Private Scandals

looking amused. “Now you’re pissed.”
    “Of course I am. She used me to get to you. It’s just television, for God’s sake. It’s television. We’re talking about ratings points here, not world-altering events. What kind of business is this that someone would use your tragedy to shake down the competition?”
    In a lighter mood, he sipped at his drink. “It’s show business, babe. Nothing’s closer to life and death than life and death.” He smiled wryly. “I ought to know.”
    “I’m sorry.” She closed her eyes and fought for control. “A temper tantrum isn’t going to help you. What can I do?”
    “Got any friends who are voting members of the Academy?”
    She smiled back. “Maybe a couple.”
    “You might give them a call, use that sexy, persuasive voice to influence their vote. And after that, you can go back in front of the camera and beat the pants off Angela’s. ”
    Her eyes kindled. “You’re damn right I will.”
     
    She called a staff meeting that afternoon in her own office and sat behind her desk to project the image of authority. The anger was still with her, simmering deep. As a result, her voice was clipped, cool and formal.
    “We have a problem, a serious one, that just recently came to my attention.” She scanned the room as she spoke, noting the puzzled faces. Staff meetings were often tiresome, sometimes heated, but always informal and essentially good-natured.
    “Margaret,” she continued. “You contacted Kate Lowell’s people, didn’t you?”
    “That’s right.” Unnerved by the chill in the air, Margaret nibbled on the earpiece of her reading glasses. “They were very interested in having her come on. We had the hook that she’d lived in Chicago for a few years when she was a teenager. Then they switched off. Scheduling conflicts.”
    “How many other times has that happened in the last six months?”
    Margaret blinked. “It’s hard to say right off. A lot of the topic ideas don’t pan out.”
    “I mean specifically celebrity-oriented shows.”
    “Oh, well.” Margaret shifted in her seat. “We don’t do a lot of those because the format generally runs to civilian guests, the everyday people you do so well. But I’d guess that five or six times in the last six months we’ve had somebody wiggle off the hook.”
    “And how do we handle the projected guest list. Simon?”
    He flushed. “Same as always, Dee. We toss around ideas, brainstorm. When we come up with some workable topics and guests, we do the research and make some calls.”
    “And the guest list is confidential until it’s confirmed?”
    “Sure it is.” He nervously slicked a hand over his hair. “Standard operating procedure. We don’t want any of the competitors to horn in on our work.”
    Deanna picked up a pencil from the glass surface of her counter, tapped it idly. “I learned today that Angela Perkins knew we were interested in booking Rob Winters within hours of our contacting his agent.” There was a general murmuring among the staff. “And I suspect,” Deanna continued, “from what I learned, that she was also aware of several others. Kate Lowell appeared on Angela’s two weeks after her people claimed a scheduling conflict. She wasn’t the only one. I have a list here of people we tried to book who guested on Angela’s within two weeks of our initial contact.”
    “We’ve got a leak.” The muscles in Fran’s jaw twitched. “Son of a bitch.”
    “Come on, Fran.” Jeff cast worried glances around the room. He shoved at his glasses. “Most of us have been here from the first day. We’re like family.” He tugged at the collar of his T-shirt, cutting his eyes back to Deanna. “Man, Dee, you can’t believe any of us would do anything to hurt you or the show.”
    “No, I can’t.” She pushed a hand through her hair. “So I need ideas, suggestions.”
    “Jesus. Jesus Christ,” Simon mumbled under his breath as he pressed his fingers to his eyes. “It’s my fault.” Dropping his hands, he gave Deanna a shattered look. “Lew McNeil. We’ve kept in touch all along. Hell, we’ve been friends for ten years. I never thought . . . I’m sick,” he said. “I swear to God it makes me sick.”
    “What are you talking about?” Deanna asked quietly, but she thought she knew.
    “We talk once, twice a month.” He shoved back from the table, crossing the room to pour a glass of water. “Usual stuff—shop talk.” Taking out a bottle, he shook two