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speared with a fork, and her eyes rose to the ceiling while she contemplated its taste. Startled, she swallowed and grabbed Jimbo’s hand just as he was about to bite into a croissant. “Darlin’, do you see the color of that air vent up there? That’s exactly the shade that I want painted on the wall in my office, you know, the one I built with the pictures of me with all the celebrities.” She leaned forward and shook her fork at me. “Jessica, we must take a picture together before this commercial nonsense is over. I got me this great wall at home—I call it my ‘Wall of Fame’—and it’s covered with photographs of me with every famous person I’ve ever met since the TV show started up. They’re signed, too. Ah’m gonna put our picture together right at the very top.” She patted her manager’s arm. “Where’s your briefcase, Jimbo? Get your camera.”
    “Not now, Cookie,” he said, stuffing the entire croissant into his mouth. In a voice muffled by bread, he added, “The meetin’s about to start.”

Chapter Four
    “L adies and gentlemen. If I may have your attention.” A man I hadn’t noticed before had taken a seat at the head of the table next to Betsy Archibald, who carefully lined up the pencils next to her pad. He was dressed casually in a gray V-neck sweater over a white T-shirt, which half covered a gold chain around his neck. His hair was neatly cropped close to his head, but he appeared not to have shaved for several days.
    “That’s Howerstein,” Grady whispered to me, “the producer.”
    “Daniel would like to go over the schedule,” Betsy announced, nodding to two young people holding stacks of folders. The pair efficiently distributed them to those assembled around the table. The logo for Eye Screen Productions was prominent on the cover.
    “I won’t keep you long,” Howerstein said without preamble. “We have a lot to do and only a few days in which to do it. I know how important your time is.” He emphasized the “your,” but from the way he kept glancing at his watch, I had a feeling it was his time he was concerned with. He riffled through several papers in his folder and drew one out. “We have planned the shoot for the middle of next week. We should be able to complete all four spots in that time frame. A car service will pick up the talent at their hotels each morning. Please let Jason or Lucy, our PAs—that’s our shorthand for production assistants—know where you are staying.” He pointed to the young man and young woman who had helped pass around the folders. Jason raised his hand and smiled.
    “We’ll start in the morning, going one at a time, continuing on the next day for whatever we haven’t finished. We’re holding the location for a third day, but I don’t think we’ll need it,” Howerstein continued. “Please come prepared with your lines memorized. There aren’t a lot of them.” His gaze took in those of us around the table.
    “Yes, please do,” Betsy put in. “Every second costs money in production. And—”
    Howerstein cut her off. “I hope you’ve had an opportunity to meet each other this morning. And to—”
    “And to meet Mr. Tedeschi from Permezzo,” Betsy interrupted again, cocking her head at Antonio, who took her introduction as a cue to speak.
    “Yes, yes,” he said, pushing back his chair and getting to his feet. “Permezzo are so pleased to have such distinguished celebrities as yourself endorse our service.” His eyes roamed around the table till they made contact with each of us who was to appear in the commercials: Stella Bedford, Lance Sevenson, Anne Tripper, and me. “We have a little surprise for our distinguished guests, a gratificazione. ” He reached into an attaché and withdrew four packets, which he passed to us. On the front of my thick envelope, in an elegant script that must have been hand-lettered by a calligrapher, were the words “Jessica Fletcher Knows Permezzo.” “Open, open, please,”