Charade (9 page)

smile was smug, arrogant, affected, and as irritating to Cat as a torn cuticle. The chip on her shoulder had become a source of malcontent within the office. Unfortunately, bad chemistry wasn't grounds for dismissal, otherwise Cat would have fired her months ago. Besides, she didn't feel she could make that decision independently. Bill Webster had handpicked her staff before her arrival at WWSA. The "candidates" had been introduced to her for approval. Jeff Doyle had applied for a job to produce news, but he had jumped at the chance to work on Cat's Kids, which he knew would provide a more creative challenge. Melia King had been recruited from the newsroom staff. She too had expressed a desire for more variety, more challenge, and more money. Cat's Kids had provided her an opportunity. Cat had felt it would be churlish to reject Bill's recommendations, although she'd sensed Melia's antipathy to her the moment they shook hands. Since she had no other explanation for the young woman's hostility, she had figured that Melia was nervous about meeting her new boss and would soon warm up. However, after six months of working together, their relationship was still chilly. Melia was never late. She hadn't been grossly derelict in her duties. Whenever a minor mistake was committed, she was ready with a viable excuse. Her apologies were lukewarm and lacked sincerity, but they qualified as apologies. In other words, Cat thought sourly, she covers her ass. "What appointments do I have scheduled for today?" she asked. With a negligent flick of her hand, Melia opened her spiral steno pad. "You're interviewing Mr. and Mrs. Charlie Walters for Ms. Parks." "Right. What time?" Cat asked, glancing at her desk clock. "Eleven. She left their file on my desk." "I'll get it from you on my way out." "They live on a rural route out toward Kerrville. Do you know where that is?" "No." Melia rolled her eyes as though Cat's ignorance of Texas geography was the height of stupidity. "I'll have to give you directions." "That would be helpful," Cat said tightly. "Anything else?" "You have an edit session at three this afternoon."

"I'll be back long before then." "And Mr. Webster wants to see you sometime today. At your convenience, he said." "Call upstairs and see if he's in. I'd like to see him before leaving for my appointment." Without acknowledging the request, Melia stood and moved toward the door. She had the gliding gait of a jungle cat. It was obvious that Jeff wasn't impressed by it. His lips were thin with disapproval as she went out. Cat pretended not to notice. She wouldn't play one of her staff members against another. Nor did she want to show partiality. Getting down to business, she asked, "Have we confirmed where we'll shoot the segment on Tony?" She always called the featured children by their first names, remembering how she'd hated being referred to as "the child" or "the girl," as though being a ward of the state had made her a nonperson. "How about Brackenridge Park?" Jeff suggested. "You could take Tony on the miniature train ride. That would be good visually." "More important, I think Tony would enjoy it. What six-year-old boy doesn't like trains?" Melia stuck her head through the door. "Mr. Webster's in his office. He said for you to come on up." She popped out of sight again. Cat stepped around her desk. "While I'm away, go to the park and check everything out," she told Jeff. "Tell whoever is in charge that we'd like to do the shoot on Wednesday morning. Make sure the train will be running then, et cetera. Also, call Sherry's office so they'll know when to have Tony there. Double-check the time of the shoot with the newsroom assignments editor so a video crew will be available." Jeff was taking rapid notes. "Anything else?" "Yes. Lighten up. Life's too short to be taken so seriously." He raised his head from his frantic scribbling and looked at her with puzzlement. "Trust me, I know."

Cat's office was connected to the bustling newsroom via a short corridor. Bill Webster had offered her a larger and better-appointed

office on the executive floor of the building, but she'd declined it. Cat's Kids was under the auspices of the news department, as was all locally originated programming. Integrating her staff with video photographers, editors, directors, and the studio crew was important to her. She had told Webster, "I depend on them to make me look and sound good on camera. I can't afford to alienate them by setting myself apart." There had been some built-in resentment toward her from newsroom personnel. Cat Delaney hadn't worked her way up through the ranks as they had. She was an actress, not a journalist. Cat admitted to having no journalistic skills, and she knew she'd been foisted on the news department. The news team had no doubt expected her to condescend to them since she'd come from Hollywood, to be a Miss Know-it-all from Tinsel Town. Instead, she was constantly asking their advice. Although she'd spent years in front of studio cameras, the news format was foreign to her. By asking questions, flubbing her lines, requiring retakes, and cracking self-deprecating jokes, she was gaining acceptance. The CEO's secretary greeted her warmly. "Mr. Webster is expecting you, Ms. Delaney. Go right in." "I couldn't be more pleased with the way things are going," Bill said once Cat was seated. "So you've said on numerous occasions." She smiled at him across the surface of his black lacquered desk, which was so glossy it could have been used as a makeup mirror. "If you lavish me with any more praise, I'm liable to blush." "They're not empty compliments," he said, chuckling. "I've got the increase in market shares to back them up. Cat's Kids is an overwhelming success." Her smile reversed itself; her eyes turned stormy. "Not according to Mr. Truitt." A reporter for The San Antonio Light, Ron Truitt had been panning Cat's Kids since its debut. "He was particularly scathing in his latest article," Cat said. "Let's see, how'd he put it? 'These segments are sappy and sentimental and have no more place in a newscast than a soft-shoe dance routine.' That hack can really turn a clever phrase, can't he?" Webster took the reporter's criticism in stride. "Unfortunately,

