“What’s the matter? You sound terrible.”
“Teddy Pendragon was here yesterday.”
“And?”
“I hate him.”
“What did he do now?”
“Nothing, if you leave out the bamboo shoots and water torture. I don’t want to talk about him. Molly, tell me again about that mystery mistress of Hugo’s.”
“Why?” she said.
“Because my life is full of holes, and I need to fill some in.”
In the silence I heard a car passing and pictured Molly on her porch, the afghan wrapped around her, watching the world go by, or what passed for the world in Westchester.
“I never met her,” she said. “No one did. He kept her very quiet.”
“Who was she?”
“No idea.”
“So what makes you think there was a mistress, much less a kid?”
“Hugo complained that he couldn’t work with the child underfoot. That’s why he went out to Sag Harbor to finish the book.”
“But when we came back from there, we came together, and no one was living in the apartment.”
I could almost hear her shrug. “Well, that’s Hugo, isn’t it? Out with the old, in with the new. What’s it matter, anyhow? She was before your time.”
“She was,” I said, then stopped myself. Molly had enough trouble of her own; she didn’t need mine.
“Jo, are you going to tell me, or do I have to schlep all the way into the city?”
She would, too. I knew that voice.
“Teddy claims Hugo had affairs while we were married.”
A moment passed. “So what if he did?”
“You’re saying it’s true?”
“If he was fucking around, I’m the last person he’d have told,” Molly said, which was no answer at all. “What’s it matter now? Hugo was Hugo. You know he adored you.”
“I feel like a goddamn self-deluded fool.”
“Listen to me, kiddo. Wherever Hugo stuck his dick, you’re the one he loved and needed. He worshipped the ground you walk on.”
“Only because he walked on it, too.”
She cackled. “I have an idea that’ll cheer you up.”
“Does it involve a killing spree?”
“More like a drive upstate. It’s that time of year. I’d like to see the leaves changing—” She stopped abruptly.
One last time? Had we come to that? I couldn’t think about it. We made plans for the upcoming Sunday to drive up the Taconic to Old Chatham and have lunch with Molly’s friend Leigh Pfeffer. “It’s Macoun season,” Molly said, and my spirits inched upward. Another small good thing: Macoun apples.
After we hung up, I gathered up all the photos of Hugo from the living room except the wedding photo with Molly on the steps of City Hall. I put them in a carton and stashed the carton in a closet in the study. Then I removed Val’s portrait of Hugo from the study wall and tossed that into the box too, along with the Hopi bowl and the mortar and pestle Isabel had given him, a gift whose significance struck me only now.
Just as I finished, the doorbell rang. I opened, expecting Ray with my manuscript, but it was Jean-Paul. His face was glowing, as if he’d run up the stairs, and his curly black hair was tousled.
“What are you doing here?” I asked ungraciously. “I told Lorna to messenger the manuscript.”
“I thought I’d bring it myself.”
I couldn’t help remembering Molly’s version of the way I met Hugo, and the coincidence made me uneasy. I pointed to the foyer table, and Jean-Paul set down two packages. Then he shut the door, which I’d left open. “The other one’s from the doorman; someone left it for you. Lorna said you’re not feeling well. You do look flushed.” He pressed the palm of his hand to my forehead, a surprising, sweet gesture. I imagined his mother doing the same to him as a child.
“I’m OK.”
“What do you need? I could walk Mingus for you.” He bent to pet the dog with a fluid grace as poignant as youth.
“We already took a nice long walk in the park.”
Jean-Paul straightened, frowning. “Central Park? By yourself?”
“With Mingus, my SWAT-team protection dog. Don’t you start, too.”
“Everyone’s worried about you, Jo. I’m worried about you.”
