Private Scandals

of the show are tuning in to see if I lose it and punch out a guest.”
    Fran snickered, then caught Deanna’s quick glare. “Sorry.”
    “I wish I could think it was funny.” Grabbing the poker, she stabbed viciously at the flaming logs. “I did think it was funny, until I started getting letters.”
    “Oh, Dee, the majority of the mail has been supportive, even flattering.”
    “So I’m perverse.” Her shoulders jerked. Oh, she hated the fact that she was being a fool. Hated more that she couldn’t seem to stop thinking about the whole ugly incident. “I keep remembering the ones that weren’t. The ones that ranged from ‘You should be ashamed of yourself,’ to ‘You should be horsewhipped for your lack of gratitude to a fragile little flower like Angela Perkins.’ ” Her narrowed eyes were as hot as the flames. “Belladonna probably looks like a fragile little flower.”
    “I wouldn’t know.” Fran shifted the baby to her shoulder. “Most of that’s blown over. Why don’t you tell me what’s really eating at you?”
    Deanna gave the fire one last poke. “I’m scared.” She said it quietly, as a fresh frisson of ice skated up her spine. “I got another note.”
    “Oh God. When?”
    “Friday, right after I spoke to the literacy group at the Drake.”
    “Cassie was with you.”
    “Yes.” Deanna rubbed at the dull ache at the back of her neck. “I don’t seem to go anywhere alone anymore. Always an entourage.”
    “Cassie’s hardly an entourage.” But Fran recognized the twist of topic as avoidance. “Tell me about the note, Dee.”
    “We ran a little long with the photo session afterward. Cassie left—she had a few things she wanted to finish up at the office before the weekend.”
    She flashed back to it, the scene as clear in her mind asa film loop. Another handshake, another snick of the camera shutter. People crowding around for a word, for a look.
    “Just one more picture, Deanna, please. You and the mayor’s wife.”
    “ Just one more.” Cassie spoke up, her smile amiable, her voice firm. “Miss Reynolds is already running late for her next appointment.”
    Deanna remembered feeling amusement. Her next appointment, thankfully, was throwing a few sweaters into her suitcase and heading out of the city.
    She posed again, with the mayor’s wife and the plaque for her work for literacy, then eased her way along, with Cassie running interference.
    “Good job, Dee. Here, let me take that.” Cassie slipped the plaque into her briefcase while Deanna bundled into her coat.
    “It didn’t feel like a job. They were great.”
    “They were—you were.” Cassie cast a leery eye over her shoulder. The elegant lobby of the Drake was still crowded with people. “But take my word on this. Just keep walking and don’t look back or you won’t get out of here until midnight.” To hurry her along, Cassie took her arm and led Deanna out of the lobby and onto the sidewalk. “Listen, I’m going to take a cab back to the office.”
    “Don’t be silly. Tim can drop you off.”
    “Then you’ll think of something you just have to do while you’re there. Go home,” Cassie ordered. “Pack, leave. Don’t show your face in this town until Sunday night.”
    It sounded too good to argue. “Yes, ma’am.”
    Laughing, Cassie kissed her cheek. “Have a great weekend.”
    “You too.”
    They parted there, heading in opposite directions through the snapping wind and swirling snow.
    “Sorry I’m late, Tim.”
    “No problem, Miss Reynolds.” With his long black coat flapping around his knees, Tim opened the door of the limo. “How’d it go?”
    “Fine. Really fine, thanks.”
    Still glowing with the energy of a job well done, she slipped inside the cushy warmth.
    And there it was. Just that plain envelope, a square of white against the burgundy leather seat . . . .
    “I asked Tim if someone had come up to the car,” Deanna continued, “but he hadn’t seen anyone. It was cold and he’d gone inside the building for a while. He said the car was locked, and I know how conscientious Tim is, so I’m sure it was.”
    Too many notes, Fran thought, as her stomach muscles jiggled. And they were coming too often in the last couple of months. “Did you call the police?”
    “I called Lieutenant Jenner from the car phone. I don’t have any control over this.” Her voice rose as much in frustration as fear. And it helped, she realized, to have something, anything other than