“The bear. Some fellas running an illegal pot farm gave him the nickname. He got into some edibles they were tinkering with and let’s just say he was one blissed-out bear. Play on the name Smokey.”
“Right. Got that. About that pot farm . . .”
“Gone. Feds broke up that operation.” Seeing the expression on Dee’s face, Elmira added, “For real. Not a joke.”
“Phew.” Dee took a large bag of pretzels from a rack of snacks and placed it in one of her grocery bags. “I was starting to think I was safer in Los Angeles.”
Elmira pulled a large container of jerky from under the counter and refilled the jar. “There are days you might be,” she said, not making Dee feel better. “Things can get crazy at the national parks, like Majestic, during the summer. You know what they call Yosemite during peak times? ‘Yo-seme-city.’ Because the park’s got all the same problems and crimes as a city when the population explodes with tourists.”
A loud beep came from the building’s west end, startling Dee. Elmira wiped her hands on her butcher’s apron. “My laundry’s ready. If anyone comes in, tell them I’ll be right back and not to steal nothing, because I know where they live. Oh, and don’t leave without some of my homemade berry hand pies.” She gestured to a small bakery case on the counter with pride. “Made ’em myself. Baking’s my hobby, even though I lost my sense of taste a while ago, thanks to a virus.”
Elmira headed toward the laundromat section of the store, leaving Dee to mull over the disconcerting tidbits she’d picked up from Elmira. Bears, illegal marijuana farms, national parks where summer simmered with danger. “What have I gotten myself into?” she murmured to Nugget, who had finished his jerky stick and was licking his front paws for any tidbits he missed.
Feeling the need for a comforting snack, Dee helped herself to one of Elmira’s hand pies. She took a bite and gagged. The dough was dry, made from old, stale flour, and the filling had turned. Dee desperately searched for a trash can, finally locating one behind the counter. But before she could spit out the noxious ingredients, Elmira emerged from the back, carrying a full laundry bin. “I’ll fold between customers.” She saw the half-eaten pie in Dee’s hand and gave an approving smile. “You picked up a pie. What do you think?”
Dee managed to swallow the offending mouthful. “Yum,” she weakly lied. “I’ll take a dozen.”
While Dee finished shopping, Nugget went through another jerky stick. She left the store on friendly terms with Elmira, even if it cost her the worst pastries she’d ever tasted.
Dee was about to drive off, when her cell rang. She answered the call and Jeff’s voice boomed through the car speakers.
“I have great news!” he declared.
“You found a lower bid to repair the pool?” Dee clasped her hands together in silent prayer.
“God, no. But”—Jeff took a theatrical pause—“I’ve been working on the Golden website. I put up a beta version—and we got our first booking!”
Dee transitioned from praying to clapping. “Whoo-hoo! That’s fantastic. I hope not too soon. We don’t even have one room ready.”
“No worries, he’s not coming until Friday. Gives us a couple of days to get a room ready to go. You get credit for this reservation, because he says he knows you.”
“Yay me.” Dee grinned and gave herself an imaginary pat on the back. “Who?”
“A writer named Michael Adam Baker.”
Dee’s grin disappeared. She got a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, not helped by remnants of Elmira’s abysmal pastries.
“He said he heard about the Golden through the writers’ grapevine and thought it would be a great place to hunker down and write his new pilot. How cool is that?”
“So cool,” Dee said, hoping the dread she felt didn’t color her response.
“If he loves it here, and he will, we can get a testimonial and use it to generate writers’ retreats. Fill the whole Golden in one shot, once all the rooms are up and running. I’m telling you, the mind blows at the possibilities.” Jeff paused. “Dee? Hello? You still there?”
“Yes, sorry. I was about to leave Williker’s. Be home in five. Michael Adam Baker, huh? Wow.”
Dee hung up before Jeff could respond. She didn’t have the heart to tell him Michael Adam Baker was the most devious, backstabbing writer she’d ever worked with. And considering some of the writing staffs she’d been on, that was saying something.
CHAPTER 3
Once home, Jeff insisted on celebrating their first booking with a toast. “This is good,” Dee said, sipping the cabernet sauvignon Jeff had poured into the Mason jars they’d found in a cabinet and sanitized. “Did you get it at Williker’s?”
Jeff shook his head. “No, at a gas station off the 101 on the way here the other night. Only in California does a gas station convenience store have a better selection than most wine shops in the rest of the country.” He topped off her jar. “Now, tell me why I’m getting this extremely disappointing reaction to my big news.”
“I’m excited,” Dee protested.
Jeff made a face. “Gimme a break. How well do we know each other? Tell me the truth. What’s the story with this guy?”
Dee sighed. “Fine. Here’s the story. We worked together on my very first TV job. I never even told you about it, because it went by so quickly. It was called On the John.”
“I don’t wanna know what that show was about.”
“It was about exactly what you think it would be about—a plumber named John. It was picked up by the network with a six-episode order and joined the elite club of shows canceled after only one episode aired. I was a staff writer on the show. The lowest level.”
Jeff rested his long legs on the green Naugahyde side chair that matched the couch. “I love how in Hollywood the only writer on a TV staff who’s actually called a writer is at the bottom of the food chain. Everyone else has some kind of producer title.”
“Agree it’s ridiculous, and back to Michael. He was a story editor, which was only one level above me. He was a good-looking guy and kind of a flirt, but he was incredibly threatened and competitive. He always made a point of shooting down my joke and story pitches. On the positive side, it taught me to fight for anything I really believed in, which came in handy on future shows.” She looked down at her jar. “I’m sure Michael bad-mouthed me to Mark the showrunner, because Mark never hired me again, even though he hired other writers from the John staff, including Michael himself.”
“Wow. This Baker guy sounds like a primo jerk. I was already leaning toward not liking him for the three-name thing. Pree-tentious. I’ll write him we’re not open yet and don’t know when we will be.”
Jeff started to rise. Dee put out a hand to stop him. “No. I’m being overly sensitive. It was a while ago. My first show, his second. We were both scared of being left without a job in the musical-chairs game that’s staffing season. And I don’t have actual proof he bad-mouthed me.” She scrunched her face, conflicted, then came to a decision. “Let him come. I think it’ll be fine.”
Jeff looked at her with concern. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. A hundred percent.” Dee delivered this with confidence, fighting back a pesky hint of hesitation.
* * *
Since their inaugural guest requested a quiet cabin, Dee and Jeff chose to spiff up the one farthest from the main lodge and the road. But first, Dee suggested they round up the prints hanging in all the guest rooms and transport them to her apartment so she could clean and ready them for rehanging in her free time. “I recognize this artist,” she said to Jeff as they lugged a half dozen into her living room.
