Holiday Grind

Fifteen

Like most New Yorkers, James Young was not an easy man to contact. For one thing, his phone was unlisted. On the Internet, I found plenty of info about Studio 19, including its address. But the only number I could find was for the general public. A message service answered when I called but refused to put me through directly to Mr. Young—although they did confirm he worked there.

The most maddening part was that I knew the man’s home address, down to his apartment number, but I dared not approach the place. If the Matt-battered doorman saw me again, I was pretty sure he’d find a way to have me arrested, most likely for “harassing” his tenant.

I didn’t have time for some half-assed stakeout of his place (to collar him before he went into or came out of his building), so I decided to contact a partner, just as Quinn advised.

Madame Dreyfus Allegro Dubois was more than my boss, my landlord, my former mother-in-law, and my daughter’s biggest champion. Madame was my very best friend. She also happened to be the most beloved (and elegantly dressed) snoop in the vicinity of Washington Square Park.

After Quinn left, I dumped the dregs of his java, which had grown unpalatably cold during our long talk, and pulled out my Moka Express pot. In more ways than one, I needed to get some hot jolts into my system. Using Alfonso Bialetti’s stovetop invention, I quickly produced the rustic version of coffeehouse espresso that Italians have been enjoying for nearly a century.

On my third energizing shot of the day, I phoned Matt’s mother and told her everything that had happened—from Alf’s murder to my arrest for trespassing the night before. She started out sounding a little sleepy, but with each new revelation, she became more animated.

“You actually climbed a fire escape in the dead of night and peered through a stranger’s window?” Madame said. “I certainly hope you saw something juicy.”

“Sorry to disappoint. I only saw a photo ID for a man who works at a place called Studio 19. It’s an independent television facility located on Nineteenth Street, near Eleventh Avenue—”

Madame laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“I know all about Studio 19, dear.”

I nearly dropped my demitasse. “What are you? Psychic?”

“Even better. I’m nosy. And a good neighbor.”

“Excuse me?”

Madame laughed again, but she wouldn’t tell me anything more—except to say that she’d “make a few calls” and get back to me.

Thirty-six freshly baked Golden Gingerbread-Maple Muffins and one four-hour barista half shift later, I was sitting beside the silver-haired matriarch, inside the cavernous Studio 19. We’d come to see the taping of one of the most popular television shows in the country, The Chatsworth Way.

According to Madame, an illegal Pekingese is what gained us admission. “There’s a two-pet minimum in my building, you see,” she explained, which still left me confused.

“And how exactly do the rules of your apartment building translate into instant tickets to a TV show with a three-month-long studio audience waiting list?”

“Well, when someone snitched to the building manager,” Madame’s voice dropped conspiratorially, “and I have no doubt that someone was that music producer’s paramour on the second floor, the one who sleeps until noon and parties until four AM. Pooh, what a terror. Bohemians I can tolerate, but her—”

“You were telling me about a Pekingese.”

“Oh, yes. Someone snitched to the building manager that Mr. Dewberry and his wife Enid had a third dog, so I pretended the dog was mine. I walked Ming two or three times a day until the whole thing blew over.”

“So it was Mr. Dewberry who got you these tickets to the taping?”

Madame nodded. “Mr. Dewberry is the major stock-holder in the company that syndicates this program. He was very appreciative of my efforts on Ming’s behalf. So here we are.”

I was appreciative, too.

Now we watched from our front-row seats as technicians crisscrossed a darkened soundstage. Several large monitors dropped from the ceiling to flank the shadowy stage, each with a Chatsworth Way logo on a field of pastel pink or powder blue.

“I have to say it. You’re amazing. Tickets and backstage passes in less than twenty-four hours.”

“You really ought to include me in your sleuthing from the start, Clare,” Madame said flatly. “It’s lucky you caught me today at all, because tomorrow morning Otto and I are off to a charming little bed-and-breakfast in Vermont.”

Otto Visser was Madame’s latest flame. A younger man (at nearly seventy), Otto was an urbane art dealer and appraiser who’d been smitten with Matt’s mother from the moment he “eye-flirted” with her across a French restaurant’s semi-crowded dining room.

“Have you found that ‘perfect’ gift for Otto yet?” I asked.

