by Libby Howard
I found myself bustled along, even though I protested that I really needed to be getting home. It really was very sweet of Paula to offer me tea, but I realized before my feet hit the tile floor of the kitchen that she had a bit of an ulterior motive.
“We billed the speaker series for tonight as well. It’s nonrefundable…” She put the kettle on and shot me a nervous glance. “Not to be crude or anything, but I’m assuming her things are going to remain in her room at least overnight.”
“I’ll say something to Nancy, but I’m sure right now she’s got more to worry about than whether the event is paying for tonight’s room or not.”
Paula winced, putting a cup and a selection of loose herbal teas in front of me. “What do you think happened to her?”
I shrugged. “Fell? You saw those crazy shoes she liked to wear. It looked like she hit her head on the step. A freak accident.”
“Couldn’t have happened to a nicer person,” Gene drawled.
“Gene!” Paula gasped.
“She wasn’t exactly pleasant to either of you two,” I said. “Actually, she wasn’t pleasant to anyone.”
“Especially that assistant of hers,” Paula added. “Gene and I…well, Ms. Trainor was only going to be here a few days, so it wasn’t too hard to turn the other cheek. I feel bad for that assistant woman, having to work with her every day, putting up with her rudeness and abuse.”
“Assistant?” I frowned. “You mean Eva? Her agent? I think that’s a bit of an even relationship as far as the power dynamic goes. She’s in charge of selling Luanne’s books and negotiating the terms and conditions of those deals. Plus, she’s got a contract. It’s not like Luanne can just fire her or anything.”
“Didn’t seem like much of an even relationship,” Gene commented. “Kinda hard when your crazy client provides ninety percent of your salary, don’t you think? Then that woman comes back and the two of them practically get into a brawl in the front parlor… Surprised that agent didn’t just let them beat the tar out of each other.”
“Wait. What woman?”
“After the brunch,” Paula explained, pouring the hot water into a little teapot and placing it in front of me. “The one with the diaper bag as a purse. The one that was upset about the character getting killed off. She came back, and I didn’t think anything about it when I called Ms. Trainor to come down for a guest.”
“Don’t think Ms. Trainor would have bothered seeing her, but the woman had a gift.” Gene grinned. “Seems our author really likes gifts.”
“Not that kind of gift, she didn’t.” Paula shot her husband a scowl. “It was a cow heart. Who gives someone a cow heart?”
I selected my tea and poured the hot water over the strainer. “Someone who is upset about Barton Wells being killed off, that’s who. Eva told me that there were all sorts of hate mail and that they’d gotten a cow heart delivered last year as well. I guess a fan group got together and decided that was the best way to protest the death of a fictional character.”
“Well, Ms. Trainor threw it across the room and next thing I know they’re wrestling and yanking hair and screaming at each other. That Eva woman ran downstairs and pulled them apart. Made Luanne go up to her room and offered the girl an early release or something to keep quiet about it. Then later on, the two of them are the ones having a screaming match in the parlor.”
Poor Eva. I drank down my tea and stood up, thanking Paula and Gene for their hospitality and reassuring them that I’d speak to Nancy about the fee for tonight’s room. On my way back to the theater and my car, I texted Nancy and asked her for the guest list at brunch—particularly inquiring about the young woman who’d had the burping cloth over her shoulder when she’d come in. The theater was closed up and dark when I got in my car and Nancy was clearly long gone, but she must have still been awake because I got a text with a PDF attachment before I’d left the city limits.
By the time I pulled in my driveway it was well after midnight. The porch light was still on, as was the one in the upstairs hallway, and the kitchen. I appreciated Judge Beck making sure I didn’t come home to a dark house, and I especially appreciated my furry friend racing to greet me as I came through the door. I set down my cooler with the empty pans and scooped up my cat so he could bump my chin with his head and nestle against my neck with a rumbling purr.
“Exciting night?”
My heart nearly left my chest. Looking up, I saw Judge Beck in the kitchen doorway in his pajamas with reading glasses perched on his nose and a cup of something in his hand.
“You have no idea. What are you doing still up?”
