by Maria Geraci
“Looks like we’re almost to the front of the line,” says Hoyt.
I count six people ahead of us. “Yep.” I glance back toward the bar area, where Will and Travis appear deep in conversation. What on earth could they be talking about? “So,” I say to Hoyt in an attempt to take my mind off that, “which is your favorite of J.W.’s books?”
He ponders it a moment. “I’d have to say Assassin’s Way, although they’re all very good.” He clears his throat. “You know, I don’t usually tell this to strangers, but I’m an author as well.”
The hair on my neck starts dancing a hula. It’s official. Hoyt, or whatever his name is, is a big fat liar. “What do you write?”
“Thrillers. Very similar to the Assassin series, only my heroes are Navy Seals.”
“Were you in the navy?”
“No, but I’ve done a lot of research.”
“Oh, yeah? What’s the title of one of your books?” I pull my cell phone from my purse and swipe to open up my Amazon account. Let’s see how you answer this one, buddy.
“I’m not actually published. Yet.” He pauses, then lowers his voice. “If I tell you something, can you keep it a secret?”
“Considering I’ve just met you and I don’t know anyone who knows you, that probably won’t be hard.”
He flushes. “I must sound like a schoolboy. It’s just I’m very excited. Mr. Quicksilver read my novel, and he’s going to edit it.”
I struggle to keep my expression neutral. “Oh, he is, is he?”
“He told me I had a lot of talent. And with some hard work I could become a published author.”
“With a New York publisher?”
“Mr. Quicksilver is opening his own company. He’s going to publish a select group of talented writers and help them get their big break. Not that I would call myself talented, but since … ”
“Mr. Quicksilver has?” I prompt.
He nods enthusiastically. “He’s going to publish my book,” he says proudly.
“Congratulations,” I manage to choke out.
I think I have a pretty good idea where this is going, but I’m going to have to dig deeper to make certain. I just hope my acting skills are good enough to pull this off. I wet my lips and try to act nervous. “Hoyt, do you know if Mr. Quicksilver is looking for any more authors? For this publishing program of his?”
“Why? Do you know anyone who might be interested?”
“Actually… I do a little writing myself. Nothing up to Mr. Quicksilver’s standards, or yours, I’m sure, but I’ve written a few romances.”
He smiles indulgently. “I’d love to read one sometime.”
The bigger the lie or the deception, the stronger my physical reaction. If I keep talking to this guy, I’m going to need a neck brace.
“So how much does he pay? For a novel?”
“You mean, as an advance?” He chuckles. “Oh no, Lucy, that’s not how it’s done. You see, publishing a novel is quite expensive. There’s the copy editing, the formatting, the cover artist, and that’s just the beginning. There’s also a lot of promotion needed. Mr. Quicksilver is doing the developmental edits himself. He can’t be expected to do that and pay for the rest of the expenses.”
“So … you paid him?”
“No need to look so worried, my dear. I’ve seen the charts. I should make my money back and double it within the first week alone. You could do the same yourself. If Mr. Quicksilver liked your work.”
Something tells me that “Mr. Quicksilver” will most undoubtedly like my work. Or anyone else’s, if they cough up the dough for this con of his.
I’ve never understood the expression seeing red before, but right now I’m seeing purple and every other color under the rainbow. He’s running a publishing scam! And this guy is his accomplice. How many poor, unsuspecting saps have they taken in already?
“So, Hoyt, what do I have to do to get started? And is it very expensive?”
“He has a very easy payment plan. You could put down as little as five thousand dollars. You own your own business, so that shouldn’t be a problem, right?”
“Five thousand?” I make a face. “I don’t know—”
“Three thousand then. Don’t waste this opportunity, Lucy. J.W. Quicksilver is going to personally edit and promote your novel. I can’t think of money better spent.”
“Let me think about it,” I say.
“Don’t think too long. There’s just a few coveted spots left.” He hands me a card with his number. “If you know any other aspiring authors who would be interested in the program and they sign up, Mr. Quicksilver might be able to waive your fee.”
“Sounds like a great scheme.”
“Doesn’t it?” Hoyt says, not picking up on my sarcasm.
We get to the front of the line. Hoyt steps to the side and makes a flourishing motion with his arm, waving me on. “Ladies first.”
“Thanks, don’t mind if I do.” I walk over to the table where Mr. Fakey Pants sits, surrounded by a stack of books that he didn’t write but is taking credit for. He thinks he’s King of the World. I’d love nothing more than to pick up one of those hardcover books and smash it over his head. I should probably mention this violent streak of mine during my next confession.
“Hello, my dear.” The fake J.W. smiles up at me. “Can I sign a book for you?”
“Oh, yes, please.”
He opens the book to the title page. “Who should I sign this to?”
