“No. Just Rosie.”
“What kind?”
“A miniature English bull terrier.”
“I’m not sure I know what they look like.”
“Spuds McKenzie?” I said. “In the beer ads?”
Melanie Joan shook her head.
“Well,” I said. “They’re unusually beautiful.”
“My first husband wasn’t so bad,” Melanie Joan said. “He was nice, really. He just never got over being a college kid. He was still drinking beer, and playing ball, and chasing girls, you know?”
“You divorced him?”
“Yes. I got tired of feeling like a date for spring-break weekend.”
I nodded. Melanie Joan was a striking woman, despite the big hair and the short skirts. She was older than I was, with good cheekbones and lovely skin. Men looked at her, but, then, men look at everyone.
“Number two was a novelist with very little libido.”
“Don’t you hate when that happens,” I said, just to be saying something. “Have I heard of him?”
“I doubt it. That was another part of our problem.”
“You were the more successful writer,” I said.
Melanie Joan nodded. “And he saw my success as a sellout,” she said.
“Probably needed to,” I said.
“Probably.”
Melanie Joan looked out the window for a moment.
“Of course in his terms, I probably am a sellout. I write sort of high-end bodice rippers.”
“Bodice rippers?” I said.
“Feminine romances,” Melanie Joan said.
“Can’t they be good?” I said.
“They might be, I don’t know. Mine aren’t.”
“Because?”
“Because I can’t make them good. I have a talent for telling a story that several million people will want to read. But I’m not a terribly good writer.”
“So,” I said, “you’re doing the best you can.”
“Yes,” she said. “I suppose I am.”
“Which means you’re not selling out. You’re working at capacity.”
Melanie Joan laughed. “I hadn’t thought of it that way,” she said. “You’re very clever.”
“A trained detective,” I said.
“It has been some sort of downward spiral,” Melanie Joan said. “Each time I married I made a worse choice than I had before.”
“Which one is the stalker?” I said.
“Third,” she said, and smiled without much amusement. “And last.”
“It’s too soon to give up,” I said.
Melanie Joan shook her head and didn’t answer.
“Do you really think you can protect me from him?” she said.
“Sure,” I said.
“But you’re this slender thing.”
“I’m quick,” I said.
“How did you get to be a detective?” Melanie Joan said.
“My father was a policeman,” I said. “I liked the work. But there was too much structure. So I left and… voila.”
“It’s hard to imagine a beautiful girl like you…” Melanie Joan shook her head. Mystified.
“It is,” I said. “Isn’t it.”
Chapter 5
“Do you actually think of yourself as Melanie Joan?” I said.
We were sitting at the bar off the lobby in the Stouffer’s Tower Plaza on Public Square in Cleveland.
“Melanie Joan is part of the public persona,” Melanie Joan said. “Like the big hair and the tight dress.”
It was quarter to ten at night. We were drinking cosmopolitans. The bar was quiet. It was nearly full but it opened onto the lobby and the vast high arch of the lobby tended to absorb noise.
“When he watched me get dressed for a signing or something,” Melanie Joan said, “my first husband would call it ‘putting on Melanie Joan Hall.’ When I’m alone, I suppose, I’m probably still a little girl named Joanie.”
I smiled, and sipped my cosmopolitan. I looked at it with the translucence from behind the bar shining through it. Mostly I drink them because they look so pretty.
“So what do you wear when you are just being Joanie?” I said.
“I’m almost never just Joanie anymore. Sometimes, in moments of maturity, I’m Joan. When I’m being Joan for long enough, I dress pretty much like you.”
“That well,” I said.
“You dress very well, Sunny, as you know. Everything is stylish, everything is well cut, you have a wonderful figure, so everything fits, and you look at ease with your clothes and yourself.”
“I don’t think so,” I said.
“Your ex-husband?” Melanie Joan said.
“Yes, well, not really, I suppose. I suppose really it’s me.”
“And you don’t feel like talking.”
“Forgive me,” I said. “I don’t.”
“Of course,” Melanie Joan said.
A large sort of clumsy-looking young man came toward us. He had pale skin and small eyes and dark hair that fell fetchingly over his forehead.
“You ladies far from home,” he said.
Melanie Joan’s face tightened and she seemed to shrink in on herself.
She said, “Sunny.”
I was already facing him. I took my purse from the bar and put it in my lap and opened it. Melanie Joan turned slowly toward him.
“I’m from Indianapolis,” he said.
I could see Melanie Joan’s shoulders relax.
“Hello,” she said. “I’m Melanie Joan. This is my friend Sunny.”
Back in character.
“What kind of name is Sunny?” he said.
“Mellifluous.”
He gave me a big smile.
“Hey that’s good,” he said. “I like confident girls.”
“I’ll bet,” I said.
He looked blank for a moment, then readjusted his smile.
“My name’s Marc,” he said.
“Hi, Marc,” Melanie Joan said.
“Can I buy you ladies a drink?”
Melanie Joan said, “Certainly.”
Marc looked at me. I shook my head.
“Hey, aren’t you supposed to be sunny?” Marc laughed happily at how clever he was. “Your name’s Sunny.”
