It occurred to Cassy that she would have had a better chance at getting the book signed for Patty had she approached Cuthbert backstage, something that was confirmed when she tried to get close, the book held out expectantly and was rebuffed by a burly looking henchman. Perhaps henchman was too strong a word. He was barely even what you might call a bodyguard, but rather some friend of the author who had put on a suit and dark glasses. It was all for effect, of course.
There were no photos of Caroline Cuthbert on the book but even so the real deal didn’t equate to what Cassy had in mind. She was tall, elegant even, dressed in black with long, straight black hair and a pair of over-sized glasses that maybe only Jackie-O or Lady Gaga could have pulled off, but Cuthbert did a decent job of it. It was a far cry from the homely, dowdy woman Cassy had pictured. These were fairy tales she was writing, weren’t they, not grand Gothic dramas?
Chapter Five
Cassy engineered it so that she accidentally on purpose bumped into the author of the Bogsnatcher Chronicles in the backstage tent later that day during a break from signing. Not that there were that many people flocking to get their copies of Spicery! blessed by her Jane Doe. She managed to find the author by the snack table that had been laid out for them in what could have been described as the Green Room. Crudites, finger food and soggy-looking sandwiches. Cassy gnawed on a carrot stick waiting for a moment to introduce herself.
Cuthbert was talking to a man shorter than her by at least a foot. She looked pale, nervous even. Contrasting with her white skin, the man seemed to flare red and spoke in hisses from between clenched teeth.
There was no easy way to butt into that kind of conversation, so Cassy decided that she’d just have to go for it. She might not have this kind of access again.
“Miss Cuthbert,” stammered Cassy, as if she was a fan herself, “could you please sign this book. It’s for a friend.”
The henchman was nowhere to be seen; instead, the short rotund man with an expensive but ill-fitting toupee barged between the two women.
“No members of the public allowed back here, please. Miss Cuthbert wants to be left alone.”
“You don’t understand, I’m Cassandra Dean. I’m here as an author and this really is for a friend of mine.”
The short man seemed to go through a mental checklist and came up with Cassy’s name. A light came on somewhere inside his head.
“Ah yes. Witchcraft and such. Non-fiction.” He ran his fingers through his fake hair. “You live here, don’t you?” He nodded pensively.
“I do, yes.” Cassy handed the book to Caroline, and the man stepped back apologetically.
“Who shall I make it out to?” said Caroline. She hadn’t taken off her glasses the whole time, and Cassy was having trouble getting a read on her, but her voice was self-assured, if a little snooty. Whatever the two of them had been arguing about earlier had been successfully repressed behind her placid and well-trained smile.
“Patty Malone. She’s working the event later, I believe.”
“So why didn’t she just do this herself?” she said, patronizingly. “That’s what the signing booth’s for.” Caroline effortless scribbled her signature on the first page of the book and handed it back.
“I don’t know. I guess she was intimidated by you?” I can’t think why, you fairy b—
Cassy’s train of thought was interrupted by the sudden arrival of Chet Ealing and Brian Vidor, followed closely by Jennifer. A fourth author came in shortly after them. Cassy had seen him in the signing booth but as he’d been at the far end from her, she hadn’t had the chance to talk to him yet. He was a twitchy guy in his seventies though he looked good. He was lean and focused despite an apparent inability to remain still. Cassy suspected that he’d had a little pick-me-up even this early in the day. Just what that pick-me-up was Cassy didn’t like to speculate.
He was Joseph F. Farmer. Cassy didn’t know what the F stood for, but when you see an initial in someone’s name enough times, it just becomes part of the whole. Like George R.R. Martin or William S. Burroughs, letters themselves became complete names.
Joseph F. Farmer stopped in his tracks, looked around as if checking for—well, Cassy didn’t know what. The police? He had that kind of shifty look about him. Then with surprising speed, he crossed the backstage tent right up to the short man with the wig.
“Tate Reacher.” It was an accusation as much as an acknowledgment of the smaller man who stood up to the strident Farmer.
