“I wouldn’t put it that way,” I said, appalled.
He waved the martini dismissively. “Whatever. We’re filming the show tonight. Would you like to come watch? I can make that happen.” He put his plate on a stair behind him and patted his jacket pocket for a card.
“Actually,” I said, seizing the opening, “the police were hoping you’d help them catch a murderer.”
“Really? A murderer?” His eyes sparked with interest.
As succinctly as possible, I pitched him on the plan.
“I like it,” he said, stabbing at me with the martini. A drop of gin splashed my blouse. “It’s got ‘big’ written all over it. I think we could see a ten-point jump in the ratings with the right promo. Ava!” He shouted up the stairs.
“She’s in there,” I said, pointing to the parlor. I trailed him, standing back a couple of feet to avoid being christened with more martini.
Avaline shot me a poisonous glance as Spaulding told Dillon he wanted in on trapping the murderer. I tried not to feel smug and triumphant but didn’t succeed too well.
“I was just discussing that with John,” she said, an edge undercutting the sweetness of her voice.
“Great!” Spaulding said. “It’s settled. Let’s—”
“I think we ought to at least get John to agree to an interview in return for our help,” Avaline interrupted. She pushed to her feet, gaining a height advantage over Spaulding, who couldn’t have been taller than five-four. “Quid pro quo. Our show won’t be complete without the official Georgia Bureau of Investigation point of view.”
“I don’t—” Dillon started.
“No interview, no deal.” She bared her teeth in what would have passed for a smile if her eyes hadn’t been so cold.
Dillon’s jaw worked. After a long moment, he held out his hand to Avaline. “Deal.” His eyes were as stony as hers and I could tell he didn’t like being blackmailed.
“Lovely,” she said, holding on to his hand longer than necessary. “I’ll look forward to getting to know you better. Much better.” The tip of her tongue flicked out to moisten her lower lip. “Friday night work for you?”
Dillon’s gaze flicked to me. “I’ve got plans—”
“I’m afraid it has to be Friday evening,” Avaline said, her eyes narrowing. “Since we’ll be helping you out tonight”—she put a delicate stress on the words—“we’ll have to film the real show tomorrow night and I’ve got other interviews scheduled all day Friday. And I’m on a plane out of Jacksonville first thing Saturday morning. So, Friday night it is,” she said as if it were settled. “Let’s say six thirty.”
Dillon looked at me again and I gave an infinitesimal shrug. We could always reschedule our date. Catching Braden’s killer was more important. I don’t know if he got all that from my expression, but he sighed. “Okay, Friday.”
AGENT DILLON LEFT MAGNOLIA HOUSE ALMOST immediately to organize his team and get someone started on notifying everyone who’d been at Rothmere that the ghost of Cyril Rothmere had told Avaline van Tassel he would name Braden’s assailant later that evening. Everyone was invited to watch the taping of the show. Spaulding, Avaline, and their crew left immediately after Dillon to finish setting up at Rothmere. Vonda caught me before I could leave and dragged me into the kitchen. The Magnolia House kitchen was disconcertingly modern, featuring stainless steel appliances and restaurant-caliber range and ovens. When she and Ricky bought the B&B, Vonda had stated in no uncertain terms that while period furnishings were a plus in the bedrooms and common areas, under no circumstances was she cooking in an antiquated kitchen.
“Can I come?” Vonda asked when I told her about the plan.
From my seat at the island, I watched her mix up blueberry muffins for the morning. “I don’t see why not,” I said, swiping a finger inside the lip of the mixing bowl to snag some batter. “There’s going to be a cast of thousands as it is.” I sucked the batter off my finger. Yum.
“Do you think I’ll end up on TV?” She tucked a strand of red hair behind her ear, leaving a smear of batter on her cheek.
“Who knows?”
Vonda pushed the mixing bowl across the counter to me. “Here. Pour the batter into those muffin tins and pop them into the oven for twenty minutes. I’ve got to put my face on.”
“But they’re not starting until eight. That’s four hours from now,” I protested. The only response I got was a view of her backside disappearing through the swinging door. I filched a fat blueberry from the batter and popped it into my mouth.