He raised the mug. “Couldn’t sleep so I made a pot of chamomile. Want some? You can join me in the kitchen and we’ll discuss prune juice and how those darned kids won’t stay off our lawn.”
I really loved having a roommate. I loved having this roommate. Yes, Taco was the main man in my life right now, but it was nice to have actual human companionship as well.
“Tea sounds lovely.” I walked into the kitchen with Taco still in my arms and sat on a stool while Judge Beck pulled out another mug and poured the tea. He held up the sugar with a raised eyebrow, but I waved it away, figuring I didn’t need it with the sweetness of the chamomile, or at this hour of the night.
“More craziness with the author?” he asked, putting the mug in front of me and sliding onto the other stool. “I’ll bet you’re dreading the trip to the airport tomorrow. Maybe you can just open the door and kick her out of it without stopping.”
“I won’t be taking her to the airport tomorrow because she’s dead,” I blurted out. Then I took a sip of the blissfully hot tea. It wasn’t as fancy as what I’d had at Paula’s, but somehow this tasted so much better here in my home, with a person, and a cat, I cared about around me.
Judge Beck choked on his tea, then pounded his chest as he coughed. I waited for him to catch his breath, calmly sipping from my mug. Maybe I was still in shock. Maybe it had all settled and I was just numb. Maybe discovering so many dead bodies in the last few months had jaded me to the whole experience.
“You. Said. Dead?” the judge sputtered.
“Dead. And that probably wasn’t the worst part of my day.”
He took a ragged breath, another sip of tea, and leaned forward. “Do tell.”
“Remember the brunch that started okay, but then someone brought up a beloved character that Luanne inadvisably killed off? Remember I said she went off on these fans who’d paid some big money to have a private brunch with her? And that the rest of the brunch was tense and awkward? Well, evidently, one of them was angry enough to return with a cow heart in a box and Eva had to break up an actual, physical fight between Luanne and the fan. Then at the main event, some other author who’d had a plagiarism lawsuit against Luanne was there and stood up, loudly reasserting her claims. Then some whacko fan with a knife showed up at the meet-and-greet and needed to be carted off by the police. Then Luanne disappeared, kind of understandably because she might have been struggling to get through the rest of the event after having some woman point a knife at her. When I went to find her, I found her dead in the city garage.”
He stared, openmouthed. After a few seconds, he shook his head and took another gulp of tea. “Holy cow, that sounds like it should be a soap opera. Or the plot of one of her novels. Not that I’ve read any of her novels.”
“I’ve got some if you want to give them a go,” I told him. “They’re really good but get ready for some cold showers.”
He grimaced. “I’ll skip it, thanks. I’ve had enough cold showers during the last year. No need to further torture myself.”
This was…. well, it was a really weird conversation to be having with my roommate, who I had platonic feelings of affection for. Strictly platonic. Although this particular subject reminded me of that nagging suspicion I’d had ever since I’d seen that manuscript in Luanne’s briefcase.
“Actually, I’m beginning to believe that Luanne didn’t write tho
se books.” I gave him a knowing nod. “I read some of her earlier stuff and it’s nothing like her bestselling series. Then tonight I went to get her briefcase from the dressing room, and a manuscript fell out. It was the last Fanged Darkness novel, and Luanne had marked it all up and was sending it to some woman named Geraldine Pook.”
The judge shook his head. “A side editor, maybe? A friend who pre-reads and gives her feedback?”
“I don’t know.” I narrowed my eyes. “I wonder if she doesn’t have a ghostwriter.”
“A lot of people have ghostwriters,” the judge pointed out. “It seems like every one of those political thriller novels is some kind of ghostwritten collaboration. That big-name bestseller with the television commercials? I envision a sweatshop of ink-stained writers, frantically typing on laptops in a dimly lit warehouse, churning out his novels for him.”