“Joe, I heard you were coming. Couldn’t resist it, could you?”
“It’s not all about you, Reacher. I’m here for my own reasons.”
“Come to bury the hatchet?” The twitchy man wheeled away then turned back again. “I love that expression. Iroquois or some such tribe, am I right? Put the not-so-proverbial tomahawk in the ground to symbolize peace. To me, it sounds like delivering the final blow. One more swing before departing forever.”
“Boys, please.”
Everyone turned to Jennifer, the Queen of soft erotica. She was wagging her finger like a quietly scolding mother.
“I swear you’ve have been at it for years. You’re not young men anymore, you know. I thought all this nonsense would be behind you by now. Do you remember that time in Pennsylvania, when was it— ‘84?”
“‘79” said the man identified as Tate Reacher. Cassy was vaguely aware of the name though she wasn’t really a literary type. The term Svengali kept coming to mind.
“That’s right,” continued Jennifer. “The three of you were drinking pals back then. We were all getting started at the same time, not that you had much time for me, of course, ‘great American novelists’ that you were.”
“I made a mistake there, didn’t I?” said Tate. “You’re the most successful author I know. Should have signed you there and then.”
No one else noticed but Cassy saw Cuthbert flinch, though her expression was mostly hidden behind her enormous glasses.
“I can’t say I’ve read anything,” she said, archly.
“That’s kind of you to say. I think,” said Jennifer ignoring the younger woman entirely, though this may have been down to a loss of hearing. She jabbed a finger at Joseph F. Farmer (Cassy couldn’t think of him without the middle initial). “What I’m trying to say is that back then, you were ready to win. And guess what, by any standard, you have. So what if this person slighted that person, or wrote something about the other in some review that no one ever read anyway. It’s all a young man’s game, and I hate to break it to you: You are no longer young men.”
“Speak for yourself,” blurted Joseph F. Farmer before swiveling on his heels and marching back the way he came but not before swiping a sandwich from the table. There was an uneasy silence broken by a spontaneous bout of laughter from Chet who had been watching the entire exchange from a few steps away.
“This is great stuff. All good. So glad I came. Don’t you just love old school authors? From a time when that really meant something. You could be a celebrity author and yet produce some of the most profound work ever written, and—this is crucial—you could do it while being an absolute ass.” He clutched his hands together as if praying. “If only we had that standard today.”
Cassy wasn’t sure who that last remark was intended for, but Caroline Cuthbert made a swift exit shortly after. Tate went to stop her but was shrugged off. He clasped her by the elbow and leaned into her ear and hissed once more. It was his intention that his remark was not heard by the others in the room, but from where Cassy was standing, she could make out a few syllables of the hushed words. Maybe it was her position as a relatively anonymous local author that he didn’t even think to prevent Cassy from hearing. She was nothing to him, she supposed.
“—find the bloody thing or you’re finished.”
The glasses came off Caroline’s face and Tate was met with an icy stare. “This is all your fault, Tate. I never even wanted to be here.” With a flourish, she turned and left the marquee.
> “Oh dear. Gone to find a toadstool to cry under, no doubt,” added Ealing as she left the Green Room.
“You’re wrong, Chet,” said Tate Reacher like he was spitting an errant pipe caught in his teeth. “We do have authors nowadays who are asses.” He then followed Cuthbert back out of the tent.
“Something I said?”
Chapter Six
Later that day, there was to be a reading from the guests of honor. Cassy was proud to count herself among them, so when she arrived at the red and white striped marquee that looked like it should contain a high-wire, several tigers and a clown act rather than a few futons and a gaggle of desperate writers, she was bemused to find that she was denied entry.
Crowded at the back entrance door were Chet, Jennifer, Brian Vidor, and the lingering odor of scotch and cigarette smoke, which Cassy deduced meant that Joseph F. Farmer had been there too until recently.
On seeing Cassy approach, Joseph pounced from nowhere.
