The Sarah Woods Mystery Series (Volume 7)

by Jennifer L. Jennings

  “Hello,” he said to me. “You looking for Samantha?”

  “Yes. She’s expecting me for ten-thirty. I realize I’m a bit early.”

  “She hasn’t come in yet, but I’m sure she’s on her way. Have a seat if you like.” He gestured to an area in the corner to my left, where two love seat-style couches faced each other. An espresso machine was set up on the counter against the wall with a mini fridge and various coffee mugs and sugar bowls.

  I took a seat and continued to observe the young man, along with the two women at the other workstations. Both women were older, probably in their sixties. They seemed so intent on their work, and I wondered what they did for Samantha. Were they editors?

  When Samantha showed up a few minutes later, she offered me a warm smile as I got to my feet.

  “Welcome to Black Publishing. If you haven’t met them already, let me introduce you to my team. This is Matthew, and that’s Clair, and Linda is way in the back there.”

  “Hi everyone,” I said with a friendly wave. The three barely glanced up to offer a quick hello before getting back to work.

  “Let’s go into my private office, shall we?”

  I followed her to a separate room, and she closed the door behind us once we were inside. The space looked like it had been decorated by a pro. It made my office look like a dump in comparison.

  “So, what do your employees do?”

  Samantha smiled as she sat on the edge of her desk. “They are my writers.”

  “Really?” I said, not exactly sure what she meant by that. “Do they help you write your books? Or do you publish their books?”

  “I’m going to give you a little insider’s tip that you may not be aware of, Sarah. Once you become a well-known author, you no longer have to write most of the content of your books. I employ writers to do most of the legwork these days, and when the project is complete, I add my finishing touches to make sure the story reads true to my style. It’s a common practice, actually.”

  Now it made sense why Samantha had so many books. She wasn’t actually writing them anymore. She had three writers doing it for her. The fact that she shared this information surprised me. It’s not something I’d be proud of, personally. “They are all writing erotic stories?” I asked.

  “Yep. The nice thing about erotic romance is that it’s formulaic, but by having three different writers, it keeps the content fresh. We try to publish a new novel once a month, to keep our readers satisfied. Erotic readers are very loyal, and they consume a lot. If we don’t offer new material often enough, they’ll find new authors to follow.”

  “I’ve never heard of a guy writing erotic romance before, but I assume he’s very good at it.”

  “Oh, Matthew?” A coy smile played on Samantha’s lips. “Trust me, he’s my best writer. Very imaginative, that one.”

  A flicker of passion lit up her eyes, but it quickly faded. It made me wonder if she was talking about his writing, or if she knew about his imagination first-hand. “Well,” I said, “I have to say, I think it’s a genius idea. But don’t you think by having other people writing your books, it’s a little dishonest to your readers?”

  She laughed. “Like I said, so many authors are doing it. And the great thing is that I have complete control over the whole process. The product is still mine, you see. I can make changes that I see fit. In fact, I can change the whole ending if I want to.”

  “It must be working. You can afford to employ three full-time writers.”

  “Since you bring that up, I have an idea, Sarah, that I think will benefit us both. I have to say, I was impressed with the chapter you read to me yesterday morning. I’m not just saying that to make you feel good. I really mean it. ”

  “Thank you.”

  “Yes, well, I’ve been thinking about branching out. I’d like to start publishing books in other popular genres, and the mystery/thriller genre is a big seller. Especially mystery series.”

  I was beginning to understand where she was going with this, but I remained silent to let her finish.

  “And,” she continued, “if you really want to become a full-time writer, I’m offering you a chance to make that a reality.”

  “What would you require of me?”

  “It’s going to be hard work, I won’t lie about that. It will require many hours of writing each day.”

  “So, let me see if I understand. You want me to write books for you to publish under your own name?”

  “I don’t offer this to just anyone, Sarah. I think you have potential, and I want to give you your first big break. It’s a way to get your foot in the door.”

  “How much would you pay me?” I asked.

  “I will give you a check for fifteen hundred dollars upon completion of the first book. And, if the book sells well enough, you would then receive a percentage of royalties.”

  “What percentage?”

  “Five percent of royalties for two years.”

  I was no math wizard, but the numbers didn’t add up to me. Basically, I would be working as her writer slave with very little compensation. Heck, my name wouldn’t even be on the cover. “Would you own the rights to the books that I wrote?”

  “Keep in mind, this wouldn’t be a permanent situation. If things went well, we could definitely renegotiate the terms. But understand, you must sign a non-disclosure before we come to any terms.”

  This whole transaction seemed like a scam to me, but I didn’t want her to know that I was suspect. “Did you ever offer this position to the others in the writing group?”

  After a long pause she said, “Their writing was not up to my standards, I’m afraid.”

  It made sense now why Samantha organized the writing groups. She wasn’t looking to share her work with the other authors in a friendly critique session. She was looking to recruit authors who were desperate enough to agree to her terms of publishing.

