by Joan Hess
“Yes, dear, I decided at the very last minute to fly down and surprise all of you. We have so much to talk about!”
“We most certainly do. Jennifer called earlier in the week.”
Roxanne flinched as though Laureen had leaned forward and pinched her—and not playfully. “I was thinking we might have a long discussion about all this while I’m here. Not everything at Paradigm House is under my control. I’m responsible to my boss, and he to his. Ultimately, the bottom line goes to a faceless executive at the conglomerate in God knows what country. I can assure you that he or she is not interested in contributions to contemporary literature.”
“I’ve heard it before, Roxanne.” Laureen turned toward a plump young woman hovering nearby. “As I was saying, credibility can only be established through the character’s motivation. Does that answer your question?”
The woman ignored her. “Roxanne Pickett? Do you remember me? I was in your freshman comp class.”
Roxanne stared at her. “Tweetie?”
“Ammie Threety, actually,” she said. “You used to get irritated with me when I wouldn’t participate in the discussions.”
Roxanne was still staring, but she finally managed a shaky laugh. “Of course I remember you, Ammie. I always thought of you as a sugar-dusted doughnut, and you haven’t changed all that much. How are you doing? Did you ever graduate?”
Ammie shook her head. “I had to drop out and work full time after my father got sick. I always meant to go back and finish up, but I never did. One of these days . . .”
“That’s what we tell ourselves,” Roxanne murmured. “Laureen, let’s sit down tomorrow and talk things over. If you’ll excuse me, I must say hello to Sherry Lynne and Dilys.” She slipped into the crowd.
I smiled at Ammie, who seemed paralyzed. “Are you working on a manuscript?”
She finally realized I’d spoken to her. “I try, but I guess I’m just not smart enough to ever write anything worth reading. I come up with ideas without too much trouble; I’ve been making up stories since I was a little kid. Putting them on paper’s the hard part. My manuscript started way back in college as a short story, but I kept thinking of complications and ways it might go. Now it’s over six hundred pages.”
Laureen patted her on the arm. “The important thing is to keep right on trying. A college degree doesn’t get you published. Perseverance does. Why don’t you tell me about your manuscript and its evolution?”
I left them chatting and followed Roxanne, whom I suspected was not quite the beloved editor of all concerned. She’d zeroed in on Dilys by the time I caught up with her.
“Dilys,” she was trilling, “Paradigm will always remain supportive of your backlist, despite this current unpleasantness.”
Dilys smiled tightly. “I’ve been told that my first is ‘unavailable,’ and my others are in the warehouse in limited quantities. Has Paradigm considered reverting the rights to me?”
“We still adore your books” Roxanne said as she sat down beside her. “And we adore you, too. Is there any chance I can take you to lunch tomorrow?”
I intervened. “I’m sorry, Roxanne, but all the authors have agreed to attend a luncheon at the college. Since it’s basically a one-day conference, we’re working them really hard. Morning panels, lunch, afternoon panels, and then the picnic here at seven o’clock.”
“Slave labor,” said Roxanne.
“It seems as such,” I said, trying not to wither under her piercing gaze. “Sally prepared the program, and asked the attending authors to agree to it. The honorariums are not shoddy for what amounts to a day and a half of availability. Had we known you were coming, I’m sure we could have provided the same offer to you.”
Roxanne produced an abashed smile. “Yes, of course. I should have let you know that I was thinking about coming, but I did so want to swoop in like a fairy godmother and amaze my little cozy coven of authors. I rarely see any of them more than once a year, and it’s so important to me to let them know how much I care about them, not only as authors but also as people. Publishing can be so impersonal, especially now that all the houses are being gobbled up by vast corporations.” Her eyes filled with tears as she bent down and hugged Dilys. “Some talents continue to shine, and we’ll never forget them. Dilys’s first book set records in all the mystery bookstores in America.”
Dilys remained dry-eyed. “Then why can’t bookstores order it?”
“I’m sure they can,” Roxanne said, straightening up. “The last time you called, I checked with the sales department. Several thousand copies are in the warehouse. I’m afraid you overestimate the booksellers’ enthusiasm just a little.”
