Lucy took Rick’s hand. “Let’s go.”
They’d taken a few steps down the hillside when a thought occurred to her. She looked back at Amanda. “Will we have to walk all the way to town?”
“I’ve arranged a driver for you. He’ll be there by the time you reach the clearing.”
Rick scratched the back of his neck. “It’s not some crazed murderer, is it?”
“Just a local farmer. One who delivers our mail once a month.”
Lucy studied Amanda’s face. “I thought no one knew Wells lived here.”
Over her shoulder, Amanda said, “We all keep our secrets. Don’t we?”
After
Helen Marshall, her new agent, sold The Fred Astaire Murders for seven figures. Helen also agreed to represent Rick, though she worried his subject matter was too edgy for mainstream readers.
Not only had the publisher acquired Lucy’s novel, they’d allocated an ungodly sum toward the book’s success. By the time Lucy and Rick arrived at the Ritz-Carlton for the launch party, The Fred Astaire Murders had become what the New York Times called ‘an event book’. The publicity embarrassed Lucy, but Helen assured her it was all deserved. The advance reviews bore this out, though Lucy was still dreading that first vicious pan.
“I thought I was supposed to be the silent, brooding one.”
She jarred, glanced over at Rick, who lounged next to her in the limousine. She shook her head. “I wish we could’ve done something under the radar.”
He grinned at her, looking irresistible in his dark brown sport coat, white button-down shirt, and blue jeans. She’d tried to talk him into slacks, but he informed her the sport coat was his one concession to formality. Eyeing him now, she decided the blue jeans were just fine.
“Your days of flying under the radar are over,” he said.
She made a face. “Please don’t—”
“I’m kidding. You can have as much or as little of the spotlight as you like. If you want, you can buy a hundred acres in the country, become a weird cat lady.”
“You probably don’t like cats.”
“I love them,” he said. At her expression, he added, “No, really. I always had cats growing up. We had a dog or two, but we always had a cat.”
“Which was your favorite?”
“This scrawny one named Cuddles. She had long hair and a broken tail.”
“Cuddles?” she asked, trying not to laugh.
“Lay off. I was five years old.”
“Thanks for coming tonight,” she said, taking his hand. His grip was firm but gentle. He was always careful not to bump the place where she’d lost the end of a finger. It was still tender.
He glanced at her. “Think the portions will be big enough? I’m starving.”
“That why your palms are sweaty?”
“I’m nervous as hell,” he admitted. “I’m not used to this kind of soiree.”
“They’re not here for you.”
He grinned. “Well listen to you. Already acting like a pampered starlet.”
“I’m too old to be a starlet.”
“Sexy enough. In fact.…” He leaned over, nuzzled her neck.
“Rick, the driver.”
“Give him something to tell his wife about. The famous author and her salacious fiancé.”
Smiling, she pushed him away. “We’re here.”
They went inside.
On the way past the concierge, Lucy glanced at a painting of a Southern landscape, a river bordered by oak trees that were festooned with Spanish moss. It reminded her of the article Rick had shown her last week.
They’d followed the stories of the missing writers closely over the past year. There’d been little in the Alabama newspapers about Sherilyn’s disappearance. After all, she’d been divorced several years, and she’d moved away to live with Alicia before the competition.
But the murder of David Zendejas, a prominent Baptist preacher, had dominated the news since his body was found by the two prostitutes he’d brought back to his upscale Montgomery home.
The murder had occurred in the master bathroom. He’d been killed when a sharp object punctured his right ear and entered his brain. Neither prostitute – their names withheld because they were both underage – had seen the killer. The theory was that Zendejas’s murderer had waited for him in the bathroom and then escaped through the window after the deed was finished.
As they approached the banquet hall, a chill coursed through her.
“Feeling all right?” Rick asked.
Lucy nodded but knew she looked unpersuasive. She could no more fool Rick than she could fool herself.
When they came through the door and beheld the crowd, Lucy’s heart performed a violent lurch. She’d hoped there would only be fifteen or twenty people, but the number was closer to a hundred. She spotted her editor, Janice Roth, along with Janice’s husband, but if Helen was here, Lucy hadn’t seen her yet.
Lucy paused in the entryway and surveyed the room. She’d worried there would be wall-sized banners of her face strung up everywhere but was heartened to find only a few glossy foam board book covers, none of them wall-size.
“Sure you’re okay?” Rick asked.
“I might faint.”
“At least you don’t have to give a speech.”
“A reading is just as bad. Maybe worse. What if I—”
“Kick ass?” He squeezed her hand. “Seriously, you rock at readings. It’s like you’re making love to the words.”
“Do you think of anything other than sex?”
He considered. “Books. Movies. Baseball. Sometimes food.”
“Nice.”
“What else matters?”
She punched him on the arm. “You’re trying to distract me.”
“It working?”
“Not really.”
“Worth a try. Let’s go.”
They entered the banquet hall, the sounds of smooth jazz reaching Lucy’s ears. The aroma of perfume mingled with what might have been roasted chicken.
