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And I know exactly how to get one.
I quickly showerand dress in my best “don’t fuck with me” overalls and Doc Martin boots, then swing by Deja Brew for a half-caf, double-foam, three-quarters hazelnut latte and the world’s most indulgent box of pastries. Then I march over to hotel where I know the crew are staying, The Battle Hymn of the Republic all but ringing in my ears. I’m a woman on a mission, and I will not be deterred.
Something like that, anyway.
I wave to the desk clerk, then settle myself on one of the worn floral couches like a marksman biding his time in a duck blind. If my old producer Clayton’s routine is anything like it used to be back when we worked together on Fortune Hunters, he should be coming down for his morning coffee run right about …
… now.
“Good morning,” I say sweetly, bobbing up as he arrives downstairs.
Clayton clutches his burly chest and lets out a yelp. “Christ, doll, you can’t sneak up on a man like that!” he protests, then gives me a big hug. “I’m trying to prevent a heart attack, not invite one.” He’s dressed head to toe in Lululemon jogging gear, complete with a ball cap emblazoned with the show logo.
“So, I can’t tempt you away from your morning workout withthis?” I say, wafting the drink under his nose. “You’ll be wanting an açai bowl for breakfast, not a custard-filled cruller.”
Clayton pauses. “I mean, it would be a shame to waste them,” he says, gazing at the bakery box with little hearts in his eyes.
I grin. I’ve known Clayton for years—in fact, I handpicked him to produce Jake’s first show—and the man’s always been a sucker for a baked good.
“I just need a little information.”
He sighs. “Of course. There’s no such thing as a free breakfast bun.”
It’s a cool morning, cloudy and overcast, but we go sit outside on one of the wrought iron benches perched in front of the hotel. I set the pastry box between us, and Clayton immediately dives in.
“So how have you been?” I ask, as he devours his first cruffin.
“Fine. Good. Teetering on the edge of a complete mental breakdown. You know the drill.” He pauses, looking guilty. “I meant to call and catch up, after all the shit went down with them cancelling the old show, I really did, but …” he trails off.
“I get it,” I tell him with a sigh, “Jake’s the one getting your checks signed. You had to stay on his good side if you wanted to keep your job. No fraternizing with the enemy ex-wife.”
“If it makes you feel any better, I hate myself for it,” Clayton offers. “And babe, it’s been a shit show since you left. Utter chaos. We’re barely keeping it together, the new researchers have nothing on you. We had to fake the last couple of discoveries,” he adds in a shameful whisper.
I gasp. “No!”
“Yes. But the network got wind of it, they’re threatening to pull the plug if we can’t land something splashy to get the ratings up. For real, this time.”
“That actually does make me feel better,” I admit with a grin. “Is that why you’re chasing your tail out here in search of the nonexistent gold?”
He nods around a mouthful of pastry. “Jake’s got it into his head that you missed something in those letters, and there’s a big juicy clue just waiting to point us to the treasure.”
“Of course he does.”
“And Jessica doesn’t know how to say ‘no’ to him,” Clayton adds with a scowl. “You know he promoted her to producer? She’s useless.”
I roll my eyes, picking at a donut. “She’s welcome to him.”
“Well …” Clayton draws out the word in a way that only can mean one thing: gossip.
“What?” I ask, leaning in.
He glances around. “Let’s just say, Jake’s been spending an awful lot of time getting his foundation touched up.” He gives me a meaningful look.
“Wait, with Rowena?” I ask, thinking of our terrifyingly-cool make-up artist, who always knows all the hot new bands, and walked around with perfect eyeliner and razor-sharp bangs to die for. “I thought she was too smart for his shit.”
Clayton shrugs. “You fell for it, didn’t you?”
I wince. “Good point.”
