A Literary Scandal

by Libby Howard

  A Literary Scandal

  Libby Howard

  Copyright © 2018 by Libby Howard

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Libby Howard

  Chapter 1

  “I’ve been dying to show you something,” I told Kat as I handed her a glass of wine. Our neighborhood porch happy hour had expanded, and there were evenings when it felt like half the town was milling about on my porch, drinking wine and shedding the weight of the work day. Kat was here early, even before Daisy had arrived, and she looked like she seriously needed that glass of Chardonnay.

  “Your latest knitting project?” She sipped the wine and watched me dig into the Vera Bradley tote I was using as a craft bag.

  “Yeah.” I handed her the scarf, transported back in time to when I was standing beside my fifth-grade science project, waiting for the judges to comment.

  “This is beautiful, Kay.” She handed it back to me. “I love that yarn, and the pattern is really pretty.”

  My heart sank. “But?”

  “It’s beautiful,” she insisted. “Wear it. Enjoy it. Be happy that you’ve got something beautiful on that you made with your own hands. And when you’re ready to start your next project, ask me to come over and I’ll walk you through the stitches.”

  “Because I didn’t get these stitches right?” I looked down at the scarf.

  Kat leaned over me. “See this decrease here? You’re doing both decreases on either side of the central pattern as knit-two-together. You need to do a slip-knit-passover on this one so the knitted stitch is angling in the right direction. They should look like they’re hugging the pattern, drawing the eye toward the eyelet stitches.”

  “Oh.” I’d worked so hard on it too.

  “Kay, no one will see the difference. Wear it. It’s beautiful, and you made it yourself. Be proud of that.”

  “But it’s not perfect.” I contemplated pounding down my wine, maybe pounding down the entire bottle. “I wanted it to be perfect.”

  “Which is why I pointed it out to you. Otherwise I would have kept my mouth shut. This is how you learn. I can’t tell you how many sweaters I have with tiny little flaws in the pattern where I miscounted, or forgot a yarn-over, or dropped a stitch and wove it back in wrong. I wear every one of them with pride. They’re gorgeous and no one but me knows there’s a tiny little human mistake in them. Doesn’t matter. I love them anyway.”

  I squinted down at the scarf, looking at the decreases slanted the wrong way. “So, slip-knit-passover, huh?”

  “Call me and I’ll show you. I’ll even show you how to do a Fair Isle stitch holding the background color yarn in your left hand. You’ll be making sweaters and knitting lace in no time.”

  I laughed. “Think I’m going to stick with simple scarves for a while. They’re going to be my Secret Santa gifts this year.”

  “Ooh, I know who I want getting my name this year, then.” Daisy clomped up the stairs to my porch, eyeing the scarf. “That’s pretty. I want one in blue.”

  She was getting one in blue; she just didn’t know it yet. I poured Daisy a glass of wine then fired up a second one as I saw Suzanne walking down the sidewalk.

  “So…Luanne Trainor.” Daisy’s eyebrows wiggled as she took the glass of wine.

  “I know. It was quite the surprise, a last-minute addition to the theater’s speaker series,” I said. My friend Nancy was all a-flurry getting things organized just-so for the big event. We didn’t often get big-names in Locust Point or Milford, and according to Nancy, Luanne Trainor was A-list big.

  “Do you have tickets?” Kat gave a quick hop, clutching her wine glass in both hands. “I can’t wait. I’ve read every one of her novels. Rumor has it there’s a film in the works.”

  “Oh, I’ll be there, meet-and-greet and all.” Daisy shot me a grin. “I’ve got connections, you know.”

  Kat turned to me, her eyebrows raised.

  “I’m in charge of hospitality,” I confessed. “Nancy Fishman roped me into it, probably because she wanted me to make my icebox cake for the reception after the lecture.”

  Daisy rolled her eyes. “It’s not a lecture, Professor Carrera, it’s a presentation and a book signing. And the reason Nancy Fishman asked you to host it is because you’re the only woman in town who hasn’t read Luanne Trainor’s novels. Thus, you’re the only woman in town that isn’t likely to go all fangirl on her and drool on her fancy designer shoes or chain her to a bed and threaten to break her legs if she didn’t have Roman wind up with Trelanie.”

  Oh, good grief. “No, I’m sure it’s the icebox cake.”

  “You gals talking about Luanne Trainor?” Suzanne huffed, hopping up the final step and reaching toward me for the outstretched glass of Chardonnay. “I just read the first in her Infernal Awakenings series. Wow. Needed a cold shower after that one.”

  Maybe I needed to pick up these books. Although, given that I was a recent widow, anything that made me run for a cold shower probably wasn’t something I wanted on my reading list.

  “Her Fanged Darkness series is even hotter,” Kat confessed. “Will was ready to barricade himself in the man cave by the time I’d finished book six. He swore if I read anything else by that woman, he was going to need to ask his doctor for Viagra.”

  Daisy laughed. “Right. The man protests too much, methinks. Are you gals rooting for Roman and Trelanie? Or do you think he’s going to go all dark-side and ditch her for that ‘ho Morgana?”

