Page 125 of The Body in the Backyard
“You can’t kill me before the big interview. Speaking of, shouldn’t we be leaving soon? I need at least an hour in hair and makeup.”
“What interview?” Riley asked.
“Shit,” Nick muttered.
29
2:55 p.m. Sunday, November 3
Every once in a great while, Nick had a moment that caused him to question his life choices. Like maybe once every twenty years or so.
This was one of those moments.
He and Riley stood behind the camera crew in Griffin and Bella’s formal library and watched two vapid narcissists try to out-narcissist each other. Channel 50’s darlings, as the network’s graphics advertising this special live shit show had dubbed them, were seated on Gentry’s white couch, facing an empty chair.
Tyrell “the Terror” Tutley, a former professional football player and Channel 50’s veteran sportscaster, was supposed to be occupying the chair, but he was too busy pacing in front of Nick and Riley.
“I usually only report on sports,” Tyrell said to them as he dabbed at the sweat on his forehead. “Not murders and shootouts. But the network offered me an extra five hundred bucks to tape this interview, so here I am.”
“You’ll do fine,” Riley assured him.
“It’s just I kinda hate these two. But I love sports. And if I don’t do a good job with this, I might get fired. Griffin fires a lot of people. Likea lot.”
“Tyrell, buddy, pal.” A guy Nick vaguely recognized from that summer’s Channel 50 hostage situation and subsequent accidental bombing bustled up. He had multiple food stains on his shirt, and his hair stuck out in all directions over and around his headset. “We need you to take your seat because this is going to be live in”—he glanced at his watch—“two minutes.”
“Don’t nervous vomit. Don’t nervous vomit,” Tyrell chanted as he was led away.
“I don’t think my cheekbones look sticky-outy enough,” Griffin said, frowning into the hand mirror the makeup artist held for him.
“Is my hair big enough?” Bella asked no one in particular. “It doesn’t feel big enough.”
Tyrell took his seat and gripped his note cards hard enough to leave sweaty fingerprints behind. “Uh. Right, so I guess we’ll start with me asking you about the uh…the body in your backyard. Then you can walk through the shootout and the arrest.”
“Staff!” Griffin’s high-pitched scream brought his assistant galloping into the room and had Nick reaching for his weapon. Henry dodged his way around a stepladder-wielding guy with a thick silver mustache and backward ball cap.
“Oh, there you are. How’s the lighting? Am I tan enough?” Griffin demanded.
“I adjusted it myself to your specifications,” Henry assured his boss, pointing toward the studio light above the couch.
Griffin sat back on the couch and emitted a rubbery fart-like sound. “Don’t worry, everyone. It’s just my butt doughnut for my injured tailbone,” he assured the group.
“I want to pop that thing,” Nick complained.
“Griffin or the cushion?” Riley asked.
There were too many people in the room, all of them looking vaguely annoyed at having to spend their Sunday afternoon with Griffin. Every single one of them could be a suspect.
“Hey, you with the ladder,” Food Stain called as he popped an antacid in his mouth. “Close that air return up there? We’re getting feedback on the boom mic. And, Shirley and Erin, triple-check the teleprompter script. We don’t need a repeat of last week’s ‘Over to you, Smella Goodshine.’”
The aforementioned Shirley and Erin shared a smug look.
“Are your spidey senses tingling?” Nick asked Riley.
“Uh, yeah. Only all of them. I’m starting to think everyone in this room could be our murderer even though I doubt any of them have private-plane money,” she said, nose twitching dramatically as she scanned the crew.
“No more taking jobs from ex-husbands.”
“Agreed,” Riley said on a sigh.
