Show Business Is Murder by Stuart M. Kaminsky

You’ve never fallen in love with the talent before.”
    Rick shrugged. “Blondes are easier to light,” he said.
    Evelyn almost believed him. When the harsh TV lights hit Tiffany, her blonde hair glowed like molten gold. She looked like a blue angel with Meg Ryan bangs.
    Evelyn looked dark and a little angry on TV. Her brunette hair seemed to absorb light. Her olive skin created strange shadows. TV did odd things to her. If Evelyn gained a pound or two, the camera gave her a double chin and a pouchy stomach. That never happened to Tiffany Tyler Taylor. She always looked petite and perfect.
    Tiffany couldn’t get a scoop in an ice cream parlor. But St. Louis viewers were as dazzled as the fools at the station. In six months, Tiffany rose from feature reporter to morning show host. Now Evelyn was afraid that Tiffany would go after the ultimate prize—Evelyn’s own hard-won spot as six o’clock anchor.
    Already Tiffany had made two guest appearances on St. Louis’ highest-rated news show. Co-anchor Dick Nickerson threw back his head and laughed so hard at Tiffany’s mild (and scripted) joke about the weather that his comb-overflopped up like a pot lid. Dick got derisive letters from readers, calling him a drapehead. He didn’t care. Dick adored Tiffany.
    Nobody but Evelyn saw the hard little climber under that soft surface. Nobody but Evelyn heard Tiffany’s catty remarks.
    â€œEeuww, are you really eating a bacon sandwich for lunch?” said Tiffany, pointing at Evelyn’s BLT. “Bacon has nitrates and nitrites. And it’s bad for your skin.” Evelyn could feel the zits popping out on her face like dandelions after a rain.
    â€œBacon makes you fat,” Tiffany said, staring at Evelyn’s waistline until she felt her gut plop over her belt.
    â€œThat’s why I stick to salads,” she said, smugly. She tapped her green-heaped plate with her fork. Then Tiffany stuck her knife in Evelyn’s back. “But I suppose a mature woman like yourself doesn’t have to worry about her figure.”
    â€œMature” was not a compliment in television. Tiffany had called her old and fat. No one else heard the insult.
    Another time Tiffany suggested that Evelyn get some blonde highlights in her dark hair. “The lighter color around your face will make you look ten years younger,” she said. “Go to Mr. John. He’s the best colorist in the city. You’ll look so natural.”
    No one heard that little dig, either.
    Only Evelyn heard Tiffany on the phone to her stockbroker every afternoon before the markets closed. Only Evelyn seemed to catch Tiffany calling her agent. That’s when Tiffany dropped all pretense of being the city’s sweetheart.
    â€œI don’t know how I can live on a lousy two-hundred-fifty thousand a year,” St. Louis’s sweety pie hissed. Evelyn would love to have that quote on tape. She’d play it for all the Tiffany fans who said, “She’s so down-to-earth.”
    Evelyn saw red when she heard how much green the gold-digging Goldilocks was trying to pry out of the station. Evelyn didn’t make near that, and she’d been at the station ten years.
    It was time to have a talk with her mentor, Margaret Smithson. Evelyn would demand to know why she was underpaid and underrated. Margaret would make things right.
    Evelyn’s anger boiled and seethed as she marched across the newsroom. It burst like a geyser when she opened Margaret’s office door, and she spewed out a stream of hot words.
    â€œStop it!” Margaret said. “Evelyn, you must stop this stupid jealousy.”
    Evelyn felt like she’d been slapped. Margaret looked small and stern in her smart black suit. She weighed about ninety-five pounds, and most of that was her mop of dark hair. But Margaret was tough. Right now, she turned that toughness on Evelyn.
    â€œYour petty jabs at Tiffany are getting back