The stage manager came over to Dog and tried to coax him back onto his feet. He handed the buzzer back to Dog, who tossed it into the audience.
"That thing does nae work," Dog said. "I dinnae ken how yea bogtrotting poshies cannae afford some batteries. Yer all tighter than a duck's bum!"
This got a few more chuckles from the audience. The older man in the navy suit who I'd seen argue with Dog earlier reappeared.
"I wonder who he is," I mused out loud.
"Rupert Blick," Dana supplied. "He's one of the executives at the network. And he doesn't look very happy."
That was an understatement. Pure exasperation and frustration showed on his face. He drew Dog aside and said something to him. Dog just swayed unsteadily on his feet as he listened, then resumed his position behind the podium as Blick left the stage.
"Doggy's face looks awfully pale," Dana said thoughtfully.
"And his aura is all gunky," Mrs. R noted. "Not at all his usually snazzy blue."
I wasn't sure what a snazzy blue aura was, but I had to agree that Dog seemed to be struggling.
The taping resumed, and Dog managed to ring in once with a correct answer about a cooking show host who hailed from Upstate New York. "Who's that fitty of a lass Rachael Ray?" he said, and the audience clapped, cheering him on.
Final Jeopardy! arrived, and the category was Famous Actors. Faux Dad had a decent lead, but as a long-time fan, I knew anything could happen. Mom squeezed my hand so tightly that I yelped as Trebek read the answer.
"Born in Winterset, Iowa, Marion took Hollywood by storm and saddle."
"Who is Michael Landon," Mrs. Rosenblatt whispered.
Dana nudged her. "Michael Landon's name wasn't Marion. I think it's the Lone Ranger."
"Shush!" said Goatee Guy.
Mom squeezed my hand, eyes on the stage as she watched Faux Dad write down his answer. He didn't hesitate, which meant he was confident—though whether he was right or not was another matter.
Finally the theme music ended and Trebek told them their time was up. He went to Dog to reveal his answer first. It took Trebek a moment to read the almost illegible writing.
"Who is Nessie?"
The studio audience roared with laughter. Trebek almost smiled but not quite.
Dog had a score of $400, but he had bet $399.50.
"That leaves you with fifty cents," Trebek said.
"Oi, your bums oot the windae, mate," Dog replied with a scoff that turned into a giggle.
Trebek looked grateful to move on to Angela. She had a score of $8,200. Her guess was Who is John Wayne? Trebek told her she was correct. She had bet $2,000, bringing her total up to $10,200.
This left Faux Dad and his score of $10,100. If he was correct and had wagered more than $100, he would be the winner.
Mom's face was pale, and she sucked in some air.
Faux Dad smiled as Who is John Wayne? was revealed.
The crowd cheered, Alex Trebek praised Faux Dad, and my mom let out a long breath of air that ruffled Goatee Guy's hair in front of us.
"Let's see how much you risked," Trebek said. "If it's more than $100, you'll be a finalist."
Faux Dad had bet a total of $1,800 and wound up with $11,900 for a total.
"And we have our first finalist," Trebek announced while we all clapped and cheered.
Angela's frosty pink mouth formed a small pout, and she folded her arms over her chest as Trebek approached her. "You've still got a chance at the Wild Card, Angela. In the meantime, we'll see you tomorrow night, folks."
The music swelled—Trebek stood across from the contestants, chatting amicably. Angela seemed to be monopolizing the conversation, but Faux Dad was smiling, and Dog stared at them like they were spacemen.
As soon as one of the crew shouted, "That's a wrap," the network executive, Rupert Blick, appeared on the stage again, immediately descending on Dog with a scowl and escorting him offstage.
Announcements came on over the loudspeaker for people to clear the audience, and we all made our way backstage to find Faux Dad in the greenroom, downing a bottle of water. He stopped when Mom threw her arms around him.
"Honey, you did wonderful," she cried.
After Mom stepped back, I gave him a hug. "Great job. Were you nervous?"
He wiggled his hand back and forth. "At first. But the whole show moves so fast there really wasn't time. It was actually fun once I was able to just concentrate on the questions." He paused. "I did feel bad for Doggy Z."
"I think we all did," I added.
"Is he still here?" Mrs. Rosenblatt asked, eyes darting around as if hoping to catch a glimpse of her favorite rapper.
Faux Dad shook his head. "No. I saw him talking to his son after we finished taping. They all went out the back door together. He's probably trying to avoid publicity."
"Good luck with that," Dana remarked. "I'm sure the clip of him throwing the buzzer into the audience will be viral by morning."
Even Mrs. R nodded her agreement at that one. "The media's gonna murder that guy."
* * *
After a celebratory lunch with Mom and Faux Dad, and a quick stop at the Beverly Center afterward to find an outfit to wear to the finale taping I'd now be attending on Friday, I pushed through the front doors of my 1950s style bungalow that evening, and two pairs of sticky hands converged on me. My twins, Max and Livvie, met me at the front door, covering me in hugs and kisses as they regaled me with tales of the block tower they'd built in my absence. My heart melted at the enthusiasm, and I almost wished they could stay that age forever. Almost. I was pretty sure some of the sticky stuff on my pencil skirt was Play-Doh, which was not easy to get out of cotton twill.
After I'd paid the babysitter, one of the teenagers who lived down the street, and washed Max's hands, I put Toy Story on for the kids and wandered into the kitchen. I'd just poured myself a glass of Chardonnay and popped a frozen pizza into the oven when the front door opened and cries of "Daddy!" filled the living room.
A beat later my husband appeared in the kitchen doorway.
Detective Jack Ramirez worked homicide for the LAPD, had a big gun, a big black panther tattooed on his left bicep, and a big heart that those closest to him were lucky to be the beneficiaries of. He was tall and broad shouldered, had dark hair that curled a couple weeks past a haircut on his neck, and a pair of dark eyes that could either stare a confession out of a perp or seduce a woman out of her morals with one hot look. Having been married to the man for five years, I'd been on the receiving end of both types of looks, as well as several in between.
Ramirez threw his car keys onto the counter. "Something smells good in here." He nuzzled my neck as he wrapped his arms around my waist.
I giggled and turned around to peck him on the lips. "I assume you're talking about the pizza?"
He shrugged. "That too." He gave me a wink as he crossed the room to the refrigerator, pulling himself a cold beer from inside. "So how did the game show go?" he asked, popping the top.
"You realize it's Jeopardy!, not just some 'game show,' right? It's an institution," I told him, trying to get across the magnitude of the show as I peeked in on the pizza. It needed a couple more minutes to get the cheese bubbly.