Deep Dish(6)
Andrew’s smile was bitter. “That what Scott told you? The guy’s got balls of solid brass, I’ll give him that.”
“What do you mean?” Gina said, feeling a familiar chill run down her spine. “Tastee-Town has a new marketing guru. He somehow persuaded Wiley that car racing makes more sense than cooking.”
“Man,” Andrew said. “Zaleski’s really got you snowed, doesn’t he?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Gina said, her voice chilly. “I’m sorry the show’s been canceled. Even sorrier that you and the others lost your jobs. I’m out of work too, now, you know. But it’s business. You can’t blame that on Scott.”
“Business?” Andrew hooted. “Monkey business maybe.”
“You’d better go,” Gina said, turning her back on him. “Before I forget how much I like you.”
“Don’t worry,” he said, turning. “I’m outta here.”
She heard the heels of his cowboy boots clomp across the linoleum floor, and then heard the break-room door swing shut. More footsteps echoed in the empty corridor.
“Wait,” she called, running after him. He was at the rear entry door when she caught up with him.
“Now what?” he asked, his voice nasty.
“What don’t I know?” she asked, afraid to hear it, afraid not to.
“You really want to know? All of it? The truth?”
She lifted her chin and met his belligerent stare with her own. “The truth.”
He hesitated. “Aw, hell, Gina. Jess said we should all just suck it up and keep our mouths shut. But the hell with that. You got a right to know who you’re dealing with.”
“Just tell me,” Gina said.
He scratched his chin. “I don’t know anything about the NASCAR thing. That’s a new one on me. Maybe that’s the story Wiley put out to save face. What I do know is that ain’t the reason Wiley Bickerstaff canceled your show.”
“And the real reason is?”
“Crap.” He said it under his breath.
“Just tell me,” she urged. “I’m a big girl. I can take it.”
Andrew took a deep breath. “Last week, when you were down in Odum, visiting your folks? Scott was visiting the Bickerstaffs. Only Wiley wasn’t home at the time. In fact, Scott wasn’t visiting at the Bickerstaff house at all. The way I heard it, he and Danitra Bickerstaff were checked in at the Ritz-Carlton in Buckhead.”
“What are you saying?” Gina whispered.
“Mr. Bickerstaff got to wondering how come Danitra had book club every Thursday night, but she never had any books around the house,” Andrew said. “Dumb bitch. Book club! Have you ever met Danitra? The only book she’s interested in is Wiley’s checkbook. I heard he hired a private investigator. Had her followed. And last Thursday, the detective followed her to the Ritz, where she checked into a suite. Not five minutes later, Scott Zaleski showed up at the front desk, introduced himself as Mr. Bickerstaff, and asked for the key to the suite. You believe that? The bitch checked in under her own name. And with Wiley’s American Express platinum card!”
“That’s a lie,” Gina said heatedly. “Scott wouldn’t do that.”
“You wouldn’t think so,” Andrew agreed. “No matter what else you think about the guy, you can’t say he’s stupid. Still, he did screw the boss’s wife and manage to get all of us fired in the process.”
“How…how do you happen to know all of this?” Gina asked, her voice breaking. “It’s probably just vicious gossip.”
“Nope, not gossip,” Andrew said. “I’m sorry, Gina. But if I’m lyin’, I’m dyin’. Jessica went to Paideia School with Meredith Bickerstaff, Wiley’s daughter by the first Mrs. Bickerstaff, and Danitra’s stepdaughter, who happens to be a year older than Danitra. Meredith told Jess the whole story last week, right after it happened. Half of Buckhead’s heard it by now.”
“Not the half I live in,” Gina said.
Chapter 4
She was a zombie. Driving aimlessly around Interstate 285, circling the city, mesmerized, as usual, by the sight of the downtown Atlanta skyline illuminated in the orange-and-blue glow of an early summer sunset. At some point, she turned off the Honda’s struggling air conditioner and rolled down the windows, wanting the feel of the hot, moist air on her face, wanting the burn of exhaust fumes in her nostrils, the smell of hot asphalt, to remind her that she was, despite all indications to the contrary, alive.
When the transmission began its ominous knocking sounds, the numbness began to wear off, and she allowed herself to recognize feelings and emotions. Tears streamed down her face. She pounded the dashboard and swore a blue streak. Damn Scott Zaleski. And Danitra Bickerstaff. And for that matter, damn Mrs. Teasley, her fifth-grade teacher, with her frizzy home permanent and pursed-lip disapproval of Regina Foxton’s big ideas about growing up to become a famous writer in New York City.