested in what you have to say, and how you’re coping with everything.”
“Not very well, and that’s the truth. The worst part is waking up and realizing this isn’t a bad dream. It’s my life.” She snatched up a tabloid from the top of the pile and waved it around. “Anybody reading this rag would think I’m a coldhearted gold digger.”
“Are you?” asked Lucy, taking advantage of the opening. She much preferred interviewing the defensive, angry Mireille than the weepy, grieving one.
“No! I don’t care about money or houses or cars. I really don’t. And I didn’t break up Ed’s marriage, either. He’d been wanting a divorce for a long time before we met and he pursued me, not the other way around. All that stuff that Eudora is alleging is absolutely false.”
“How did you meet?” asked Lucy, jotting everything down in her notebook.
“I was working for a caterer, just to pay the bills. I was taking drama classes and going to auditions.
