“The funny thing is, it had a strange odor to it. Like a chemical smell.”
“Really? That’s interesting.” Maybe Chantel had released a vial that contained some sort of vapor that hung over the table for a few minutes before vanishing. It was a little odd, but I suppose it added to the air of mystery. I made a mental note to ask Nick Harrison, my friend at the Gazette , to check it out. I was sure Nick would have some ideas on magic tricks, or he’d at least know whom to ask. He has terrific connections on both coasts along with the tenacity of a pit bull when he’s hot on the trail of a story. I wrote Call Nick at the top of my to-do list before turning in to bed at eleven o’clock, with Pugsley nestled happily at my side. He fell asleep within minutes, caught up in a doggie dream, his tiny feet making galloping motions as if he was chasing a rabbit.
I reached over to pet him, my own thoughts going back to Chantel’s séance. Her silly conversation with Michael the spirit guide. Her blind ambition. Was she trying to take over my show? And what about her somber prediction that there was danger afoot in Cypress Grove? She warned that disaster would strike us, all because of greed, avarice, and some very dark secrets.
You notice how she kept the warning completely general, never specific. It would fit any situation, any set of circumstances, just like the horoscope column in the local paper. Who’d believe such nonsense?
I rolled over and gathered Pugsley in my arms like a teddy bear, but I couldn’t turn off my thoughts. Then I answered my own question. Who’d believe in Chantel? The same people who believed in crop circles, Area 51, and the idea that the Nazis had a base on the moon. Oh, yeah, and the wacky notion that supermarket bar codes were actually part of a secret government plot to control our thoughts and behavior.
Conspiracy theories. They might make for an interesting show, and I decided to run the idea past Vera Mae when I got to the studio the next day.
And that’s the last thing I remember before I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
The next morning was a perfect south Florida day, bright and sunny, with just a few puffy clouds drifting across a paint-box blue sky. I opened the sliding glass door to our tiny balcony, and Pugsley went flying outside while I plugged in the coffeepot.
I like to linger on the balcony with a cup of high-octane Hazelnut Delight before starting my day, and if Mom’s staying at the town house with us, she always joins me. Mom has her own place in Miami, but she visits frequently, and I’m glad I paid a little extra to have a three-bedroom unit.
The balcony is tiny, probably only fifty square feet, and simply furnished with a couple of navy canvas deck chairs I picked up at Tar-zhay plus a small wicker table. But it overlooks a pretty little fountain that spills into a pond and a nice little garden bordered by some magnolia bushes at the end of the property.
I got the coffeepot going and then sat out on a deck chair, watching the copper green metal dolphins twirling in the spray, the droplets looking like tiny crystals as they landed on the terra-cotta tiles edging the pond. It was one of those mornings that makes me grateful to be living in south Florida, a day when all is right with the world.
Mom came out on the balcony to join me, wearing a silk Japanese dressing gown, reading a copy of Variety . Even though we’re three thousand miles from Hollywood, she likes to stay “plugged in,” as she calls it, and follows all the latest casting news in Los Angeles.
“They’re holding auditions for a Lifetime movie,” she said. “And listen to this: they’re looking for a young Mia Farrow.” She paused dramatically. “A young Mia Farrow! Can you believe it?” She sounded shaken. “I remember her in Rosemary’s Baby ,” she said quietly. “She was wonderful in that movie. And she looked so young, hardly more than a girl.” Mom looked wistful, her blue
“Really? That’s interesting.” Maybe Chantel had released a vial that contained some sort of vapor that hung over the table for a few minutes before vanishing. It was a little odd, but I suppose it added to the air of mystery. I made a mental note to ask Nick Harrison, my friend at the Gazette , to check it out. I was sure Nick would have some ideas on magic tricks, or he’d at least know whom to ask. He has terrific connections on both coasts along with the tenacity of a pit bull when he’s hot on the trail of a story. I wrote Call Nick at the top of my to-do list before turning in to bed at eleven o’clock, with Pugsley nestled happily at my side. He fell asleep within minutes, caught up in a doggie dream, his tiny feet making galloping motions as if he was chasing a rabbit.
I reached over to pet him, my own thoughts going back to Chantel’s séance. Her silly conversation with Michael the spirit guide. Her blind ambition. Was she trying to take over my show? And what about her somber prediction that there was danger afoot in Cypress Grove? She warned that disaster would strike us, all because of greed, avarice, and some very dark secrets.
You notice how she kept the warning completely general, never specific. It would fit any situation, any set of circumstances, just like the horoscope column in the local paper. Who’d believe such nonsense?
I rolled over and gathered Pugsley in my arms like a teddy bear, but I couldn’t turn off my thoughts. Then I answered my own question. Who’d believe in Chantel? The same people who believed in crop circles, Area 51, and the idea that the Nazis had a base on the moon. Oh, yeah, and the wacky notion that supermarket bar codes were actually part of a secret government plot to control our thoughts and behavior.
Conspiracy theories. They might make for an interesting show, and I decided to run the idea past Vera Mae when I got to the studio the next day.
And that’s the last thing I remember before I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
The next morning was a perfect south Florida day, bright and sunny, with just a few puffy clouds drifting across a paint-box blue sky. I opened the sliding glass door to our tiny balcony, and Pugsley went flying outside while I plugged in the coffeepot.
I like to linger on the balcony with a cup of high-octane Hazelnut Delight before starting my day, and if Mom’s staying at the town house with us, she always joins me. Mom has her own place in Miami, but she visits frequently, and I’m glad I paid a little extra to have a three-bedroom unit.
The balcony is tiny, probably only fifty square feet, and simply furnished with a couple of navy canvas deck chairs I picked up at Tar-zhay plus a small wicker table. But it overlooks a pretty little fountain that spills into a pond and a nice little garden bordered by some magnolia bushes at the end of the property.
I got the coffeepot going and then sat out on a deck chair, watching the copper green metal dolphins twirling in the spray, the droplets looking like tiny crystals as they landed on the terra-cotta tiles edging the pond. It was one of those mornings that makes me grateful to be living in south Florida, a day when all is right with the world.
Mom came out on the balcony to join me, wearing a silk Japanese dressing gown, reading a copy of Variety . Even though we’re three thousand miles from Hollywood, she likes to stay “plugged in,” as she calls it, and follows all the latest casting news in Los Angeles.
“They’re holding auditions for a Lifetime movie,” she said. “And listen to this: they’re looking for a young Mia Farrow.” She paused dramatically. “A young Mia Farrow! Can you believe it?” She sounded shaken. “I remember her in Rosemary’s Baby ,” she said quietly. “She was wonderful in that movie. And she looked so young, hardly more than a girl.” Mom looked wistful, her blue
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