San Antonio is known in TV circles as a 'bloody market.' Like any other city, we have our share of violence. Among the TV news departments, the credo has been: the more gore the better. "WWSA's policy on explicitness is no exception, I'm afraid. We've had to follow the trend in order to remain competitive. I don't like it. That's just the way it is," he said, spreading his hands in a submissive gesture. "When compared to our lead news stories, which almost always relate to a violent crime, your segments are like a breath of fresh air. They remind viewers that there is still some good in the world. So forget Mr. Truitt's criticism. Consider it free publicity." She didn't share Webster's lack of concern for the articles. A bad rap was a bad rap. It wouldn't have been nearly as upsetting if Truitt had criticized her performance; she would have sloughed that off. But he was attacking her "baby," and, like a mama bear, she was savagely protective. "If they want to see violence and bloodshed, we ought to show the situations most of these kids come from," she said bitterly. "All the more reason for you to blow off any criticism. Thumb your nose at Mr. Truitt." "I tried, but the coward never returns my calls." She shrugged. "It's just as well, I suppose. I wouldn't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that his slanted articles disturb me." Webster offered her something to drink, but she declined, explaining her appointment with the couple who had applied to be adoptive parents. "Interviewing the applicants isn't your responsibility." "Not ordinarily. But Sherry made an appointment she can't keep. Rather than disappoint them, I offered to stand in for her. Besides, they sound like good prospects. "The fact is, Bill, I would welcome meeting personally with all the applicants. It would give me an opportunity to describe exactly what they're letting themselves in for, which I could do from a unique perspective." "That of a former foster child." "Right. They're required to take the Positive Parenting course, but even after ten weeks of training they're not prepared for every eventuality that arises when dealing with a special child. It would

also give them an opportunity to see that I and the program are strictly legit." "You've assumed enough responsibility as it is." "I thrive on work." "And you're a control freak. You want to oversee everything." "Guilty," she said with a smile. "Just go easy on yourself." She bristled. One thing she didn't tolerate was deferential treatment because of her transplant. "Don't mollycoddle me, Bill." "Cat," he said reproachfully. "I caution the salesmen and mid management personnel--all type A's like you--not to work to the detriment of their health. None of them has had a heart transplant. It's good advice for anyone." "I'll concede that." "Is everything working out well with your staff?" When she hesitated, Webster's eyebrows arched inquiringly. "Problems?" "Anytime more than one person works on a project, there's bound to be some friction," she answered diplomatically. He leaned back in his chair. "Friction can often lead to beneficial brainstorming. I think your staff was well chosen." She decided to approach her problems with Melia by going through the back door. "Jeff's a workaholic. He's super efficient But he can be high-strung." "Is he gay?" "Does it matter?" "Not at all," he replied, unruffled by her sharp tone. "Just curious. That's the gossip. Either way, I think his personality is much more suited to Cat's Kids than to the hard news format. Do you get along with Melia?" "She has her mood swings," Cat said, hedging. "Don't we all?" "Of course. It's just that sometimes her moods and mine are on a collision course." She wanted to avoid suggesting that all the blame belonged to Melia. Perhaps it didn't. Their dislike had been mutual, although Cat had done her best to give Melia the benefit of the doubt. She'd cut her more slack than she thought was deserved. Webster didn't pick up her hint of disharmony. "As you said, Cat,

