Love Her to Death
Chapter 1

“Sniper proof,” said my co-executive producer with a wide grin. “Twenty-six floors up is too high for anybody to shoot at you.” Tommy Zenos indicated the beautiful Nineteenth-Century English partners’ desk—his “Welcome to my foxhole” present to me. It had just been delivered in honor of my arrival. “Pick whichever half you want.”

“I’ll take the side next to the window,” I said. After almost being murdered in my little home office a month ago, I no longer like the feeling of being enclosed.

The desk was gorgeous: green-tooled leather top, carved edges, and cabriole legs. English antiques are Tommy’s passion. In addition, he brought two antique leather armchairs from his apartment for us, and a pair of Queen Anne chairs for visitors. I’d just been promoted from head writer of the daytime drama Love of My Life to head writer and co-executive producer. Because so much space is needed for taping facilities, Tommy and I were now sharing what had been his office in the Global Broadcasting building on Central Park West, in New York City.

“I need you here, Morgan,” he said. “I can handle the practical stuff, but you’re creative.” He lowered his eyes and picked anxiously at his cuticles. “Besides, you’re a good-looking woman who’s not an actress. You’re not after me for anything, so I can talk to you.”

The intercom next to Tommy buzzed and I heard the voice of our assistant. “Your father’s on line one.”

Tommy blanched, his features twisting into an almost ludicrous expression. He lurched to his feet, shook his head, pointed to me and pantomimed picking up the phone. I pressed the intercom buzzer on my side of the desk and said, “Betty, would you tell Mr. Zenos that Tommy’s unavailable at the moment?”

“Will do,” she replied, and disconnected.

Tommy flashed a grateful smile, then rushed out of the office.

Watching his fleeing back, it occurred to me he was not going to be the world’s easiest office mate. Engaged four times but never married, he looks a decade older than his thirty-five years. I like Tommy, but he lives his life on an emotional roller coaster, and now we would share a small office, and one desk.

An hour later I was still alone at that aircraft carrier of a desk, editing scripts.

Betty Kraft came into the office and closed the door. Tall and angular, with an explosion of gray corkscrew curls framing a rectangular face, she has piercing brown eyes and lips that curve into an expression of skepticism. Her attitude is: “I’ve seen it all and I don’t let it get to me.” According to Tommy, who adores her, she was a psychiatric nurse before landing her job at Global. “When you think about it,” Tommy has said, “it’s the perfect background for working in daytime drama.”

Clutching an inter-office envelope, Betty looked grim. “From Lori Cole,” she said. She balanced it on the palm of her hand. “I had Security check for explosives.”

I laughed. “Lori Cole was only appointed VP Daytime last Friday. There can’t be a problem already?”

“Don’t be too sure. New executives are like dogs marking their territory. Sometimes they squirt the wrong target—like your leg.”

I stood up, leaned across the desk and took the envelope, but before I could open it, Betty pronounced five words that made my insides tighten.

“Cybelle wants to see you.”

“Do you know why?”

“Actors never come to the producer’s office just to say hello.” Betty cocked one heavy eyebrow at me. ‘I’m not getting enough air time,’ or ‘I don’t like my story line,’” she mimicked. “Or my personal favorite: ‘I hate kissing my acting partner.’”

Five years ago, when I began as an associate writer on Love of My Life, I asked the man who was then head writer, “What does the producer do?”

“Clean up the shit,” he had said.

Now it was my turn to wield the mop.

“Send her in,” I said. “And hold my calls for a few minutes.”

Betty nodded, and moments later ushered the actress into the office, closing the door behind her.

Delicate, stunning Cybelle Carter, with her jet-black hair and big round eyes, was one of the most popular young stars on our show. She greeted me with a soft “Hi, Morgan,” and a nervous smile. As she perched on the edge of one of Tommy’s Queen Anne chairs, I glanced at the Global Broadcasting Network envelope addressed to me. I was curious, but I didn’t want to be rude to Cybelle. I put the envelope down unopened.

I looked up at her, but Cybelle was gazing at the show’s genealogy chart, which was tacked on the wall behind Tommy’s side of the desk. In the form of a graph, it stretches four feet wide and two feet high, diagramming all of the continuing characters on Love of My Life and listing who is connected—biologically or emotionally—to whom. This is an essential tool for keeping the relationships straight in a show that has been on the air five days a week, fifty-two weeks a year, for thirty years. Love was born the same year I was.

Cybelle grinned with delight. “There I am,” she said, pointing to her place on the graph. Each character is represented by a small oval-shaped photo of the actor playing the part, the pictures hung like Christmas tree ornaments from their branches of the complex, multi-character story.

She turned her attention from the chart to me. “I’m so glad they made you a producer,” she said. “Tommy’s nice, but it’s great to be able to talk to a fellow woman about this problem I have.”

Uh-oh. “What is it?”

She hesitated for a moment, as though gathering her courage. “I’m really a natural blonde—like you, Morgan.” She stroked a lock of the brunette hair that made her resemble Disney’s Snow White.

“That’s unusual,” I said. “When women color they usually go from dark hair to light, not the other way.”

“Oh, but I am a real blonde.” The urgency in her voice startled me. “You can ask anybody who’s seen me naked. Or…” she glanced around the office as if to make sure we were still alone. “It’s just us girls—I could give you a peek.”

“No, that’s okay,” I said quickly. “I’ll take your word for it, Cybelle.”

I’m a writer, not a gynecologist.

I decided to hurry Cybelle along by guessing why she had come to see me. “Do you want permission to go blonde on the show?”

Cybelle drew back as though she’d been struck.

“Oh, no!” Now there was desperation in her voice. “If I was a blonde again he could recognize me, and find me. Morgan, if he finds me, he’s going to kill me!”