Almost True Confessions

by Jane O'Connor

  “I’m impressed. Nobody ever gets my name straight.”

  “Maybe it’s because I’m saddled with a funny nickname too,” Bibi said.

  “Mary’s birthday is coming up. She mentioned your store, what terrific taste you have. And just from a quick look in the window I saw about ten things she would love.”

  “Browse to your heart’s content. Everything is twenty percent off.”

  The interior was small almost to the point of claustrophobic and doubly hard to navigate what with so many highly breakable items displayed on the glass vitrines, demilune side tables, and small chests that were also for sale. One false move and a collection of art deco perfume bottles would be nothing but very expensive shards. Still, it seemed impolite not to take her time browsing, especially since Bibi kept chatting, filling Rannie in on the history of Bibilots—she’d opened it shortly after her husband died—taking pains to make certain Rannie understood that financial necessity had played no part in the venture. “From the start, it’s been like a hobby. I have no head for business.” She tapped her forehead. “I’m thick as a plank, but whether I have a good year or a bad year, well, it doesn’t matter terribly much. You would not believe the rent now, absolutely as-tro-nom-i-cal.” Bibi enunciated each syllable separately. “Still, this place keeps me out of trouble.”

  These last words, spoken so airily, were uttered at the exact moment Rannie’s eyes fell on a lacquered cocktail tray atop which were six art deco martini glasses. Considering Bibi’s affiliation with AA, Rannie wondered whether her glibness about running a gift store was merely for a stranger’s benefit. According to Tim, steady work—the responsibility of showing up for a job day after day—helped alcoholics stay sober. And it didn’t matter if you were punching a time clock or on Goldman Sachs’s payroll or handing checks to yourself, as Bibi was.

  Rannie nodded as she picked up an address book covered in watermarked silk. “Everything in here practically screams ‘Mary wants me,’ but I saw some handkerchiefs in the window.”

  “Of course! They’re initialed. I’ll get you ones with an embroidered M on them. How perfect!”

  In a flash, Bibi retrieved the handkerchiefs. They were perfect and not “as-tro-nom-i-cal” in price. Rannie could imagine them acquiring the lovely “grandma smell” and taking their rightful place inside Mary’s ladylike black leather handbags.

  Rannie watched Bibi’s large capable hands cut off exactly the right-sized square of hot pink-and-white polka-dot gift paper for the box and then snip off a length of lime green ribbon. So very Palm Beach.

  Force of habit, Rannie checked her left wrist for the time.

  “Sorry. I’ll hurry.”

  “No, no. I’m not in a rush. I—uh, I lost—my watch, so of course now I find myself always obsessively checking the time.”

  “I bet it’ll turn up. Just recently I found a bracelet that vanished years ago. My grandmother had given it to me. One day I was taking the cover off a tennis racket and out it fell.”

  “I’m afraid my watch is gone for good.” Then Rannie added, although why was anybody’s guess, “I got mugged—at knifepoint.”

  Bibi had finished wrapping the box and was affixing a Bibilots label onto it. She looked up, aghast. “You poor thing! Where did it happen? You must have been terrified!”

  Rannie didn’t relish recounting the incident, particularly since it had been her own damn fault, but mentioning it now had also been her own damn fault. “It happened one night right on my block.”

  Bibi seemed relieved after learning Rannie’s address, which, in all likelihood, was many zip codes from hers.

  “Well, I know that you can get fab-ulous space up there,” she said. Her “up there” made it sound as if Rannie had chosen to live in the frozen tundra with only starving wolves for neighbors.

  Bibi handed Rannie the wrapped gift. “Hang on just a sec. I have something for you. Not a replacement for your watch but . . .” Next to the tray with martini glasses was a stack of coasters. Bibi took four for Rannie. On each was a clock face, the painted hands set perpetually at five, an unstated allusion to the Wasp rallying cry “It’s always five o’clock somewhere!”

  Rannie laughed. “That’s so nice really, but—”

  “It’s nothing. I thought these would sell like hotcakes and I way overordered. So think of it as relieving me of inventory.” Bibi slipped the coasters into a small shopping bag along with Mary’s handkerchiefs.