“Does anyone work in this warehouse,” asked Dilys, “or is it just a dim building filled with boxes of books that will never again see the light of day, much less a shelf in a bookstore? I was making nice semi-annual royalties off the paperback sales of my books, Roxanne. Now booksellers are telling me that they can’t get the books.” She looked at me. “Did you have any problems ordering my backlist, Claire? Be truthful.”
Despite my better intentions, I began to squirm as Roxanne turned to stare at me. “Well, I was told your first was out-of-print and your second was on back order. I was going through a distributor rather than Paradigm, however.”
“There you have it,” said Roxanne, as if proving a point. “Why don’t we just kick back and enjoy the party, Dilys? Tomorrow we’ll go over all this and arrive at an understanding.”
“I’m quite sure we shall arrive at something? Dilys said pointedly as she went around me and down the hall toward the staircase.
Roxanne laughed. “Dilys is such a gem, isn’t she? I absolutely melt whenever I hear her marvelous accent. One would think after twenty years in the Midwest that it might have lost its edge, but it’s her way of clinging to home and her quaint ways. I think I’d better find a glass of wine and go back to Allegra before she passes out on the sofa. I do worry about her. She’s hardly a scarred veteran like Laureen or Sherry Lynne, or Dilys, for that matter. One of the reasons I was so enthusiastic about taking her on was her lack of guile. Most authors are demanding and cantankerous, but a few are ripe to be molded, taught, brought into focus like modern-day Pygmalions. She listened to me and learned, which is why she’s on the best-seller lists. Of course, being photogenic and personable helps, too. Take an author like”—her voice dropped to a whisper—”Walter Dahl over there in the comer. Given the chance, he would berate every personality on every morning talk show. He would alienate potential readers and provoke reviewers into utilizing snake venom to write about his books.”
I looked at Walter, who was glaring at us. “Surely content matters more than personality?”
“Surely,” she said.
As she left in search of the perfect Chardonnay, I noted that the rain had stopped. I also noted that Laureen had Ammie Threety in tow as they went out the back door to the garden. If Laureen wished to hear the evolution of what must have become convoluted prose over the last ten years, so be it. Neither required the assistance of Bo Peep.
Lily was busy uncorking wine for the more dedicated registrants, who appeared to be having a lovely time debating the merits of Dorothy L. Sayers and Agatha Christie versus Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Mickey Spillane. The decibel level was high, but well within the boundaries established by the Farberville city directors and enforced by the city’s finest.
After a savage mental battle, I managed not to envision a particular member of said finest. Get through the weekend, I lectured myself as I pasted on a smile that most likely would have frightened small children. I could deal with it on Monday morning, when I would be calm and fresh and sane—and totalling credit card receipts with an inane grin on my face.
“Excuse me,” said a petite woman in skintight jeans and a translucent blouse. “Have you seen Ammie Threety? She was talking to Ms. Parks a minute ago, but when I came back from the can, they were gone.”
“They went out into th
e garden,” I said, pleased to have a straightforward answer to a simple question.
“Great,” the woman replied. “I have to be at work at seven o’clock tomorrow morning. Ammie’ll kill me if I drag her away, but I got to get home. We live in Hasty, about twenty miles from here. Our library’s not more than a room at City Hall, but Ammie’s there most every week, checking out armloads of books. She knows more about books than most folks in Hasty know about eviscerating chickens—and that’s saying a lot. Now she’s out there talking to one of her most favorite authors. I can’t just make her leave, can I?”
I remembered the glow on Ammie’s face when Laureen had touched her. “Did you drive in together?”
“No,” the woman said, chewing on her purple lipstick as she looked at the door to the garden. “I didn’t get off work until four, so I met her like we agreed at a diner south of town. Her car’s still there. I don’t know what to do. If I make her leave just when she’s spilling out her heart to a real writer, she’ll never forgive me. On the other hand, I’ve got a husband, kids, and my ma, all expecting supper. I’ve gotta run three loads of laundry before I go to bed. What do you think I ought to do?”