  “I’m very flattered you are interested in my work,” I said, “but I don’t think I could produce the books as fast as you’d want them.”

  “You can do anything you put your mind to. Like I said yesterday morning at the coffee shop—if you want it bad enough, you’ll make it happen.”

  “Before I say yes to your offer, I’d like to speak with the other writers you have in your employ. Would you be opposed to that?”

  Samantha seemed to mull that over. “I would like to accommodate you, but you see, my writers have signed non-disclosure contracts as well. They are not allowed to discuss the terms we’ve agreed upon. I won’t even allow them to discuss individual terms with each other. I hope you understand that I do that for their protection, mainly.”

  I didn’t buy her reasoning for a second, but I played along. “Would I have to work in this office, or could I work from home?”

  “I require that you come into the office every day and work from a computer that I’ve provided. I will set you up with everything you need. All you have to do is show up.”

  I got the notion that Samantha might be a control freak. Did she not trust her writers to work from home, on their own laptops? Why was it so important to come into an office every day as long as the work was getting done?

  “So,” I said, as if I was actually considering her offer, “what happens after the two years of royalties is up?”

  “I retain all royalties as I would own the rights to the book. It’s quite standard in the publishing industry, actually. If you are not familiar, I can send you links to numerous articles on this very topic.”

  “At what point will I get any credit for the writing? What’s my incentive to keep giving the rights away?”

  “Because,” she said, “you will be making a living as a writer. Not many people can say that.”

  “Why couldn’t I just publish them myself?”

  “You could certainly do that,” she said, “but don’t expect to get any sales. It takes thousands of dollars in marketing campaigns to get your book in front of readers’ faces. Most people d
on’t have that kind of cash lying around, not to mention the know-how. It takes years to establish a brand.”

  I wanted to ask her if she’d tried to induct Jeffrey into her little scheme, but then my cover would be blown. Although, I didn’t see the point of keeping the ruse going much longer.

  “I appreciate you giving me this chance, Samantha, but I will need a few days to think it over. Is that OK?”

  “Sure, but I’ll need an answer either way by the end of the week.”

  “Thank you.”

  Samantha checked her watch, letting me know that she was done with our meeting. “I have a few phone calls to return before I leave, so if you don’t mind . . .”

  “Right. I have to get going, anyway. Thanks for meeting with me today.”

  We shook hands, and I promptly left the office.

  I went back to my car which was parked across the street and sat there while I called Carter to give him a blow-by-blow.

  “She’s a savvy business woman,” I said, “and she tried to recruit me to join her team of writers. You should be flattered about that.”

  “Nice to know,” he said, “but what did you gather from the meeting with her?”

  “I don’t know. It’s possible that Jeffrey agreed to work for her, and then realized that he made a mistake. Maybe he tried to renege on the contract, and she threatened to sue him. But that doesn’t explain the five grand he was hiding inside his shoe. If he had written a few books for Samantha and got paid, why would he hide that money? I don’t know, something doesn’t feel right here.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “I’m sitting in my car, across the street from Samantha’s office. I’m waiting for her to leave so I can go back up there and talk to her employees.”

  “What makes you think they’ll talk to you?”

  “Maybe they won’t, but I’ll find a way to appeal to them.”

  “Even if they do talk to you, what will happen if they tell Samantha that you approached them? Your cover will be blown.”

  “Then so be it,” I said. “At this point, there is no good reason to continue pretending to be a writer. It’s time to get serious.”

  “It’s your call, Sarah. Just keep me posted.”

  “Will do.”

  As I ended the call with Carter, I looked up in time to see Samantha exiting the office building, then taking a right, she disappeared into the parking garage. Minutes later she drove out in her black Lexus, and I prayed she wouldn’t notice me sitting in my car across the street.

  She never looked my way, and as soon as she was gone, I went back into the office building and took the stairs to the third floor. Might as well burn a few calories.

  When I entered the office once again, Mathew looked up from his computer and eyed me with irritation. “I’m sorry but Ms. Black just left for the day. Won’t be back in the office till tomorrow.”

  “That’s fine,” I said. “I was hoping one of you could tell me about Jeffrey Kendrick and how long he worked here.”

  The two women stopped typing and looked up from their computers, then turned around in their chairs to face me with mild curiosity. Matthew seemed intrigued as well. He swiveled his chair to the side to get a good look at me. They were probably wondering who I was, and why I was asking about a dead man.

  “Look,” I said to them, “I realize you all work very hard writing stories for Samantha, and I just want to know if Jeffrey had worked here, too. I’m sure you’ve probably heard what happened, that he committed suicide last week. Well, his wife is struggling to understand what drove him to end his life. Any information you have would be tremendous.”

  “We could get in a lot of trouble if we talked to you,” Mathew said, and the other two women nodded.

  “I certainly don’t want to get anyone in trouble, but I really need some help here.”

  The three remained quiet as they looked to one another, as if silently asking for permission to talk. Matthew was the first to speak up.