“What do you buy a man who collects medieval illuminated manuscripts?” she asked with a wave of her beringed hand. “But I thought about it long and hard, and finally settled on a fraud.”

“Excuse me?”

“I acquired an image of the Madonna and Child that appears to come out of a medieval manuscript, but it’s really a forgery perpetrated by the Spanish Forger, a legendary counterfeiter who created hundreds of medieval fakes in nineteenth-century France.” Madame smiled, her gentle laugh lines impishly crinkling around her brilliant blue eyes. “Otto will absolutely adore it, I’m sure. A real conversation piece among his colleagues.”

“It’s certainly unique,” I replied.

“So when is Joy scheduled to arrive?”

I’d dreaded this moment. I hadn’t yet broken the bad news to either Madame or Matt.

“I’m sorry. I need to tell you. Joy phoned me earlier this morning. She’s not coming home after all,” I said. “She couldn’t get the time off.”

Instead of registering disappointment, Madame nodded with a knowing smile. “That’s why I made sure her plane tickets were open-ended.”

Now I nodded knowingly. “You assumed she’d get stuck working.”

“Working?” Madame shook her head. “Joy’s not working, Clare. It’s a boy. She’s suddenly madly in love and can’t bear to be apart from him.”

“She told you that?”

“No! I just know my grandchild. I’m quite sure you’ll discover that she’s fallen for some adorable, flirtatious, irresistibly cocky French cook in her brigade. I can only hope the feeling is mutual, for her heart’s sake... What’s wrong?”

“I just... never considered that.”

“She’s left the nest, dear. She wants her own life.” She leaned closer. “Don’t you fret now. It was hard for me when Matteo did the same, went off to Europe for an entire summer, but then he came back with you, didn’t he?”

That was the abbreviated version of a much longer summer-of-love story that ended with me pregnant. Without that sweet bambina bun in my oven, however, I doubted very much the freewheeling, extreme-sports-loving, twenty-two-year-old Matteo Allegro would have taken me home to Mama.

My frown deepened. The momentary glimpse down memory lane left me anxious—now I couldn’t stop wondering whether Joy had been listening during our talks about birth control.

Madame squeezed my hand. “Just remember this, Clare. When Joy gets married and has a child of her own, she’ll need you more than ever.”

An usher interrupted us. He was moving through the audience, handing out a brochure about the show. As Madame leafed through it, I scanned the studio for any man who resembled that ID badge photo of James Young.

“Today we’re going to see a very special seasonal episode about holiday stress,” Madame informed me, a pair of reading glasses perched on her nose.

“Timely,” I said.

“It also says here that Dr. Chaz is a trained psychologist born and raised in Southern California. His wife, Phyllis, is a marriage therapist originally from the Twin Cities. They met during college, and The Chatsworth Way began as a local program in Minneapolis. The nationally syndicated version of the show is devoted entirely to the subject of mending splitting marriages and healing damaged relationships.”

“Hmmm...” I glanced at the eager congregation around us. “That might explain why four fifths of this audience is female.”

“Last year The Chatsworth Way went into syndication, and it is now the fourth most popular daytime show behind Oprah, Dr. Phil, and Rachael Ray.” Madame arched a silver eyebrow. “And apparently this James Young you’re looking for is the show’s executive producer.”

Before I could express surprise, a spotlight appeared in the center of the main stage. The beam illuminated a man and woman perched side by side on tall stools. Both were surrounded by a bevy of assistants, several cameras, and a pair of teleprompters. I didn’t recognize the renowned man-and-wife counselors until excited chatter, then a smattering of applause, broke out around me.

“I love you, Dr. Chaz!” a lone woman’s voice cried out from the middle of the studio audience.

“I love you, too!” he replied.

Laughter—mostly female—followed.

While a technician slipped a tiny microphone under his tie, Dr. Chaz continued grinning and returning waves from various women. Tall and fit, he exuded an easy, boyish charm. Adding an air of sagelike distinction to his appearance, the handsome face was crowned with thick waves of prematurely white hair.

In contrast, Therapist Phyllis was a short, slender brunette with a cropped, no-nonsense ’do. Unlike her effusive husband, she completely ignored the audience during the last-minute stage prep. Oblivious to the female adoration her husband was garnering, she remained deep in conversation with a leanly built man visible only in silhouette.