“Can you believe this? Don’t blame this on me. I’m not taking the bullet for this one. It’s all on her.”
Before Cassy could formulate a response, he was off again, intimidating the henchman who stood serenely at the entrance. Cassy turned to Jennifer for a more measured update on what was happening.
“Cassandra, isn’t it? I’m always good with names.”
“What’s going on? Why can’t we get in?” Cassy looked past the entrance, which was simply a vertical slash in the fabric of the tent, and saw that the place was full of attentive people watching a single figure on stage. A single figure with big glasses.
“Well, just a few minutes ago, we were informed that we were no longer required for this timeslot. It appears that Caroline Cuthbert would only agree to do a reading from her new book if she was the only author there.”
“And the organizers just let her?” Cassy was annoyed but not entirely surprised. It had been a coup getting Frowd to participate, but he was technically a local. The real big draw for the younger crowd was the Bogsnatchers. If Caroline wanted to read an extract from her new book, and do it her way, then they had no choice but to give in.
“It’s all showmanship,” said Brian. “Silverback stuff, if you get my meaning.” The horror writer seemed to be enjoying the whole episode. Cassy suspected that he was secretly glad that he didn’t have to perform.
“It helps if you have a gorilla-like Reacher on your side. You know, he once told where Truman Capote could insert his latest manuscript. But in more vulgar terms of course. He’ll manage to re-frame any bad publicity that might come from this to his advantage.”
“She ‘was the popular choice,’” said Brian framing his words with a sweep of his hands like he was typesetting a headline.
“I don’t know what my publicist is doing right now. I guess she thought coming to a small festival like this was going to be easy, bless the old crone.”
“So, there are going to be no readings at all?” pondered Cassy. She too was secretly rejoicing that the event had been put off. Just how you read from what amounted to a recipe book and make it interesting was beyond her, and she had no idea why she’d agreed to do it.
“Can I make a suggestion?” said Brian as he watched Joseph F. Farmer rant and rave in the face of the laudable passive henchman. “Let’s take advantage of this fortuitous turn of events and find the nearest bar. I still consider myself a young writer, and if I want to become a literary legend like Joseph F. Farmer, then I think we should follow in his footsteps.”
“You want to have a drink?” Cassy looked to the sky and plotted out the sun’s trajectory. “It’s barely two o’clock.”
Brian looked at Cassy with something approaching admiration.
“Did you just tell the time by looking at the sun? I’m—” he swallowed hard, “I’m seriously impressed.”
“It’s a witch thing.”
Brian smiled. “In that case, I am definitely suggesting that we have a drink together. Dot would be very upset if we didn’t. And we wouldn’t want to do that, would we?”
Cassy thought about it for all of a second. “I’m okay with that.”
“So, no drink?”
It was of course a terrible idea. Maybe that’s why she agreed to it.
“So, tell me,” said America’s #1 bestselling horror writer (or so his badge proclaimed) as he sipped on a diet coke in a corner booth at Dempsey’s, “How did you become a writer?”
“I’m not a writer.”
“But you wrote a book, didn’t you?”
“Yes, technically I did. But that’s not who I am.”
“Well, who are you then, Miss Dean? I’d love to know.” Brian dabbed his lower lip with a napkin. He looked scruffy, certainly compared to Chet, but it was all a look. “Here’s what I do know about you. You’re a witch, but not the get-crushed-by-a-flying-house type, curly boots and all that. Wiccan they call it, don’t they? Old druidic stuff. And I think you’re genuine, in so much as you genuinely believe in all of it. And who am I to say if its real or not. You own your own store, which I have not visited but I can only assume sells things like trinkets, am I right? Magical doodads and spells. Crystals? Dreamcatchers? Understand I’m not passing judgment here, but I am right, aren’t I?”
He was trying to be charming and it was only half working. He had a cheeky child’s grin pushing through his short curly beard and was deliberately trying to get a rise out of her.
“It’s more of a spice shop. You might say that I deal in esoteric ingredients.”
