Stuart Kaminsky - Show Business is Murder

“Your petty jabs at Tiffany are getting back to the wrong people. I’m warning you. They’ll come back and bite you in the ass.”

“You’re on her side, too,” Evelyn said. She knew she sounded whiny.

“I am not,” Margaret said. Even when she was angry, Margaret was striking. She had black hair, dark blue eyes, and pale skin. Evelyn often wondered why Margaret wasn’t on camera. But Margaret preferred to be a special projects producer. Everything she touched turned to Emmy gold. The lustrous statues lined the shelves above her desk.

“I’m on your side, Evelyn. But you’re making yourself look bad. It’s contract renewal time, and I have to tell you: Milt is talking about making Tiffany the six o’clock anchor. I think I can head him off, but I don’t know for how long if you keep undermining yourself. Milt wants team players.”

“It isn’t a team. It’s a support system for Tiffany,” said Evelyn, bitterly.

“See, that’s what I mean,” Margaret said. “How many times have I told you? Success in television is by the numbers. Right now, Tiffany has them. Viewers will tire of her professional cuteness. They always do. Then Milt will decide she’s overpaid and dump her. She’ll be gone soon. Sit tight and keep your mouth shut.”

But the next morning, while Tiffany was doing a live remote in front of City Hall, a yellow blur of fur raced by her and ran into Market Street. The whole city saw Tiffany run after the dog and rescue it, just before it slipped under the wheels of a truck. In case anyone missed the dramatic rescue, it was shown on the six and ten o’clock news.

The following morning, Tiffany was on the set with the little yellow mutt. Saved and savior looked remarkably alike. Both were small and perky, with yellow hair and floppy bangs. Both oozed cuteness. The mutt licked Tiffany, and Tiffany smooched the dog. Evelyn couldn’t decide which one she wanted to kick first.

Evelyn nearly choked on her breakfast eggs when Tiffany announced a contest to name the dog. She lost her appetite totally three days later when Tiffany said she’d received two thousand e-mails and faxes. Evidently, viewers also thought Tiffany looked like her dog. The winning name was Tiffany Too.

A week later, Milt sent out a memo that Tiffany and Tiffany Too would be featured at the Fair Saint Louis on the Fourth of July. Tiffany would be the dayside anchor, then do color commentary on the fireworks that night.

Every year, some two million people sweltered on the St. Louis Riverfront, under the Gateway Arch. The temperature and the humidity were in the nineties-if the city was lucky. Sometimes, it was a hundred degrees or more.

The staff complained about covering the three-day fair in the broiling St. Louis sun, but they knew it was a career showcase. For four years running, Evelyn had been the dayside anchor and nightside commentator. This year, Milt’s memo demoted her to a lowly reporter. She’d be trudging through the almost liquid heat to interview boring people who said things like, “We’re having a wonderful time. There’s nothing like this in Festus.”

Milt gave that sneaky, simpering blonde Evelyn’s assignment at the fair. Soon she’d have Evelyn’s anchor slot, too.

Evelyn told her mentor Margaret that she felt sick and wanted to go home. She wasn’t lying. Her stomach heaved when she read Milt’s memo. She barely made it to the restroom before she threw up.

Evelyn had to save her career before that fair-haired fathead took everything from her. She felt hot angry tears. This was dangerous. She couldn’t be seen crying in the newsroom.

She ran to her BMW and started driving anywhere, nowhere. She didn’t want to think. But Evelyn’s driving was not aimless after all. She found herself on Christopher Drive, the road to Granny’s house in the country. Granny was common sense itself. She’d help Evelyn.

Granny was the last real grandmother in America. No facelifts and hair dyes for her. Granny had a comfortable flour-sack figure and crinkly gray hair.

Granny’s little white house had yellow plastic lawn ducks and red geraniums. It was surrounded by acres of Missouri woods. Across the street was a horse pasture. Subdivisions were creeping up the road, but you couldn’t see them yet.

Granny had grown up on a farm in Tennessee, and she loved to talk about old-time remedies from her girlhood. As a teenager, Evelyn was disgusted when Granny told her that country people used to tie moldy bread to a bad cut to cure the infection.

Later on, Evelyn realized they were using a primitive form of penicillin.

Of course, not all of Granny’s old-time remedies were useful. Evelyn didn’t believe a pan of water under a bed would break a fever, but it did no harm.

Granny ran outside when she heard Evelyn’s car and gave her a comforting hug. Evelyn breathed in her grandmother’s old-fashioned violet sachet. Granny’s kitchen was perfumed with the warm sweetness of fresh-baked blackberry pie.

“You’re too thin,” Granny said, which made Evelyn feel better. You could never be too thin on TV.

“And how’s my other favorite TV girl?” said Granny.

“Who’s that?” said Evelyn, as she felt her insides go dead. Had that tinselly Tiffany seduced her Granny?

“The little blonde who rescued that dog,” Granny said. “She’s got a good head on her shoulders.”

“Too bad there’s nothing in it,” said Evelyn.

“Evelyn, is that the green-eyed monster I see in your eyes?” said Granny.

“No,” Evelyn lied.

“Then have some homemade pie and tell me why you’re dropping in on me in the middle of the day,” Granny said.

“Because I haven’t seen you in awhile,” said Evelyn. She couldn’t tell Granny the real reason. Not now. Not after she knew Granny was a Tiffany worshiper.

Granny cut a big slice from the blackberry pie cooling on the rack. Warm purple juice oozed out on the plate and dripped on the counter, but Granny ignored it. She was staring out the window.

“Those new people have their white horse in that pasture again on a sunny day,” Granny said. “They know that field’s full of rue plants. I’ve told them and told them, but they won’t listen to me. Damn yuppies think I don’t know anything. If that horse suffers, it’s their fault.”

“What’s wrong with rue?” asked Evelyn.

“It’s poisonous to white animals, especially in the sunshine,” said Granny. “Grows right there.” She pointed to some weedy-looking plants by the pasture fence.

“That doesn’t make sense,” Evelyn said. “Why would they poison only white animals?”

“Don’t know, but they do,” Granny said. “Poison white people, too.”

“Come on, Granny, plants don’t discriminate,” said Evelyn. She wondered if age was eroding Granny’s sharp mind.

“I mean really white people, like blondes. It won’t hurt dark-haired types like you,” Granny said. “And that’s no old wives’ tale. It’s a scientific fact. If white animals eat rue, celery, and plants like that, then stand in bright sunlight, they can get real sick.

“But a chestnut horse can eat the same plants and nothing happens. Dark-haired animals and people don’t get sick. The plants are only poisonous to very white people and white animals.”

“What happens?” asked Evelyn.

Granny loved to describe symptoms. “Their face, throat, and eyelids swell up,” she said gleefully. “They get dizzy and stagger around like they’re drunk.” Granny staggered around the kitchen, clutching the purple pie knife to her chest.

“Happened to your Aunt Virginia,” she said solemnly.

Evelyn tried to picture her stout gray-haired aunt staggering. “When?”

“When Virginia was a young girl. At the Cedar Springs church picnic,” Granny said. “I know you’ll find it hard to believe, but Virginia was a little bit of a thing then, and had platinum-blonde hair down to her hips. Wild as a March hare, too. Some boy dared her to eat a plant in a field. Your Aunt Virginia saw a brown horse eating it and figured it was safe. But it was rue. Her throat swelled up terrible. That girl liked to died. Couldn’t get Virginia to touch anything green again, not even a plain old lettuce salad.”