I laughed, knowing exactly who he meant. “What if there were some sort of issue with the ghostwriter, though? What if this Geraldine Pook found out there was a million-dollar film deal going down and decided she was getting the short end of the stick? What if she came to Milford to demand that Luanne give her more money, and they argued, and she pushed Luanne—”
“First off, the woman fell,” Judge Beck interrupted. “It was an accident. You yourself said she could hardly walk in those shoes, and from what I remember, that parking garage has got enough cracks to make the most surefooted person stumble. Secondly, ghostwriters have contracts. The publishing houses make sure those people are locked in tight legally. It’s work-for-hire. Geraldine Pook writes the book, gets a paycheck, and owns nothing of the rights on that work.”
“But she’s bitter and angry because when she signed on to write these, she never envisioned they’d hit number one on the New York Times list or get a big-name film deal. So she decides to confront Luanne. Maybe she knows something about the author. Maybe she can blackmail her for a percentage of the film deal.”
“Maybe you’re the one who should be writing fiction novels,” Judge Beck countered with a grin.
I sighed, looking down at my tea. “You’re right. It’s probably all on the up-and-up with this Geraldine Pook, even if she is a ghostwriter for Luanne Trainor. I’m sure the publishing company has handled this sort of arrangement before, and for all I know the ghostwriter is a professional who has been freelancing for decades behind the scenes.”
“And even if that’s not the case, Luanne Trainor fell by accident.” Judge Beck motioned to my mug with his own with a teasing smile. “Now drink up and go to bed before you start imagining all sorts of other wild conspiracies involving poisoned cow hearts or gangs of ghouls roaming the Milford parking garage.”
Chapter 13
Sweat trickled down the back of my neck, detouring along my collarbone and pooling at the edge of my sports bra as my body shook from the plank pose. Dratted Daisy. She’d had us holding this thing forever and muscles I didn’t know I had were screaming.
“What if someone actually killed Luanne Trainor?”
My friend’s voice was even and strong. I, on the other hand, could only manage a grunt in reply.
“Seriously,” she continued. “That crazy-pants woman with the knife can’t have been the only nut job prowling around. Or plagiarism woman. After what you told me about the brunch, I did some internet browsing and found a ton of fan sites, some of which are devoted to expressing how upset they are about Barton Wells’s death and doing anything they can to force Luanne into resurrecting him.”
I grunted in reply. Then sighed in relief as Daisy moved into a downward dog.
“What if those brunch ladies posted what Luanne said about never bringing Barton back, and someone decided to express their anger in a more physical way?”
“One came back,” I gasped. “Amy Shep. Brought a cow heart. Had a fight.”
“What?” Daisy jerked her head to look at me. “Who? What?”
I took a breath and followed Daisy into a Parsvottanasana. “One of those Barton Wells fans was at the brunch. She came back and confronted Luanne. Had a cow heart in a box. They had a scuffle. Eva broke it up.”
“See? That woman came back once more. She knew no one would allow her into the meet-and-greet after fighting with Luanne, so she waited and accosted her in the parking garage—”
“Oh yeah, because it was just a matter of time until Luanne went out the fire exit and into the parking garage where she didn’t even have a car parked and tottered all the way to the back entrance on those crazy high heels. It’s not likely, Daisy. Luanne fell. I don’t know what she was doing in that garage, but she fell.”
Daisy shifted into an Uttanasana. “Well, I think there’s foul play. I don’t think she fell. Or if she did, she was pushed.”
I grimaced, hoping we’d be upright in the next pose. “I’ll ask J.T. what the gossip is on Monday,” I huffed. “But I’m pretty sure the police on the scene were calling it an accident.”
“Well, it couldn’t have happened to a nicer person,” Daisy grumbled, moving into tree pose.
“Daisy!” I scolded, mirroring her movements with relief. We continued our yoga in silence for a few moments, then I couldn’t help but voice my suspicions. “I don’t think Luanne actually wrote the Fanged Darkness series herself. Or Infernal Awakenings. I think she was using a ghostwriter.”
“What?” Daisy lost her balance on the tree pose, nearly landing on her face. “Was that what the plagiarism thing was all about?”
“No, I think that’s something different.” I told Daisy all about the old series Luanne had written as well as the manuscript in the briefcase while she regained her position.
“Wow. That’s…. that’s not technically illegal, but in my opinion it’s really immoral. Here everyone is thinking she’s one of the best writers in the last three decades and it wasn’t even her.”
