“Of Jimmy Beak and his cameraman.”
“Such nice boys.”
“Excuse me?”
“Well, maybe not Mr. Beak. But Joe is an especially nice young man.”
I shook my head and decided I hadn’t had nearly enough coffee. “You’re talking about the cameraman, correct?”
“Mm-hmm. Joe showed me how to use his camera. I’ve never seen such a fancy contraption. It’s digital, of all things. But Joe was very patient with me, and I learned a lot.” Mother giggled. “They did, too.”
“Oh?” I braced myself and asked my mother exactly how long she had entertained Jimmy and Joe.
“Goodness, it must have been at least two hours. We had tea after my official interview was finished and chatted about any old thing.”
Any old thing?
I braced myself some more and asked what “any old thing” might have entailed.
“Well now, let’s see.” Mother stopped to think. “Mr. Beak wanted to continue discussing the book-banning foolishness, but I put a swift end to that. There’s no sense giving it any more credence by fretting over it, is there?”
“Good point,” I agreed. “So what did you talk about?”
“I showed them my drawings. Joe was fascinated I keep drawings of my family instead of photographs.” She hesitated. “He told me I’m quite talented.”
“Because you are.”
“Jimmy was mostly interested in my sketches of you, Honeybunch.”
“What a surprise,” I said. “You didn’t show him the ones of Daddy and me, did you?”
“Of course I did.”
“What!?” I sat up even straighter and shooed Snowflake from my lap. “Jimmy Beak knows I play pool? Oh, Mother. Please say no.”
“No,” she said, and I breathed a sigh of relief. “I wasn’t born yesterday, Jessie. I could tell Mr. Beak doesn’t like you very much. Therefore, I was cautious. I didn’t show him anything he might misconstrue.”
“You’re a savvy old lady, Tessie Hewitt.”
“Like mother, like daughter. And those drawings of you and your father shooting pool are my favorites. I keep them in my bedroom. I certainly didn’t invite the boys in there, did I?”
“Did Jimmy ask about Daddy?”
“Oh yes. I told him your father was a small businessman who happened to travel a lot.”
I smiled at Lake Lookadoo. My father, better known as Leon Cue-It Hewitt, had enjoyed the esteem and regard of his peers. But somehow I doubted Jimmy Beak would consider Daddy’s career as a pool shark a positive reflection on my own character.
Mother switched topics. “But what about your work, Jessie? I hope this book-banning mischief hasn’t distracted you from A Singular Seduction?”
I scowled at my laptop, or what little I could see of it beneath Bernice. “I’m thinking of trying science fiction,” I said. “Or maybe I’ll try writing children’s books.”
“What!?” Mother veritably screeched. “Jessie, honey, don’t startle me like that. My heart isn’t as strong as it used to be.”
I apologized for the shock and explained Adelé Nightingale’s sex-scene dearth. “A pornographer who can’t write a decent sex scene.” I whimpered. “Who would have thunk it?”
“You are not a pornographer,” she scolded. “You write romance fiction. And speaking of romance.”
I waited for it.
“When’s the wedding? I hope you and Wilson have finally set a date? I can’t wait.”
“Well, you’re going to have to wait,” I said. “I don’t even have hot water for a shower this morning.”
“You mean, you’re at Wilson’s cottage right now? Isn’t that nice.”
“It’s a shack, Mother. And trust me, there’s nothing nice about the water situation.”
“How is the water, Honeybunch? Lake Lookadoo must be beautiful this time of year.”
I frowned at the lake, which was indeed lovely. Darn it.
I stood up and went inside.
“And you stayed there last night?” Mother was asking. “That must have been so cozy and charming.”
I looked around and frowned some more. Okay, so maybe Wilson had taken a stab at improving the décor over the past few months. Bright and cheerful throw covers and cushions now adorned the less-than-new furnishings. And I stood barefoot on a pleasantly soft rag rug his mother had sewn and assembled. Wilson had even hung some Fiestaware plates on the kitchen walls.
“The cottage could use some new curtains,” I said.
“Did you just say cottage?” Mother asked, and I told her to check her hearing aids.
