Plain Vanilla Murder: A Frosted Love Cozy Mystery - Book 12 (Frosted Love Cozy Mysteries) (2 page)

Missy
felt almost guilty about the treatment that she received in First Class. She
had taken her shoes off and was reclined in a massive leather chair, cocktail
in hand, before the coach passengers had even begun their boarding process.
Flight attendants came by to check on her regularly, making sure that her every
need was met, and she realized how easy it would be to become accustomed to
this style of travel. The flight to Los Angeles was long, but watching movies,
enjoying a five-star meal and napping on a feather pillow under a silky blanket
helped to pass the time. Missy was delighted when the attendant presented her
with a warm, lemon-scented cloth so that she could freshen up, just before they
landed. The butterflies that had fluttered lightly when she was bathed in
Chas’s comforting presence, now swan-dived to her toes as she looked out the
window at the palm trees and sunny California skies.

There
was a uniformed driver holding a placard with Missy’s name on it, who retrieved
her luggage and whisked her away to a stretch limousine. Once inside the shiny,
black, living-room-on-wheels, she stared out of the privacy-tinted windows,
seeing the names of streets that she’d only seen in movies or on TV. Delighted
when she saw the iconic HOLLYWOOD sign, high in the hills, she realized that
Echo was right – she was on a free vacation, so from here on out, she would
just stop worrying and enjoy it. Realistically, she probably didn’t have a
snowball’s chance at securing her own baking show anyway, so there was really
no reason to be nervous.

The
stretch limo glided to a halt in the circular drive of an Art Deco, pink-stuccoed,
luxury hotel. The marbled floors and tropical flowers in the lobby were
absolutely stunning, and Missy wondered whether she could casually snap a
picture without being considered too tacky by the upscale clientele flitting
through the grand room as though it was just barely adequate for their taste.
Deciding that she didn’t care what Hollywood’s upper crust thought of her
(because truthfully, she’d most likely never encounter any of them ever again),
she shamelessly took photos of a gorgeous water feature, a floral arrangement
that probably cost more than her car, and the atrium that led to a massive
Roman pool. Her driver escorted her to an imposing mahogany reception desk,
waiting while she checked in so that he could deliver her suitcase to her room.

Stepping
into her suite, Missy’s breath caught at the beauty of her surroundings. The
décor was a stunning example of Hollywood Glam, with fine finishes and lots of
sparkle. Once the heavily carved door closed softly behind the departing
driver, who had promised to return for her in the morning, she sat, almost
afraid to touch anything, on the edge of a plush velvet purple divan, just
taking everything in. She noticed an elegant arrangement of two dozen white
roses on the table in the dining area, and went over to pluck the ribboned card
out of the holder in the midst of them.

“Relax,
Beautiful…you’re amazing, and if they don’t see that in you, they don’t deserve
to have your talent on their show. All my love, Chas”
read the simple white card. Tears sprung to Missy’s eyes at his thoughtfulness,
and she desperately wished that she could give him a hug at that very moment,
or, more to the point, that he could give her one. She tucked the card into an
inside pocket of her purse as a talisman to remind her that her life was
wonderful and that this world of make-believe in which she currently found
herself, was no big deal.

Missy’s
driver had taken her to the studio where she would be meeting Francesca Childs,
and escorted her to the reception area, where she sat in an ultra-modern, white
leather and chrome chair, staring down at an application that had been
presented to her by a tall, willowy redhead who perched delicately at the desk.

“Am
I a SAG member? Do I have a head shot? How many dialects can I do? I am so
ridiculously out of my element,” Missy thought to herself, distracted by the
beautiful people who passed through the area with a nonchalance that she found
astounding. She frowned down at the paper, her pen poised, but not moving, and
a familiar nasal voice interrupted her escalating panic.

“Melissa,
dearest, there you are!” a dark-haired woman, with cat-eye glasses and a
ponytail, dressed all in black, breezed in through a hallway that looked as
though it led to the inner sanctum. “You don’t need this,” she decreed,
plucking the application from Missy’s hand and tossing it onto a glass-topped
coffee table. “I’m Francesca Childs,” she introduced herself, extending a thin,
pale hand. Missy shook it and introduced herself, fascinated by the fact that
Francesca had a manner that made her seem to be in perpetual motion.

“Come
with me, sweetheart,” the New Yorker commanded, whirling about and leading
Missy back down the hallway from which she had come. Missy had to nearly jog to
keep up with the producer, as she wound her way through a series of halls.
Francesca talked the entire way, tossing comments and instructions over her
shoulder as Missy hurried along behind her. “Now, first you’re going to meet
with the production team, it’s no biggie, we’ll just ask you some questions,
talk to you a little bit – you’ll be fine. Then, we’ll give you a script to look
over for a few minutes, and have you read for us. When you have the reading
down, we’ll put you in front of the camera for a quick little screen test, and
that’s it. Tonight, if we like what we see, we’ll have you attend a little
dinner party with some of the folks from the show, so that you can get to know
them a bit, and we’ll deal with all of the logistical and administrative stuff
later, sound good?”

