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Rochelle Krich's Dead Air A Jessie Drake Mystery |
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Someone was watching her again.  Renee Altman was in a Century City mall store, fingering the rim of a
champagne goblet,
when she had the familiar prickly sensation. Lifting the goblet, she
turned and pretended to examine the facets so that she could see who
was staring at her. No one. Just nerves. At the register she waited while the clerk who seemed to take forever,
rang up her
purchase. Then she made her way
out of the store and strode in the crisp, late morning air toward the
escalator. The
salty smell of freshly popped corn wafted toward her from a snack cart
up ahead. She was
tempted to stop for a bag when she felt eyes on her again. Fear fluttered in her stomach, and now she was angry. She whirled
around--what the hell
did he ... ?--and almost stepped on a small leashed dog leading a
heavyset, middle-aged
couple whose eyes widened with alarm. The dog yelped. The man and woman scowled at Renee. Her face was hot with embarrassment. "I'm so sorry." Forcing herself to
smile, she
searched out of the corners of her eyes but saw no one looking at her.
Either she'd
imagined the whole thing, or whoever was following her had ducked into a
shop or been swa
llowed by the throng of mall visitors strolling past her, mostly in
pairs; talking,
laughing, swinging their shopping bags with a carefree motion that
filled her with envy. The woman had stopped scowling. She cocked her head and was squinting at
Renee. "You ought to be more careful," the man grumbled. "You could have--" "You're Dr. Renee!" the woman squealed. Beaming, she poked her
companion's arm with a
long, sculpted red fingernail that could have drawn blood. "George, this
is Dr. Renee
Altman Back to Renee: "I almost didn't recognize you--your hair is
blonder than it looks
in pictures. You're prettier, too, and younger," she continued without
taking a breath.
"I listen to your show every day. It's just wonderful. I can't believe..." On and on and on until Renee thought she would scream. Still scanning
the crowd, she only half listened as the woman piled compliment upon compliment--"...so
insightful . . .
really change a person's whole life...moral courage so lacking these
days." She noticed that the woman had stopped talking and was waiting for a
response. "That's
very nice of you to say," Renee murmured, hoping her comment would
satisfy, and saw the
woman's full face dimple with pleasure. "Well, it's all true! I talk about you all the time. Don't I, George?" "Uh-huh," from George, who seemed unimpressed with Renee's celebrity. So
did the dog. He
was tugging on his beaded leash and yipping, his tail furiously fanning
the air. "My friends are going to die when I tell them I met you!" The woman dug
into a large,
ugly, black-and-orange patent tote and fished out a notepad and squiggly
shaped pen.
"Would it be a terrible imposition ... ?" She smiled shyly. "I'd be happy to," Renee said, relieved that the woman hadn't asked for
advice. I have a
problem, Dr. Renee ... "Make it 'To Irma,'" the woman instructed, shy no more. She thrust pen
and pad at Renee.
"That's with an i, not like Bombeck. It's so sad she died. Now, she was
bright, and funny. . ."
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Twilight Lane, from Avon Books, at MysteryNet.com: The Online Mystery Network, is produced and published by Newfront Productions, Inc. Copyright © 1998, 2009 by Avon Books and Newfront Productions, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate or redistribute in any form. |
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