  Rannie was ready for the return trip to Saks when a pang of guilt forestalled her. Her mother’s birthday was in early January. Normally Rannie made do by sending the newest Rosamunde Pilcher or Nora Roberts novel via Amazon. But now Rannie told herself that it wouldn’t kill her to put in a little more effort. And there was a picture frame that her mother would love.

  Different in temperament as they were, Rannie and her mother, both native, landlocked Midwesterners, shared a passion for the ocean; among her happiest childhood memories—or at least happy memories involving her mother—were those of shell collecting on Bookman family vacations in rental houses on Cape Cod.

  “Would you mind showing me a picture frame in the window? The one with scallop shells.”

  “I hope you’re not feeling obligated to buy something else.”

  “No, of course not,” Rannie replied, though actually she did, a little bit. “My mother’s birthday is coming up, too.”

  “I’ve got those frames already boxed in back. It’ll just take me a sec to find one.” Bibi told her the price, which even minus twenty percent was far more than Rannie had expected to spend. Bibi grabbed her book before disappearing on the other side of a pink-and-white polka-dot curtain. The book that Bibi had been reading was Tattletale.

  Bibi returned and in a minute crafted another expertly wrapped gift.

  “Thanks so much.” Rannie waved good-bye. Her smile felt a little pasted on. Bibi’s choice of reading matter had startled her. Yet really why should it? After all, Tattletale was turning into an instant bestseller. It seemed like everybody and his mother had a copy. There seemed no imaginable way that Bibi Gaines could know of Ret’s book about her grandmother. Unless—was this beyond crazy to think?—Bibi was Audio.

  Walking back to Saks, Rannie tested out the possibility. No one was closer to Charlotte Cummings or knew more about her than her granddaughter. And Portrait of a Lady was completely unlike Ret’s other books—it cast Charlotte Cummings in almost sanctified light. Bibi would be gratified by the portrayal.

  Even so, would Bibi agree to lay out her grandmother’s life before the likes of Ret Sullivan? Rannie recalled Tim’s remark about Audio being a paid snitch. But Bibi Gaines surely didn’t need the money. What other incentive was there? Might Ret have called and said something like, “Look, I’m writing a biography of your grandmother, whether or not you agree to help.” The news wouldn’t have made Bibi happy, not if she knew of Ret’s previous search-and-destroy biographies. If so, then Bibi Gaines was caught in a thorny beggar’s bargain. Perhaps she concluded it was better to be the primary source for the book. Maybe she had even wangled manuscript approval, though that seemed doubtful knowing how Ret Sullivan operated. Certainly Bibi would have been dead set against any acknowledgment of her participation in the book. Yet Ret gave props to somebody she called “Audio.”

  A car horn honking put a sudden stop to all her theorizing. Rannie suddenly realized she was crossing against the light; a taxi swerving onto Madison Avenue had narrowly avoided her. Rannie smiled apologetically and held up a hand in thanks. Behind closed windows the cabdriver was shouting something and she was sure it wasn’t “You’re welcome.”

  She was only half a block away from Saks. As she went in the Fiftieth Street side entrance of the department store, Rannie ended up deciding to burst the trial balloon of Bibi as Audio. It wasn’t so much a rational judgment; it relied more on Rannie’s being unable to conjure Bibi and Ret together in any sort of association, even a semiforced one. If Ret had contacted Bibi, Rann
ie imagined her likely response would have been on the order of, “You’re writing a book about Grammy? Bonne chance!” and then slamming down the phone.

  Chapter 14

  On the homeward-bound Broadway bus, Rannie checked her cell. There were text messages from various S&S folk, all understandably in shock over Ellen’s death. Only Ellen’s assistant, Dina, thought to connect the dots between Ret’s murder and Ellen’s. “Please say the big secret book isn’t by Ret.”

  A text from Larry simply said, “Call.” That would wait until she was home.

  One by one, she deleted texts. There were also old voice messages; Rannie was all set to clear them en masse when she realized some were from Ellen on Sunday. A chill slithered up from the nape of her neck and across her scalp. She shouldn’t delete them, should she? Not before informing the police of their existence. All she remembered about the messages was the increasing note of panic in her friend’s voice. Was there anything more? Should Rannie listen to them again?

