Kiss and Tell (2 page)

A tall, brown-haired girl wearing jeans and a denim jacket stood up and said, “Uh, I was wondering. Is Giancarlo your husband?”

The man who'd come into the room with Esme smiled, displaying perfect white teeth and high cheekbones. He stood up in the front row, ran a hand through his hair, a mass of dark curls, and said in a softly accented voice, “I am indeed.”

“Did you have a question for Giancarlo?” Esme asked graciously.

The girl stammered and blushed. “Uh-um, no, not really. I thought I recognized him from his picture. That's all.”

Esme smiled and said, “Sometimes Giancarlo gets more attention than I do, but I don't mind. I realize he's a lot better looking!”

The crowd laughed. Giancarlo blew Esme a kiss and sat back down. Esme answered several more questions, some of them about
Passion
and how she came to write it, others about
Telling All
and when it would appear. Nancy found herself mesmerized by the woman—her charm, her grace, how she put everyone at ease. She had expected that someone as glamorous as Esme might be a little fake, but the opposite was true.

Bess, meanwhile, was in seventh heaven. She hung on the woman's every word, laughing at her
every little joke. Nancy could tell that Bess would be first in line to buy a signed copy of
Passion.

Janine was about to call an end to the questions when Nancy saw Brenda Carlton leap from her seat, notebook in hand. “Ms. Moore,” Brenda shouted. “The publicity for your autobiography makes a lot of the fact that the book will be the truth, with no holds barred. Is that a fair characterization?”

Esme smiled ruefully and scanned the crowd. “There are some people here who would prefer I didn't tell the truth, but, yes,
Telling All
will be absolutely honest.”

“Then why is there a rumor in New York that
Telling All
is going to be a big disappointment?” Brenda pressed.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Esme said, bristling.

“For example—” Brenda checked her notebook. “Will you tell the real truth about your ex-business partner Barry Hobbes? Or your relationship with Todd Gilbert and why it ended? Or the secrets you know about your rival, Lee Michelle?”

Esme stood her ground. “You pretend to know a lot about me. Who are you?”

“Brenda Carlton,
Today's Times.”

“Well, Brenda, I suggest you do some fact-checking the next time you ask rude and unprofessional questions,” Esme said.

Nancy held her breath. Brenda had bluffed her
way through a lot of situations, but Esme Moore was obviously a pro. She stood beside the lectern, her green eyes narrowed on Brenda.

“What's Brenda talking about?” Bess whispered.

“I think we're going to find out,” Nancy said.

“You have five seconds to explain your comments,” Esme pressed.

“I'd be happy to.” Brenda lowered her notebook and turned her gaze to Esme herself. “I have a reliable source who swears that
Telling All
is nothing but lies. What do you have to say to that?”

I
'M NOT GOING TO
sink to your level to answer unsubstantiated rumors,” Esme said calmly, glaring at Brenda Carlton.

“Do you deny the accusation?” Brenda demanded.

Although she was restraining herself, Esme was obviously on the verge of losing her composure. Nancy felt the crowd grow restless. Flashes went off as photographers captured Esme's stony expression. After Brenda's accusation, the audience had let out a collective audible gasp, and now they were starting to talk among themselves. Esme knew she was losing her audience.

“Nancy, we've got to do something,” Bess urged. “We can't let Brenda stand there and ruin Esme's reputation.”

While Brenda went on, pressing Esme for an
answer, Nancy assumed Janine would jump in to stop her. The publicist only nodded and waited patiently for Brenda to ask every one of her questions, leaving Esme utterly vulnerable. When Brenda was done, Janine stood up at the podium and said, “We have heard these accusations before. They are untrue. Unlike Esme's other books,
Telling All
will not be a work of fiction!”

“Esme! Esme!” a photographer called out. When the author turned his way, the man caught Esme at her angriest and most vulnerable. More reporters jumped up from their seats around the perimeter of the room and demanded an explanation for Brenda's accusation. Janine shouted for the audience to compose itself. All the while, Nancy watched Esme draw deep breaths, obviously trying to calm herself.

Bess was right. Nancy couldn't just sit by and let the chaos continue. “Come on,” she said to Bess. “We need to stop this at the source.”

With that, Nancy led the way to where Brenda was standing. When the young reporter saw Bess and Nancy, her green eyes flashed—in fear or surprise, Nancy couldn't tell—but she promptly put her notebook away.

“I'd like to ask
you
a few questions, Brenda,” Nancy stated flatly.

“Such as?” Brenda asked.

Nancy crossed her arms and eyed the reporter suspiciously. “Who's your source?” Nancy demanded.
“You and I both know that as a responsible journalist, you can't go around making accusations without confirmation from at least two sources.”

A flicker of fear passed over Brenda's face, and Nancy knew her suspicions were well founded. Brenda was obviously on a fishing expedition, and probably had nothing more than rumors to back up her questions.

“I've got a source,” Brenda insisted, her eyes narrowed to show her determination. “Someone who swears to have proof that Esme Moore's autobiography is”—Brenda checked her notebook and read from a page—“here it is: ‘Esme Moore is a fake, and that book of hers is a pack of lies.' That's a direct quote.”

“From whom?” Bess demanded, reaching for Brenda's notepad.

“None of your business!” Brenda cried. She shoved the notebook back into her black bag.

The crowd had quieted down, and Esme was actually signing books. The reporters had cornered Janine, and Brenda, sensing that was where the action was, gathered up her coat and followed.

“There goes trouble,” said Bess. “I've seen that fire in Brenda's eyes before, and I never like what comes of it. Why is she going after Esme?” Bess wailed. “She's a great person and doesn't need trouble from someone like Brenda Carlton.”