This amused him. “I like it! Mandrake, you’ve got to have mandrake.”
“Of course.”
“That’s some real witchy stuff.” He almost leaped out of his seat as an idea grabbed him. “Voodoo dolls! Tell me you sell those.”
“It’s not a magic shop,” said Cassy. Except that it was. All her natural ingredients, if combined in the correct amounts and given the proper treatment, did produce what could be considered magical effects. She wasn’t about to give Brian any more fuel for his playground teasing. “I provide traditional herbal remedies and other traditional medicines and the like. Or just nice things to cook with or make your house smell nice.” And love potions, good luck charms, hair restoration tonics, anti-curse wards, spells to find missing cats, spells to deter cats and more besides…
Before he could get another word in, Cassy picked up on something that had bothered her since they’d arrived.
“When you said we’d come for drinks, I thought you meant something stronger than a diet coke.”
“Which is why you ordered the cocktail.”
“Which is why I ordered the cocktail. I thought we were being decadent old school authors.”
“I tried that and it didn’t work out. So I stick to these things now,” he said lifting his glass and swirling the fizzing caramel liquid. “Alcohol didn’t agree with me—or rather it agreed too much! ‘Shall I have another?’ and the bottle of Jack would say, ‘Sure, why not, Mr. Vidor, this one’s on the house.’”
“How long have you been sober?”
“A year.”
“Not bad. Has it affected your writing?”
He lifted his glass and the swirling sugar-water disappeared down his throat. “If you mean can I now remember having written my books, then yes, it definitely has had an effect.”
“Maybe you’ll discover that you never wrote them at all.”
“Oooh spooky. Can I have that as a plot?”
Cassy contemplated her own drink. It seemed wrong to be drinking with a recovering alcoholic, and only a year sober too. It was also pretty bad that she was drinking in the day, but that was the least of it.
“Do you know what Mrs. Thatcher meant back there?”
“How do you mean? What did she say?”
“When Joseph F. Farmer came in and started causing a scene, she said that there were three friends. I’m assuming one was Joseph F. Farmer, the other was Reacher but the third I have no idea.”
Brian raised a
n eyebrow. “You really aren’t an author, are you? A writer perhaps, but not an author.” He ran his finger around the rim of his empty glass. “Reacher was a kind of Svengali figure back in the day, notorious for finding talent and promoting them, making them famous. Two of his big finds were Farmer and Frowd.”
That made sense to Cassy. It seemed that the humble Havenholm Weekend of Words had gotten a lot of attention from some big names, but if they were all there for her reclusive neighbor, it all started to add up.
“Chet said that he was inspired by Frowd. It’s the only reason he came here, I think.”
“Me too man,” said Brian, his eyes brightening. “I told you I loved his stuff as a kid. You know, before he got all pretentious and respected. And popular. But I dug the pulpy paperbacks he produced with titles like Hex and Bride of Dead End Street. What does that even mean? How can a street have a bride? Good stuff, all of it. Gruesome too, if you like that kind of thing.”
“I don’t.”
“Aren’t you into all of that occult stuff? I thought that, you know…” He managed a half-hearted shrug, aware that he was floundering.
This was exactly why Cassy didn’t go out of her way to self-identify as a witch. People always got the wrong impression.
“We get a bad rap, but it’s just a hangover from less-educated times when people needed scapegoats. I keep the traditions alive but in my own way.”
Vidor offered to get Cassy another drink but she was already starting to feel its soporific effects and declined. He left Cassy to order another. While he was away, she casually looked through a stack of books he’d placed on the table, all of them well-thumbed, several with colored tags stuck to passages for easy retrieval. All were his own work but one; the last was a copy of Hex by Frowd himself.
“I see you found his masterwork,” said Brian on his return while Cassy leafed through the pages. It was well-written but lurid stuff, involving satanic rituals. It was odd to think that her neighbor had gone from this to universal acclaim and then to self-imposed obscurity.
Ink-Slinger Murder Page 3