“Sunny is short for Sonya,” I said. “I’m being very Sonya.”
Marc had no idea what I was talking about, but I could see him decide that he was not going to get me into bed tonight. He turned to Melanie Joan.
“What are you drinking?”
“I’d love another one of these lovely cosmopolitans,” she said.
“You got it,” Marc said and gestured to the bartender.
“Another one for the lady,” he said, “and a Crown and Coke for me.”
The bartender looked at me. I shook my head. The bartender went and mixed the drinks and brought them back.
“So what do you do?” Marc said.
“Melanie Joan.”
“Melanie Joan,” Marc said. “What do you do?”
“Nothing,” Melanie Joan said.
Marc frowned, his small eyes squinching up. He took a needful pull on his Crown and Coke.
“Nothing?”
“Nope,” Melanie Joan said, “not a thing.”
“You married?”
“Not at the moment.”
“I’m separated,” Marc said.
He drank some more Crown and Coke, his eyes already checking to see if the bartender was standing by. His suit, I noticed, fit him badly.
“Were you married long?” Melanie Joan said.
“I was never married,” Marc said. “The old lady was married but not me, you know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t,” Melanie Joan said.
“Well, ah, I mean, I was sort of, ah, footloose, you might say,” Marc said.
“I might,” Melanie Joan said.
Marc ordered himself another drink. Melanie Joan declined another.
“So,” Marc said, “how come your friend’s such a sourpuss
?”
“Maybe because she thinks you’re a boring jerk,” Melanie Joan said.
“Hey,” Marc said. “That’s no way to talk.”
“You asked,” Melanie Joan said.
“For crissake, I just bought you a drink.”
“You did,” Melanie Joan said, “didn’t you.”
She opened her purse and took out a five-dollar bill and handed it to him.
“Beat it,” she said.
He held the bill for a moment, then let it drop to the floor.
“Fuck you,” he said, and turned and walked back to his table.
“Ah, the single life,” I said.
Melanie Joan nodded, watching Marc move clumsily away.
“It seems that you started out being Melanie Joan and switched to Joan in mid-sentence.”
“He wasn’t a fan,” she said and smiled at me.
Chapter 6
Melanie Joan, in full Melanie Joan Hall regalia, was seated at a table in the open space, near the cash registers at the front of the Regal Bookstore in Shaker Heights. A patient line of people, mostly women, ran back among the aisles of the bookstore.
“Hi,” Melanie Joan said to the fifty-third woman who stopped at her table. “How are you? It’s nice to see you.”
“It’s for my mother,” the woman said.
“And what is her name?” Melanie Joan said. Her smile was wide and welcoming and seemed genuine.
“Gertrude,” the woman said.
As she wrote on the title page of the book, which a bookstore associate had opened for her, Melanie Joan talked to the woman.
“Gertrude? I had an aunt named Gertrude, though out here I suppose you say ‘ant.’”
The woman smiled and looked at her book and said thank you and moved on. I was standing near the door behind Melanie Joan, with my arms folded. Books were signed. Melanie Joan chatted with each person. The chatting made it seem leisurely and personal but Melanie Joan signed very swiftly.
“Could we have our picture taken with you?” a young woman asked Melanie Joan.
“Absolutely. Sunny, you snap the picture.”
One of the young women handed me a yellow cardboard disposable camera.
“Just push the flash button and when it’s red in the viewer press the other button.”
“Got it,” I said.
The young women went around the table and stood on either side of Melanie Joan. I went around in front of the table and aimed the camera.
“Here, let me stand up,” Melanie Joan said.
She stood and put her arms around the two young women, probably sisters, one on each side of her.
“Girlfriends,” she said with a wide smile.
I pressed the flash button. It showed red in the viewfinder. I centered on Melanie Joan. She was looking past me into the middle distance, the way people do who’ve been photographed a lot. Her eyes suddenly widened and her smile became suddenly fixed. I snapped the picture and turned and looked in back of me down the aisle where she had been looking. Among the women, halfway up the aisle, was a guy who looked like Clark Kent. He was wearing dark-rimmed glasses. His face was pleasingly square. His jaw was strong. His black hair was longish, but expensively barbered. He wore a rust-colored Harris tweed jacket over a black wool turtleneck, tan corduroy trousers, and some sort of rough-finish tan hiking shoes, the kind people who don’t hike wear. He was carrying Melanie Joan’s latest book and looked very pleased to be him.
I gave the camera back to the young ladies. They thanked me and Melanie Joan and me again and Melanie Joan twice more and moved on. Melanie Joan seemed frozen.
“That him?” I said with my back to Clark Kent. “With the glasses.”
Melanie Joan nodded stiffly.
“Sit back down,” I said. “And be Melanie Joan some more. I’m right here.”
Melanie Joan didn’t move.
“Don’t let the bastard keep you from doing what you do,” I said softly.
The bookstore personnel were glancing at Melanie Joan.
“Sit,” I said.
She stepped to her chair and sat and smiled at a red-haired woman with a baby in a belly pack who stood in front of her holding out her book. I went back to my place and looked at Clark. He was oblivious of me. I’m sure he didn’t see me. His whole focus was Melanie Joan, and his eyes stayed fixed on her as the line shortened.