Having not experienced a crisis in at least five minutes, I smiled benignly. “I’ll make sure someone gives Ammie a ride to her car. Go home with a clear conscience.”
“If you say so,” the woman said uncertainly. “Ammie doesn’t drink too much or anything, but she doesn’t like to drive at night. I told her she could follow me home. I don’t want her to be pissed at me.”
“I’ll share your concern with her, and I will personally make sure she’s transported to her car and capable of driving herself home.”
“Okay,” the woman said. “Just don’t let her think I dumped on her. I’d like to hang around, but, you know—kids, laundry, that stuff. Tell her I’ll call her Monday. Maybe she’ll have sold her book by then. She’s been writing it ever since she went to college.”
“Maybe,” I said with an insincere chuckle. Six hundred pages, reworked for ten years, were not apt to be publishable. Then again, she had the link to Roxanne Small, who might, by the grace of obscure publishing deities, read Ammie’s efforts.
The loveliest aspect was that I really didn’t care. My only concern was to keep the conference simmering at a reasonable temperature until the next evening, when Dr. Shackley would seize the podium and I could fade into the azaleas. Rid myself of the unwelcome cat. Suggest that lily put her brochure in an anatomically-inappropriate place. Pour myself a glass of scotch. Concoct blisteringly clever things to say to a certain person. Write an anonymous letter to the CIA—or should that be the supposedly no longer existent KGB?—suggesting that not all visitors to St. Petersburg were guileless tourists.
Life was looking up, or so I thought.
As Laureen Parks was so fond of writing in her sixty-odd books, “Had I but known.” I should have had it tattooed across some aspect of my anatomy.
My brain, for example.
Chapter
5
I was considering how best to arrange to get Ammie to her car when Walter approached me in a manner not unlike a Scud missile in the throes of a bad hair day. “That was Roxanne Small, wasn’t it?” he said. “I’ve seen her photo in Publishers Weekly, so there’s no point in denying it. She looks much older in person, as well as haggard. It’s obvious she has a sexually-transmitted disease. The Thurber Farber Foundation should provide vaccinations on the house.”
“Mr. Dahl,” I said coldly, “that was indeed Roxanne Small, and I have no interest in discussing the status of her health. Let’s talk about your abrupt departure from the airport. Common courtesy might have dictated that you inform—”
“I do not subscribe to any common cause, including one that might dictate the need for an apology. A car was to be sent for me. I was informed that something more similar to a public transit vehicle had appeared. I took a cab.” He pulled a slip of paper out of his pocket and handed it to me. “Here’s the receipt. I expect to be reimbursed. What’s Roxanne Small doing here? I was never warned about her participation in this banal little gathering. I would have declined to attend. She is a beastly woman who undoubtedly devours her young at birth. I would not be surprised to learn that’s been her primary source of food for the last thirty years.”
“Gracious me,” I said, politely omitting the fact Roxanne was not the first person at the conference to evoke this desire to flee. “Shall I notify the protein police?”
Walter aimed a finger at me. “You know what I meant. Why wasn’t I informed?”
“She dropped in to visit her authors. The other four seem to have some sort of relationship with her, past or present.” I thought for a moment. “You’re published by White Oakleaf Press, aren’t you? I had a very difficult time getting your books. I finally had to order directly, but I wasn’t at all confident I’d get them until a few days ago.”
“White Oakleaf is a highly-regarded literary press,” said Walter. “They are not accustomed to handling what I assume was a small order from a nonentity of a bookstore in an obscure state.”
“You live in Wyoming, yes? I wonder how many people present could find Wyoming on a map. Would you care to make a wager?”
“This is hardly a moment for gauche attempts at levity,” he muttered, glowering at the hallway that led to the front of the inn. “I will require a flight out tonight. Get me as far as Denver and I’ll make arrangements from there.”
I have to admit I was baffled. “What’s the problem? Roxanne Small isn’t your editor.”
“And she never will be. The woman is insufferable. Shall I call the airline or will you?”