  No. She couldn’t bear to.

  In her wallet was the card of the policeman from the morgue. William Grieg. As soon as she was in her apartment, Rannie called. Grieg arrived half an hour later and, after listening to Ellen’s messages, said, “Ms. Bookman. You think you’re up to answering some questions now?” Immediately Rannie wished that she had a hand to hold, specifically one belonging to Tim Butler. “One sec,” she said and called Tim again, leaving a message to get in touch; right after, she felt babyish and so, facing Grieg with a look of resignation, told him, “I’m not eager. But since you’re here . . .”

  Over Diet Cokes in the living room, Rannie talked while Grieg studiously took notes.

  “What time did Ellen Donahoe usually go for a run?”

  “On days she wasn’t at work, around nine thirty.”

  “Had Frank . . .” He leafed back in his notebook. “Frank Meeker tried to contact her recently?”

  “Not that I know of. He’s married now.” The SOB.

  “Was Ms. Donahoe seeing anyone new?”

  “Yes. But she didn’t say who. On Sunday she was meeting the guy for lunch. She said it was nobody special.”

  Grieg asked about colleagues from S&S and what Ellen’s job entailed, so Rannie used Ellen’s relationship with Ret as an example of an editor’s function. Grieg seemed surprised at how much day-to-day involvement and confidence boosting were required in the job.

  “Had they worked together before?”

  “Yes.” Rannie explained that Ellen had been Ret’s editor for many books, including Dark Side of the Moon, the biography of Mike Bellettra. “Ellen was devastated about what happened to Ret. I don’t know if you remember—”

  “Remember? Who could forget, Bellettra attacking her like that? Lye—nasty stuff.” He shook his head in distaste. “I once followed up on a 911, a domestic, a woman screaming how her husband was threatening to kill himself by swallowing lye. He did it too, right as I came in the apartment. It took two days for the poor bastard to die.” Grieg paused and his brow furrowed. “You know, actually now that I’m thinking about it, it wasn’t lye. It was Drano.” He nodded to Rannie. “Yeah, definitely Drano.”

  Rannie refrained from comment. Lye. Drano. Lemon-scented Clorox. What did it possibly matter which lethally corrosive cleanser the poor schlub had taken?

  The cop consulted his notes again and, looking up at Rannie, asked, “Do you know Lawrence Katz?”

  Strangely, it took a half second for Rannie to compute that Larry and Lawrence Katz were one and the same.

  “Larry? Yes! Why?”

  Grieg avoided the question. “How do you know him?”

  “He used to work at Simon & Schuster, where I once worked. That’s where I first met him.”

  “ ‘First’ met him?” Grieg repeated.

  “Years ago, after my divorce, Larry and I saw each other for a short time . . . socially.” Grieg kept his expression neutral, she noticed. “Larry left New York. We lost touch. It was a short romance.” Rannie frowned. “We connected at an unhappy time in both our lives, and for a while being unhappy together seemed better than being unhappy alone.” Rannie could hear herself and mentally winced: Why did she feel it necessary to blather on about her neediness to a member of the NYPD?

  “When were you last in touch?”

  Rannie crossed her legs. “Well, coincidentally I saw Larry yesterday. It was the first time in ages.” How suspicious did that sound?

  “You ran into him?”

  “No. I had a meeting with him at Dusk Books.” That sounded professional, aboveboard.

  “Why suddenly reconnect?”

  The short-form answer was “I hoped he’d have freelance work for me.” Then Rannie drained her Diet Coke and added, “Well, truthfully it was more than that.” Jesus! Why had she used the word “truthfully” as if up till now she’d been lying like a shag rug? Rannie wet her upper lip, which felt stuck to her gum. “Dusk, where Larry works, just published a book about Ret Sullivan. It’s called Tattletale.” Rannie paused. “And I have to confess—” Shit! “Confess”? What was wrong with her? “I have to confess that morbid interest made me call Larry. I was curious if he’d kept up with Ret.”

  “So he knew Ms. Sullivan?”

  Grieg had to be aware of that already since he was part of the homicide investigation and Larry had been questioned, twice now. “Publishing is a very small world,” Rannie replied.

