Best of Luck Elsewhere

by Trisha Haddad

  “Jane?” I asked.

  “Yes. And she said that Ms. Orwell was a difficult person to work for. That she gave everyone a hard time, but especially the two of you, since you all worked so closely together. Would you agree with that statement?”

  “Oh, sure. Rain, Ms. Orwell, wasn’t a model supervisor. I wouldn’t say that we were friends or anything even close. She was really hard on Jane especially. I felt bad for her, and sometimes wished she’d just leave.”

  “Ms. Orwell?”

  “No, Jane. I mean, I wanted her to leave just to show Rain how hard it would be to find someone who could do all that Jane did.”

  He frowned, and I noticed the deep lines carved into his forehead by a life of producing stern looks. “I also asked Jane what kept her in her position as Ms. Orwell’s assistant so long, when she could have quit and been an administrative assistant in almost any company in San Diego.”

  “She wants to go further than just being an assistant. A referral from Rain could have gotten Jane a pretty good promotion at J Press, when the time was right. But you have to work long and hard and take a lot of crap to get that.”

  “Jane said it was because she respected Ms. Orwell’s drive and talent and place in the industry. She was learning a lot from her and hoped to someday move into a higher position within the company. Are you sure,” he raised an eyebrow, “that the referral isn’t why you stayed? Do you have dreams of working with the big publishers in, where is it? New York City?”

  I waved my hand, shooing away the very idea. “New York? No way! J Press may not be one of the most prestigious publishing houses in the country, but it is the best in a city where it’s a dry seventy-five degrees outside when I’m out looking for a Christmas tree. No way I’d give up San Diego’s sun and surf for even the most prestigious company.”

  “So you surf?”

  “No, but I like the beach.”

  “Right. And you plan to stay in your position at J Press? Not many people are that satisfied in their jobs.”

  I glanced down. “I wouldn’t say that. Heck, you wouldn’t say that if you saw the trunk-load of manuscripts I bring home every night, and how I get paid for eight hours of work when I am actually working almost every waking hour.” I laughed.

  He laughed, too, but with the half-hearted, distracted laugh of a person with something on their mind other than the joke. “Yeah, I wouldn’t like that. And how many hours do you usually work over your eight hours in the office?”

  I thought about it, and didn’t come up with an answer before he continued.

  “Well, just take yesterday, for example. How many hours did you spend yesterday, over and above the usual?”

  Adam’s smooth chest flashed into my mind. And my impatient burning for each touch. “I usually work probably three or four extra hours a night. Yesterday was less. I went out.”

  “I see. So maybe you don’t have a lot of job satisfaction, but you work hard, usually. Why would you say that is?”

  “I really want to move up in the company, and hopefully I can move into a senior editor position at some point.”

  “That would be the position Ms. Orwell held until her death, correct?”

  “Yeah. Believe me, she didn’t take home any manuscripts that didn’t already have a glowing report from yours truly. She got to read only the good stuff.”

  Detective Wilson sifted through his papers again. Pulling out another set of notes, he glanced over them. “Ms. Li says that you’ve actually now filled Ms. Orwell’s position. Is that right?”

  “Temporarily. Right now I’m just trying to find my way through her unfinished tasks and mine, and figure out what exactly she did all day.” I let out an exasperated laugh to ease the tension I could almost visualize settling heavily in the room. It didn’t work on the detective. It didn’t work on me either, for that matter.

  “So, you hope it’ll become permanent?”

  “What?”

  “The position.”

  “I’m planning on applying for it. I can’t say I’m completely sure that I want it, though. It’s just that it’s the kind of thing that I have been working towards, and I don’t want to let the opportunity slip away while I sit back being unsure. I don’t want to be an assistant editor forever. Rain never would have handed it over.”

  “You don’t think she would have handed it over to anyone? Or just not to you?”