***
“How did it go?” Candy asked as she gestured me into her condo.
“Surprisingly well.” I dropped the car keys into her hand and thanked her again for the use of her vehicle. “No one noticed when I filled your gas tank at the corner. And for some reason Alistair isn’t even out there this morning. But his groupies are still there. And Roslynn and the pastel people. And Jimmy.”
I bent down to open Snowflake’s door. “So once I parked, I took Peter Harrison’s secret staircase. It wasn’t easy with the cat carrier, but we managed with only a minor bout of the heebie jeebies.”
“Secret staircase?” Candy asked but then held up both hands. “Forget about the staircase,” she said. “Puddles and me want to know what you figured out last night. What about the murderer?”
Actually, Puddles couldn’t care less about the murderer. He was far more interested in getting Snowflake to venture out of her cat carrier. We left them to negotiate on their own and walked over to the windows.
“And what about your mother?” Candy pointed to Jimmy Beak, who was getting in his morning aerobics, running back and forth between the various demonstrators. “Did you see the news this morning?”
My snarl answered that question. But I told Candy that Tessie seemed no worse for wear, and then explained my new theory about the murder. “Believe it or not, Wilson agrees it was all about me,” I said. “But he wants to keep the murderer guessing. So keep this latest a secret, Sweetie?”
“Karen will want to know,” she said. “But otherwise you know I’m good at keeping secrets.”
I did.
I continued watching the circus on Sullivan Street. “Don’t these people ever work?” I asked, and Candy reminded me Jimmy Beak actually was working.
“Lucky me.” I sighed. “And apparently Alistair has a whole slew of relatives running the Hava Java for him.”
“And Roslynn’s like you,” Candy said. “She’s a writer, so she works weird hours.”
Speaking of weird. Roslynn and her pastel people had begun some sort of synchronized dance routine, twirling and whirling their posters to the beat of what was clearly their own drum.
“I wonder what makes Roslynn Mayweather tick,” I asked.
“She loves romance fiction,” Candy said. “And she loves you, Jessie. When I was out there yesterday, she told me how worried she is. About you, and about A Singular Seduction.”
“I wrote a whole scene on Wilson’s porch this morning.” I turned from the window. “Kipp Jupiter is mad at Will-slash-Willow because she won’t listen to him about the water issues on the ranch. He’s taken to calling him-slash-her Will LeSwine. Do you get it?” I smiled. “LeSwine instead of LaSwann?”
Candy tilted her head. “You have your hero calling your heroine a pig?” she asked, and I agreed that the scene might need some work.
“But what about your work?” I asked as I gathered up Snowflake. “You have a big day ahead at Tate’s, correct?”
“Mm-hmm.” Candy held onto Puddles while I once again maneuvered my poor cat into her carrier. “Every department is gearing up for Mrs. Marachini’s visit tomorrow. It’s an emergency shopping spree.”
I stood up after putting Snowflake away. “A polka-dot bra emergency?”
Candy rolled her eyes. “Don’t be silly. The emergency is Mrs. Marachini’s niece is getting married on Saturday, but someth
ing happened to all the gifts from her bridal shower. There was a fire or something. Anyway, Trisha Fister—she’s the niece—was really upset, so Mrs. Marachini promised her a store-wide shopping-spree extravaganza before the wedding. Have you heard about this wedding, Jessie? It’s gonna be huge.”
Candy stopped and gave me that look.
I folded my arms and glared. “Don’t you dare ask me about my own wedding.”
“Okay, I’ll ask about the water issues instead. How was Wilson’s plumbing last night?”
“At least the Septosauri didn’t show up.”
“Huh?”
“I haven’t showered yet, if that answers your question. The cottage ran out of hot water.”
Candy raised an eyebrow. “Did you just say cottage?”
***
“Cottage, shack. What difference does it make?” I asked once Snowflake and I got back to our condo. I released her from her carrier, headed to my ultra-modern and altogether luxurious bathroom, and took a long and altogether relaxing shower.
As I got dressed I mentioned it was time to call Geez Louise, and the cat scooted under the bed. “So much for relaxing,” I agreed and picked up the phone.
