Bell, Book, and Scandal jj-14

by Jill Churchill

  Jane pulled out the paper in her plastic tag, turned it over, and wrote in the same style, "Hi, I'm Olga Strange" then reinserted it with the new message facing out.

  Still chuckling, Shelley did the same thing. Shelley said, "I can see why you're such a good writer, Felicity. You have a fabulous imagination to think that story up on the spur of the moment."

  Felicity preened. "Making up stories is what I do for a living."

  "And you do it very well," Jane said. "On another topic, if I may. Is it worth staying here until the closing ceremonies? I want to go home and work on my book so I can fix it and send it on its way"

  "I'm stuck here because I flew in and am flying back, so there's no choice. Besides, I hear it's going to be fun," Felicity said.

  "Do you have plans for this evening? We're on our own for dinner, the brochure says," Shelley asked.

  "No plans at all," Felicity admitted.

  "We found the most wonderful restaurant over in the mall across the street. We'd like to go back," Jane said. "Want to come along?"

  "I'd love to escape from here. When shall we go?" "I think we should go early," Shelley said. "We had an early lunch there, and by the time we left, the place was mobbed. How about five o'clock? Then we could find a good parking place, not wait in line, and do some shopping afterwards." "No shopping," Jane said firmly.

  "I'd love to shop," Felicity said. "But as it is, I'm going to have to break the bank and FedEx home all the books I've bought. I won't have room in my suitcase for anything else. I've already purchased some new clothes as well from

  one of the shops in the tunnel. I'm going to need a forklift to transport this stuff to the airport."

  "We'll meet you here at about ten to five, then. You'll love this restaurant," Shelley promised. "And you'll have the thrill of riding in Jane's brand-new Jeep."

  "You have a Jeep, too?" Felicity asked Jane. "I love my big Grand Cherokee but it's an old gas-guzzler. I'm thinking of buying a more efficient one."

  "This is the new version," Jane said with all her excitement about it returning in a flash. "It's called a Liberty and is slightly smaller and is supposed to have great gas mileage."

  Since Jane and Felicity were clearly going to go on and on about Jeeps, Shelley excused herself. "I'm going up to the suite to call home and see how the kids are doing and if my husband's sister Constanza has figured out the code to our safe. See you two later."

  Jane took Felicity out to the parking lot and showed off the Jeep. She even let her drive it around the parking lot and was glad to know Felicity didn't drive anything like Shelley did.

  Felicity vowed she was going to buy one just like Jane's when she returned home.

  It was a good thing that they'd arrived early for dinner. The restaurant was already filling up when they arrived. "It's Sunday," Shelley said.

  "Lots of families are shopping in the mall and are eating dinner out before going home."

  By agreeing to sit in the smoking section next to the bar at the back of the restaurant, they avoided having to be around a great many badly behaved children. The area was all but deserted.

  Jane and Felicity had exhausted the discussions of Jeeps. After the three women looked over the menu, the conversation, which they knew this time was private, reverted to Vernetta and her epubbed book.

  "Jane and I mildly disagree about what Vernetta said when we met with her, Gaylord, Zac, and Sophie," Shelley said.

  "What's the disagreement?" Felicity asked.

  Jane said, "It's this — I didn't believe her denial of the plagiarism. She obviously didn't know what it was called. She knew she'd done it, although she claimed there was nothing wrong with what she did because the book was out of print. But she was very convincingly angry at being accused of the 'accidents' that befell Sophie and Zac."

  "Zac's experience clearly wasn't an accident," Felicity said. "Why did you mention Sophie along with him?"

  Jane replied, "I think somebody poisoned her. But not enough to kill her. I suspect it was in the candies Vernetta had sent to Sophie's suite. I think she added something to them and put the package back together very carefully before she sent them to Sophie's suite."

  "Why would she do that?" Shelley asked. "Sophie was the open door to her fame and fortune."