I can’t help but play with him a little. “How about to Lucy, your number one fan?”
He chuckles. “Ah. Excellent taste. I’m a Stephen King fan too,” he says, referencing my quote from Misery.
“The man who wrote these books,” I say, pointing to the stack in front of him, “I feel as if I’ve known that man all my life.”
He pauses in the middle of signing. “Do you now, lassie?” He looks up at me with narrowed eyes, like he isn’t sure what to make of our exchange.
I can’t wait to see this guy and “Hoyt” taken away in handcuffs. I have to tell Travis what they’re up to. No way is this their first rodeo. This little act of theirs is too polished. The problem is, how do I prove to Travis that this guy isn’t the real J.W. Quicksilver without giving Will away? I could wait until Will’s big announcement tomorrow at Betty Jean’s book club, but by then it might be too late. They could skip town in the middle of the night.
My brain is scrambling with ideas when I realize I’m still holding on to my cell phone. My heart trips over in excitement. If I could just manage to take a photo of this guy …
Using my purse as a shield from detection, I hold my phone at waist level and aim it in his direction. “So, Mr. Quicksilver, what part of Scotland are you from?”
“Are you familiar with my homeland?” he asks, neatly evading my question.
Since I can’t look through the camera lens, I’m not sure if I’m getting a good angle or not, so I snap as many pictures as possible. “Not really. But I’m a big Outlander fan. You’ve read the books, right? By Diana Gabaldon?”
“Read them? My dear, Diana and I are good friends. She actually comes to me for writing advice.”
“Really?” I lean in closer to the table, allowing me to snap off a few more pictures, then blindly hit a couple of buttons on my phone. I really hope this works. “You know, Mr. Quicksilver, I’ve written a romance, but I’m having a hard time getting it published.” I glance back at Hoyt and smile. He gives me a thumbs-up.
“A romance?” The corner of J.W.’s mouth quirks up slightly. His condescending attitude ratchets up my anger a few more notches.
“My mother has read it, and she absolutely loves it. So do the rest of the ladies in her bridge club.”
“I’d love to hear more about it. Perhaps we can find a time to meet while I’m here in town?”
“Gosh, that would be fabulous. I’ve already spoken to Hoyt about … you know, your special program.”
“Have you?” He gives me a
n oily smile. “And you’re interested?”
“Definitely. I have to work during the day, but I’ll be at Betty Jean’s book club meeting tomorrow night. I could bring you a copy of my manuscript.”
“Perfect,” he says. “I’ll have my assistant make a note of it.”
Before I can continue the conversation, Brittany waves me off to the side. “Lucy, you can’t hog all of J.W.’s time,” she scolds. “Are you paying with cash or credit card?”
I try to discreetly slide my phone back into the side pocket of my purse, but before I can manage it, Brittany blurts out, “You haven’t been taking pictures, have you?”
I freeze. “What? No! Of course not.”
Brittany and I lock gazes. She immediately makes an oops, sorry face. But it’s too late. Anita, the assistant, has caught on. She puts out the palm of her hand. “Hand over your phone.”
“Why? I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Then you won’t mind if I scroll through your picture gallery, do you?” she snaps back. Huh. Anita seemed a lot mousier five minutes ago.
I glance around the room. Everyone within hearing distance is staring at me.
Anita turns to Brittany. “Do you know this person? Do we need to call security?”
“No, of course not. Lucy,” Brittany pleads, “hand over your phone.”
I look over at the bar area, but I don’t see Will. Has he left already? Travis is talking to my parents, oblivious to the fact that his date (not that I’m calling myself his date, but I’m pretty sure both he and my mother would) is about to be kicked out of the building.
I could walk away with my pictures. After all, what is Anita going to do? Have me arrested? Take away my phone? I’d like to see her try. This is a spanking brand-new iPhone 11. I stood in line two hours in the pouring rain outside the phone store the day it came out, used my free upgrade, and renewed my contract into the next century to get it at a decent price. But if I don’t cow down to her, then Hoyt and the fake J.W. will know they can be exposed, and they might leave town before Travis can arrest them.
Reluctantly, I hand Anita the Hun my phone. She scrolls through my picture gallery with a pinched expression. “We specifically asked that no photos be taken tonight.” She holds my phone up to my face. “You took two photos of Mr. Quicksilver. Erase them now.”
There are over a dozen pictures of the signing table all taken from various angles, most of them fuzzy looking, one not so good photo of “Mr. Quicksilver” and one clear photo of him, which is impressive considering that I took these basically blindfolded. It kills me to erase them, but I have no choice. Anita inspects my phone to make sure I’ve deleted all the photos.