  Uh-oh. That doesn’t sound like he likes my answer. I was hoping for a quick handshake and sincere thanks for my time and a “good luck” in my ambitions.

  “To anyone?” I answered. I meant it to be my answer, but it came out more like a question.

  “Hmm,” he muttered, again checking some notes. I was beginning to dread every time that he’d bow his head to his notes. “Yes, Jane said that you were hoping to succeed Rain when she left.”

  “I didn’t wish an accident like this on her, though.”

  “Did Ms. Li tell you that we think this so-called accident might have been planned?”

  “Yeah. She said it was because Rain had some author’s rejection letter.”

  “Yes, that’s one of the reasons.”

  “I think she said it was one of our form letters.”

  “And the only people who would have a copy of that letter would be someone in your company or an author of a rejected manuscript, correct?”

  “Yes. But not everyone in the company would have it. Just people in our department. Other departments have letters with their own editor’s name on them. It’s really frustrating that we don’t personalize those. They just say ‘Dear Author.’ I was on Rain to get that changed. A simple merge file in a Word document would make it so much more personalized. So it is just really sad that it turns out…”

  “Did Ms. Orwell send out these letters?”

  “No, the interns physically send them. But I decide who gets them. Her name’s on them, though, because she was, you know, the face of the mystery department. I thought Ms. Li was going to tell you that.”

  “Hmm.” Detective Wilson leaned forward, looking very serious. “We’ll be sure that this information does not get out until we catch the person who did this. Come to think of it, I’ll talk to Ms. Li, too, and ask her to have a meeting with the people in your department to discourage them from discussing the fact that you are the prime decider on manuscripts. If it was an author who killed Ms. Orwell, I guess you should be glad that they didn’t know who really rejected them.”

  A vision of my little Civic being thrown over the side of the freeway flashed across my mind.

  I said nothing and Wilson continued. “Do you have a list of authors you’ve sent rejection letters to—these form letters? Can you pull a list like that?”

  “I’ll have to ask the interns. They get me the manuscripts and send out the rejects. They must have some kind of database. I’ll talk to them. Anything else?” My voice was shaky. I was ready to get out of there.

  “Just please remember, Ms. Tahan, to be quiet about your job when you’re out on the town. If the murderer is an author, and if the author is still in San Diego, we don’t want him finding out that you were the one who really did the rejections. That would make you his real target.”

  * * *

  Once I boarded the trolley back to the office, I collapsed into a seat. My arms fell onto my knees and my head fell into my arms. The murderer’s real target?

  The trolley began moving and I took a deep breath, shook my head to clear my mind, and sat up straight. I can’t come undone. Not about this. I’m on my way back to work, and I’ll just get back to business. The police can worry about this. I’ve got to keep it together. But I need to remember to have the interns pull up one of those author lists. As I reached into my workbag for my organizer and pen, my hand brushed over a stack of newspaper pages.

  “Oh, no!” I moaned audibly, gazing into my bag as my stomach turned. The article. The interview.

  I hastily pulled out a paper and opened to the page with my i
nterview. My picture next to my car. Thankfully I’d overcome my camera-shyness enough to insist on a close-up so that my house would not be in the shot.

  But what had I said? What had Adam asked me? Or, more pointedly, what had Adam remembered of our conversation and written about? Surely I wasn’t so distracted by my upcoming adventure or carried away by Adam’s good looks and flirting that I would have told him that I made most every decision. Rain would have killed me.

  I scanned the article.

  “In their late twenties, most people are finishing college, looking for that first ‘real’ job, trying to get their own apartment. Their peer, Eliza Tahan, however, as the assistant mystery editor at J Press, is a powerful force in the world of publishing. While most people her age are at the clubs on the weekends, drinking their nights away, Tahan sits in her condo and reads your Great American Novel.”

