That was true. “I can’t talk about the case.”
“Hello? You think I didn’t tell them that?”
Of course she had. Michelle wasn’t just on top of things, she was always three steps ahead. “And they’re cool with it?”
“Oh yeah. You’re about to be kind of famous. They’ll take you any way they can get you as long as that lasts.”
As if on cue, the office phone rang. It was my limo. I wasn’t in the mood for goofy TV talk, but the ride was a nice consolation prize.
Sheri was still obsessing over the Samron case. This time we chewed on parental responsibility-the girl’s father had left a loaded gun in his nightstand.
It was only one segment, but Barry and I got into it, and the fur really flew, which made Sheri’s producers happy. I guess if they’re happy, I’m happy. But it’d been a long day, and I got into the limo looking forward to a drink. When my phone rang, I figured it was Michelle. She usually calls to give me a critique on how I did and to let me know if I’d generated any new business.
So I stupidly answered the call without looking at the screen. Not that it would’ve helped. My mother is onto my screening ways, so her number comes up BLOCKED.
Her voice, nasal and grating, was loud enough to scale even the heavy traffic on Sunset Boulevard. “Samantha? Your hair looked so flat. When was the last time you washed it?”
“Thirty years ago, Mom. When the beehive went out of style.” Most conversations with her begin this way. She fires the first salvo, then I spend the rest of the time trying-and failing-to get off the defensive. Talking to my mother was about as much fun as chewing a ball of tinfoil with a mouthful of fillings.
“Don’t be a smartass. Someone’s got to tell you the truth. And must you always do the smoky eye?”
I pulled down the mirror and looked. “That’s the way I like it.”
“And I don’t like that shade of lipstick on you. Didn’t I tell you to ask for a neutral?”
I was sure she did. She always gave me a litany of To Dos. I gritted my teeth. “How about the case, Celeste? Did you hear what I was talking about?”
“I don’t remember.”
For the nine-billionth time, I wondered if she did it on purpose. It was all I could do to unclench my jaw long enough to tell her. “The girl’s father left the loaded gun in his nightstand.”
“Oh, enough already. Everyone’s always blaming the parents for everything. I’m sick of it.”
I bit my lip so hard I could feel my teeth making a divot. This from the woman who’d never taken the blame for anything. “Sometimes they
