Dying to Get Published

by Judy Fitzwater

  Chapter 20

  It wasn't Luigi's, but it would do. A crisp wind whipped across the top of the Channel 14 building, lifting the corners of the red-checked, cotton tablecloth that Sam had spread almost in the middle of the flat roof. He anchored one edge with his briefcase, a second with the rattan picnic basket, and the other two with a bottle of wine and a loaf of Italian bread. Then he motioned for Jennifer to have a seat.

  "Don't you want to look around first?" Jennifer asked, settling down on her knees and sifting through the contents of the basket. Oooooh. A seasoned salad and what looked like vegetable lasagna were teasing her nose with garlic and oregano. Underneath was a covered dish containing something that looked suspiciously like chocolate mousse. So it wasn't Italian. Mousse spoke a universal language.

  "Let's set the scene first," Sam suggested, "just in case someone decides to come up here. It's too beautiful a day to take chances."

  Jennifer could live with that. She intended to eat the goodies in that basket before her lunch hour was up, and she certainly had no problem making it sooner than later.

  "I would have brought candles, but I didn't think we could get away with lighting them with the breeze," Sam said.

  It didn't matter that it was high noon. Candles were a pleasant thought. But Sam was right. They would no more get them lit when the wind would topple them and send their lunch up in smoke.

  "Would you like to serve or shall I?" he asked.

  "You pour the wine. I'll take care of the food," Jennifer offered, pulling out the container of salad and dividing it equally into two plastic bowls. She dug in the bottom of the basket and came up with two full services of real silverware. She traded Sam his bowl and a salad fork for a glass of wine and then took up her own serving, munching noisily on the crisp greens.

  "Did you get anything out of Moore?" Sam asked.

  "He told me to read his book. He's going to give me my very own autographed copy."

  "How thoughtful."

  Jennifer sighed. "So what do you think we'll find up here?" She stuffed a second forkful into her mouth. The dressing wasn't quite as good as her own, but it was passable.

  "Probably nothing, but I thought it might be helpful to get the lay of the land, determine how difficult it would be to fall off this building."

  "Or be pushed," Jennifer added.

  "Or be pushed," Sam agreed.

  "Do you have time for lunch like this every day?" she asked, tearing off half the loaf of bread and tossing a chunk to Sam.

  He caught it and shook his head. "I don't eat lunch. Too much to do. Right now I'm running down last night's arrests. Can't you tell?"

  "Can you get away with taking time off like this?" She gestured at their salads.

  Sam shrugged. "I'll make it up tonight. I don't have to have my copy in until late, and the police department never closes. It's just that I like to have my articles in early enough to pretend I have a normal job, so I can at least catch a decent supper now and then."

  "You love it, don't you?" Jennifer observed, catching a glimpse of passion in Sam's eyes.

  "It has its rewards, but what I do is still only a job. What you do is more of a calling."

  A calling that she sometimes wished would go call someone else.

  "When did you start writing stories?" Sam asked.

  Jennifer took his empty bowl and stuffed it along with her own into a plastic bag. Then she pulled out the lasagna and cut it in two, slipping each half onto a plastic plate. He took his and dove into the cheesy layers.

  "I honestly don't remember. I didn't start with the mysteries until I was out of college. I tried working in advertising for two years and then my parents died. I sold their house, put the money in a small trust fund, and moved into the apartment where I live now. The fund almost pays the rent. Dee Dee was looking for someone to help her when she started the catering business, and it seemed a perfect fit. If I wanted to write for a living, I had to commit most of my time to it. Of course that was almost five years and eight novels ago."

  "Are you any good?"

  Now just how was she supposed to answer a question like that? "Of course, I'm good, at least, good enough. Why do you ask?"

  "Five years is a long time. You must have had doubts. But if you can still say you're good, you have something far more important than talent."

  Gall?

  "Persistence," Sam continued. "You don't make it in a business like publishing without determination."

  He was right there. Determination and many submissions.

  "And you? Did you ever want to write fiction?"

  "Naw. I'm doing what I want, searching out the truth, telling it like it is with as little bias as I can manage. Sounds corny, doesn't it?"

  Actually it sounded wonderful. Most of the people she'd met in the newspaper business had become jaded. Sam, somehow, had remained a believer.

