Twice Kissed - Lisa Jackson [123]
Leveling a curse at himself, he flipped his visor down, squinted into the sunlight, and wished the whole mess with Mary Theresa was over.
And when it is, Maggie McCrae will hate the sight of you. Well, so be it. He gunned the engine and set his jaw. No one ever said that life was fair.
Chapter Sixteen
“I’ll admit it,” Craig Beaumont agreed as he downed his second Bloody Mary. “Your sister and I didn’t see eye to eye on which direction our program was heading.” He swirled his drink with a stalk of celery and ignored the bowl of red bean and rice soup he’d ordered. The tiny restaurant was decorated with a Southwestern theme. Lariats, spurs, longhorns, and even a pair of bronzed chaps covered the walls, while the booths were constructed of bleached oak and Formica, topped with lanterns and softened by cushions in muted golds, pinks, and lavenders—the colors of a western sunset.
The food was Tex-Mex, the atmosphere quiet, the waiters seemingly discreet.
“You fought with her the day she disappeared.”
He nodded, waving one hand. “It was a big scene in front of the assistant producer and crew. A mistake.”
“Tell me about it.”
“It seems so silly now,” he admitted, shaking his head. “Marquise had been adamant about adding a segment about local celebrities—people in the Mountain States with star power, I guess you’d say. She wanted to dress things up, give the show a ‘makeover,’ I think her words were. Make it look more like something out of L.A. Sleeker, more sophisticated.”
“And you opposed this.”
“Our demographics showed us that our average viewer is a homemaker with a couple of kids who holds down a part-time job. Some college. Twenty-five to thirty-eight…well, anyway, we were going for a homey—folksy feel. We’ve always had a local chef make a dish during one segment, and you can write to the station, or e-mail for the recipe. We have gardeners, makeovers, local authors, the high-school football heroes, health tips, and artsy-crafty things to spruce up the house. Every once in a while we’d have a celebrity who was passing through, either filming a show in town, or hawking his biography, or whatever, but Marquise wanted this to be the new thrust.”
He drained his drink. “And to be truthful, she wanted me out.”
Maggie wasn’t surprised. She picked at her taco salad and asked, “Why?”
“Because she wanted to run the show. As she had from the minute I came on board. She always resented that, you know—that I was hired behind her back. Never really thought I contributed. So, when ratings started falling again, it was my fault.” He flashed her a false if-ya-get-my-drift smile as he reached for a slice of bread, started to butter it, then thought better of it. “There had been some talk of canceling the show altogether—or going with an entirely new format. The upshot is that Marquise wanted to revamp it—well, excuse my little pun—and handle everything herself.” He munched on his bread and thought for a second. “Your sister was a prima donna, you know. Saw herself as a queen bee.”
“How did you see her?”
“As a major pain in the ass.”
“She seemed to think the same of you.”
He snorted. “She would.”
“So you have no idea what happened to her?”
“None.” He blew across a spoonful of his soup. “I don’t wish her any harm, you understand, but I’m not sorry she’s off the set. And the reason I can say that is that it’s common knowledge at the studio. Anyone will tell you the same thing.”
“Why didn’t you like her?”
“Because, Maggie, Marquise was unprofessional. She was always showing up late, demanding everyone listen to her views, threw the worst tantrums I’ve ever seen, and was totally and irrevocably out of line. Professionalism isn’t in the woman’s vocabulary.” He ate two more bites. “She blamed everyone but herself for her problems. Now, don’t get me wrong. I really do hope she’s okay—she’s not a bad woman, just screwed up. And I don’t have any idea what happened to her.”
Maggie was warming to Craig whether she wanted to or not. He was self-serving and