  "Maybe she was afraid with all these writing folks surrounding Sophie here, someone would tip Sophie off to what she'd done. She probably just wanted to put her out of commission for a while until the conference was over," Jane said. "She underestimated Sophie's powers of endurance."

  "That could be true," Shelley admitted. "But why would Vernetta or Gaylord attack Zac?"

  "If Sophie realized the book Zac had given her was important and it was missing, she probably asked him to bring her another one. Vernetta could have overheard this, or merely assumed she'd do so."

  "That means she had to be the one who knew who wrote the book. Do we know she did?" Felicity asked.

  "Apparently it was written under a pseudonym but Zac always copyrighted in his real name," Jane explained. "And she had to have had an old version of it from a used-book store in order to copy it."

  "But how would she have known Sophie knew the book was missing?"

  "Because she'd stolen it in the first place," Jane said. Then she stopped dead and said, "Wait. There was something said…"

  "Is this another of your Frederic Remington moments?" Shelley asked."I'm afraid so."

  They had to stop so Shelley could explain to Felicity what this strange remark meant. Jane paid no attention. She was racking her brains for what had fleetingly passed through her mind and instantly disappeared.

  Twenty-five

  Jane was determined to put the insight aside. What did it matter? If Zac and Sophie didn't care what had happened to them, why was it really any of her business to convince them otherwise? She'd heard of both of them in the brochure and the advance bulletins. But that was all. They weren't friends. They weren't even enemies.

  She supposed she considered Vernetta an enemy. That woman was not a moral person. Then why should she have any interest in what Vernetta may or may not have done? Except that Jane felt strongly that plagiarism was a bad thing, if not actually sinful and criminal. She and Shelley had done what they could — which was significant — to prove Vernetta was guilty of it. Now it was time to let it go.

  She had no reason to even think about it anymore. Whatever happened to any of them was no longer relevant to her. Her only concern was that she and Shelley not be publicly named as the women who

  had figured it out, and Felicity had taken care of that. At least as far as Miss Mystery knew.

  She drove Shelley and Felicity back to the hotel after dinner. The lobby was sparsely populated. According to the conference booklet, there was only one activity going on — a roundtable discussion of everybody's favorite mysteries. Felicity wanted to attend just in case someone mentioned her. Jane and Shelley tagged along on the understanding that they'd only stay a little while. When two people had cited Felicity as their favorite mystery writer, they felt they'd done their duty, and headed back to the lobby intending to go back to the suite and maybe order up a dessert from room service later.

  They were stopped in their tracks by a scene at the front desk. The Strausmanns were checking out. They had an enormous amount of luggage, even a small trunk that presumably held their costumes. A bellhop was loading everything up to take outside. Vernetta was speaking to a tall, dark, cadaverous older man. Was he her lawyer who'd come to Chicago to escort them home to Kentucky? Or maybe their fundamentalist preacher, saving them from the big-city sinners?

  "I'm surprised that they didn't stay to the bitter end," Shelley said. "They must have at least one unused costume to wear to the closing ceremonies and lots of nasty things to say to practically everyone."

  "Especially us," Jane replied. "I'm glad they're leaving now. I didn't want to run into them again. I doubt they remembered our names, but they'd have recognized us."

 
; "Oh dear, I hadn't even considered that. We have been saved. Let's go upstairs right now so they don't spot us. I think I need a good hot soaky bath to relax."

  When they returned once again to the suite, Jane took off her nice clothes and put on her sweats and sat down in the most comfortable chair to read the book she'd started before the Miss Mystery interrogation started. It was a good book, but she kept tending to nod off from shear weariness. This conference had gone on too long, had too many emotional ups and downs, and all she wanted was to go home.

  She was unashamedly napping when Shelley yelped her name a few minutes later. Jane leaped up and ran into Shelley's bedroom. Her friend was sitting at the desk and frowning at the screen of her laptop computer.

  "What's wrong? You haven't even changed your clothes. I thought you were taking a bath," Jane said.

  "Look at this," Shelley said.