when more than one person is involved, there are bound to be some differences of opinion." Bill had bent over backward to make her transition to WWSA easy and enjoyable. She didn't want to appear to be a whiner. So, for the time being, she shelved her grievances. "I'm sure that in time we'll smooth out all the wrinkles." "I'm sure you will, too. Anything else on your mind?" She consulted her watch and found that she still had a few minutes. "I'd like you to start thinking about the possibility of a fundraiser. " "Fundraiser?" "For the kids, those still in foster homes and the ones already adopted. Foster parents get two hundred dollars a month per child from the state. Medicaid pays for their health care. But that doesn't cover everything. "Wouldn't it be good PR for the station, as well as enormously beneficial for the kids, if WWSA sponsored a concert, or a celebrity golf tournament, something like that, to raise money for the extras? Extras like orthodontia and eyeglasses and summer camp." "Great idea. Do whatever you like." "Thanks. But I need help. I'm still the new kid on the block and don't know very many people. Do you think Nancy would consider helping?" "Consider it?" He laughed. "It'd be right down her alley. She loves nothing better than rolling up her shirtsleeves and plowing into a project. Fund-raisers are her forte." "Great. I'll call her." Cat stood. "If that's all, I've gotta run." He came around his desk to walk her to the door. "You're doing a terrific job, Cat. We're so fortunate to have you. You've given the station credibility and an aura of class. But have we been equally good for you? Do you have any regrets over leaving California? Are you happy?" "Regrets? None, Bill. I love the kids. I'm doing something worthwhile, and it feels good." He waited, but when she said nothing more, he probed. "That answers only half of my question." "Am I happy? Of course. Why wouldn't I be?" "What about Dr. Spicer?"

Cat was chummy with her new co-workers but hadn't had time to cultivate any close friendships. Furthermore, it was her policy to keep professional matters separate from her personal affairs. Her long, demanding workdays didn't leave much time for meeting people outside the industry. Consequently, Dean was still her best friend, and that's the way she answered Bill's question. "We talk every few days." He looked worried. "Any chance of his talking you into returning to California?" "None. I've got too much work to do here." She glanced at her wristwatch. "Beginning with my eleven o'clock appointment."

Chapter fifteen

The doorbell echoed through the ranch house. Through the screened front door, Cat saw a wide hallway extending to the rear of the house. Several rooms opened off this central foyer, but, from her viewpoint, she couldn't tell what they were. Somewhere nearby a dog barked, a large dog, she guessed by the gruffness of his bark. Thankfully, it sounded more curious than ferocious. She rang the bell again and glanced over her shoulder in the direction from which she'd come. The house was situated behind a low hill, out of sight of the state highway. A white rail fence formed a neat boundary around the property and divided it into several pastures where horses and beef cattle grazed. The single-story house was constructed of native limestone. Shading the deep veranda was a wooden grid covered with leafy wisteria. Scarlet geraniums bloomed in clay pots. Everything had a well-tended, well-kept appearance, including the golden retriever that loped around the corner of the house and up the stone steps. "Hi, pooch." The dog sniffed the hand she offered, then gave it

a friendly lick. "Are you the only one at home? I thought they were expecting me--or Sherry." She rang the bell again. Mr. and Mrs. Walters must be somewhere in the house, she reasoned. It was unlikely that they would leave without closing and locking the front door. Cupping her hands around her eyes, she peered through the screen and called out, "Hello? Anybody here?" Toward the back of the house, a door squeaked open and a man stepped out into the hallway. Cat dropped her hands and jumped back, embarrassed at having been caught peeking through the screen. He was tall, rangy, and barefoot. His jaw was shaded by a dark scruffy beard at least two days old. As he was ambling toward the door, he unhurriedly buttoned the fly of his Levi's, but gave up after securing only two of the buttons. He tried to smooth out his tousled hair, yawned broadly, then idly scratched his bare chest. "Something I can do for you?" He scowled at her through the screen. Cat was bewildered. Had Melia given her the wrong directions? Had Sherry made an error on the house number or mistaken the time of her appointment? Mr. Walters obviously wasn't expecting company. He'd come straight from bed. Had Mrs. Walters been in bed with him? If so, exactly what had she interrupted? Sleep, she hoped. "Uh, I ... I'm Cat Delaney." He stared at her for several moments, then abruptly pushed open the screen door and looked at her even more intently through narrowed, suspicious eyes. "Yeah?" Her name usually evoked a response. When salesclerks realized who had passed them a credit card, they typically became either speechless or gabby. Headwaiters stammered effusively while leading her to choice tables. When sighted in public, she drew double takes. Mr. Walters hadn't even blinked. Apparently her name meant nothing to him. "Actually I'm filling in for Ms. Parks. Sherry Parks? She couldn't make it this morning, so I--" "Git!" he shouted, slapping his thigh. Cat flinched, then realized that he wasn't addressing her. He was speaking to the dog, which was still laving her hand with his long, pink tongue. "Lie down, Bandit," he ordered brusquely.