He was too close. I took a step back, which he interpreted as permission to enter. As he walked past me into the living room, I caught a scent of Ivory soap and musk. I sat in a corner of the couch and curled my legs beneath me. Jean-Paul sat beside me. We talked about the office and the morning’s calls, which included a nibble from one of the small regional presses currently considering Edwina Lavelle’s first novel. We rarely submit to those houses, because the advances they pay are minuscule, and there’s never any money for co-op advertising or promotion. But Edwina was one of the writers who’d been victimized by Sam Spade’s hoax, so money wasn’t the object. Jean-Paul had found several small publishers with lines in Caribbean or immigrant literature, and it was one of those who’d called this morning.
This was very good news, because no one ever called to say no. “No” comes in an e-mail or a note; “yes” comes by phone. “They’ll plead poverty, of course,” I said.
“Don’t you think they’ll offer more because you’re her agent? They wouldn’t want to look minor-league in front of you.”
“Oh, much more,” I said, laughing. “What’s three times nothing?”
He looked shocked. “Really?”
“They’re used to dealing directly with authors, and most writers are so eager to get published, they’ll work for paper clips. But we’ll do better than paper clips for Edwina.”
“So we hold out for stick-its and staples?”
“Maybe even a stapler.” We smiled at each other. There was a silence that went on a beat too long. “Well,” I said, standing, “you’d better get back. One of us has to work today.” He rose too, but instead of moving toward the door, he came and put his arms around me.
The hug was comforting at first, then discomfiting. His arms were strong. It had been a long time since any man held me, apart from Max, who didn’t count in that way.
Then I felt his lips on my neck, and I pulled back. But Jean-Paul held on, standing so close I could feel the heat of his body. “Jo, there’s something I need to tell you.”
“No, you don’t.” I pushed him away.
“I do, though. Chloe says I’m nuts, but she doesn’t feel what I feel.”
“I think maybe she does. You should pay more attention.”
He shrugged that off so dismissively that I felt a pang of vicarious heartbreak for Chloe. I was glad she hadn’t seen it; but she’d probably seen and heard worse. “I’m crazy about you, Jo. I’m totally in love with you. I want to—”
“Stop!”
“Don’t fire me,” he said quickly.
“I’m not going to fire you, you idiot. Look, Jean-Paul, it’s been a tough time for all of us, and emotions naturally run high. I know you care about me. So does everyone in the office. You guys are like my family.”
I’d thrown him a lifesaver, but he swam the other way. “That’s not what I meant. There’s nothing brotherly about the way I feel. I can’t believe I’m saying this. What kind of moron hits on his boss? But I can’t help it.”
“You’ll have to. We can’t have that sort of relationship. For one thing, you’re my employee.”
“If that’s all you’ve got, I’ll quit. Don’t you like me a little, Jo?”
“I like you a lot. You’re a great guy. But I’m not in the market, and even if I were, you’re too young for me.”
“Hugo Donovan was twice your age.”
“That’s different.”
“No, it’s not. You know age doesn’t matter.” His dark eyes bored into mine. I felt the heat coming off hi
s body and felt the urge to run my fingers through those beautiful black curls, knowing full well where that would lead. I imagined Jean-Paul in my bed, the bed I’d shared with Hugo. It seemed a very pleasurable means of getting my own back.
Something must have shown. Jean-Paul, sensing weakness, reached out and pulled me to him. The strength of his embrace unleashed a terrible hunger inside me. Three years of abstinence, three years of dammed-up yearning, three years of not being touched . . . three years of starvation, and suddenly a feast lay before me. It would be so easy. All I had to do was acquiesce, and he would do the rest. Go for it, girl, I heard Rowena whisper. If it’s a mistake, it’s a divine mistake.
Jean-Paul bent his head toward mine. My eyes were closed, but I felt his breath on my face.
Mingus growled.
Chapter 20
I sat in Hugo’s office, which I was determined to colonize, and tried to read the texting novel. Jumping into someone else’s story is usually a surefire way to escape my own, but not today. When I realized I had read the same page three times, I put the manuscript away. I kept thinking about Jean-Paul, the way his body felt against mine, and my own internal meltdown. Over the years since Hugo died, quite a few men had tried their luck. Some were attractive, yet I never felt even a twinge of answering desire. I’d thought that part of my life was buried with Hugo. Jean-Paul’s move took me by surprise but shouldn’t have. Max had warned me, and Molly, too, yet I blundered on, blinders firmly attached. If I’d seen this thing coming, I could have averted it. But I only see what I want to see.
