Stranger Than Fiction

by Emelle Gamble

  She had never suspected that her assistant’s loyalty and devotion extended beyond the professional. But she must be in love with him, Claire realized. And neither she nor Tillie had ever suspected what now seemed clear as day.

  Vincent Harrison had betrayed them both.

  * * *

  Desalvo printing was a two-hour jaunt across Manhattan to Yonkers’ industrial section. By the time Claire walked to the front gate of the warehouse, it was past nine. The taxi driver had not been overjoyed to leave her in the empty employee parking lot.

  He had accepted his ten-dollar tip suspiciously, muttering something in a vaguely European accent about smarty American women. He had driven off, glancing back at Claire once to see if she had changed her mind.

  She had not. And her normal jitters at being out alone in a strange part of town had fled. She was past worrying about such trifles as muggers. The real dangers in life were much closer to home.

  Carefully she looked around the shadowy grounds for a sign of the night watchman or any other employees. No one was visible. But the car was there.

  Vincent Harrison is still here, she thought with a shiver.

  His gleaming black Lincoln sat in the shadows outside the empty guard shack, the car phone antenna piercing the air above it. Leo DeSalvo, the owner of the printing plant, had only a two-man crew on at night. They must be inside with Mr. Harrison, checking the ink colors and picture definition on the cover for The Poison Pen Pal, she thought.

  Harrison? Or should she have said Chancon?

  Moving quickly, Claire tried the handle of the Lincoln. It opened cleanly. For a fraction of a second she hesitated, then firmly pulled the seat forward and slipped into the back, moving aside the heavy cardboard box next to her.

  Her plan was a simple one. She would wait here for Mr. Harrison, and then demand he tell her why he had sold Cauldron Press. And why he had never revealed that he was related to Sarah Winesong.

  Resting her hand on the box, Claire studied the contents for a moment.

  Manuscripts.

  Lifting out a few pages, Claire scanned them in the glow thrown by the building’s security lights. It was the middle of a chapter, no heading or page number appeared on the page, and a bold childish script had corrected several typos.

  After a moment, Claire’s breathing became shallower as her eyes raced across one page, then another. In shock, she realized she was reading from an early version of The Poison Pen Pal. One she had never seen before. The characters’ names were different, but the story line was the same.

  On the bottom of the second page, a different handwriting appeared. A bold thick script read, “Patty, insert the scene about the lion’s head vase here, it’ll work great to prolong the suspense.” The edits were signed “T.”

  She recognized Tony’s hand from the note he had left her in Narragansett. Everything came together at that moment, and shakily she put the pages back into the box, and then stared out the window.

  She was reading a draft of Patricia Snow’s manuscript, the version stolen from Tony’s office.

  With a flash of memory, she also pictured the lion’s head vase full of tulips sitting on his counter at home. It had seemed familiar that day, but she had not known why. Now she did.

  She had read a perfect description of it as the murder weapon in The Poison Pen Pal. A prop from life Sarah Winesong could not have ever seen, but one that Patricia Snow had.

  Tony had been right all along.

  Cauldron Press had stolen the book.

  Vincent must have orchestrated the cover-up from the first night he had met Tony. He had broken into Tony’s office to steal the manuscript, hit Tony, and probably been the one who had chased her through the woods.

  And murdered three women.

  Claire covered her mouth in horror as a bone deep shudder passed through her. At that moment, she saw two men come out of the plant. Vincent Harrison stood with one of the printers, nodding and shaking hands. As the man from DeSalvo Printing walked toward the lone car in the employee lot, Harrison limped toward the Lincoln, where she sat with the proof of his crimes.

  He was leaning heavily on a cane. She had forgotten until Damien mentioned it that Mr. Harrison also collected them, along with his other antiques. His face was set in lines of fatigue. And something else.

  From twenty feet away Claire saw his smile of victory.

  Her eyes glinted with fury. By trusting Vincent Harrison, she had almost sacrificed the man she was in love with. Claire lunged for the door and leaped out.