“If you choose to leave, you do so at your own expense,” I said. “The Thurber Farber Foundation will not pay expenses and an honorarium to an author who fails to participate in the conference because of some unforeseen personality clash. Call whomever you wish. The taxi cab’s telephone number is likely to be on the receipt you just gave me. Let me give it back to you. You’ll need it if you intend to write all this off as a business expense. We’ll bill you for the airline ticket.”
After a moment of silence, he said, “I may be inclined to reconsider after a decent night’s sleep, although the wallpaper in my room is shrieking in botanical ecstasy. Petunias are achieving orgasm as we speak.”
“We have no reason to continue this conversation. Retreat upstairs and regard the petunias with voyeuristic relish, or head for the airport. The conference will go on with or without you.”
“You are a veritable Boadicea, Ms. Malloy. Is your brassiere made of leather?”
If I’d had a sword in hand, I would have whacked him hard enough to send the goatee flying off his chin. “We would prefer that you participate tomorrow, but I’m not in the mood to play nursemaid to ill-tempered toddlers.”
He stalked away, leaving me free to mingle with the registered attendees, which is all I did for the next hour. They seemed to be a literate and articulate bunch, well versed in mystery fiction. Around three-quarters were women, a preponderance of them librarians and teachers. I had a feeling that the panels the following day would be lively as soon as I opened them up for questioning—which might happen within minutes.
Eventually, I was cornered by a woman, her demeanor as drab as her clothing, who confided in a terrified whisper that she was Earlene of steering committee notoriety. “Isn’t this terrible about Sally?” she said as if sharing a dark secret. “She’s such a wonderful person. If anyone deserves sainthood, it’s Sally Fromberger. If I were Catholic, I’d call the Pope. Well, and if I had his number. He’s most likely unlisted.”
“I know she put a lot of work into planning the conference,” I responded tactfully. “It’s a shame she has to miss it.”
“Registration was supposed to take place in the hallway before the reception, but no one thought to bring the box. I’ll handle it myself in the morning before the first session. After that, everyone will have a badge and a pa
cket with a program book. Do you need someone to sell books while you’re moderating the panels?”
I considered her question. “I don’t think so. My daughter and her friend can keep an eye on the stock when I’m not present. What I really need is someone to drive one of our attendees to her car when she comes in from the garden in a few minutes. Is there any chance you might be able to do it?”
Earlene seemed pleased with the possibility of a contribution to the cause that surpassed providing nametags. “You’ll point her out to me?”
“Oh, yes,” I said, glancing at the back door. “In the meantime, you might want to start dropping hints that the reception is winding down. The wine’s pretty much gone, and I don’t trust Lily Twiller not to burst out of the kitchen with a shotgun and order everyone off the premises.”
Earlene’s eyes bulged like those of a bullfrog caught in the beam of a flashlight. “She wouldn’t do that, would she? The Thurber Farber Foundation would not look kindly on us if the conference participants were threatened with physical harm. Should I sneak away and call Sally? She’ll know what to do.”
“I was exaggerating, Earlene. Lily undoubtedly is packing nothing more lethal than a carrot stick, and her bullets are undoubtedly of organic origin.”
“I get it,” she said, winking slyly at me. She raised her voice. “Would you look at the time? I for one don’t want to be groggy in the morning when the first panel begins at nine o’clock sharp. We need a good night’s sleep so we’ll feel perky and ready to ask insightful questions. It’s all I can do to keep my eyes open.”
In that it was seven o’clock, no one else seemed to share her desire to tumble into bed. The message was received, however, and the topic of conversation shifted from mystery fiction to where best to have dinner and perhaps another drink or two.
Sherry Lynne joined me. “Did I catch a glimpse of Roxanne Small—or am I too worried about Wimple to think clearly?”
“Wimple is fine, and yes, that was Roxanne. It seems she went to grad school at Farber College and thought it would be amusing to surprise her authors while they’re in town. She’s staying here at the inn, so she must have made plans a while back. She’s your editor, isn’t she?”