Before
Missy could open her mouth to answer, the producer announced that they had
arrived. “Here we are,” she smiled, flinging open the door to a massive
conference room that had a six inch high platform on one end with a single
chair sitting in the middle of it, and a long table in front of the stage with
four people sitting at it, all of whom looked up, seemingly annoyed, when they
entered.

“Hello
everyone, thank you for your patience,” Francesca breezed in, with Missy
trailing awkwardly behind her. “This is Melissa Gladstone, Ian’s friend.
Melissa, go ahead and take the seat at center stage please,” she waved a hand
in the direction of the lone chair and Missy’s heart dropped to her knees as
she contemplated having to sit by herself on the stage with everyone staring at
her, but she made her way to the lime green molded plastic chair and sat.

“Now,
Melissa, the team will introduce themselves one at a time, and ask you a
question once they’ve done so. Ready?” she asked, merely as a formality. Missy
nodded, and a stunning woman with an afro and a vintage top and skirt began the
inquisition.

“Hello,
Melissa, I’m Kelia,” she said in a calm, soothing voice which made Missy
grateful that she was the first to introduce herself. “Tell me the first thing that
comes to mind when you think of your favorite TV show,” she directed. Missy
breathed a sigh of relief, glad that this exotically beautiful woman hadn’t
asked her anything about acting or her experience.

“Dinner,”
she answered with a smile.

“I’m
sorry…did you say dinner?” Kelia raised her eyebrows, amused.

Missy
nodded. “Yes, the only time that I’m able to watch TV is usually when I sit
down to eat. I’ll curl up on the couch and enjoy a show while I’m eating, so TV
makes me think of dinner,” she explained. Kelia nodded, made a note and grinned
up at Missy, encouraging her. A balding man who looked to be in his early
sixties spoke next.

“Tim
Gilbert here,” he introduced himself without preamble. “Who’s your favorite
actor of all time?” he said in a voice that sounded like it had a lifetime of
cigarette smoke behind it. Again, Missy was relieved. If this was the nature of
the questions that she had to answer, she’d breeze through the process.

“Well,
truthfully, I don’t watch much TV or go to the movies, but I’d have to say,
without question, that my favorite actor was, and is, Ian Carson. He was kind
and sweet, and befriended me when I had a particularly difficult client that I
was dealing with. I’ll never forget his friendship,” Missy smiled sadly.

“Did
you ever see any of his movies?” Tim asked, looking over the top of his cobalt
blue designer glasses.

“Not
until after he died, no, but since then, I’ve seen them all. He was quite
talented.”

Tim
made his notes and nodded, indicating that he was finished. The next man on the
panel was much younger than Missy, somewhere in his late twenties she guessed,
with a scraggly beard and mustache and long, curly brown hair. His jeans looked
as though they’d lost in a battle with a lawn mower, and his black, long-sleeved
shirt fit like a second skin.

“Hi
Mel, I’m Martin Cambridge,” the lad introduced himself. Missy hated being
called Mel – it just seemed so masculine, not to mention overly familiar – but,
having been raised in the South and knowing her manners, she smiled politely
anyway. “My question for you is this – what role do you think television should
play in influencing societal behaviors?”

Missy
stared at the young man for a moment, blinking. The question had come out of
left field, and she couldn’t fathom what possible relevance it might have to
auditioning for a baking show, but she decided to try to answer it as
succinctly as possible.

“Well…that’s
a good question, Martin,” she began, lying through her teeth to try and buy
some time to think. “It’s evident that television has a profound impact upon
popular culture – everything from fashion to new words and expressions, to affecting
how people feel about the issues of the day. As to how it should influence
behaviors…I don’t know that it should influence behaviors at all. Personally,
I’d much prefer that folks think for themselves and make their own decisions
rather than allowing the undue influence of popular personalities who may or
may not know what they’re talking about.”

Now
it was Martin’s turn to stare and blink, which he did for what seemed like
forever before nodding noncommittally and turning his gaze to the notepad in
front of him, signaling the end of his part of the inquisition.

The
last member of the panel regarded her with what seemed to be a mixture of
curiosity and disdain. He was a rather rotund man in his late 50’s, with a
heavily dyed and heartily greased comb-over, who gazed skeptically at Missy
from beneath beetled brows, which were unfortunately dyed to match his hair.

“Kelvin
Michaels,” he said, as though no further words were necessary. He leaned
forward, elbows on the table, fingers steepled under his multiple chins. “What
makes you think that you have what it takes to host your own television show?”
he demanded, his sole intention to make her squirm.

Missy
stared him down, never allowing her gaze to waver for even a moment.
“Absolutely nothing,” she replied, unashamed and not the least bit intimidated.
Few things raised her ire more than someone who deliberately tried to get her
goat.

“Excuse
me?” Kelvin said, seemingly offended.