“Still jealous of that cover,” Rick murmured as they neared the milling crowd. Lucy glanced at the nearest foam board version of The Fred Astaire Murders. She had to admit to loving the cover too. The composition was simple but elegant: a man in a black tuxedo and top hat, head bowed to obscure his face, a black cane clutched at his side. The end of the cane tapered into a sharp silver blade, one of the killer’s weapons. The title was lettered across the bottom in simple white; Lucy’s name was positioned at the top in a slightly larger version of the title font.
A voice behind them: “I can’t believe they let this guy in.”
Helen Marshall.
Smiling, their agent leaned in and gave Rick a hug. For such a short woman – five-one, tops – she carried an aura of intelligence and power. Fiftyish, her graying hair and glasses gave her the aspect of a barn owl. But whenever she spoke about publishing, she made Lucy feel good about the present and hopeful about the future.
In other words, the opposite of how Fred Morehouse made her feel.
Lucy had fired Fred, via a phone call, shortly after arriving back in Williamsburg. As expected, it hadn’t gone well.
“I’ve got good news,” Helen said.
“Quentin Tarantino decided to option Garden of Snakes?” Rick asked.
“Sorry, it’s for Lucy. Janice wants to buy the series we’ve been talking about. Three books at least.”
“Good money?”
“Assuredly.”
Lucy glanced at Rick. “What do you think?”
Rick nodded at Helen. “Don’t ask me, I’m over here wallowing in blood.”
Helen smiled. “Just dial it down a little. One decapitation per book.”
“What if they’re all important?”
Helen gave Lucy
a look. “Can you rein him in?”
“You think it’ll do any good?”
“Good point,” Helen said. She winked at Rick, who smiled back at her proudly. Lucy resisted an urge to kiss him.
Lucy gave her reading before dinner, mainly because she’d begged Helen to schedule it that way. If she didn’t have anything in her stomach, she reasoned, she’d reduce her chances of vomiting all over the microphone. When she finished, she sensed it had gone well. Either that, or the crowd was trying to save her feelings.
The only mistake she made was when she misspoke on the word ‘cop’, so the line she read was, “It got ugly when the cock showed up.”
When she sat down, Rick murmured, “Everything’s good until the cock shows up.”
“Shut up,” she said, but her mouth began to twitch.
He wouldn’t let it go. “You know, I think there are too many people in this room. Fire-code violation. Better call the cocks.”
Chest rocking with laughter, she swatted him on the shoulder. “Are you really that juvenile?”
“Part of my charm.”
She was on her way to the bathroom when a voice said, “I could’ve gotten you more money.”
Fred Morehouse.
She turned and there he was. Tailored gray suit, cashmere-silk necktie, blue with yellow pinstripes. Stylish as always, skin as tan as ever.
“Helen wouldn’t return my calls,” he said. “I had to pull some strings just to get a seat.”
Lucy’s mind swirled. She didn’t want to speak to him, but there was little choice. Walking away would admit defeat. Shouting would cause a scene, and she’d end up looking bad: Suspense Author Unleashes Incoherent Tirade on Agent Who Discovered Her.
She licked her lips. “Did you hear the reading?”
He shook his head. “No need. I know you well enough.”
Damn you, she thought.
He favored her with an assessing look. “You seem healthier, Lucy Goosy. Your new man must be treating you nicely.”
She refused to take the bait. “Rick’s my best friend.”
“Where’d you meet him?”
Lucy paused, wondering for the thousandth time if anyone knew what had gone on at Wells’s estate. The passing of Roderick Wells, of course, had caused a media firestorm, but none of the eight writers’ disappearances had been connected to the retreat.
Still…something in Fred’s tone bothered her.
Then again, Fred’s tone always bothered her.
She repeated the story she and Rick had rehearsed. “I went to a charity event in Williamsburg called Scares That Care.” She shrugged. “We met in the hotel bar and hit it off.”
Fred appeared to lose interest. “Never heard of it.”
“You never were the charitable type.”
That got his attention. “I never figured you for a snake, Lucy Goosy. The type to turn your back on someone.”
“Helen treats me with respect.”
“Helen’s a mollycoddler.”
Lucy suppressed an urge to rake his eyes out.
“I do have to give her credit though,” he said. “She found an editor good enough to prop you up.”
Lucy clasped her hands so they wouldn’t shake. “Janice does a marvelous job.”
“I’m sure she does. Or maybe your new man is doing the work. The story doesn’t sound like you at all.”
“How would you know what I sound like?”
“How would I know? I’m the one pulled you out of the slush pile and taught you how to write.”
“‘It’s gotta be a sequel.’ That’s what you said.”
Fred looked annoyed. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“After The Girl Who Died,” she explained. “I wanted to write a standalone. You insisted I do a sequel.”
“A good sequel, yeah.”
“A writer can’t create a story that isn’t in her. That she isn’t passionate about.”
He rolled his eyes. “Ah, Christ, Lucy. That’s writer-speak for ‘I fucked up and decided to blame my agent.’”
She nodded. “It was my fault.”