“Lots of people have ghostwriters,” I told Daisy as we stood into mountain pose. “Not everyone credits them, either.”
“Yeah, but they’re all celebrities and politicians—nobody expects them to be writing their own stuff. But other books? It’s not ethical at all.”
“I’m sure this woman is making good money for her work, and maybe she doesn’t want the fame. Although I did wonder if that was the reason for some of the legal issues around the film deal.”
“The film deal is off?”
“I got the impression it was on the rocks,” I told her as we finished up in prayer pose.
“Huh. So maybe the producer killed Luanne because his career was hinging on this deal and the ghostwriter thing screwed it up. Or maybe Eva killed her because the ghostwriter thing screwed it up. Or maybe a Barton Wells fan killed her, or the plagiarism accuser, or—”
“Or she caught her absurdly tall and pointy heels in a crack in the parking garage floor and fell headfirst onto a concrete step and died completely by accident.”
We headed into the house and I poured us both a cup of coffee, pulling the quiche Daisy had brought out of the oven, and a bowl of mixed fruit out of the fridge.
“Let’s Google her,” Daisy suggested as she grabbed plates and silverware.
“Google Luanne? Or the fan groups? I thought you already did that.”
“No, the ghostwriter.”
“Daisy, that’s creepy.” Not that I hadn’t contemplated doing just that. I was just as nosy as my best friend.
“Maybe she’s an actual author and is just doing this on the side or something. If that’s the case, then I totally want to read her other stuff.”
That was a pretty valid, non-creepy reason. And I agreed with Daisy—if this Geraldine Pook had written other books, I wanted to read them as well. I pushed the quiche over to Daisy to serve and went into the foyer, returning with my laptop. While Daisy dished out the breakfast, I sipped my coffee and searched the internet.
Luckily, I had Geraldine Pook’s address from the envelope and Luanne’s address book because the woman wasn’t easy to find. Unless she was publis
hing under an alias, or only acted as a ghostwriter, she didn’t have any other books out. She also had no social media accounts or webpage, which seemed odd to me. I’d done freelance work in the past to help make ends meet after Eli’s accident, and it was hard to get the word out without some sort of internet presence. Although perhaps Geraldine only did this on the side, and only for Luanne. If she was happy with just the one client, she wouldn’t need to have a webpage to solicit others. And given the secrecy about it, I doubted Luanne would have allowed herself or her books to be used as a reference of Geraldine’s skill.
Finally, I found something. It seemed Geraldine’s husband was a pastor at a church, and she was the leader for the family life committee as well as a Sunday school teacher. There was even a picture of her, smiling and surrounded by a hoard of children. I eyed the service time, then my watch.
“Wanna go to church?” I asked Daisy.
“And risk being struck down by lightning?” She chuckled. “Not gonna happen.”
“Even to meet the woman who actually wrote the Fanged Darkness series?” I shot Daisy a sideways glance.
Her eyes narrowed. “Okay. That might actually get me in church.”
“It’s an hour drive to Bayforest. Think you can be church-ready in half an hour?”
She sighed and eyed the few bites of quiche left on her plate. “Only if you’re buying lunch afterward. And only if that lunch includes mimosas. If I’ve got to step foot in a church, I’m going to need an alcoholic beverage immediately afterward.”
I closed the laptop shut and pulled the plate from her hand. “Deal. Now get going and hurry up. We’ve got a service at Bayforest United Church of Christ to attend.”
Bayforest. We were halfway there before I realized what had been nagging me since I’d seen Geraldine Pook’s address on the envelope with the manuscript in it. When I’d first picked Luanne up from the airport, she’d wanted me to drive her to Bayforest before taking her to the airport. There wasn’t much good reason for a complete stranger to want to go to Bayforest, so I assumed she was planning to head there this very morning to speak with who I was assuming was her ghostwriter. She must not have intended a lengthy conversation—just a quick stop-by before catching her flight back to New York. Was the visit to go over that manuscript in Luanne’s briefcase in person? Was it to deal with whatever hitch there was with the film rights? Or was it to have a face-to-face about their agreement and the monetary compensation?