“Jessica!” Louise screamed like no one else on planet earth can scream.
“How are you, Louise?”
“Perfect! Stupendous! Fantastical!”
I waited.
“Fantastical! Fantastical!” she completed her thought. “Did you get my messages?”
“Umm,” I said as Snowflake poked her whiskers out. “I think I might have accidently erased them.”
“Accidently erased!? This kind of mishap occurs far too often, Jessica. It’s a good thing I have Roslynn down there to keep me posted.”
“Ah, yes.” I sat down cross-legged on the bed, and Snowflake bravely came out to join me. “What exactly has Ms. Mayweather been telling you?”
“Hello-o! She’s been telling about your book-banning scheme! An absolutely, fantastically brilliant publicity stunt! Brilliant, brilliant, brilliant! How do you comes up with these things? You always have such brilliant ideas!”
I rolled my eyes. “It was Alistair Pritt’s idea, not mine.”
“Excellent! Roslynn told me all about this Alistair Fitt guy. I must, must, must call to thank him! Your sales are going to skyrocket because of his brilliant plan! Brilliant, brilliant, brillia—”
“Louise!” I spoke loudly enough that she actually shut up. “The name is Pritt. And don’t you dare call him.”
“Pritt has a fit!” What a surprise—Louise wasn’t listening to me. “That is just too, too, too perfect! Better yet, you should thank him yourself, Jessica! And Roslynn! She says he owns a coffee shop?” Louise gasped. “I just had the most fantastical idea!”
I waited.
“Fantastical! Fantastical! You can schedule a book signing there! With Roslynn, too! Adelé’s fans would love, love, love that! What a goldmine!”
“Louise!” I shouted, and Snowflake again disappeared under the bed. “The man who owns this supposed goldmine wants to ban my books. Ban books!” I repeated the phrase three times, Geez-Louise style. “This is bad,” I said. “Bad, bad, bad.”
“As if!” she said, and I got up in search of an Advil. “The book-banning scheme is brilliant,” she insisted. “Your local sales are proof positive.”
I filled a glass at the bathroom sink. “You put Roslynn up to this, didn’t you?”
Louise was silent—a silence that spoke the proverbial volumes.
I stared at my reflection in the mirror. “You told her—you ordered her—to start that ridiculous counter-demonstration outside my front door, didn’t you?”
More uncharacteristic silence.
“Answer me!” I said. “Whose idea was it?”
Louise hesitated yet again. “It wasn’t like she wasn’t willing,” she mumbled.
“Louise!”
“Okay, okay, okay,” she said. “You need to calm down, Jessica. You are so excitable!”
I swallowed two Advils and endeavored to remain un-excitable while Louise explained. Apparently Roslynn had reported in with her after leaving my place on Sunday. And apparently this counter-demonstration idea had come to Louise at the spur of the moment.
“You know what I always say, Jessica! Let’s make lemonade out of lemons? And soooo.”
“And so, I think I need to sit down.” I went back to my bed while Louise spouted off about the lemonade.
“And so,” she said, “I told Roslynn to gather up some friends and start the pro-romance demonstration. We spent some time discussing the color scheme, slogans, dance steps, et cetera, et cetera. And you can see for yourself how fantastically it’s working! Both of you are cleaning up with your local sales. And, and, and!” Louise began hyperventilating. “It’s not just local! Because, guess what?”
“Earth to Louise,” I said. “I don’t have to guess. Jimmy Beak announced it on the morning news.”
“Fantastical! I love, love, love Timmy Beaky! That man is the best thing to ever happen to your career! We worked together just like we did when you were accused of murder last summer. Remember that?”
“Who could forget?” I asked, but Louise was still talking—something about Dee Dee Larkin.
“Dee Dee promised me she’d include this latest story tonight! Adelé Nightingale receives national coverage once again! Is that not perfectly fantastical!?”
“What if Adelé doesn’t want national coverage?”
“As if! And besides, it’s three against one—Timmy Beaky, Roslynn, and I all want this for you! You can’t argue with that logic, Jessica!”