  So far, so good. I read novels. Who cares? No one can assume Rain is the only person who reads everything that comes in. Yet I can’t help feeling that this praise for my hard work is not exactly glowing. Was Adam trying to show how responsible I am and how flaky everyone else is? Or was he trying to show that while everyone is enjoying their youth, I’m wasting mine away with their creative work? Irrelevant at this point.

  “I decided to have a chat with this young star of the publishing field and find out how she broke in, what she does, and what she thinks of your writing.”

  He had written about exactly what he had alluded to in the intro.

  How had I gotten into publishing? I’d answered that a long-standing passion for books led to an unpaid internship during my final two years of college, followed by an entry-level—but paid—position with J Press right out of college when I’d barely turned twenty-one. All my friends had been on five- and six-year college plans, celebrating their twenty-first year by spending more time in nightclubs and bars than in class. I, however, had been staying up all hours reading manuscript submissions and trying to impress my new boss. This was safe information.

  But then he’d asked me what exactly I did, and reading my answer left me in a rising panic. How could I have responded in such a way? Was I trying to impress him? Was I trying to stick it to Rain, thinking I’d never return from my adventures abroad?

  “All manuscripts come right to me. I read the synopsis and first few pages, and then decide if they should be read further, or if they are not right for J Press at this time. If something catches my interest, I ask the author to send the entire manuscript. When it comes in I read the rest of it. If it is excellent, I write a report for S. Rain Orwell, the editor. Often she agrees with me, and will follow up with a call and an offer.”

  Adam had then asked what happens to a manuscript that gets rejected.

  “It’s important to remember that J Press gets thousands of manuscripts each year, and only a small number can be published. Just because a manuscript is rejected doesn’t mean it isn’t good. It just means that it is not right for us.”

  I remembered Adam’s joke about me being the one who crushes people’s dreams.

  I felt a little queasy—was it from the motion of the trolley? Thankfully, Adam did not put his little joke in the article, but there was no question as to whose opinion determined the fate of each manuscript. And there was no question that it didn’t matter how quiet I was about my job from now on. This article said it all.

  I was in danger.

  CHAPTER 10

  I’d expected Sue to be in by the time I got back to the office, but the other interns said she’d taken the day off after all. I didn’t remember her turning in any rejection letters as promised, but I’d also told her that she didn’t have to cancel her plans for the letters. I refused to be the bitchy boss Rain had been. Or Sara had been. Or whatever her name had been. So, no big deal. I asked the remaining interns if they could pull the requested author stats and they said they were glad to take a break from stuffing rejection letters.

  “What exactly do you need?” one asked.

  “Yeah,” chimed in another. “We don’t have a real database.”

  “Believe me, I know,” I empathized. “I’ve been gunning for one since I was an intern. But we used to have a spreadsheet or something. Do you still have something like that? Something in Excel?”

  “Yeah. It has author name, manuscript title, address, notes, stuff like that. Is that all right?”

  “That would be perfect. Go ahead and print that out for me. Everything in the last year, if possible.”

  The interns agreed, but noted that it would be a bit of a project, and asked if there was a deadline.

  “There isn’t a deadline per se, but just as soon as possible. It’s really important. If you can’t finish it tonight, just leave a note for the morning interns and make sure someone picks up the project.”

  * * *

  I worked as late as I could. Jane had said she was surprised to see me when I returned from my meeting at the police station. Remembering the slices of her commentary that the detective had shared with me, I had replied sarcastically, “No, Jane, they didn’t arrest me.” I added, softening a little, that I had far too much to do to just go straight home.

  She left at five, along with almost everyone in the department. Evidently, the interns had decided to leave the author-list project for the morning interns. They might have wanted a break from the monotony of stuffing rejections into envelopes, but apparently hadn’t wanted to fill the time with a new project.

  When the cleaning crew arrived at seven, I was still at Rain’s desk, reading countless emails and trying to answer the questions from the information I could find in Rain’s poorly designed filing system. She must have assumed she would never leave. Or maybe she assumed she’d never leave of her own free will. If she were forced to leave, her payback would be a job that no one could do because the key elements were hidden all over her office. Even in death she was torturing me.