Finally, from a glassed-in control booth, the director ordered the stage cleared. That shadowy figure Phyllis Chatsworth had been speaking with gave her arm an affectionate squeeze. Then the man stepped into the glare of the spotlight.

It was James Young, looking very much like his ID photograph.

A minute later, the show’s upbeat theme song began to play. The digital prompters ordered APPLAUSE! and the audience complied.

Then came the announcer’s voice: “Husband-and-wife relationship therapists for two decades, Dr. Chaz Chatsworth and Therapist Phyllis will guide you through the pitfalls and pleasures of love, romance, and marriage. And now, the most understanding, compassionate, and insightful couple on television...”

The spotlight reappeared in time to catch the couple casually smooching. Then Dr. Chaz and Phyllis pretended to look guilty at being caught in a kiss. They clasped their hands above their heads, jumped off their stools, and faced the audience.

“Bills! Gift lists! Company parties! Prickly family members! Pricklier in-laws! Are you feeling the pressure to create the ‘perfect’ Christmas, Chanukah, or Kwanzaa?” Dr. Chaz asked.

Phyllis stepped forward. “If all this holiday tension is ruining your marriage or romantic relationship, stick around. Today we’ll deal with holiday stress, and ask the question, can love survive it?”

“Our ‘Chatsworth Survival Guide’ may just keep this holiday season from ending in divorce,” Dr. Chaz added, “or worse...”

“Worse?” I muttered. “What’s worse? Homicide?”

Madame chuckled. “It’s The Chatsworth Way, dear, not Nancy Grace.”

The monitor blinked: APPLAUSE!

Almost immediately, the show segued into its slick B-roll, showing couples arguing at holiday parties or on shopping trips. Quoting a list of statistics, Dr. Chaz and Phyllis discussed the dangers of high “perfect holiday” expectations versus disillusioning realities. They cited the troubles that come from reuniting dysfunctional families or attempting to work out fair visitation in divorced ones. They spoke about dealing with disapproving in-laws and demanding grandparents, while keeping your sex life from slipping into a coma. By the time the opening segment ended, the audience could come to only one conclusion—

The holidays are hazardous to your mental health!

“Time for a break,” Dr. Chaz finally said. “When we come back, we’re going to meet two couples. One husband and wife who learned how to cope with the season’s stress—”

“And another couple that didn’t,” Phyllis said, exaggerating a frown.

Then the pair turned their backs on the audience, lovingly clasped hands, and strolled back to their seats while the stage faded to black. After the cameras cut away, the stage crew appeared to carry in stools for the day’s guests.

Dr. Chaz and Phyllis remained in their chairs, and I noticed that the kissy-kissy couple was far less cordial when the cameras weren’t rolling. At one point, Phyllis, script in hand, swept aside her husband’s assistant to point out what she obviously felt was a glaring error in the next segment. I regretted that their microphones were off, because the animated argument went on for nearly thirty seconds.

James Young’s arrival put an end to it. The lanky African-American executive producer seemed to be a calming presence on the set. After a few minutes in a heads-together conference, Young made changes that both of his media darlings could live with. Then the exec producer was off again when a technician alerted him to a problem backstage.

The taping resumed and the audience was introduced to an onstage couple whose last holiday season could best be described as a model train wreck.

Sobbing, a thirtysomething blonde identified only as “Tracy from Memphis” described her “worst Christmas ever,” which took place last year.

“It was a week before Christmas when I found out the truth, Dr. Chaz. I arrived late to my husband’s office party to find Todd and a coworker doing the nasty under the Rudolph the Reindeer display in the company break room!”

Members of the audience gasped.

Dr. Chaz nodded knowingly. “And how did that make you feel, Tracy?”

“Angry!”

The audience began to mumble unhappily. Sitting beside his estranged wife, Todd shifted in his seat and worriedly eyeballed the disapproving (mostly female) audience.

“So, Todd, tell me. What the heck were you thinking?”

Todd’s shrug was sheepish. Then he glanced at the sea of frowning females and cleared his throat. “I guess I was hurt, Dr. Chaz. Really, really hurt.”