  “I know who Jeffrey is. He came by here a few weeks ago. He and Samantha were talking in her office, but I don’t think the meeting went so well.”

  “Did you hear them arguing?”

  “No, but when he came out of her office, he seemed pretty shaken up.”

  “What do you mean by ‘shaken’?” I said. “Angry?”

  “No, I think he was just discouraged because Samantha wouldn’t hire him. She’s very picky about the writers she hires.”

  “Are you sure he wanted a job?” I asked. “Maybe they argued about something else?”

  Mathew fixed me with a pleading stare. “I’m sorry, but that’s all I know. And if Samantha knew I was talking about this, she’d fire me.”

  I knew it would be too risky to ask outright if Samantha and Jeffrey were involved in some kind of illegal business. I had already put these employees in jeopardy of losing their jobs, and I didn’t want that on my conscience. “Thanks for the information,” I said as I turned to leave. “I really appreciate your help.”

  Chapter 10

  When I got home, Carter was preparing salami and cheese sandwiches with mustard for lunch. We sat down at the kitchen table, and I devoured my food like a starving woman.

  “How’d you make out with the employees?” he asked.

  “One of the writers told me that Jeffrey wanted a job to write for Black Publishing, but Samantha turned him down.”

  “That’s weird,” he said. “He was a darned good writer. But you still get the impression that Samantha wasn’t sleeping with Jeffrey?”

  “I don’t think she was. In fact, I think she’s sleeping with her employee, Matthew. By the way, have you ever heard of a guy writing erotic romance?”

  “No, but why does that surprise you?”

  “Because usually, guys hate reading romances.”

  He shrugged. “I can’t argue with you there.”

  I cleaned up the dishes after lunch and felt at a complete loss as how to proceed with Mary’s case. “I wish Jessica and Ben would get back to me about the next writers group meeting. Maybe they decided not to include me after all.”

  “I have an idea,” he said, grabbing his car keys. “It’s a beautiful day out, so why don’t we go to the park.”

  “The park?”

  “Manning Park. I want to see exactly where Jeffrey jumped off that bridge.”

  I cringed. “Why do you want to see that?”

  “If you’d rather not go, I’ll understand.”

  “No, you’re right. I think we should go there and check it out.”

  Chapter 11

  Carter parked his Buick at the picnic area, and we noticed there was only one other car present. Must’ve belonged to the woman and child who were playing on the jungle gym.

  As we set out on foot, we followed the path to the bridge. Very little sunlight got through the tall pines that loomed hundreds of feet over us.

  A few minutes later, we were on the bridge, looking down into the water. I tried to picture Jeffrey’s body washed up on one of the rocks below.

  “When Brian was ten or eleven, a kid from his school dove off this bridge one summer. He was just fooling around, showing off for his friends. It was high tide, and I guess he didn’t realize that there were so many rocks down there. He broke his neck and almost drowned, but one of his friends ran down the side to save him.”

  “Did he survive?” Carter asked.

  “Yeah, but he’ll be in a wheelchair the rest of his life. Other than that, I don’t know of anyone who ever jumped off this bridge to commit suicide. I just can’t imagine Jeffrey dropping the dog’s leash, climbing over the railing, and thinking this is how I want to die. Besides, there are much higher bridges in town that would have guaranteed death.”

  Carter was shaking his head as he looked down. “Maybe he figured there was less of a chance of someone trying to stop him here. All the other bridges, there’d be cars driving by. This is a pedestrian bridge, and as you can see, it’s not exac
tly Grand Central Station. In fact, I’ve only seen one person jogging past since we got here. At any rate, Jeffrey probably chose this spot because he knew someone would come along and take care of his dog. It was safer to leave the dog here, instead of on some bridge where the traffic might run him over.”

  “Still doesn’t make sense to me, Carter. Why didn’t he just leave the dog at home? He left his phone and his wallet, right? He could’ve told Mary that he wanted to take a walk by himself, without the dog.”

  “It’s also possible Jeffrey had no intention to kill himself that day. When he got here, he simply acted on impulse.”

  I gazed into the water, trying to imagine what it must feel like to have no hope. “Just goes to show how a guilty conscience can mess with your sanity.”

  “Yeah, it’s too bad that the woman who saw Jeffrey jump off the bridge hadn’t gotten to him sooner. She might’ve been able to talk him down.”

  “You know, I read an article a while back that said when a person is going through hard times, a healthy mind ultimately knows that things will get better. Someone who is clinically depressed doesn’t believe things will ever get better.”

  “Sounds about right.”

  “When I knew Jeffrey years ago, I used to marvel at how he could work so hard and keep his sanity. But he also knew how to manage his stress, which was why he came to me for weekly massages. He’d play golf, or go to the gym to burn off stress, too. So, I guess what I’m saying is, Jeffrey had a healthy outlook on life. And sure, he might have been depressed enough to take pills, but he was not the kind of guy to throw in the towel for no good reason.”