Free Madison Avenue Shoot by Jessica Fletcher

with a job and a family doesn’t always have time to chat on the phone with his aunt.”
    I looked up, startled, but then I laughed. “You always know what to say to put me in my place.”
    “You don’t need to be put in your place,” Seth said, leaning over to pat my arm. “But I do think you’re making a mountain out of a molehill.”
    “Why do you think he didn’t return my call?”
    “He probably needs to do a little more investigating, like a certain relative of his, and doesn’t want to draw a conclusion until he’s sure of the facts. I’d say that’s a responsible way to approach the problem.”
    “You’re right, of course. Now, why didn’t I think of that?”
    “Must be the influence of the city. Fogs the brain. Grady will get back to you in good time. If I know my Fletchers—and I think I do—he’ll wait until he can speak to you in person before he spills out whatever it is he finds.”
    “That won’t be until I see him next week.”
    “True. So I suggest, madam, that we take your mind off this conundrum by making a visit to the local supermarket, where you can stock up on coffee. That way, the next time I have one of your sugar cookies, it will be accompanied by the proper beverage.”
    “Doctor, you always prescribe the best medicine. I’ll get my coat.”

Chapter Seven
    A bouquet of flowers and a split of champagne in a silver ice bucket greeted me when the Waldorf-Astoria bellman escorted me into my room. I went to the desk and picked up the card leaning against the vase: “Welcome back to New York. I look forward to seeing you on the set.” It was signed “Antonio Tedeschi,” but I was pretty sure it had been sent by Betsy Archibald. She had been a tad less than cordial when I’d called to ask about accommodations for the out-of-town “talent” who were in the commercials.
    “No, it’s not a problem,” she’d said on a long sigh. “I have to make a few phone calls, get the producer to issue a new call sheet, alert the car service. Just don’t change your mind again, please. I don’t want to hear tomorrow that you prefer to stay in a more modern place downtown. The director drove me crazy insisting on a hotel in the Meat-packing District. He wanted a hipper neighborhood than Park Avenue. I don’t suppose you need a hip neighborhood, do you?”
    “Park Avenue is perfectly fine for me,” I’d rushed to say, having had my fill of the city’s more avant-garde lodging. I’ve never thought of myself as “hip” and knew I’d be more comfortable in what I considered a “grown-up room.”
    “Then we’ll have a reservation for you at the Waldorf,” she said before hanging up. “A car service will pick you up in the morning. You have an eight a.m. call. That’s when you have to be at the location. Don’t be late.”
    I had sent Grady an e-mail telling him where I would be staying, and thanking him and Donna for their gracious offer to have me room with them. I would be happy to take them up on their hospitality another time, but not when I needed to be rested and clear thinking for the morning’s work.
    I took a moment to take in my surroundings. My room was spacious and freshly decorated in a classic style, featuring a queen-sized bed covered in a quilted ecru silk, which matched the paint of the walls and harmonized with the buff carpeting accented with small blue medallions. The soothing color scheme was enlivened with an armchair in a muted red and white floral and, at the large windows, red and blue striped drapes. There was more than enough room for my toiletries in the marble bath, and I was delighted to find a plush terry-cloth robe hanging behind the door.
    As I always do, I unpacked my things and put them away in a cherrywood armoire, which also held the television. Even if I’m staying in a hotel for only one night, I prefer to hang up my clothes in a closet or put them in a drawer rather than to live out of a suitcase.
    I was meeting Matt Miller later,