  Jane couldn't read the computer screen over Shelley's shoulder. "Print it out so I can see it."

  It was from Miss Mystery's web site and said:

  BULLETIN: PLAGIARISM DISCOVERED

  Dear Readers and Writers, remember when we were all talking about the "E-Pubbed Wonder" who received a huge advance from legendary editor Sophie Smith? Mrs. Vernetta Strausmann, the author of the book, has been revealed as a plagiarist at a mystery convention in Chicago.

  The clever sleuths who figured this out are a pair of middle-aged women, Enid Potts and Olga Strange. They claim to be cousins, living in a remote cabin together in Alaska. We all know what this means about them, don't we? Ha ha!

  Part of the book was copyright infringed (another phrase for plagiarism) from a book that Zac Zebra, the well-known reviewer, wrote years and years ago.

  More on this upheaval when I learn the details. Cousins. Right. Ha ha.

  Your reporter, Miss Mystery, giving you all the inside dirt the moment it's dug up.

  Jane sat down on Shelley's bed. "This is awful." "Middle-aged women," Shelley quoted angrily. "Did you understand it? We're not only

  middle-aged, we're lesbians," Jane said.

  "Is that what she meant? I let myself be caught up in the middle-aged part. Okay, that's it. The woman has to pay for this.""How are you going to do that?"

  "I'll show you," Shelley said, rummaging in her suitcase and coming up with a tiny silver digital camera. "I've been waiting to use this. I've read all the instructions. Miss Mystery hides hex identity. She won't be able to do it ever again. I'm going take pictures of her and spread them as fax and wide as I can."

  Shelley threw the camera into her purse and walked out of the suite.

  Jane wished her well. But didn't want to follow her and draw attention to the two of them together.

  Shelley was back in an hour. She took a little gadget out of the camera and plugged it into a slot in her computer, hit a couple of keys, and a picture of the woman calling herself Lucille Weirather popped up on the screen. It wasn't an especially good photo. It was dark and murky.

  "I didn't want to use the flash and alert her," Shelley said. "I took a lot of shots but this one isn't useful. She's in profile and other people are standing behind her. I don't want that."

  One by one, she displayed the rest of the photos on the screen. Of the eight pictures Shelley had taken, only two were acceptable. And one of those had another person in the frame.

  "I could fix that by cropping the other woman out, if I had to, but I think I'll just go with the other one. Would you call and ask that copy center if they can use disks to print pictures?"

  Jane did what she was told. "They can. They're only open for another hour though. We need to hurry."

  Shelley asked the copy shop to print up fifty 4-by-6-inch shots. And she purchased several sheets of sticky labels.

  On the way back to the hotel, Jane asked, "Are you really sure you want to do this?"

  "It's a public service, Jane. She's a slimy eavesdropper and a vicious gossip. Somebody has to blow her cover and it might as well be us. Or rather Enid and Olga. Now let me print up these labels to put at the bottom of each picture."

  The labels said, "This is Miss Mystery. Authors, be careful of what you say in her presence."

  "Aren't you skirting close to libel or slander, whichever it is?" Jane asked.

  "No. I didn't say anything specific enough. I didn't claim she eavesdrops or says nasty things she overheard."

  Shelley gave one sheet of labels to Jane, and they sat sticking the labels to the bottom of each picture. "Give Felicity a call, if you would. I'm sure she'd like a few copies for her writing pals."

  "May we drop in on you for a moment?" Jane asked Felicity. "Have you seen Miss Mystery's post about Vernetta and us on her web site?"

  "No, but someone mentioned it in the elevator. I meant to look it up but have been too busy trying to pack all these things I've accumulated. Come on down." She gave her room number.

  Jane and Shelley took along a printout of the web page and all the pictures.

  "Wow, that's unusually nasty of her," Felicity said when she'd read the printout. "I don't remember her ever going after anyone except authors and the jerks who post their loony notes on her bulletin board section. She had no right to cite you two. Even though Enid and Olga don't exist."

