Free Phantom Angel by David Handler

excellent progress, but I’m not in a position to report anything yet, okay?”
    â€œNo, it’s not okay! That little twat Cricket O’Shea just posted a photo of my stars and my ex-director having dinner at Zoot Alors with none other than Count Dracula himself. She said, flat out declared, that he’s plotting to steal my show out from under me. So you’ll forgive me if I’m just a tiny bit upset!”
    â€œCricket O’Shea has been known to make stuff up. Don’t let her throw you.”
    â€œI don’t like this,” he growled. “I don’t like you .”
    â€œI’m sorry to hear that. If you want to hire someone else just say so.”
    I heard another voice in the background now from his end. Then heard him grumble something unintelligible before he said, “Leah thinks I should shut up and let you do your job.”
    â€œLeah’s a smart woman.”
    â€œHey, I don’t need you to tell me that.”
    â€œMr. Frankel, I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?”
    â€œWhat time?”
    â€œJust as soon as I have something. Good night, Mr. Frankel.” I rang off, letting my breath out with a sigh. “That was Mr. Frankel.”
    â€œSo I gathered.” Mom narrowed her eyes at me. “Weren’t you and Cricket romantically involved for a while?”
    â€œI guess you could call it that.” I fetched a cold bottle of Long Trail IPA from the little fridge in the outer office, opened it and took a long, thirsty gulp before I flopped down on Mom’s sofa next to Gus, who curled up in my lap and started purring. “So tell me about Gretchen Van Deusen of the Hoity-Toity Agency.”
    â€œShe was a skinny blond society bitch in her late forties. Divorced, bitter, could not keep her mouth shut. You’d have loved her, Bunny.” Mom reached for her notepad, scanning through it. “The house on Lily Pond Lane belongs to a power couple that’s splitting up. He’s a big shot at NBC News. She’s on-air talent. Or was. Her job went south when the marriage did. She’s suing him. He’s suing her. It’s love in bloom all over. Meanwhile, their snug little cottage is on the market for five point five million. It has seven bedrooms, five baths, a pool, four acres of land and beach access. Confidentially? Gretchen told me they’d take four point nine mil for it. While they wait for the offers to roll in she’s renting it out for thirty thousand a month. A Silicon Valley exec has it this month.”
    â€œWhat about last month?”
    Mom took a sip of her gin and tonic, sitting back in her chair. “She rented it to a high-flying British hedge funder named R. J. Farnell. Gretchen described him as quite the charmer. And very interested in the theater, it may interest you to know.”
    â€œHe told her that?”
    â€œHe did. Mind you, she only spoke to him on the phone.”
    â€œShe rented him the place without ever meeting him?”
    â€œHe sent his young executive assistant, a Miss Beausoleil, to look the place over. Gretchen met her there. Miss Beausoleil pulled up in a fancy new Porsche wearing a drop-dead Armani linen pants suit and a pair of Manolo Blahniks. Her briefcase was Louis Vuitton. Her scarf was Hermès. Her—”
    â€œMom, are you running this or giving me a fashion review?”
    â€œOh, hush. When I showed her Boso’s headshot she made her right away, though she did say that Miss Beausoleil wore horn-rimmed glasses. Oliver Peoples, she thought. Although they might have been Barton Perreira, which are almost exactly—”
    â€œMom…”
    â€œGretchen gave her a full tour of the house. The girl took pictures of every room with her camera phone and e-mailed them to Farnell. He phoned her right away and said he wanted to take it. She put him on the phone with Gretchen and the deal was made on the spot.”
    I drank down some more of my