  “And had he?”

  Rannie looked at him blankly. “Had he what?”

  “Had Mr. Katz kept up with Ms. Sullivan?”

  Ooh. This was getting stickier and stickier. “He said no.”

  He stopped writing and looked up. “Any reason not to believe him?

  Rannie owed no allegiance to Larry Katz, not when she was being interviewed about a double homicide. Yet she wished giving a forthright answer didn’t feel quite so much like ratting out someone whom she’d once been genuinely fond of. “Larry is the kind of guy who loves crossword puzzles, anagrams, any kind of word game. I mention this because the author of Tattletale is called Lina Struvel.” Rannie showed him her copy of the book. “I’m not sure why but this morning, I began fixating on the author’s name. All of a sudden I saw that if you take all the letters in ‘Lina Struvel’ and move them around, you come out with ‘Ret Sullivan.’ Ret Sullivan wrote the book.”

  Grieg eyes were still fixed on the book cover. “A word scramble. You figured this out yourself?”

  Rannie tried to smile modestly, although the obnoxious smart girl in her never ceased craving recognition of her cleverness.

  “And Lawrence Katz’s involvement in this book would be what?”

  “I don’t know this for sure, but I’m guessing he was the editor. Suggesting to Ret that she use a word-scramble pseudonym would be a very Larry thing to do.”

  “Why bother? It seems like everybody and his brother has a memoir out. Ret Sullivan was a big-time author. So why not have her write the book and use her own name?”

  Rannie shrugged. “Maybe just for a goof.” She could see Grieg was not getting the humor.

  “So if Larry Katz was the editor,” he pointed at Tattletale, “then he’d have been in touch with her, Ms. Sullivan, quite a bit, if I’m following your drift.”

  Rannie didn’t feel a nod was even required. She sank back into the couch. Jesus, she’d just made Larry sound like a sophomoric, games-playing twit. And while he sort of was, he was also a decent guy. Larry’s signing up Ret to write Tattletale could even be construed as a good-hearted gesture in a certain, off-kilter light. No doubt he saw profit in the book, yet handing Ret the project was a mitzvah of sorts. Rannie tried explaining this line of reasoning to Grieg. “He was throwing a lifeline to a woman who spent her days holed up in an apartment with her press clippings for company. He gave her something to do.”

  “Did Ellen Donahoe know Larry Katz?”

  Publishing was hands-down the most incestuous business. “Yes. We all knew each other from Simo
n & Schuster.”

  “So just professional colleagues?”

  Redundancy alert! Rannie’s brain signaled. Colleagues by definition connoted a professional relationship. “Yes, they were business acquaintances,” she said. “Ellen and I were more than that. We were friends, and she was great about giving me freelance work after I lost my job at S&S.”

  “Ms. Bookman, do you mind saying why you were let go?” He was tactful enough to avoid saying “fired.” But Rannie could tell a whole raft of creepy reasons for dismissal had instantly occurred to him. . . . Had Ms. Bookman been stealing? Engaging in inappropriate behavior at the office—oh, maybe like getting caught having sex with the entire sales force? Or perhaps threatening another employee?

  Rannie recounted in detail the ludicrous story of Nancy Drew that led her to file for unemployment. He tried to suppress a smile.

  “It’s okay. I’d think it was funny too if it had happened to someone else,” Rannie said. Would he bother to verify her story with S&S human resources? Probably.

  “Pretty harsh if you weren’t the one who screwed up.”

  Rannie shrugged in a “whatever” way.

  After that, his questions returned to Ellen. “When did you last see her?”

  “On Sunday at her apartment. I picked up a copy of the manuscript about Charlotte Cummings so I could start copyediting it. Ellen had the only hard copy besides Ret’s.” Uttering those last words jogged Rannie’s memory. “Ellen told me that the copy she gave me and the one the police took from Ret Sullivan’s apartment might not be identical.”

  “How so?”

  “I don’t know. According to Ellen, Ret Sullivan might have made some last-minute changes that would be entered on her disk. I was supposed to check over that final version. But once it was in police custody, Ellen said I should just work on the printout she gave me: she was quite sure that Ret wasn’t adding new chunks or making major changes.”