  She startled Harrison, who stopped dead and stared at her in shock, no recognition on his face. Then relief glimmered, and his voice cracked. “Claire, my God, you gave me a start. What are you doing out of the hospital so soon? Did you want to see the book cover? You should have called me. I have one I was bringing to show you.”

  Walking around in front of the Lincoln, Claire stopped three feet from where Harrison stood. She could barely keep from rushing at him, so badly did she want to beat him with her fists, to dole out some small punishment for his crimes. “What else were you going to bring me, Mr. Harrison? A lethal injection? A poison pill? Or maybe just a careful suffocating with a hospital pillow?”

  “Claire, my clear, you’re delirious. Come and get back in the car. I’ll take you back to the hospital.”

  “You’re not taking me anywhere. So just stay where you are. I’m going inside to call the police. And I’m sure they’ll be overjoyed to know The Poison Pen Pal murderer has been unmasked.”

  Harrison leaned heavily on his cane, clutching the small stack of book covers in one hand while the other groped deeply into his overcoat. “After all that’s happened, you don’t know what you’re saying. Tony Nichols betrayed you and now you’re upset.”

  “Don’t say another word. I won’t listen to you defame Tony anymore. You framed him from the start, just so you could keep this scandal quiet and get your damn money from Newcastle. You planted a cigarette he smoked in your office at Patricia’s. And you broke into his office to steal the evidence that would have indicated Patricia’s book was real. There’s no use denying it. I just found the manuscript you stole from his office. It’s pitiable, Mr. Harrison. You’ve cheated and lied, just to protect some dried-up old woman’s reputation and bolster the selling price of a company you planned all along to turn over to Billings Newcastle.”

  “Claire, I... ”

  “No. I’m going to have my say. You used me because you were too weak to let the truth come out about your precious famous author. All you had to, do when you found out the truth was publish Patricia’s manuscript under her name. You could have kept Cauldron Press, and not murdered that poor girl. But instead you blew it. How could you have been so weak?”

  Harrison appeared to cower at her words. His voice was a ragged whisper. “You don’t understand. Without Newcastle’s purchase, I would have lost Cauldron Press to the bank. It would have taken years to get Patricia Snow’s reputation, and earning power, up to Sarah Winesong’s. I just couldn’t risk it. There was no time.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Winesong had not been published for years, and with the right kind of publicity, The Poison Pen Pal would have made tons of money, no matter who wrote it. Why was it so important to protect Winesong? Why? Because you were related to her, Mr. Chancon?”

  For a moment, Vincent Harrison remained motionless, and then he slowly came to life. He stood straighter, and the pained expression was replaced by one of alert malice. Slowly he withdrew his hand from his overcoat. A shiny, small gun glinted in the security lights.

  “Why? I’ll tell you why. Not because Vincent Chancon is related to the famous Sarah Winesong. Because Vincent Chancon is Sarah Winesong.”

  “What?”

  “Shut up.” He grabbed her by the arm and pushed her toward the building. “Now get inside, or I swear I’ll shoot you right now.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  As she stood in the hallway inside DeSalvo Printing, mem
ories of a day in French class fifteen years earlier swirled in Claire’s mind.

  Chanter... to sing, chanson... song.

  Damien’s comment that Harrison’s original French name was “musical” sudden became much more than a pun.

  Vin for wine, chancon for song.

  Sarah Winesong was not a real person at all, only the pseudonym used in a deadly game of deceit played by Vincent Chancon.

  “The body the police found with Roz? Who was it?” Claire demanded.

  “Be quiet.” His grim demeanor did not welcome questions.

  She spoke again, hoping to distract him enough to get the gun he was training on her pointed in another direction. “Was it Pearl Loney?”

  The gun wavered perceptively. “I said shut up.”

  Claire turned to face her boss. Alarm seemed to fill him as he gripped his gun more tightly. “Go on. Why are you stopping?”

  “I’m tired of walking. And I want to talk to you.”

  “Keep walking. Go all the way into the warehouse, and then we’ll talk.”

  Warily Claire turned and continued. The heavy scent of acetone and linseed oil clung to the air as the two of them trudged by a row of offices. Ahead of them at the rear of the complex, were the presses and warehouse.