No, actually. I really couldn’t.
I gave up and did some deep breathing while Louise shouted “national coverage” a few thousand times.
“And you know,” she sang in a completely different tone.
“What do I know?”
“I don’t see how 3P can fire you now.”
I sat up straight. “Speaking of which. Why haven’t you mentioned what’s going on with Perpetual Pleasures Press before now? Why did I have to hear this news of my impending unemployment from Roslynn? It was humiliating!”
“Calm, Jessica. Stay calm.”
I considered taking another pill as my agent admonished me not to worry. “All is well,” she said in what I think was meant to be a soothing tone. “Or all will be well once 3P sees your latest sales figures!”
“You should have warned me they’re thinking of dumping me.”
“No,” she said firmly. “That’s what you pay me for—to worry about 3P. You do the writing, I do the business. Remember?”
I did. And as much as I complain about her, Geez Louise Urko is the best literary agent a romance author could ask for. She is, in a word, fantastical.
“But I still want to know what’s happening with my contract,” I said.
“Nothing! No changes! Just get me A Singular Seduction filled, filled, filled with sex scenes and all will be well. Weller than well! Now then,” she said. “What’s the latest with Kipp Jupiter and Willow LaSwann?”
I told her the latest. I expected some input, but the other end of the phone offered only silence. Something akin to dead silence.
“Well?” I prompted. “What do you think?”
More dead silence.
“Louise?”
“Don’t worry,” she said eventually. “I won’t tell the folks at 3P about this.”
“About what?” I asked indignantly. “This is good news. A Singular Seduction is finally moving forward.”
“But Jessica! You have your hero calling your heroine a pig!”
Chapter 25
Snowflake emerged from her hiding place and glared.
“Okay, okay,” I said. “Maybe the LeSwine thing isn’t Adelé’s best idea ever.”
The cat glared some more.
“But let’s keep things in perspective, shall we? The good news of that conversation?” I pointed to the phone I had throw
n across room. “Clearly, Louise is not the murderer. She’s insane.” I went to pick up the phone. “But she’s not violent.”
I frowned at the phone, but bless her heart, Snowflake forgave me for my outburst. She sauntered over, and we sat down at the desk to assess the damage. I checked for a dial tone.
“It still works.” I frowned some more. “Unlike yours truly.”
Snowflake nudged my hand, and I petted her absently while I studied the crowd below. Was anyone down there violent, I asked myself.
By then Roslynn Mayweather and the pastel people had perfected their Romance-Rockettes routine and were dancing up a synchronized storm. The book-banning gang also seemed reinvigorated, perhaps because their leader had returned. Alistair Amesworth Pritt was back from who knows where and was waving his poster around with more vehemence than ever. And the ubiquitous Jimmy Beak flitted from one group to the other, his energy level making everyone else look positively lethargic.
I recollected Wilson’s parting request that morning. I was to march down there and act crazy. And if my behavior toward my poor telephone was any indication, I was in a crazy mood.
I stepped away from the window in search of my key to Candy’s condo.
“Believe it or not, I actually have a plan,” I told Snowflake as I rummaged through my junk drawer. “Puddles is going to help me orchestrate this little showdown.”
Snowflake scowled.
“No, really,” I said. “Puddles is just the ticket.”
***
“We’ll tackle Roslynn first,” I told the dog as I grabbed his leash.
Puddles yipped enthusiastically and licked my nose while I got the leash on him. Whether or not Snowflake approved, clearly the little poodle was game to assist me. And I was sure Candy wouldn’t mind me borrowing her dog. Puddles is always in need of an extra walk. Indeed, some might consider the amount of piddle in Puddles downright legendary.
“Hold it until I say when,” I told him, and we rushed down the stairs and out the front door.
Never one to disappoint, Jimmy Beak saw us immediately. He sprang directly into our path, but I was ready.
“Back off, Beak.” I used my nastiest, angriest, craziest voice, curled my lip, and added a snarl for good measure. Wilson would have been proud of me. And of Puddles. The little dog remembered his end of the bargain, lifted his leg, and aimed. Lo and behold, Jimmy backed off.
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