  A woman from the cleaning crew peeked her head into my office. “Hello,” I sighed. “Is it already seven?”

  She nodded. “You should go, miss. Go home to your family. This will be here tomorrow. You can do it then.”

  Kind wisdom, and painful wisdom. The main reason I was still here was not because I had too much to do. I was here because I had no family to go home to. Liam was out on his date in my car, as his was still at some shady shop with some mechanic that Liam had distrusted ever since he’d scoffed at Liam’s uneducated diagnosis of the car’s problem. Liam loved his car, a fairly new smallish SUV, but he didn’t know anything about the guts. Cleo was in up Orange County, and reaching Orange County from San Diego without a car meant a complicated series of trolleys and trains and several busses.

  I folded my things into my bag. The stack of newspapers peeking out made my stomach uneasy. I’d called Detective Wilson as soon as I could to tell him about the article, but he had already left. Now I had to face the evening alone, at the same time dealing with the fact that someone might be planning my murder.

  “Ah, what the hell,” I muttered, grabbing the phone. Adam had said he’d call me tonight, but maybe I could reach him first. Maybe he could pick me up. Maybe I wouldn’t have to ride the bus home. Maybe I wouldn’t have to be alone. I dialed.

  His cell phone didn’t even ring, going straight to voicemail. Why is his phone off? I wondered, already a little jealous of the idea that he might be on another date. I decided to hang up without leaving a message, because I couldn’t think of anything to say that didn’t sound a little desperate. He’d said he’d call, after all.

  So I dialed Cleo. She was sure to want to hear about my date, and it would be a reason to linger in the safety of the office a little longer. As Cleo’s home phone rang, I wondered what time Liam would be home. Exactly how long did I have to stall? Cleo’s answering machine picked up. “Come on, Cleo,” I whined. “It’s Eliza. I want to tell you about my date with Adam. It was good. Real good. He said I was beautiful. And…oh, I’ll save the rest. I’d meet you some
where halfway to chat, but Liam has my car. Last time I let him borrow it, seriously! Especially when I need to meet up with my sista to dish about my hot date!” I laughed. “Call me!”

  As soon as I hung up, my cell phone rang. Adam’s number appeared and my heart skipped a beat. Perfect timing. “Hello,” I answered with a calm voice that didn’t match my fluttering heart.

  “Hi, Eliza,” Adam’s deep voice answered with what I took as a hint of pleasure. “I saw that you called.”

  “Yeah. How are you doing?”

  “I’m good. I’m working at the moment.”

  “Late meeting, huh?”

  “Yeah. But what can you do when you need a story? Listen, I just snuck away to call you but I need to get back. What’s up?”

  I pulled him away from work. I have to come up with a good reason for calling. “Oh, nothing. I’m sorry for pulling you away from your thing. I just had the night free and wanted to see if we could get a cup of coffee or something. Another, you know, ‘half-date.’ But you’re in the middle of something. I’m sorry for interrupting.”

  “I wish I could. Remember I told you about that sci-fi thing I wanted to get out of for Saturday night? Well, I was able to trade with a colleague, but now I’m stuck at a reading for the latest get-rich-quick financial book. I’d say I got the short end of the deal, except that getting through this means I can see you on Saturday night. Unless you’re calling to cancel?”

  “Not at all. Saturday it is.”

  He paused. “Are you sure? Something in your voice sounds…different.”

  “Probably just the reception. I’m on my cell phone.”

  “You’re okay, then? You’re not regretting anything?”

  “I have plenty of regret in my life, Adam, but not an ounce of regret about last night.”

  “I’m glad, because neither have I. So, there’s nothing you need?”

  I need you to meet me right now and take me home and protect me from anyone who might want to hurt me. “Nothing. Only to see you on Saturday.”