The crowd around us began to mumble again. They seemed less angry now and leaned forward with interest.

“Hurt, Todd? Why?” said Dr. Chaz, feigning extreme curiosity. “Who hurt you?”

“My wife.”

Now the women in the audience began whispering. Todd began to act reluctant to speak, as if this were very hard for him to do. At the doctor’s slightest urging, however, he cut loose.

“I was hurt by my wife when she ran up our credit cards buying gifts we couldn’t afford for a ridiculously long list of family members and friends.” He shook his head. “I felt our kids’ futures were at stake, you know? That’s how I felt about it. Can you blame me?”

“I see. Anything else?” Dr. Chaz prompted.

“Yes! I was hurt that my wife couldn’t find the time between decorating the tree and stuffing the stockings to pay attention to my needs!”

“Sounds like you both made some mistakes,” Dr. Chaz said, nodding sagely.

In the second half of the program, Therapist Phyllis took over the questioning. Ironically the story of “Mona and Bill from Columbus,” aka the happy, functional couple, was far less interesting to the audience.

“Sad but true,” Madame remarked to me. “Train wrecks make front page news, not on-time arrivals.”

The final segment was a regular feature called “People Are Still Having Sex,” where both Dr. Chaz and Phyllis advised couples to keep romance alive during stressful times. “It’s important you find those little pockets of intimacy with your lover, especially during this crazy, hectic season.”

Film footage rolled, showing couples kissing beside a Christmas tree, embracing on a winter sleigh ride, exchanging perfectly wrapped gifts in bed.

“Mistletoe and music,” Therapist Phyllis suggested.

“Candy canes by candlelight,” added Dr. Chaz.

By the time the springy closing theme filled the studio and the hosts waved us all good-bye, the audience had swallowed enough soma to jump to their feet in teleprompted APPLAUSE!

As the music died, the exit doors opened and the crowd filed out. Madame and I gathered our things and approached an usher.

“Excuse me,” Madame said. “My daughter-in-law and I have a backstage pass. I wonder if—”

“Oh, you need to see Heidi,” he said, gesturing to a slender, ice blonde in a tightly fitting gray business suit. “Heidi Gilcrest.”

The woman took tiny steps, her high heels clicking like castanets as she hurried from the opposite end of the studio to greet us. “Well, hello!” Heidi’s eyes went nearly as wide as her pearly grin. “Mr. Dewberry told us to expect you, Ms. Dubois. Isn’t he a wonderful man? And those dogs of his are just scrumptious. Follow me and I’ll show you the place.”

The long-limbed dynamo led us through a maze of cables, curtains, and equipment. She paused patiently at a metal fire door, waiting for us to catch up.

“Here we go,” she finally said, pushing through to a long, carpeted hallway. “Back here we have our dressing rooms and offices.” She pointed to a line of mostly closed doors along the hallway. “If you’ll wait right here, I’ll see if—”

Right beside me, a door with a silver star on it suddenly jerked open and Phyllis Chatsworth charged out.

“Watch out,” she said, nearly knocking me over.

“Oh, Mrs. Chatsworth!” Heidi exclaimed. “I’d like you to meet two dear friends of Mr. Dewberry’s. This is Ms. Dubois and—”

Ignoring us completely, Phyllis Chatsworth addressed Heidi. “Did Simon get my e-mail about the bottled water?”

Heidi’s head bobbed. “I’m sure he did, Mrs. Chatsworth. I printed it out as a reminder and put it on his desk myself.”

“Well, there isn’t any water in my dressing room! The refrigerator’s empty, Heidi. Empty! And it’s been that way since before the taping started.”

“I’ll find out what happened—”

“I love the way you make sure my husband’s snacks are delivered like clockwork, but I have to wait for a few lousy bottles of water.”

“I assure you, Mrs. Chatsworth, I want to make you happy—”

“Then you tell Simon to straighten it out. Now. And while you’re at it, tell maintenance the overhead light in my bathroom has died. I don’t care if one of these guild bums has to work overtime for once. I want the light fixed today!”

Before the statuesque assistant could play doormat again, her “understanding, compassionate, and insightful” therapist boss slammed the door in our faces.