paper mentioned they were doing in-character murder mystery weekends. Someone at the network saw it, thought it would be an interesting concept and came up with Killing Time in a Small Town.”
Mick nodded. “Those in-character weekends at the Little Bohemie Inn are something else. And you should probably thank my cousin, Jared, for inspiring the idea.” He wore a secretive look, as though he had a story to tell, but instead kept the conversation away from personal matters. “I’d heard it was a murder mystery show. I don’t suppose society has fallen quite so low as to have real murders for our viewing pleasure?”
“Only on cable. Not on one of the big three networks.”
He gave her a sideways glance, nodding his appreciation of her humor. Where that humor had come from, she couldn’t say. Her mind told her she was still mad at him, still hurt by him, still insane to spend even one minute alone with him.
But her body, her spirit, her long-dormant sunny, open, good nature, reminded her that she’d always liked being around this guy. He’d always been able to make her laugh, make her give in to crazy impulses and live for the moment.
That thought doused the good humor. She’d stopped living for the moment a long time ago. Judging by the fact that some local woman had thought she needed to “save” Mick from himself, he hadn’t.
He hadn’t stopped being the kind of impulsive person who did what he wanted, when he wanted, with whom he wanted. He was still self-indulgent, still a creature of his senses, still a walking testament to living life for fun and pleasure. Exactly the kind of man she’d predicted he’d be. Exactly the kind of man she’d decided to exclude from her life. No matter how much it hurt.
“How does the show work?”
She cleared her throat, trying to regain her better mood. “It’s supposed to walk the line between reality TV shows and the scripted variety. It’s like that old party game, where one person is a killer and nobody knows who it is until they get ‘winked’ at. Then they are murdered and out of the game.”
He nodded absently. “So the contestants aren’t taking part in challenges to see who wins. They could actually get outwitted and killed?”
“They take part in challenges to try to figure out who, among them, is the killer. And also to earn exemptions on murder nights.”
“Are they actors, playing roles?”
She shook her head. “Nope. Real people, not actors. Playing themselves, but always ‘in character.”’
Mick gave her a questioning look as he directed the car off the main street through town and turned toward another subdivision with another rental possibility. “Meaning?”
“Meaning, they will have to do some acting because they’re supposed to behave from day one as if they’re really registering at a spooky, possibly haunted inn, and suddenly murder and mayhem erupt in the town around them.”
And that was the tricky part of this entire reality show adventure. Because the contestants couldn’t just be themselves. To make the show a success, the cast had to act as if everything—every murder, every drop of blood, fingerprint, mysterious stranger and unexplained noise in the night—was real.
Unfortunately, she imagined the closest some of them had ever come to acting was faking the occasional orgasm.
He nodded. “An in-character reality TV cast. That’s not so unusual, I guess. I mean, aren’t a lot of the contestants of these reality shows acting like sweet, marriageable girls when they’re really foot fetish models or all-around bitches?”
She chuckled. “Right.”
“Do they have to follow a script or something?”
She shook her head. “Nothing that happens is scripted beyond outlines of where they all need to go every day and the locations and descriptions of the murders. And the murder plot. We’ve set up the first few victims of the ‘Derryville Demon,’ but as for who dies after that, it’s anyone’s guess.”
Before Caroline could continue, she saw that an attractive woman was placing a “For Rent” sign in front of the pretty house that had caught her eye. Her spirits lifted. “Is this it?”
Mick glanced over, gave a surprised look, then shook his head. “No, this isn’t the one.”
“Stop anyway,” she urged, liking the profusion of flowers beside the front porch, and the way the big maple tree out front shaded the windows of the lovely yellow house.
“You wouldn’t be interested in that one.”
“Who says? Stop the car.”
“She’s renting the whole house, Caroline.”
“It’s Caro.”
“Caro’s syrup. It’s not a name, it’s something you put on pancakes,” he muttered.
“No, maple syrup’s what you put on pancakes. Caro’s—oh, would you just stop?”
He pulled the car up to the curb of the house. The woman, who’d just finished placing the sign, instantly straightened.
“This isn’t a good idea,” he said softly.
But Caro was already stepping out of the car, smiling at the homeowner. Mick might think she was a big-city snob now, but frankly, Caro couldn’t think of a lovelier place to stay during her upcoming weeks in Derryville. The house was small, a one-story cottage with a freestanding one-car garage. With the quiet street, well-kept yard and friendly appearance of the owner, she felt sure this was going to be the place.
It was only when Mick brushed past her, striding over to the small brunette, that Caro realized she might be wrong.
Then she noticed the woman looked upset. “Hey, what’s wrong?” Mick asked as he tenderly touched the woman’s cheek.
Caro swallowed hard, suddenly remembering the kindness of which this man was capable. Yes, Mick had always been a flirt, a rogue, a…dog. But he’d also always been a sucker for someone in distress. Especially if that someone was a female.
The woman didn’t respond in words. Instead, she threw her arms around Mick’s neck and hugged him tight.
Oh, but it hurt to see that. Obviously the reason Mick hadn’t wanted to stop at this particular house was because its owner was his current…whatever. He’d tried to stop her. It was her own fault she had to witness yet another moment with Mick and another female. Kinda like the one that had broken them up.
Well, no way was she going to let him see she was the least bit bothered by that idea. While Mick and the woman talked quietly in the yard, Caro wandered up to the porch, noticing how fragrant the flowers beside it smelled.
“I’m so sorry,” a woman’s voice said. “You guys caught me at the wrong moment.”
“Right moment,” Mick said, his arm draped casually over the other woman’s shoulders as they walked up to join Caro. “It’s not every day you get fired.”
“Fired?” Caro frowned. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”
The