Even when I tore my thoughts away from Jean-Paul, they found no safe landing place. The home strip, strafed by Teddy’s revelations, had been torn to pieces. Though I sat in a comfortable cage in a fortress high above the city, I felt assailed on all sides.
Searching for a distraction, I turned to the package the doorman had sent up. It was wrapped in brown paper, addressed in block letters to “Jo Donovan”; no address, no stamp, and no return address. I tore off the paper and found a standard-size manuscript box with an envelope taped to the lid, addressed to me. I opened it up and read:
My dear Jo,
The recent death of Ms. Rowena Blair was tragic on many levels. While not a great writer, I’m sure she was a fine person and a lucrative client. I’m very sorry for your loss.
The good news is, I’m here to make it up to you.
You need a major writer to take the place of Ms. Rowena Blair. I need a top agent to represent my work—and not just any top agent, as you’ll understand once you read the enclosed. We each have what the other needs.
I’ve taken the liberty of delivering my manuscript to your home, because when I followed the conventional submission routine, my work was summarily and, I’m sorry to say, rudely rejected by someone on your staff. You never had the chance to read the novel that you yourself inspired. I know you’ll love it, Jo. I just wish I could watch your face as you read it, but that will come in time. For now I must content myself with imagining it. I told you the first time we met: just as you were Hugo’s muse, so shall you be mine.
Take your time; read carefully. I will call you in a few days, and we’ll make plans to meet. I look forward to a long, cozy chat. Until then, my dear Jo, happy reading.
Your devoted,
Sam Spade
• • •
“What did you touch?” Tommy Cullen asked.
I felt a Pavlovian twinge of dread, for when I was a child, those words often preceded a beating. “Nothing,” I said, though the evidence was right between us on the desk. “Just the wrapping paper when I tore it, and the letter.”
“Was the envelope sealed?”
“No, the flap was tucked under.”
“Did you open the manuscript?”
“I wanted to, but I didn’t.”
“You wanted to? After reading that?” He jerked his head toward the letter, now encased in a plastic bag as if it were a body part.
“I have to read it,” I said. “You need to get the manuscript back to me as soon as you’re done with it.”
“You really want to let this guy into your head?”
“I want to get into his. People reveal themselves in their writing. I’m a good reader.”
“Reveal themselves how? I thought he writes fiction.”
Teddy Pendragon’s quote came back to me then, and it seemed apt, though I hadn’t much liked it at the time. “‘The lies we tell are part of the truth we live.’”
Tommy didn’t answer at once, but studied my face. I’d called him the moment I’d finished reading the letter, and fifteen minutes later he’d been at my door, dressed not in a suit this time, but jeans and a forest-green sweater, the color of his eyes. Maybe he was off duty; I’d called his cell. Max would disapprove. But how could I get through this without trusting the people I felt I could trust?
“Look, Jo,” Tommy said, “if we don’t catch this guy before he contacts you, I’m going to need you to talk to him, set up an appointment. You think you could do that?”
“I’ve got to read the manuscript first. I’ll need to say something about it.”
“Wouldn’t ‘I love it’ suffice?”
I smiled. “It never does. They always need to know why.”
“Fine; I’ll see you get a copy, if not the original. Now, tell me again how the manuscript reached you.”
“Jean-Paul got it from the doorman. I don’t know who Ray got it from. You should ask him.”
“I talked to him before I came up. He said a teenage Latino kid dropped it off. Not a regular courier; no paperwork. We’re looking, but it’s probably just some random kid paid to deliver it. Why was Jean-Paul here?”
“I was working at home today. He brought me a manuscript from the office.”
“Did you ask him to do that?”
