Talk of the Town (38 page)

We’d found our way to the back gate and reached his car before he’d managed to compose himself. He was laughing so hard he had tears streaming down his cheeks. Taking the keys, I told him to get in the passenger seat, and we left the chaos of the fairgrounds behind.

Butch wiped his eyes as we turned onto the rural road and the sirens faded into the distance. “That was priceless.” His voice squeaked like an adolescent’s. “I can’t believe he actually did it.”

“Butch, what are you talking about? What happened back there?”

Turning to look over his shoulder, Butch started laughing uncontrollably again. I resisted the urge to slap him back to his senses. “Butch, I said, what happened?”

“I . . . I told him . . .” Butch chugged between puffs of laughter. His face was splotchy red and gray, still wet with tears. “I told him to . . .”

“Butch!” The car teetered off the pavement and strafed a patch of sunflowers along the side of the road. “Get it together already.”

“All right, all right.” He sniffed again and swallowed hard, then shook his head, bending down to look in the side mirror. “You have to sort of picture it.” He raised his hands, like a director sketching out a scene. “We’re throwing stuff in the trailer and trying to figure out how to get Amber out of there. There’s press and paparazzi everywhere—they’re, like, beating down the fence, shinnying down the bleachers, and there’s Justin, getting in the way, and they’re all screaming questions and going crazy to get to him. He’s so busy posing for the cameras, he knocks one of our units off the trailer fender, and Rodney about hits the roof and hollers, ‘You’re out of here now, you bleep-bleep-bleepin’ bleep!’ Then, it’s like they’re going to get in a fight, and I can just picture that in the papers tomorrow, so I tell Justin if he really wants to fight, why doesn’t he go slug the deputy down by the gate, get himself arrested, and take the heat off of us so we can get Amber out of there. I didn’t think he’d really do it.”

My mouth fell open and I turned to Butch. “He punched the deputy?” The car veered off the road again.

Butch’s hand jerked toward the steering wheel. “Do you want me to drive, Ms. Florentino?”

“No, I don’t want you to drive.” I slapped his hand away. “Justin punched the deputy?”

Butch shrugged, like he didn’t care either way. “Who knows, but he’s sure about to get arrested. No big deal for him. He gets arrested all the time. That was pretty cool, though—the running with the bulls thing. That ought to make the papers.” Butch started laughing again, a chuckle first and then a full-blown guffaw. “Man, that was funny. Did you see . . .” He went on recapping the scene, but I tuned out. A new complication had begun working its way into my mind. For the moment, we were free and clear of paparazzi, but the jail, where Justin Shay was undoubtedly headed, was adjacent to the community building. We couldn’t possibly have Amber’s welcome home concert there tonight. With Justin Shay’s arrest, the paparazzi would multiply like cockroaches.

“We have to find somewhere else for Amber’s welcome home concert.” I was talking as much to myself as to Butch. “We can’t possibly have it in town tonight.” Drumming my fingers on the steering wheel, I tried to think. The fairgrounds were taken up with the fair . . . Imagene’s house was too small . . . the barn, maybe . . . a barn . . . concert . . . not very practical. The place was full of old tools and tractor implements. Even with help, we couldn’t clean it out in time . . . “Harve’s Chapel!” The idea dawned in my mind like a sunburst in the darkness, and the producer in me started turning the wheels in overdrive. “It’s ideal—out of the way, intimate, a place where Amber has history. Imagene mentioned a choir practice there tonight. . . .” I smiled to myself, struck with a mental
Wow
! “We can get Amber singing with the choir behind her. In the place where she learned to love gospel music. It’s perfect.” I fished for my purse and cell phone on the floorboard, then remembered it was in the truck with the crew. “Butch, can I borrow your cell? I have to make some phone calls and set this thing up.”

“Mine’s dead,” Butch said with a distinct lack of concern. “I might have my car charger back there in my duffle bag. Do you want me to get it?”

“Of course I want you to get . . .” I glanced sideways, and he was eyeing me with the strangest look—not the naïve, gullible, college-kid Butch expression, but one that implied critical thinking and a high degree of skepticism. “Butch, why are you looking at me like that?”

He considered me for a moment before answering, then looked down at his hands and chewed his bottom lip. “To be honest, Ms. Florentino, I’m wondering why you’re working so hard on this. I mean, I know why I’m working so hard on it—I want Amber to go out in style, but why are
you
working so hard on it?”

