Getting Rich (A Chef Landry Mystery) by Monique Domovitch Read Free Book Online

too, darling,” he told Toni. In her case it would take no effort at all. At that moment, his eyes grew wide. “Oh my God. You’re Toni Gordon, the supermodel.” I wondered why Toni hadn’t changed her name back to Gordon after her divorce. Had she subconsciously known that she and Steven would someday be back together?
    Toni smiled humbly. “I haven’t been a supermodel in a couple of years.” The last time she’d been on the cover of a magazine was closer to ten years than two, but I wasn’t about to point that out.
    “I have all your Looks covers,” Keith continued to gush as he refreshed her lipstick. “Every cover you’ve ever done, I’ve collected. If I’d known I was going to meet you today, I would have brought them for you to autograph.”
    Toni looked as if she’d died and gone to heaven. “Tell you what. Stop by my restaurant sometime and I’ll autograph them for you.” She handed him a business card and one of what I liked to call her professional smiles—a dazzling, teeth-baring smile that stretched just a bit too far and flashed just a tad too bright.
    After powdering her nose, Keith pulled the tissues from around her neck and stepped back. “ Voilà. Now, you are perfection.”
    Toni glanced at herself in the mirror, inspected her teeth for lipstick and nodded with satisfaction. “How’s it going with you and Mitchell?”
    I frowned. “I haven’t heard from him in a few days. Mind you, with the schedule I keep, it’s a wonder I ever see him.” And then, as an afterthought, I added, “You don’t think he’s losing interest in me, do you?”
    Toni looked at me with knowing eyes. “There you go, being insecure again—insecure and jealous.”
    “I am not jealous,” I snapped.
    “Of course not.” She rolled her eyes. “I bet you have to stop yourself from following him when he leaves his house, don’t you?” I must have looked guilty because she added, “Like I always say, jealousy is just another form of insanity. Better keep your insanity to yourself than to speak and remove all doubt.”
    Toni had this habit of reeling off an endless series of clichés. Before I could think of a snappy comeback, the floor manager showed up.
    “You’re on next.” She waved us over to the door marked Studio. “Come with me.”
    She guided us through a long dark hallway littered with coils of large black cables. We emerged onto the set and sat in the famous lime-green leather armchairs next to Lauren Long.
    Lauren, an attractive woman with intelligent eyes and a great smile, had been on TV for as long as I could remember. At the moment, she was busy conferring in whispers with a young man wearing very tight jeans and a very tight white T-shirt. If I had a butt like his, I would wear tight jeans too.
    “Give me softer light,” she was saying. “And move the floodlight a bit to the left.”
    Next to me, Toni leaned in and murmured, “She’s got to be fifty if she’s a day, and there’s not a wrinkle on her. I wonder who her surgeon is.” The way she was studying Lauren made me wonder if she was thinking of getting a face-lift. I wouldn’t have been surprised. Toni was constantly considering some kind of cosmetic surgery.
    Before I could ask, a stagehand approached. He crouched, pinning a tiny microphone to my sweater. “Move forward.” He went around to my side and attached a battery pack to the back of my waistband. “Try not to touch the mike. It’s extremely sensitive.”
    Beyond the set, three large cameras were gliding across the concrete floor as smoothly as Zambonis on ice. Behind each was a technician wearing earphones and peering through a viewfinder while handling a series of knobs, buttons and dials. Farther back, employees were running around, barking orders at each other. “Give Lauren softer light.” “Where’s that makeup girl? There you are, sweetheart. Go powder Lauren’s nose.” And even farther back was the studio audience, a hundred or so people avidly