“I told Lorna to send it. Jean-Paul volunteered. What’s your point? Sam Spade has crawled out of the woodwork again, still obsessed. He practically admits killing Rowena; at least, he gives us his motive on a platter.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Clearing the decks? Making room for the next big thing?”
“Exactly. It’s him; it was always him.” The corollary was that it wasn’t anyone else, which was very good news indeed and a great weight off my heart. Yet my detective friend seemed curiously unconvinced.
“Maybe. Until we know for sure, I’m interested in everyone who’s interested in you, including Pretty Boy.”
“Pretty Boy,” I scoffed. “You’ve been watching too many old gangster movies.”
“Is it mutual, the attraction? Is Jean-Paul your lover?”
I stared at him but couldn’t penetrate the surface. Whatever became of the old exuberant Tommy, who wore his heart on his face?
“No,” I said coolly. “Is this still business, Tommy?”
His voice was colder yet. “What else would it be? Jean-Paul’s obviously smitten. If there’s a relationship, we need to know.”
“We have a relationship. It’s called boss-employee.” I glanced at Mingus as I said this. Thank God dogs can’t talk. I owed this one a big debt. That growl had worked as well as a bucket of cold water, on me at least. We’d jumped apart like guilty teenagers. “Put him away,” Jean-Paul had pleaded, but by then my fit of madness had passed. I gave the kid a lecture on appropriate behavior and sent him away, praying he didn’t know how close he’d come—how close I’d come to doing something cruel and stupid. I owed Gordon Hayes more than he’d ever know. He said the dog could save me; I’d just never imagined how.
“No one would blame you,” Tommy said. “He’s a good-looking kid.”
“‘Kid’ being the operative word. If I wanted someone, it wouldn’t be a boy.” I held his eyes as I said this. Tommy started to answer and thought better of it. What am I doing? I wondered in the sudden quiet. Flirting while Rome burns?
Jean-Paul had loosed something in me, which maybe wasn’t such a bad thing in itself, but Tommy was a hopeless case. Once bitten, twice shy, he’d said. Ancient history. Those bridges were burnt.
“An unrequited lover, then,” he said. “Our favorite kind.”
“Where are you getting this? Surely not Jean-Paul.”
Tommy snorted. “According to him, he sees you purely as a mentor, which I guess is why he can’t take his eyes off you. When I asked you to imagine a motive for everyone in your office, remember what you came up with for Jean-Paul?”
“That was before Rowena died. I wouldn’t have played your stupid game after.”
“You said he was secretly in love with you and wanted to play the rescuer.”
“I also said Lorna was an anarchist out to kill all bosses. Did you believe that, too?”
He smacked his forehead. “You are such a fucking Pollyanna!”
“You’re such a cynic. You’ve changed, you know. You used to see the best in people. Now you see their worst potential.”
“Comes with the territory. You’ve changed too.”
“How?” I asked.
“Stronger,” he said, studying me with that sleepy-eyed, hooded look that could fool you into thinking he wasn’t paying attention. “Sadder.”
• • •
Even though the police hadn’t yet captured or even identified Sam Spade, his reappearance buoyed the spirits of everyone in the office. There were still unanswered questions, as Max was at pains to point out. We had no idea how the stalker had accessed my clients’ submissions histories in the first cyber-attack, or how he’d put together the distribution list for the second, or how he’d persuaded Rowena to open her door. Nevertheless, my staff took his return the same way I did: as a sign that we could stop looking askance at one another and focus our anger on the outsider.
Fate, or the goodwill of my publishing colleagues, seemed determined to support us with daily infusions of good news. Max’s novel clung tenaciously to the bestseller list, while Rowena’s last novel reoccupied the top spot. The brilliant Sikha Mehruta, whom I’d met in Santa Fe, called to ask if I would take her on, as her current agent was retiring. I said I’d be proud to represent her, but felt obliged to ask if she’d heard about the agency’s troubles; Sikha said she had and it didn’t matter.
A Dangerous Fiction Page 20