Looking
him dead in the eye and speaking with great conviction, Missy responded. “As
far as I can tell, I have absolutely nothing to offer your viewers. I’m a
cupcake artist from the middle of nowhere Louisiana, and I know nothing about
acting or making presentations, or giving a television audience what they’re
looking for. I know how to bake, I know how to successfully run a business, and
I know how to get along with most folks – that’s the extent of my abilities, and
if that’s not enough, so be it. I came out here because apparently someone
thought it would be a good idea. If I can helps someone, or provide information
in a way that folks enjoy, well, that’s just great. If not, I’m perfectly happy
to go back to my two successful shops in Louisiana and live out my days among
people that I know and love,” she said calmly, eyes flashing.

A
slow smile spread across the bulbous features of Kelvin’s face, as other panel
members gauged his reaction. He nodded at Missy with approval. “She’s got
moxie, I’ll give her that…let’s put a script in her hands, Frannie,” he
remarked, looking over at Francesca, who then thrust a stapled packet of papers
into a bewildered Missy’s hand.

“Read
up on this, sweetheart. We’ll give you a few minutes, then we want to hear what
you sound like. Back in ten,” she told everyone in the room. As the four people
at the table filed out, the producer came over to Missy with a reassuring
smile. “Great job, Melissa! Would you like some water or coffee or something?”

“Wide-eyed
and feeling more than ever that she was in some sort of bizarre dream state,
Missy shook her head. “I don’t think caffeine would be a very good idea at this
point,” she said, holding up a slightly trembling hand.

“Okay,
deep breaths,” Francesca soothed, patting her shoulder. “You’ve made it through
the tough part, the rest of this will be a piece of cake. It doesn’t matter
that you’ve never done any acting, you’re going to be yourself when you’re on
the show, so just be you, but larger than life,” she suggested as though Missy
might have some idea as to what she was talking about.

“Larger
than life?” she gulped. “I don’t think I know how to do that…”

“Sure
you do,” the producer waved dismissively. “Just be you, but louder, brighter,
more energetic.” The lithe woman looked her up and down, as if seeing her for
the first time. “And, if we end up doing this, we’re going to want to think
about getting you set up with a personal trainer, pronto,” she remarked,
whipping out a small notebook and writing something down.

Missy
stared at her, blinking and wondering what on earth she had gotten herself
into. She knew that she was a bit curvier than the lissome women she had seen
gliding about, but…a personal trainer? Where she came from, women were supposed
to be fit but feminine. Her daily romps in the park with her furry babies had
done a fine job of keeping her in shape, or so she had thought. Seeing the
growing terror in her eyes, Francesca laughed and patted her shoulder again.

“No
worries, Melissa, you just take a look at the script, give some thought as to
how you’d read the lines, and we’ll worry about details later,” she said,
turning and heading for the door. When the door closed behind the
energy-in-motion producer, Missy sighed and tried to concentrate on the script,
which turned out to be a commercial for a diet cola. Frowning because she
didn’t drink diet cola and knew nothing about how to do a television commercial,
she flipped quickly through the pages, beginning to panic. The dialogue sounded
stilted and unnatural, and the stage directions indicated that she should be
delivering them with high energy and enthusiasm. Francesca had just told her
that she didn’t need to act, she could just be herself, but Missy would never
say any of the things that the “bright-eyed mom” in the commercial was supposed
to say. Putting the script down on her lap, she decided that this entire
experience had clearly been a waste of everyone’s time, and she would just tell
them so when they came back in the room. The panel filed back in, chatting and
sipping from power water bottles and lattes, taking their seats and settling
down to look expectantly at Missy, who stood and held up the script.

“I’m
sorry to have wasted everyone’s time. There’s no way that I can do this. My
understanding was that I was auditioning for a baking show. Baking is my area
of expertise and I would feel more than comfortable talking all day long about
it, but pretending to love and sell something that I know absolutely nothing
about is definitely way out of my comfort zone, so, thank you for your
hospitality, but I’m clearly not the person that you’re looking for,” Missy
smiled at the panel and started to step down from the platform, only to be
stopped by Francesca.

“Okay,
Melissa, wait, let’s try this…why don’t you tell us which cupcake that you bake
is your favorite and why,” the producer suggested, holding her hand up to
instruct Missy not to step down from the platform.

“My
favorite cupcake? But…why?” Missy was puzzled.

“We
want to see you talk about your passion, and we want to hear your voice and how
you sound, that’s all, so why don’t you tell us about your favorite cupcake
rather than talking about diet soda?” Francesca smiled encouragingly. “So,
which kind of cupcake is your favorite?” she asked, indicating that Missy
should sit back down.

Continuing
to stand, Missy’s eyes lit up, and she began to speak, growing more animated
with every syllable. “Well, it’s actually impossible for me to choose a
favorite, because there are so many different tastes and textures, and I come
up with a new flavor every week, but I can talk about some of the customer
favorites. Folks seem to love the Margarita Madness cupcakes that I created
when I came back from a trip to the Caribbean…” she went on at length, excited
to describe her creation and the elements that go into crafting the perfect
cupcake.