  At last, they passed through the double doors at the end of the darkened corridor. A single light in the corner bathed the enormous bolts of paper in every color. Against all the walls stood huge racks holding ten-gallon drums of inks and glue. Lined up in the center were filing cabinets holding their precious contents of copper and steel printing plates.

  Claire found herself wondering briefly where the plates for The Poison Pen Pal were stored. If she had her way, she would smash each one at Harrison’s feet.

  Glancing back at him, she started. Shadows flickered in all corners of the huge room. Her attention was pulled to the glint off a ten-foot-tall paper cutter beside the door to the loading dock.

  Suddenly Harrison closed the distance between them by reaching out and grasping her left elbow. “Go over there and sit.”

  Claire walked to the stool that he pointed to and sat, carefully fixing her gaze beyond him. Without moving her head, she searched for sign of an exit, or the night watchman. Surely someone heard the shot Harrison had fired to open the outside door.

  “It’s no use looking for a guard. The printer told me the watchman was off tonight because his wife is ill. We joked about the fact that the now notorious Poison Pen Pal would be left unprotected.”

  Flinching inwardly, Claire looked at him, but maintained a passive expression, despite her horror at hearing the news. “But you’re here to protect it, right, Mr. Harrison?”

  “Very astute, as always.”

  “But you pose the greatest threat to the book’s success.”

  “Don’t play games with me, Claire. Nothing will keep that book from becoming the greatest seller of Winesong’s career.”

  “You mean of your career?” Gently Claire continued, not taking her eyes off Harrison’s face. “If you kill me, your book will never be published.”

  For an instant, Harrison looked sick, and then a lopsided smile formed on his thin lips. “Why?”

  “With more scandal, you can bet Newcastle will back out of the deal to buy Cauldron Press. And Patricia’s mother will tie up The Poison Pen Pal in court for years.”

  “No, she won’t. I’ll see to that loose end when I leave here tonight. The only proof left was the IOU, and I burned that.”

  “If anything happens to me, Damien Laurent will be very suspicious. So will Tillie. She’s finally coming to see that you aren’t the person we all thought, Mr. Harrison. Are you willing to kill both of them, too? Don’t forget, Tony Nichols is still out there somewhere. There are others.”

  “Don’t try to trick me, Claire. I know your technique of negotiation. That skill is what makes you such a brilliant editor. Sarah Winesong’s last work shines because of you.”

  “Because of Patricia Snow, you mean.” Claire knew instantly she should not have said that, but she was unable to keep her anger at bay.

  Harrison’s features set into a mask of madness. “Patricia was nothing but a drunken little leech. If she had not been so greedy, hadn’t gone back on our agreement and sent her whimpering effort to Roz, I wouldn’t have had to... ” Harrison caught himself. “But you know all that, don’t you?”

  “I know now that you had Pearl Loney pose as Sarah Winesong for phone calls. I know you misrepresented the talent in Patricia’s book to her, and used my name to do it. That’s despicable, Mr. Harrison. And you’re not going to get away with framing Tony. What I don’t know is why you did all this.”

  With a tiny bow, Harrison moved the gun from his right to left hand, as he put down the cane and book covers on the long table. Grasping the gun with both hands, he cocked the trigger and pointed the barrel at Claire’s horrified face.

  “Why? Because there was no other way. Just like there’s no other way to keep you quiet, clear Claire. Much to my dismay.”

  Steadily Claire held up her hand and covered the gun’s barrel. It was a bluff, one that made her knees quiver, but she was desperate to buy time until a plan of escape could take shape in her mind. “But why didn’t you ever reveal that you are Sarah Winesong? Weren’t you proud of all the success you earned as a writer?”

  Down came the gun, still cocked. “Proud, yes. Maybe too proud. You see, part of Sarah’s mystique was that she was a widowed, wonderful recluse. I couldn’t risk revealing my identity. Don’t you see? The public would have been disappointed that Sarah wasn’t real.”