“It's not Brenda who's going after Esme,”
Nancy told her friend. “Brenda's source is the person who wants to get at Esme. The question is, who and why?”

While Bess got in line to buy a copy of Esme's book and have it signed, Nancy sat down and waited for her friend. Something nagged at her about Brenda's questions and Esme's responses. Then she remembered what it was: Janine had said that they were aware of the accusations and rumors. So Brenda's line of questioning wasn't new to them. If Nancy was right, someone had already been after Esme. Therefore Brenda's questioning could be part of a larger attempt to ruin Esme's reputation by branding her a liar.

When Bess came back, a signed copy of
Passion
in her hand and stars in her eyes, Nancy shared her suspicions with her friend. Bess's stars immediately dimmed.

“We've got to help her, Nan,” Bess urged. “Let's tell Esme we want to find out who's been spreading these rumors.”

“My idea exactly,” said Nancy. “But will Esme want our help? My guess is that she or her publisher has already investigated the rumors.”

“Maybe,” Bess said. “Maybe not. We don't know till we ask!”

In a little while Esme finished signing her books and, along with Giancarlo, Janine, and the young girl in black, left the room. Photographers packed up their equipment and hotel staff busied themselves rearranging the sofas and chairs.
Nancy and Bess made their way from the room to the main desk, where they found out Esme's room number. In the elevator up to the sixth floor, where Esme had a suite, Nancy made a mental list of the questions she'd ask the woman if Esme agreed to let her investigate.

“How long have they been going on?” Nancy asked herself. “And how did they start? Phone calls? Notes? Is your publisher aware of the situation? If so, has he or she done anything to find out who's behind the rumors?”

“Nancy.” Bess prodded her friend in the side with her finger and glanced around the elevator. Several passengers smiled at the two girls. “You're talking to yourself.”

“I was thinking,” Nancy whispered back.

“Out loud,” Bess informed her, a wide smile spreading across her face. “It's because you're excited to be on a case,” Bess remarked. “That way you don't have to spend Valentine's Day alone. You can spend it with a mystery!”

On the sixth floor, Nancy and Bess found Esme's corner suite at the end of a long corridor. The door was closed, but when Nancy knocked it was quickly opened by Giancarlo. “May I help you girls?” he asked in his softly accented voice.

Up close, Giancarlo was even more handsome, with his flashing blue eyes and long, thick eyelashes. Bess stood tongue-tied, but Nancy managed to introduce them both, and said, “We'd like to speak to Esme if it's possible.”

“In reference to what, may I ask?” Giancarlo said, clearly used to putting off Esme's fans.

“It's about the questions that reporter was asking,” Nancy offered. “We're hoping, I mean, we were thinking—”

“Nancy's a detective,” Bess blurted out, suddenly rediscovering her ability to speak.

“Is she?” Giancarlo asked skeptically.

“Giancarlo, where are you?” a woman's voice asked.

“I'm talking to a detective,” Giancarlo answered, speaking over his shoulder. When he turned back to Nancy, his blue eyes were sparkling, and there was a small grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“A what?” the woman cried.

“There's a young woman here who apparently wants to sign on as your personal private investigator,” he said. “What should I tell her?”

“Tell her I'm not interested.” Esme Moore herself appeared at the door. When she saw Nancy and Bess standing there, she appeared to be taken aback and surprised. “Which one of you is the detective?” she asked.

Nancy grinned and quickly found her nerve as she dove into an explanation of how she and Bess knew Brenda Carlton and suspected that someone was using her to make the accusations against Esme.

“Nancy wants to investigate,” Bess put in.

“If you're willing,” Nancy said. “I've had a bit
of experience and some luck with this sort of investigation in the past.”

Both Esme and Giancarlo seemed amused, but Nancy could tell Esme was weighing the idea seriously. “Why don't you come in?” she suggested. “Janine's downstairs, but when she comes back we can all talk.”

Like the lobby downstairs, Esme's suite was paneled in rich mahogany with bronze fixtures. The living room was furnished with antiques, and through an open door Nancy saw that the bedroom had a huge four-poster bed. Esme sat down on a flowered sofa, while Giancarlo pulled up armchairs for the girls.

“If there is a problem,” Nancy said gently once they were seated, “I honestly believe I can help.”

Esme paused. She still seemed a bit reticent to tell Nancy her problems, but finally the writer nodded, pushed back her dark hair, and said, “As Janine said downstairs, someone has been spreading rumors and gossip—malicious gossip—about
Telling All.
The claims are that the book is pure fabrication and that I shy away from telling inside stories about people and events. Further, they go on to accuse me of hiding behind lies. What makes these rumors so offensive is that I only agreed to write the book because everyone urged me to set the record straight about certain events in my life. People want the truth, and that's what I plan to give them.”

“Don't let yourself get upset,
cara,”
Giancarlo urged, sitting on the couch beside her. “Janine says you should simply ignore the threats.”

“Threats?” Nancy asked. “What kind of threats?”

Esme sighed. “Someone has been sending notes to my publisher, warning me against publishing the book and threatening to ruin my career if I go ahead with
Telling All.”

“That's terrible,” Bess said. “Who would do such a thing?”

“I don't know,” Esme confessed. “Someone who wants to ruin me obviously.”

“Maybe I can help you find out,” said Nancy.

A knock sounded at the door, and Giancarlo went to answer it. Nancy was about to ask Esme more about the threats when a man's shout broke the silence from the open front door.

“I will so see her!” the man cried. “Let me in, you—”

Nancy turned in her chair to see Giancarlo trying to force the door closed. Whoever was on the other side had stuck his foot beside the door frame and was doing his best to push the door open. Finally Giancarlo wasn't strong enough to hold off the intruder. As soon as the door flew all the way open, Esme cried out, “Todd! What are you doing here?”