  He smiled, a shy, confessional smile, and her heart jumped a little.

  She had to keep her mission in mind. Her relationship with Sam had to be strictly business. She couldn't afford to get sidetracked. She needed a man to seduce. Unfortunately, it had to be Sam, this true believer. There was nobody else.

  "Do you think you could come by my apartment Friday night, say about seven o'clock? I want to talk to you about laying out the book about Browning, decide how we're going to divide up the labor."

  Sam nodded. "Sounds fine."

  "I'll fix something to eat. I know you won't have time to grab anything before that."

  "That seals it. I can be bought."

  She hoped so.

  Jennifer glanced at her watch. "It's getting late. I have to be back downstairs in half an hour."

  Sam wiped his mouth with a paper napkin and helped her dispose of the rest of their dishes. "The last thing we want is someone to come looking for you." He stood up, offered her his hand, and pulled her to her feet.

  "The mousse," she said plaintively.

  "You can take it with you for an afternoon break. Tell you what: I'll even throw in my serving. But you've got to earn it."

  They scoured the side of the building that overlooked the parking lot but found nothing. No bloodstains, murder weapons, or other telltale signs of mayhem. Not that Jennifer actually expected anything of substance, but she had hoped for a button ripped from the murderer's jacket. Almost every TV detective who lasted more than one season had at least one case that hinged on a button. Real life was so much harder than fiction.

  Sam began to inspect the wall itself. It ran around the entire roof and was close to three feet high. Jennifer peeked over the edge. It was a long way down.

  "Look at how narrow this is," she said. "If you climbed up on this wall, it wouldn't be thick enough for you to stand on. It certainly wouldn't be wide enough for a man who was over six-feet tall."

  "So, what's your point?"

  "Don't you think someone who is about to commit suicide wants to stand there for a moment, on the precipice, contemplating what he's about to do, before taking the plunge?"

  "What is this? You think the guy's going to go around town looking for a place to perch before he takes the dive? Come on. Besides, he could have swung his legs over and sat on the top."

  "Are you kidding? He'd fall off."

  "Which he did. The question is whether or not he had help."

  "Stand here," Jennifer ordered, positioning Sam with the back of his legs against the wall. "Look where your center of gravity, your abdomen, falls. It's above the rim."

  "So one good push…"

  "And over you'd tumble."

  "Straight into the parking lot below."

  She leaned over for another look with Sam standing so close to her she could almost feel his heart beating beneath his jacket.

  And then she was in his arms, and he was kissing her passionately like one of those crazy, irrational moments in one of Leigh Ann's novels that never, ever happen in real life. One of those moments when a man does exactly what a woman wants him to do
, exactly what she dreamed he would do but never does…

  "I hate to break up the party," a deep voice bellowed.

  Jennifer wasn't talking and neither was Sam. His mouth was too busy. Where were those words coming from?

  "No one's allowed up here."

  Sam loosened his grip and whispered into Jennifer's ear. "Sorry about that. He was coming up on us fast and I didn't have time to explain."

  Explain? What did he need to explain?

  She turned to face a white-haired man dressed in the uniform of a security guard.

  "I hate to… uh… disturb you two. Looks like you were having quite a lunch up here. But since Browning took a leap off this roof, the brass doesn't want anybody up here. Too big a liability risk."

  "Sorry, officer," Sam said. "We didn't know. We'll clear up our mess and get out of your way."

  The man followed them back to the tablecloth, where Sam and Jennifer bent down and began gathering up their belongings.

  "Were you on duty the day that Browning went over?" Sam asked.

  "Yeah." The man shuddered. "It was quite a mess. His head cracked open like a cantaloupe."

  Wonderful image, especially for a caterer.

  "I don't guess any of you were really shocked, though," Jennifer suggested, corking the wine and lowering it into the basket. "I mean, he must have been depressed for some time to take his life like that."

  "Depressed? Not that I know of. I talked to him just that morning. He seemed like he always did, only he had an interview with some celebrity for the evening news. I forget now who it was. But he was looking forward to it, some old friend of his and a real coup for the station. Yes sir, if he was going to kill himself, I think he would have picked another day."