Dating Is Murder

But then Biological Clock had mentioned money. Despite the low budget, I’d be paid five hundred dollars a week for two nights’ work, unusual for reality TV. And that wasn’t all. The producers had invested in a number of other businesses, including a health maintenance organization offering benefits to the wi

A horn honked.

“Girl, you got some kind of bad gene that makes you change lanes every twenty seconds?” Fredreeq asked Joey.

“Yeah, it’s called effective driving.”

“Well, maybe they do that in Nebraska to get around the cows, but here people get shot for those maneuvers.” Fredreeq and Joey had an ongoing city mouse, country mouse routine, although Joey was no more country than any other ex-model/actress who’d lived in L.A., New York, and Paris for the last fifteen years. “And can we turn down this twangy banjo stuff? You want people to think you’re a hick?”

“I am a hick. Hey, Wollie,” Joey threw over her shoulder, “why so quiet?”

“Cell phone.” I’d dialed the number Mrs. Glück had given me for A

“Hi,” I said, envisioning the people A

“Is that our A

“I’m not sure,” I said. “She seems to be sort of… missing.”

Joey turned to me. Traffic was at another dead stop as we neared Beverly Hills. Fredreeq had switched on the interior car light to rummage through her purse, and the glow made Joey’s eyes very green and her face very white against her auburn hair. She was more than beautiful; she was intriguing, with a subtle scar ru

“She didn’t show up for my math tutorial last night. And she didn’t call her mom in Germany, which is her Sunday night ritual, so her mom is seriously upset, and she doesn’t know a soul in America. Except me. And the host family, who’s not returning her calls.”

“Interesting.”

“What is?”

Traffic moved. Joey faced forward. The Mercedes inched ahead. Our eyes met in the rearview mirror. “A

2

“The set” is one of those show biz terms that always makes me think of dancing girls in the forties doing the cancan on a stage at the MGM studio, or maybe a street in the Old West, the saloon and general store and jail all false fronts with nothing but fields behind. The set of Biological Clock, however, was whatever bar, bowling alley, or bistro Bing Wooster and the producers could persuade to let us film in. It wasn’t filming but taping, as Joey pointed out, but Bing, who had filmmaking aspirations, had us all using movie lingo.

It was going on nine P.M. The set du jour was a restaurant called Pine on Beverly Boulevard, on a site that had seen a lot of restaurants come and go over the years. The fact that Pine was the kind that let a show like B.C. shoot there did not bode well for its longevity.

“Keep it moving, folks,” Bing Wooster said to the onlookers gathered with us on the sidewalk in front of Pine. “Come on, it’s L.A. You never saw a film shoot before? Never saw a gorgeous six-foot blonde? Go watch her on TV. Eleven P.M. weeknights, ZPX.”

I stopped sca

“Bing?” I said. “When did you last see A

Bing frowned at a figure halfway down the street, a bulked-up guy with a goatee. “Who? A

Paul nodded, his baseball cap bent over the Betacam, a twenty-five-pound video camera the size of a small dog, something I was trying to make friends with.

I tried again. “Because Joey says-”

“Oh, well, if Joey says, let’s all pause to listen to Joey, our instant producer… ” Animosity curdled his voice. Since Joey’s husband was the new investor in Bad Seed Productions, Bing was convinced that Joey was there to spy on and eventually wrest power from him. “What does our esteemed Mrs. Rafferty-Horowitz say?”

“That A

Bing stared at me for a moment, then glanced at the goateed guy down the street. “What am I, the NRA? Paul, thirty seconds to reload that camera or you’re fired.”

“I can’t be fired, I’m not paid enough.”

I said, “Because she’s disappeared, Bing. A

Bing looked at me again. “What do you mean, disappeared?”

“I mean that nobody’s been able to reach her for-well, I don’t know how long, exactly, but at least twenty-four hours. Which is scary. It’s not like her.”

Bing’s eyes grew wide, stricken. “She’s not here? I have a call in to the German guys tonight, I need her to translate.”

Paul’s baseball cap tilted up, revealing an acne-scarred face. “She hasn’t been around all weekend.”

“Christ. And you didn’t think to tell me?”

“She’s not on the call sheet,” Paul said.

“She’s not on the payroll, idiot, but we have a deal-she talks to Munich for me every time we-. Christ, get that camera loaded, then see if Sharon’s still in the office, tell her to find someone who speaks German. What time’s it in Munich?”

“Nine hours ahead,” Paul said.

“Tell Sharon she’s got till midnight.” Bing ran both hands through his preternaturally thick black hair and groaned.

Paul’s eyes met mine, mirroring my concern, then went back to his camera.

Fredreeq approached with a handful of makeup tools, from which she selected a lip pencil. “Don’t think about this now,” she said. “I’ve got so much base on you, if you frown, you’ll crack. Open your mouth and hold still. I think Mac’s drying out your lips, I’m go

Fredreeq was not a professional makeup artist, but she’d worked as a facialist for years and was grabbing this chance to break into show business. She’d hung out on the set during my first episodes, wormed her way into Bing’s affections, bad-mouthed Venus, the original hair-and-makeup person, saying she made everyone look like drag queens, then offered her own services at bargain-basement prices. Bing gave her Mondays and Thursdays on a trial basis. Mondays and Thursdays were my work nights, so Fredreeq got to work on me and all three men, but not the other two women contestants. Venus, not happy about having her hours cut by a third, was now committed to one of “her” girls getting the audience vote, and had declared all-out war. Fredreeq was therefore heavily invested in me wi