  “I think you’re selling your public short. They would love you for all the entertainment you’ve provided them over the years. Why don’t you let me help you bring the truth out? I’m sure our business would triple once it was announced that Vincent Harrison is really Sarah Winesong.”

  As Claire spoke, her eyes drifted to the shelf behind Harrison. A heavy set of shears stuck out, their large circle shaped handles tantalizingly close. If she could grab them, maybe she could knock the gun from his hand.

  Harrison’s voice had a dreamy quality to it. “Actually I think everything has really worked out for the best. All those times you rejected my work, Claire, I plotted how get even with you, even though I knew you were right and my books were weak. I thought about letting Sarah Winesong die, rest on her laurels, but then I found Patricia’s book. I couldn’t resist, and I did do quite a lot to help that story, you know.”

  He was losing it, Claire knew. “Put the gun down, Mr. Harrison.”

  He cocked the trigger again, his voice rising. “It would have worked, if not for Tony Nichols. How could you choose him over your family at Cauldron Press?”

  “I’ll answer that one for you, Harrison. Claire has too much class and integrity to protect a criminal, even family.” Tony’s voice rang out harshly from the back of the warehouse.

  Harrison grabbed Claire and pressed the gun to her temple. “Well, so Mr. Nichols has turned up. How fortunate. Come on out, Nichols. Or I’ll shoot dear Claire right now.”

  Claire’s eyes strained to detect Tony’s whereabouts. Then Tony’s voice boomed out again, this time from the opposite direction.

  “Put the gun down. The cops have Pearl Loney’s bracelet, and your prints are on it. She must have lost it when you stuck her in the basement freezer. They also know she was the one who died in the fire, not Sarah Winesong. After they read the letter I sent them, along with a copy of Marielle and Pearl’s immigration papers, it wouldn’t surprise me if they’ll look into your young bride’s sudden death all those years ago, too. Left you enough life insurance to start Cauldron Press, didn’t she?”

  Dragging Claire down onto the concrete floor with him, Vincent fired wildly in the direction of Tony’s voice. “You’re a dead man, Nichols,” he yelled. “When the police show up all they’ll find is Claire’s body. Who do you think they’ll believe shot her? Her deranged spurned lover? Or her bos
s, who’s been so savagely libeled by a psycho ex-writer?”

  Terror gripped Claire. She could taste the acrid gunpowder thick in the air. “You killed them all, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. I killed them all.” Harrison’s breath was stale on her face. “And I’d kill them again. Just like I am going to kill you. You should have been stronger, my dear. Pearl told me it was obvious you were in love with Nichols, said I couldn’t trust you. I should have listened and killed you that night in the woods.”

  “Is she the one who stole the copies of the manuscript for you, so you could concoct the story that they were Winesong’s drafts?”

  “No. I did that. She searched Nichols’s house, but never could find anything beyond some garbage he was working on about Newcastle. I was in Rhode Island when you were, and I did the rest.”

  Harrison seemed to realize that Claire was trying to stall. His pupils dilated to their full size in the dim light, and he began to wheeze.

  “Let her go, Harrison.”

  A chill shot down Claire’s spine as Harrison’s mouth hardened into a deadly smile. If Tony was trying to push him into making a hasty move, she would have to be ready to run.

  She saw him stiffen and again grasp the gun with two hands.

  “Don’t let Tony push you,” she said. “I’ll help you. With the right incentive, your secret can be safe with me. The police have no hard evidence.”

  For a moment Harrison looked at her as he had so many times in the past, trust and respect mingling in his eyes. “What kind of incentive?”

  Slowly Claire stretched out her hand and picked up the stack of book covers that had slid to the floor. Though her heart begged her to scan the room for Tony, she forced her eyes to remain locked on Vincent. “A piece of the sale. A percentage of the royalties. Money, plain and simple. Give me a payoff.”

  Vincent began to laugh when the words were scarcely out of Claire’s mouth. It was a demented cackling sound, like nothing she had ever heard.

  “Please, my, dear, this is too ludicrous. I would never, ever believe that you can be bought.” His voice changed dramatically, and he pulled the gun back up to her eye level. “And I don’t believe it now. Sorry, dear Claire.”