“Can you make it out to Alice?” the red-haired woman said. “And date it?”
“Sure,” Melanie Joan said.
She pointed to the baby.
“Is this Alice?”
“Yes,” the red-haired woman said with a big smile.
Melanie Joan signed To Alice whom I met early, and hope to meet again, love Melanie Joan Hall.
Melanie Joan handed the signed book back to the red-haired woman and she moved on with her baby. Clark Kent got another place closer.
“I can’t,” Melanie Joan said to me under her breath.
“Sure you can,” I said. “I’m right here.”
Melanie Joan signed another book for a small man with his pants belted somewhere up near his chest.
“My wife reads all your books,” he said.
Melanie Joan smiled warmly and handed him back his book. The woman in front of Clark Kent was wearing a ghastly pink pants suit. She picked up a book from the pile on the table.
“Do I give you the money?” she said to Melanie Joan.
Melanie Joan smiled and shook her head. The smile was stiffer than it had been. The bookstore assistant manager was supervising operations at the autograph table.
“You pay the cashier up front,” the assistant manager said. “Would you like Miss Hall to sign it for you?”
“No thanks,” she said and took the book and headed to the front of the store.
I would have wondered what she stood in line for, if I weren’t so interested in Clark Kent. He stood in front of Melanie Joan smiling down at her. Behind the big dark-rimmed glasses his eyes had endearing crinkles.
“Could you sign my book for me, Mrs. Melvin?”
I stepped a little closer to Melanie Joan, trying to be reassuring. He never looked at me. Melanie Joan took the book without looking at him and signed it with her practiced scrawl, Melanie Joan Hall. He picked the book up and stared at the signature.
“Could you personalize it?” he said.
His gaze was very steady on Melanie Joan. She didn’t look up. I stepped in behind him.
“There’s a substantial line, sir,” I said to him. “I’m sorry, but Ms. Hall will just be doing signatures.”
He didn’t look at me.
“She has personalized for other people,” he said, looking down at Melanie Joan.
His voice was mild. But its lack of affect was chilling.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Signature only.”
“And you are?” he said.
“Just a faceless bureaucrat,” I said. “In charge of signatures.”
He looked at me thoughtfully. The store people knew who I was. They were getting more uneasy.
“I’m sorry, sir, but there are a lot of people waiting,” the assistant manager said. “I’ll have to ask you to move along.”
Clark Kent looked at the assistant manager for a moment without any expression, then he looked at me in the same empty way. It was as if I weren’t there. I had no sense that I registered on his screen. Finally he looked down at Melanie Joan.
“Well, Melanie Joan,” he said. “Maybe next time.”
Melanie Joan, still looking down at the tabletop, shook her head. He smiled at the top of her head and then spoke to me without looking.
“Will I see you again?” he said.
“It is hard to predict where life will lead us,” I said.
“Are you escorting Mrs. Melvin?”
“I’m with Miss Hall,” I said.
“The former, by several, Miss Hall,” he said, looking at Melanie Joan, who looked at the tabletop. “Are you a book-tour escort?”
<
br /> “At the moment,” I said.
“So you’ll be traveling with Mrs. Melvin throughout her tour?”
I didn’t say anything. All this not looking was getting pretty contrived. She doesn’t look at him. He doesn’t look at me. I wanted to give him a big kick.
“Sir,” the assistant manager said, “please.”
Clark Kent didn’t say anything. He looked straight down at Melanie Joan’s lowered head for another moment. Then, carefully ignoring me, he tossed the book on the floor and turned and walked from the store. Nobody said anything. Everyone stared at the book, open facedown on the floor, with one flap of the dust jacket splayed loose.
Melanie Joan’s shoulders were shaking, and her hands trembled. I put my hand on her shoulder and turned to the assistant manager.
“Miss Hall will do only signatures from here on,” I said.
“Of course,” the assistant manager said, and began informing people along the still-substantial line.
Chapter 7
It was raining. Not a steady rain, so I could leave the wipers on and forget it, but bursts of it that lasted for a while and stopped abruptly, and began as suddenly as it had stopped.
“Maybe the rain is constant,” I said, “and we’re driving in and out of it.”
We were on Route 71 driving southwest toward Kentucky. Melanie Joan was looking straight out the front window at the inconstant downpour. She nodded without any sign that she’d actually ingested what I said.
“Maybe,” she said.
“Depressed?” I said.
She didn’t answer for a moment. We were in mid-rain burst. Then she looked at me and said, “What?”
“Are you depressed about your husband?”
“Depressed? Yes. And frightened.”
“Because?”
“Why am I frightened?”
“Mm hm.”
She looked at the rain for a moment, flooding down the windshield, kept barely at bay by the wipers.
“I don’t know,” she said. “He’s frightening. I guess I think he’s so self-absorbed that he is capable of anything that would serve himself.”
“Were you afraid of him when you were married?” I said.
“No, yes, no, not at first. At first I saw what you probably saw. Good-looking man. Nice clothes, glasses. Cultured, charming.”
“He ever hurt you?” I said.
“He never really did, but long before the divorce I became afraid he was going to.”
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