Book 4: Valentine's Victim

I made silent gestures to Mirabelle for her to get the door, but she simply shook her head, insisting that I do it.

I looked through the peephole. It was a guy who looked vaguely familiar. He wore chunky black glasses and was shivering in a hooded winter coat. Tentatively, I opened the door.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

“Hi, I’m Aaron Sanders, writer from Rolling Stone. I’m looking for Emma Wild?”

That was how I knew him. Shoot. A journalist in my home when I was in such a dishevelled state?

“I’m Emma Wild,” I said.

Aaron gave me a quick once-over.

“Oh,” he said. “Of course.”

He flashed his own embarrassed smile. He probably had an image of me as a femme fatale, since the cover shoot for the magazine had been film noir-themed with lots of heavy shadows and sultry makeup.

“I look like crap without makeup,” I said. “Print that if you want.”

“No, you look beautiful,” he said, mustering as much sincerity as he could.

“I don’t mind,” I said. “Maybe it’ll make it easier for young girls who look up to me to know that. I hate it when they Photoshop me in pictures. But where are my manners? Come on in.”

He stomped the snow off his boots on the Welcome mat and stepped in, still shivering. “I don’t know if you remember me, but I interviewed you last year.”

“Yes, of course I do. It was for that profile.”

“It was pretty quick.”

“I remember everyone who interviews me.” I did too. At least their faces. Their names were much harder to recall. “Would you like some tea? And I think we have some homemade creamy zucchini soup if you’re hungry.”

“That would be great,” Aaron said. “Sure is cozy in this town. It’s a long way from Los Angeles.”

“You’re from L.A.? I love that city. I’ve been meaning to go back.”

Aaron was so cold that it took him a while to take off his coat. What did you expect from a Californian? He was in his early thirties, with a slight bald patch. I had done a quick Q&A with him when I was doing a flurry of interviews in a hotel in Los Angeles a couple of years ago to promote my second album. He seemed okay. His write-up hadn’t been so bad, but he didn’t kiss my ass either. Some journalists were nice to your face, but wrote scathing things once they were back at their desks.

“I’m sorry to intrude on you in your home,” he said. “But as you know, the issue with you on the cover is going to print in a couple of weeks and we still don’t have an interview. Your manager said the best thing to do was to catch you down here. He said you weren’t answering your phone.”

“I have been sort of M.I.A.,” I admitted. “I’m sorry about that. I’m recovering from…an illness.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. Are you okay?”

“Yes. It was the flu.” I faked a couple of coughs. “Almost over it. Sorry that you had to come all the way down here.”

Aaron chuckled. “Canadians do apologize a lot, don’t they?”

“Yes, we do,” I said. “Sorry about that. I haven’t been in the right state to talk to anyone, but I’m feeling much better now. Might be able to return to work soon too.”

“I understand,” he said. “I had the flu last year too. It was horrible. I thought I was going to die.”

We went into the kitchen, where I put the kettle on for some tea. Mirabelle came in and introduced herself.

“So, are you staying somewhere in Hartfield, Aaron?” Mirabelle asked.

“Yes, I’m staying at the Sweet Dreams Inn.”

The Sweet Dreams Inn was fit for a grandmother. It was all floral wallpaper, porcelain plates and crocheted afghans. It had been taken over by new management recently, by a Japanese couple in their late forties.

“Charming place,” I said.

Except that it was rumored to be haunted, and the owner was murdered there by her son’s girlfriend on New Year’s Eve. But I didn’t tell that to Aaron.

“Yes.” Aaron chuckled. “Charm is the right word. I hope it’s okay that I’ll be following you around this weekend.”

“Sure,” I said.

I wasn’t thrilled about it, but I supposed this was my punishment for not returning my manager’s calls.

“What’s a typical day like for you here?” asked Aaron.

“Well, since I’m feeling better now, I’m going to be throwing a baby shower for Mirabelle.”

“Not just that,” Mirabelle said. “She’s judging the annual Hartfield baking contest this weekend.”

Aaron smiled. “A baking contest?”

“Yes,” I laughed. “Very quaint, I know. The first round is cupcakes.”

“I can see why you like living here. You usually live in New York, right?”

“Yes.”

“But you recently broke up with Nick Doyle. Was that why you moved?”

I laughed off his question. Part of my media training with my PR people was that whenever someone asked a personal question, you had to try to laugh it off as if it was the silliest thing ever you’ve ever heard.

“No, I still live in New York. Why wouldn’t I? Hartfield is just where my family is.”

“And what about Nick?” Aaron pressed. “How’s he doing? Is it true that he’d been in Hartfield to visit you recently?”

I fake laughed again. Aaron was a nice guy—many journalists were—but it was his job to ask the questions the readers wanted to know the answers to, so I couldn’t blame him. Not too much anyway.

“He’s on a shoot right now in Morocco is what I know.”

“We never got official word whether you were broken up or not.”

I smiled sweetly. “I really can’t talk about Nick. We have an agreement never to talk about each other to the press, to keep some semblance of privacy, you know?”

“So you are still together,” Aaron said.

He had me cornered.

Were Nick and I together? I didn’t know. Now that Sterling and I were over, I didn’t know if Nick still wanted to be with me. Maybe there was truth in the rumor that he was cozying up with his co-star Chloe Vidal, the twenty-two-year-old blonde bombshell who was the latest It girl in Hollywood. Their photos were splashed all over the Internet. In one of them, they were having ice cream together on the streets of Morocco. I just hoped that Aaron wouldn’t want to bring that up. I was barely over Sterling with Sandra.

“Oh, Aaron.” I smiled mysteriously and shook my head in a teasing way. “You’re just going to have to ask him. Anyway, you’re from Rolling Stone, not ~People~. Shouldn’t we be talking about what really matters?”

“Politics?” He joked.

I mock rolled my eyes. “Of course not. The music.”

This got the ball rolling on talking about my third album, about the producers I worked with, my vision and my influences. But as I spoke, I thought about what a pain it was going to be to have a journalist following me around in my hometown. It was my fault for taking the battery out of my cell phone. I could’ve given a phone interview if I would’ve known.