  Then she took a look at the pile of pictures. "How did you make her stand still to be photographed?"

  Shelley said, "I trailed her for an hour, lurking where she couldn't see me and my tiny camera. I didn't dare use the flash and most of them were murky or had other people in the picture. This was the only good one."

  "So what are you doing with so many of these?" Felicity asked.

  "I want to put one on the conference bulletin board. It will probably disappear when the people staffing it come back in the morning. The rest… well, I thought you might want to share them with your writer friends so everyone will know what she looks like."

  "That's a brilliant idea. I'll become a heroine. Let me put my shoes on and we'll go downstairs."

  Twenty-six

  In the rush to have the pictures done of Miss Mystery, Jane and Shelley didn't fail to enjoy their late-night dessert. They both ordered hot fudge sundaes and regretted this choice all night long. They each got up twice during the night to take antacids.

  "The real cure for this is bland food," Shelley said. "We're supposed to meet Felicity for breakfast. We can enjoy watching what she eats while we stick with very slightly buttered toast."

  When they reached the lobby shortly after eight in the morning, the whole place was awash in black-and-white copies of Miss Mystery's picture. The woman claiming to be Lucille Weirather was frantically rushing around the lobby and meeting rooms, trying to find and destroy them. But new ones kept reappearing as if by magic.

  Felicity had asked them to meet her at the door of the restaurant and they joined her, laughing like loons.

  "How did you do that?" Jane asked.

  "I gave out the color copies to several writing friends who had access to copiers. They distributed them everywhere at about six this morning. The one we put on the registration bulletin board has disappeared, as we expected. We've done the entire world of mystery writers an enormous favor. She won't ever again get away with this eavesdropping at conferences. Her cover's been blown."

  "We've annoyed the planners," Shelley said with a hint of regret. "But it pays them back for posting a notice telling us which subjects we weren't supposed to talk about."

  "They'll recover from it," Felicity said. "Often somebody commits an outrage at these conferences. I once went to one where a woman was carrying around a live chicken. Vernetta's offense was a worse one than ours."

  "I'm still wondering about who originally wrote the parts from the woman's viewpoint in Vernetta's book," Jane said. "Writers who are concerned should download the e-pubbed version before it's taken off the Internet."

  "Most of us who might have been her victims already did so the minute the story got out," Felicity assured them. "Orla put it on a computer dis
k and made copies for those of our friends who aren't here. At least it's not something of mine. I couldn't have been that boring, even when I was much younger.""I envy you your circle of friends," Jane said.

  "You have me. And Felicity. We're all you need," Shelley said, patting Jane's arm.

  "Shelley's right," Felicity said. "One really good friend who understands is worth ten who don't."

  Shifting mental gears back to writing, Felicity went on, "What I really find most unbelievable about this is that Sophie ever bought it. It's really a horrible book. Putting aside all the typos and misspellings, it has virtually nothing to recommend it. The characters are cardboard, always whining to themselves about why they're obsessing about this person in their dreams and doing nothing about it. It's far too long and tedious. There's no sense of time or place. No good phrases that make you think 'I wish I'd written that.' "

  "Maybe she never read it?" Jane speculated. She'd learned through the publishing magazine she'd subscribed to that there were lowly first readers who cleared out the worst of the manuscripts that arrived by the hundreds every week at publishing houses.

  "I doubt it," Felicity said. "Sophie's really choosy about who she thinks should be paid that kind of money."

  "What if someone else, say someone higher up than her, had loved it? One of those Harvard Business School people who've never read good fiction and thought it was 'Literature' with a capital L?" Jane asked.

  Felicity thought this over for a moment. "I still doubt it. It is possible, though. Publishing has changed a lot in the last few years with all these conglomerates who made their money selling toilet tissue or safe-deposit boxes. Corporate executives who think publishers are ripe plums to be picked at random to raise their profile as intellectuals. People who are nearly illiterate are making important and catastrophic decisions. It's certainly food for thought."