He raised his hands, shouted hysterically, “Hallelujah! She finally sees the light.”
“I should’ve listened to my gut rather than you.”
“Gotta have guts to listen to them.”
“Typical Morehouse ugliness,” she said. “I used to let it bother me.”
“I see. You’re above my ugliness now.”
“Far above,” she agreed.
“You made a serious mistake, Lucy Goosy.” He stepped closer, all charm bled from his face. He was in his late sixties, and despite the plastic surgeries and the perpetual tan, his age was beginning to show. The loose skin at his neck gave him a vaguely reptilian look.
He nodded. “Everybody knows everybody in this business. You think this is a new start for you? It’s a repetition, only you’re older this time. Big advance, great reviews…then reality sets in. Your next book will be shit, and it’ll all crash down again.”
She detected shades of Roderick Wells in his gaze. The malice. The need for control.
His grin was sharklike. “Nothing to say, Lucy Goosy?”
“I was just wondering what it’s like to expend so much energy wishing failure on others.”
His grin disappeared.
Lucy pushed past him and strode toward the restroom.
When she returned to the banquet hall, she noticed that Fred was sitting at a table by the entrance. His charming grin was back, and he appeared to be regaling a pair of couples with one of his patented Morehouse anecdotes, presumably one in which he played the hero.
Taking her place beside Rick, she said, “My former agent is here.”
He’d gotten a beer while she was gone. He sipped from it. “I saw. Want me to kick his ass?”
“We already spoke.”
“You look like you won.”
She returned his smile. “I did.”
For the moment, they were alone at the table. The Marshalls and the Roths had joined a group of partygoers near the lectern where Lucy had read. The sight of the lectern reminded her of Rick’s story about the chapel, his battle with John Anderson.
She barely noticed when their entrees were placed before them.
Roasted chicken, asparagus tips, and seasoned mashed potatoes. It was typical banquet-hall food, but nevertheless, Lucy’s stomach growled.
Rick dug in.
Lucy watched him. “You shouldn’t skip lunch.”
“I was too nervous to eat,” he said through a mouthful of food. “I mean, I knew you’d bring the house down, but still.…”
“You wanted me to succeed.”
He stopped chewing, frowned at her. “Of course I did.”
She kissed him lingeringly on the cheek.
At that moment, someone in the rear of the banquet hall screamed. Lucy jolted, craned her head in that direction, and caught a glimpse of one of the servers jerking something away from the base of Fred Morehouse’s skull.
A split second later, Lucy realized the server grasped a bloody knife.
Blood drenched Fred’s shoulders, his eyes goggling in dismay. Several people stood and obstructed Lucy’s view, but between them she saw the killer staring at her.
Handsome. Slicked-back hair. Florida-shaped birthmark on his neck.
He winked at her, then strode briskly through the exit.
The banquet hall, which had been eerily quiet after the attack, erupted with shrieks and the clatter of overturned chairs.
His eyes huge, Fred toppled onto the table and didn’t move. He was blotted out by scurrying partygoers.
Lucy turned away, heart pounding.
Rick said, “Poor Fred.”
People were scrambling behind them
and shouting for someone to call the police.
“What do we do?” she asked.
“Wait,” he said.
Voices shouting, hotel security.
Her hand shaking, Lucy took a sip of water. She nodded across the room, where whey-faced partygoers were gaping at Fred’s corpse. “Was that who I think it was?”
Rick took a swig from his beer bottle, set it down. “I expect.”
They were silent for a time.
Her breathing thin, she kept her palms on the table so her dizziness would pass. Finally, she looked up at Rick. “Should I feel responsible?”
“For what?” he asked. “Stopping assholes like Fred Morehouse from being abusive?”
She glanced at the shocked onlookers, heard a siren in the distance. “He was an asshole.”
“Indisputably.”
“But that doesn’t mean he deserved to die.”
“I never said he did.”
Helen returned to their table, visibly shaken. “Isn’t it awful?”
Lucy swallowed. “I’m in shock.”
Rick took a bite of chicken. “Shock always gives me an appetite.”
Lucy kicked him under the table.
Helen didn’t seem to notice. Looking toward the cluster of people around Fred’s table, she said, “I suppose this will cut the launch party short.”
“We could schedule another one,” Lucy said.
Rick looked at her, eyebrows raised.
Helen nodded. “That’s a fantastic idea.” She lowered her voice. “Not to sound like a ghoul, but the publicity will be even greater for the second event.”
Rick swigged his beer. “Makes sense.”
Helen looked at her. “Lucy?”
“I’m up for it if you are.”
“I am,” Helen said, smiling. Then, she coughed into her fist. “I suppose I should make an announcement.”
“Do us a favor, though,” Rick said.
“Yes?”
“Let us get out of here first.”
Helen nodded. “Of course.”
Rick finished his beer, indicated a red Exit sign in the corner. “We head out that way, we won’t have to pass Fred.”
“Good plan,” Lucy said.
He scooted away from the table. “Let’s pick up Chinese on the way to the hotel.”
The Dark Game Page 34