Лори Касс - Tailing A Tabby

However, since said best friend was also the person who had confirmed that Farrand’s show was being taped at his house today, I forgave her future giggles and even made an internal vow not to make fun of her for turning into a bedazzled thirteen-year-old at the mention of the man’s name. After all, if I ever met Nancy Pearl, the famous librarian, I might get a little giggly, too.

I parked my car on the side of the road and walked up Farrand’s driveway. At this point, however, it looked more like a parking lot than anything else. Vans, SUVs, pickup trucks, and even a few sedans crowded the asphalt from garage door to right-of-way.

People milled about, some looking bored, some looking worried, some looking tense. But since none of them were paying any attention to me, I waltzed on past as if I belonged, nodding vaguely to everyone I passed.

“Morning,” I said calmly, and every one of them nodded back. Though I’d thought there’d be some sort of security in place, I didn’t see even a single guard keeping an eagle eye out.

It seemed weird, because Trock’s Troubles was a long-running television show and they were bound to get gawkers who could make a nuisance of themselves. But what did I know about taping a television show? I didn’t even know for sure if they called it taping or filming, and I certainly didn’t know who got to eat the food that was made during the show. Kristen said I was a Philistine to even think about something like that, but I thought it required careful consideration.

“Oh, man,” a male voice at my right shoulder muttered. “Not again. I can’t freaking believe it.”

I glanced at the guy. A few years older than me, with sharply defined arm muscles and white-blond hair, he was shaking his head and tucking a cell phone into his pocket. “What’s the matter?” I asked.

He looked at me. “You must be new,” he said, smiling in a sour way that still managed to be friendly. “Our friend Trock has a habit of changing the meal plan just as we’re starting to shoot. Throws everything off schedule something fierce. Trock says that’s part of the show’s charm, but I say he’s nuts.” He stared in the direction of the most activity. “The troubles that get on the air aren’t half of the troubles we have to suffer.”

I smiled and stuck out my hand. “Minnie Hamilton.” Whoever this guy was, and in spite of his harsh-sounding words, it was clear that he had a deep respect for Trock Farrand.

“Scruffy Gronkowski.”

I eyed the sharp crease in his khaki pants and the perfectly rolled collar of his polo shirt and raised my eyebrows.

He laughed. “Nickname from when I was a kid. It’s better than the name on my birth certificate, so what do I care? And since I’m the producer on this wretched show, I should probably know what you’re doing here.”

So there was security. It just came in a different form than expected. “I was hoping to talk to Mr. Farrand. I’m a friend of Kristen Jurek’s. She owns a local restaurant, the Three Seasons—it’s on your short list for being featured on the show—and I was hoping to put in a good word for her. I’m sure you hear this all the time, but her restaurant is something special. The only thing is, she thinks the Three Seasons is good enough to speak for itself. She’s too proud to come out there and promote herself.”

“And you’re not?” Scruffy asked, raising his own eyebrows.

“Not when it comes to asking for help for my friends,” I said seriously. “And it’s an outstanding restaurant—it really is.”

Scruffy picked a piece of invisible lint off his shirt. “Outstanding restaurants are a dime a dozen.”

“Sure, but how many of them are only open three seasons a year so they can offer only fresh and local ingredients?”

“That cuts it down quite a bit.” He squinted down at me. “You got anything else?”

“She grew up in Chilson, went away to multiple colleges, got a Ph.D. in biochemistry, hated every second she worked for a large pharmaceutical company, and came back home to open a restaurant.”

A slow grin spread across his face. “Now, that’s a good story.”

I beamed at him. “Isn’t it? But she doesn’t like talking about it. She’s annoyed that she wasted all that time and money.”

“Education is never wasted,” he said. “After all, you never know when you’ll need to know Avogadro’s number.”

“Six-point-zero-two-two times ten to the twenty-third, the number of atoms in a mole, but I have no idea why anyone would need to know that, or even what it means, exactly.”

He laughed. “If you want to talk to Trock a minute, he’s over there.” Scruffy nodded at a large, very round man who was mopping his forehead with a towel. “And you’ll have my undying gratitude if you can point him back to grilling pork tenderloin. Tell him we can do the whitefish some other episode. Just not today.”

I squared my shoulders and saluted. “Yes, sir. I’ll do my best, sir.”

He gave me a sharp return salute. “Good luck to you.”

Smiling, I made my way through the snaky maze of cables and wires, staying behind cameras and trying very hard to stay out of everyone’s way. At long last I reached the table where Trock Farrand had seated himself. He’d crossed his oversized arms and slid down in his chair far enough that a strong breeze would have pushed him onto the bricked floor of the massive patio.

“Mr. Farrand?” I asked. “Scruffy sent me over here. He—”

“Whitefish,” he growled. “I will not listen to another lackey sent by Sir Scruffy. I suppose you have yet another point to make in favor of the porcine product?”

“Nope,” I said. “But that’s not what I wanted to talk about.”

“Eh?” He lifted his head. “You don’t have an opinion on pork tenderloin versus whitefish?”

“Not really, sir.”

He sat up and lost his sulky expression. “Ye gods, a woman of pluck, discernment, and wisdom. Give me your hand, young lady. I would press your flesh but lightly.”

I blinked and held out my hand for shaking purposes.

“Milady.” He took my hand gently in his and kissed the back of it. “I am your devoted servant, yet I don’t even know your name. Sit, please.”

Suddenly I understood the attraction to his show. It wasn’t the food; it was him. Sitting and laughing, I said, “Minnie Hamilton. I’m a librarian. I drive the bookmobile and—”

“Ah, a bookmobile!” His pudgy face lit up. “What a glorious conveyance. I have seen your bookmobile whilst out and about, and now I’ve met its beautiful young driver. What luck!”

“I’m glad you think so, sir.”

“Trock,” he said, patting my hand. “No sirs on this set. Makes me feel as if I’m about to get paddled by my sixth-grade teacher. Now tell me why the bookmobile librarian is on my set.”

I told him about the Three Seasons and about Kristen and about how good she’d look on his show.

“Attractive, is she?” He smoothed his eyebrows.

“If you think a slender, blond, and almost six-foot-tall woman could be attractive, then yes.”

“Hmm.” He kept smoothing his eyebrows. “I will send young Scruffy to investigate. Meanwhile, since you are not making any movements regarding leaving, methinks you have more to say.”

Bumbling he might be, but Trock Farrand was also perceptive. I used the looking-for-bookmobile-donations spiel again and got about as far as I had with Hugo Edel. And that was my link to divert the conversation.

“I asked Hugo Edel for a donation,” I said, sighing, “and got about the same level of excitement.”

Trock smiled. “Dear Minnie, you need to find an emotional connection. Intellectual appeals are all well and good, but you need to tug on the heartstrings.”