I drew back in shock. Was this Butch—baby-faced, mealymouthed Butch, the
intern
, critiquing my work ethic? “It’s my segment, of course I’m . . .” The second half of what he’d said suddenly registered. “What do you mean
‘go out in style.
’ Amber’s not
out
, and if we do this segment right, she’s not going to be
out
.”

With a rueful laugh, Butch turned his face away and surveyed the blue wild flowers on the roadside. “You can drop the pretense, Ms. Florentino. I know. I heard Ms. Uberstach. Why do you think I got fired?”

A strange queasy feeling stirred in the bottom of my stomach.

I’d never, ever seen Butch act like this. Butch was always bubbly and enthusiastic, filled with positive energy. “Know . . . what? Heard what, exactly. What are you talking about, Butch?”

“Come on, I’m not stupid, Ms. Florentino. I was in the media closet, and Ms. Uberstach didn’t know I was there, and I heard her talking to someone on her cell phone. I heard her say it.” His chest rose and fell, and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “I didn’t have the heart to tell Amber, but I think she’s pretty much got it figured out. She’s smart about people.”

Stomping the brakes, I skidded the car to a halt in the middle of the gravel road. “What are you talking about, Butch? What did you hear Ursula say?”

He turned to me slowly, studied my face, squinting one eye, his lips pressed together in an expression of disbelief—the sort of expression characters on cop shows use while patiently soliciting confessions from perpetrators. Finally, his eyebrows flew upward and his mouth dropped open. “You really don’t know, do you? I just figured you had to be in on it. I mean, you’re an associate producer. You’d have to know . . .”

“Know
what
? What did you hear Ursula say?” I repeated. “What?” I felt like a tornado victim, watching the storm come my way, unable to move.

“I heard Ursula promise that Amber would be off the show in week one of the finals—the recording company didn’t want a gospel artist on their label,
period
, and they couldn’t take the risk of letting Amber get into the Final Showdown, when the vote would be more closely monitored. Ms. Uberstach said Amber would be out next week. It was all arranged.”

“Ursula doesn’t have that kind of power,” I muttered, searching the road ahead, trying to decide how Ursula would pull off something like that. Even if she did arrange things with the judges . . . “Each week’s show is decided by viewer votes.”

I heard Butch snort. “And what
counts
the votes?”

“Software,” I muttered. “Dysterco software.”

“Exactly,” Butch said, and suddenly so many things made sense. I’d seen the president of Dysterco in Ursula’s office at least a dozen times this season. He and Ursula came and went from lunches, dinner meetings. Ursula had just hired his niece to oversee our in-house system.

The reality crashed over me like the leading wave of a flash flood, laden with debris. Ursula was planning to get rid of both Amber and me at the same time. When Amber’s hometown segment tanked, it would appear my incompetence, my inability to keep the location confidential, was to blame.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Florentino.” Butch’s voice was a low hum somewhere on the fringes of the storm, like the buzzing of downed electrical wires. “I thought you knew. I figured that was why you were hanging out with a music producer. I figured you were, like, working a deal under the counter for Amber to get on the Higher Ground label.”

I turned back to Butch, tried to tune in, but my mind was spinning in hyperdrive. “Music prod . . . what?” Ursula’s earlier admonishment that Amber might be secretly negotiating with a recording company other than the sponsor of
American Megastar
came to mind. “Who are you talking about, Butch? What guy?”

“J. C. Woods,” he said, and I felt myself hit a brick wall. “He doesn’t host ‘Mason County Line’ for the Country Network anymore. He moved back home to Austin and started his own record label—Higher Ground. They specialize in folk and gosp—” The look on my face brought Butch to a stop midsentence. He let his hands fall into his lap and muttered, “Geez, Ms. Florentino, don’t you read the trades?”

I sat stunned in my seat, blindsided as the wreckage of my life tumbled down around me. I couldn’t think about the trades, or anything else. All I could think was
J. C. Woods . . . J. Carter Woods . . .
the writer of at least one of the songs Amber had performed on the show and apparently a music producer, as well.

My boss had set me up and so had Carter, and I’d stood blindly by and let it happen. I had to be the biggest fool in the history of television.

The numbness of shock slowly left me, and I awoke like an accident victim coming to consciousness, suddenly aware of a blinding pain, a seething anger that painted a fine red sheen over the tranquil blue sky, the puffy white clouds, the fields of lazily waving wild flowers. The car idled forward, and I realized I’d taken my foot off the brake, begun moving into action.