  “Daisy!” I scolded, shocked that my friend who was all about empowering women and smashing the patriarchal establishments would even refer to a fictional character as a ‘ho.

  “Do you think there’s really going to be a film?” Suzanne asked. “How the heck are they going to rate that movie? I mean, is there a Z rating or something? A quintuple X?”

  “Oh, the books aren’t that explicit…. are they?” I frowned and picked up my wine, once more contemplating downing the contents. When Nancy had first approached me about running hospitality for this last-minute guest of Milford Theater’s speaker series, I’d assumed I’d be making nice to an award-winning journalist, or someone who wrote literary fiction, like The Secret Life of Bees or something. Not smutty novels featuring vampires and demons as the hot love interests.

  Okay, maybe I was being overly snobby here. I’d certainly enjoyed my share of bodice rippers and dime-store romances over the years. Why shouldn’t the author of an insanely popular New York Times bestselling series deliver a presentation and graciously mingle with fans at a book signing? It’s not like she was going to be acting out scenes from her novels or anything.

  I snickered at the idea, thinking that I probably should read a few of these woman’s books before I hauled down to pick her up at the airport and proceeded to spend two days in her company, ensuring
her comfort and happiness and guaranteeing that the meet-and-greet signing post lecture, or presentation, went smoothly. I had a bunch of them upstairs on my nightstand, given to me by a very adamant Daisy who insisted I take her well-worn, dog-eared paperbacks.

  “Are y’all talking Luanne Trainor here?” Olive climbed my steps, fanning her face with a dramatic hand. “Woo. That’s some steamy stuff there, girls.”

  The woman tossed her hair over her shoulder, beads clacking, and gave me a wink as she reached for a glass. Olive had become a regular at our porch-parties the last month and was practically like a neighbor at this point.

  “I got our tickets,” Suzanne told her. “Third row. I sprang for the meet-and-greet as well.”

  Olive poured her wine then grinned over at the other woman. “Thanks. I’ll pick up dinner in return. Greek? That Ethiopian place in Stallworth? Or do you want to try the new gastro pub in downtown Milford?”

  “Ethiopian?” Suzanne’s eyes sparkled.

  “You’ll love it,” I told her. “The food comes in little separate piles on these huge metal trays and you scoop it up by hand with spongy buckwheat pancakes and eat it like a makeshift soft taco. Get the lamb, or the goat if they have it.”

  Eli and I used to eat there. My mind drifted back to memories of us sharing a dinner in the dimly lit basement restaurant, walking among the galleries and antique shops afterward, then swinging in for a quick gelato before heading home. I’d hold his hand, practically dozing as our car hummed over the back roads from Stallworth to Locust Point, lulled into a somnolent state by the food and the languid romance of the evening.

  “When are you picking her up from the airport?” Daisy asked me, interrupting my trip down memory lane. “Can I hide in your trunk and be a creepy stalker woman?”

  “Tomorrow morning, and no.” I laughed. J.T. had given me Friday off, trading my lost salary for free advertising at the event. I’m not sure what he thought a few hundred rabid Luanne Trainor readers were going to want with an investigations and bail bonds firm, though. Maybe for all the divorces when the ladies left their husbands for sexy, brooding vampires? Or for all the DWIs after the meet-and-greet, although hopefully the volunteer bartenders would be savvy enough to prevent that sort of thing.

  “So, what does being a host entail?” Kat asked. “Chauffeur? Food pick-up and delivery? Making sure there are no green M&Ms in the bowl in the dressing room?”

  I grimaced. “All of the above. Nancy is taking care of the room set-up, the food and beverages, and the volunteer servers, but I need to make sure the signing process goes smoothly, and pretty much run around like a chicken with my head cut off, doing whatever Ms. Trainor wants me to do.”

  “You get to basically have two days of one-on-one with her.” Suzanne’s voice was wistful with a touch of envy. “I wonder what she’s really like? I’ve read some interviews with her and saw a video of her presentation at some conference, but that’s not really a good indication of what someone’s like, you know?”

  I did know. Almost thirty years in journalism and I’d done plenty of interviews where my subjects were practiced and careful about the words they spoke as well as the image they projected.

  “I promise I’ll give you all the details,” I told her. “Everything from when she has spinach between her teeth to her weird taste in music.”

  “I just want to know if Trelanie and Roman end up together,” Kat told me. “He needs her. She is the only one who can heal his tortured vampire soul.”

  “How about him healing her soul?” I teased. “Or, at the very least, taking out the garbage every Wednesday night and remembering to pick up milk on the way home from work. That’s the stuff that true love is built on.”

  “It’s not about garbage night and milk,” Daisy informed me. “It’s about his smooth moves in the bedroom. Boom-chicka-wow-wow.”

  I swatted Daisy’s arm and laughed but I was thinking about Eli and his accident and how long it had been since there had been any boom-chicka-wow-wow for me. No, love was about the garbage night and the milk. Actually, it was about the companionship, the weaving together of two lives, the building of something so strong it withstood the test of time, the test of catastrophic medical issues…and the forever loss of boom-chicka-wow-wow.