“Ms. Florentino, are you okay?” Butch’s voice was clearer now. “Ms. Florentino?”

I stomped on the accelerator and the rear tires fishtailed, then the car lurched forward, careening up a hill and around a corner.

In the passenger seat, Butch took a white-knuckled grip and offered to drive.

I put both hands on the wheel, tightened my fingers until the nails bit in. The Chevy whizzed around an S curve like a car on the Lightning Snake, then splashed through a low-water crossing, hit bottom, and rocketed out the other side.

Butch again offered to drive. By the time we wheeled into Imagene’s driveway, he was looking green in the passenger seat. We’d caught up to the horse trailer, and the crew was just disembarking near the barn. Amber, her rhinestone jacket glinting in the sun, was chattering blithely to the grips as they unloaded equipment and prepared to carry it back to crew vans in front of the house. As usual, Rodney was in the lead, cracking the whip and barking orders. I pulled up near the vans, threw open my door, and got out.

“I’ll . . . get . . . the keys,” Butch muttered.

I didn’t answer, just headed across the yard and intercepted Rodney. He grinned, said, “Ah, love, that was brill—” Catching the look on my face, he stopped.

“Did you know?” I ground out. Rodney blinked in confusion, and I added, “Did you know about Ursula’s plan?”

Rodney was unflappable, as usual. “What plan, love?” He glanced at the crew members passing by, then toward Amber and her family, silently indicating that if we were going to argue, I should keep my voice down.

Clenching my teeth, I tried to rein in my emotions. What I wanted to do was yell so loud the reporters would hear it in town. Instead, I lowered my voice, leaned closer to Rodney. “Her plan to manipulate viewer vote counts and take Amber off the show next week.”

The revelation won an incredulous look, then the realization slowly dawned in Rodney’s eyes, as if some loose puzzle pieces were finally fitting together. “If I knew of a plan like that, I wouldn’t be here, would I?” He glanced over his shoulder at Amber, who was still chattering away to one of the grips, explaining something about the horse, which had apparently refused to come out of the trailer. “Ursula wanted me in New York. Cal’s a bore, so I switched assignments with Tony. The little country kitten’s more interesting.” He shrugged toward Amber, who had just spotted Carter getting out of the truck. Carter, his attention focused on the commotion in the trailer, never even noticed Amber fanning her hands and heading his way at a giddy trot. She overtook him, grabbed his hand between both of hers, and began trying to yank his arm off.

Her voice, high and brimming with enthusiasm, jingled across the yard. “Oh my gosh, Mr. Woods. It’s so good to finally meet you. I’m such a big fan. I’m sorry I didn’t say anything earlier. I didn’t know it was you until Butch told me after the concert at the rodeo arena. Didn’t you used to have a beard? I’m such a big fan. Of you, not of beards. I love your songs. They’re just . . . awesome. I’ve been trying to call you all weekend, and . . .”

The roar in my ears drowned out the rest as I crossed the yard. Amber had her back turned, but Carter saw me coming. He looked like a man who wanted to be anywhere but here.

Amber finally picked up on the change in his demeanor. She turned around, and her face went pale, her mouth dropping open. “Ms. Florentino, I . . . it’s not what it looks . . . I didn’t . . .”

“We’ll talk later,” I ground out. Amber started to protest, to attempt explanation again, but I stabbed a finger toward the house. “Leave.”

Fidgeting uncertainly, she glanced at her grandfather and brothers, then at the confused grip behind the trailer. “I didn’t . . . I’m . . . I’m sorry.”

“Later,” I said again. “Just go in the house, Amber.”

Tears filled Amber’s eyes. She hesitated a moment longer, then spun around and ran for the house. Her family went after her, the frightened grip slunk quickly away, and inside the trailer Magnolia quieted, as if even she sensed a powder keg about to blow.

I turned on Carter, the heat of fury, of humiliation, rising in my face. “You played me.”

He raised his hands palm-out, trying to placate me. “Manda, it’s not like that. It’s not what you think.”

“Oh really? Really?” My voice reverberated through the yard. Clenching my fists, I fought to regain self-control, to rein in the volume. By the vans, the crew stood frozen in place. “How? How is it
not
what I think? You
weren’t
here to meet with Amber? You
weren’t
scamming all of us to get close to her? You
weren’t
using me to . . .” An enormous lump rose in my throat, shattered, and I felt tears rushing in. Swallowing hard, I closed my eyes, tried to breathe. I wouldn’t break down here in front of everyone. I couldn’t.