  “Hush, the menfolk are coming.” Kat grinned and waved a hand toward where her husband was heading up the sidewalk and Judge Beck was pulling in the driveway.

  Sometimes Kat’s husband Will would join us, as would Bert Peter from across the street, and Bob Simmons from down the block. The men always held their glasses of wine like we were serving them strychnine, and stood around with that deer-in-headlights expression, eventually huddling together at the end of the porch to discuss lawn mowing techniques or what the greens looked like on the city golf course while we talked, laughed, and shrieked like harpies.

  We wouldn’t see the menfolk for a week or two, then they’d come back, inexorably drawn by our odd womanly ritual, trying to discern the mysteries of the female sex by observing our weekly, after-work bonding.

  Judge Beck knew better. He’d exchange a few polite words, then flee inside to wait for our happy hour to be over. I took pity on him and tried to have the more gender-neutral neighborhood barbeque parties once a month throughout the summer.

  Will paused and waited for the judge to exit his car. They spoke, then headed up the stairs side-by-side. This time, as Will poured himself some wine, Judge Beck picked up a glass and held it out for the other man to fill.

  I nearly fell over in shock. “Are you joining us tonight?” I asked him. “I mean, you’re always welcome, you know.”

  “Just the one glass.” He held it up in a toast, clinking it against mine. “I’ve got some work I need to do, but I thought I’d join you for a quick drink.”

  Heather had the kids on a two-week vacation, and Judge Beck had been drowning himself in work. It had become his habit to put in long hours when he didn’t have the kids so he could shorten his workload for the weeks he did have them, but this was different. Two weeks they’d be gone. I missed them too, but for the judge, it was as if they’d been gone forever. From a few things he’d let slip, I knew his and Heather’s divorce proceedings had hit a rough patch. That was probably as much the reason for his insane workload lately as missing his children.

  I did my best to make sure he had a decent dinner to warm up whenever he got home, and some coffee and homemade pastries ready and waiting for when he woke up and dashed out the door to work, but other than that, I tried to let him deal with things in his own way. I was walking a fine line between being a supportive friend and prying. And it was hard because I missed him just as much as I missed the kids. He’d hardly been home at all in the last week, and when he was he’d been in the dining room, nose-deep in papers. It was a shock seeing him pull in the driveway before eight o’clock. And a double shock seeing him mingling with the neighbors on the porch, a glass of wine in his hand.

  “You work too hard,” I told him, deciding the supportive friend me needed to nudge him out of his workaholic mood a bit. “We should do a movie night.”

  He smiled, lines crinkling up at the edges of his hazel eyes. “That sounds fun, but don’t you have some high-society event thing you’re doing this weekend?”

  “Luanne Trainor,” I told him. “She’s more high-profile than high-society. Maybe tomorrow night if she doesn’t have me running errands. Or Sunday once I drop her off at the airport.”

  “I’ll pencil it in.” He took a sip of wine then looked around at the crowd on our porch. “You’re becoming quite the socialite, Kay. Between these happy hours and the barbeques, you’ve got something going on most days of the week.”

  I eyed him in concern. “Is it too much? It’s just been such a nice summer. If it’s too much—”

  “I meant it as a compliment, Kay. You probably weren’t able to entertain much at all the last ten years, and from what you’ve told me, you and Eli were very social before his acciden
t. I think it’s wonderful that you’re having the neighbors over and making new friends.”

  “Does it disrupt your work?” I was so worried that he’d been staying late at the office because my happy hours were something he didn’t want to face. It wasn’t like he’d ever joined us before today. Maybe I needed to stop them. Maybe we could move them over to Kat’s house instead. Or Daisy’s.

  “No, it does not. I like it. And once my work settles down a bit, I intend to join you more often. Especially now that I know it’s not just a women-only thing.”

  “Silly, you’re always welcome. Will and some of the other men have been coming off and on for the last few months.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Off and on being the key phrase. They always look terrified, huddled over in the corner with their wine. I figured I was being the smart one, beating a hasty retreat into the house.”

  “Well, they’ve clearly gotten over their fear of us ladies.” I gestured over to where Will was laughing over something with Suzanne and Daisy. “Time for you to come out of hiding and join us.”

  “I will.” He drained the wine glass and set it down on the table. “But tonight…”

  “Tonight is work.” I gave him a sympathetic smile. “There’s chicken and mushroom sauce in the Crock-Pot, and rice in the warmer. Help yourself.”

  His smile was warm. “I’d starve if it wasn’t for you, Kay. You know that, right?”

  “Yes, I know that. Now get in there and get your work done. I’ve got big plans for us this weekend and I don’t want some embezzlement case honing in on our movie time.”

  He saluted then grabbed his briefcase and headed for the door, passing right through the shadow that was forming just off to my left. I scowled, because this shadow wasn’t the one I’d come to affectionately think of as Eli, the one that sat beside me while I watched television or read, the one that hovered comfortingly in my bedroom at night and watched over me as I gardened. No, this ghost was one I thought I’d gotten rid of when I’d taken Peony Smith down to the police station to confess her crimes. This ghost was Holt Dupree.