I try to sound beaten down. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to break the rules, but I was just so overwhelmed with excitement.” I turn to “J.W.” and make a cringy face. “I hope this doesn’t ruin our arrangement?”
Like a rock star who’s used to his fans getting out of line, he smiles indulgently. “No worries, my dear. I completely understand.”
I take my “autographed” book and head toward the door, where Travis is waiting for me. “Where’s Will?” I ask. “And what were you two talking about for so long?”
“Nothing,” Travis says vaguely. “And I have no idea where he is. He probably went to the bathroom or something.” He points to the book in my hand. “So, how was meeting the great J.W. Quicksilver in person?”
“Horrible.”
The valet brings us Travis’s car. Once we’re alone, he turns in his seat to face me. “What do you mean, horrible?” His expression tightens. “Did Quicksilver make a pass at you?”
“Never mind that. Did you get my text?”
“What text?”
“Just check your phone before I explode.”
Travis pulls his cell phone from his jacket pocket and swipes his screen open. He studies it intently. “Is this supposed to turn me on? Because if it is, it’s working.”
What? I grab the phone from his hand. Oh no. It’s the selfie I took of myself in the miniskirt to play with Brittany’s head.
“I didn’t mean to send you that. It was supposed to be a joke on Brittany.” I scroll through the other pictures in the text. To my relief, they’re all there, including the fuzzy ones and … Yes! Staring back at me is a clear as day photo of the man signing books this evening.
“Let me explain,” I say. “I took a bunch of pictures tonight—”
“Even though we were explicitly told not to?”
“So I broke the rules. Sue me. I took a bunch of pictures, but I was afraid I might get caught, which I did, thanks to Brittany’s big mouth, but I was able to blind-text them to you before they made me delete them.” I hold the screen up to show him the photo. “This is what I texted you.”
Travis looks amused. “I don’t know. This one isn’t doing anything for me. I liked the other picture better.”
“Ha ha. Pay attention. I texted you this picture because … this man? The one who charmed everyone with his reading tonight and autographed books? This man is not J.W. Quicksilver.”
6
Travis’s grin fades. “What do you mean? If this isn’t J.W. Quicksilver, then who is he?”
“That’s what I need you to find out. Can you run this picture through a facial recognition program?”
“I work for the Whispering Bay Police Department. This isn’t Quantico.” Travis starts the engine. “Let’s save this for somewhere more private.”
Good idea. We drive back to The Bistro and head into the kitchen. The first thing I do is let Paco out to do his business, then kick off my heels and put on a pot of coffee. We’re going to need caffeine to get through this conversation. On a whim, I reach up into a cabinet and retrieve a tin full of yesterday’s muffins. “Want one?” I offer.
He opts for a cinnamon streusel. When Travis first moved to town, he told me he was a “donut” man, but he quickly wised up and switched his allegiance to team muffin.
My cell phone pings. I pull it out of my purse. It’s Will. I’ll call you later, I text.
Travis glances curiously at my phone, but he doesn’t ask. He leans against the counter and takes a sip of his coffee. “What makes you think the man we saw tonight wasn’t J.W. Quicksilver?”
“For one thing, he’s lying. He’s not Scottish, and he didn’t write those books.”
“Because the hair on the back of your neck told you?”
“Basically, yes.”
He sighs. “Lucy, we’ve been through this before. I admit, you’ve got great instincts, but there’s no way you can always tell if someone is lying or telling the truth. Statistically, it’s impossible.”
“Is everything always so black and white with you? Don’t you think that maybe there could be an alternative explanation for some things?”
“Not in my line of work. You’re either guilty or you’re not.” He breaks off a piece of his muffin and offers it to Paco, who gobbles it down. “Here’s one thing we can agree on. You were right about this little guy. He wasn’t trained as a cadaver dog.”
“What finally brought you to your senses?”
“I’ve researched pretty much every program out there, and none of them has ever used this kind of dog before.”
“So how do you account for Paco’s ability to—wait.” A tiny spider of fear crawls up my spine. “You really did investigate this?”
“I told you I was going to look into it.”
Before Paco came to live with me, he was owned by Susan Van Dyke, whose murder I solved. But his history before Susan is unknown. According to Susan’s staff, she found the dog wandering down the street without a collar and unchipped. Who was his original owner? What if he or she shows up on my doorstep one day wanting Paco back? I could never give him up. Not after everything we’ve been through together.
“Stop investigating,” I say firmly.
“No worries. I’ve already figured out how Paco finds”—he makes air quotes with his fingers—�
�the dead bodies.”
“Oh, yeah?” This should be interesting. “How?”
“Since Paco is with you most of the time, it only makes sense that he’d come across the dead bodies because you’re the one who’s finding them. And you’re finding them because you just so happen to be in the right place at the right time.” He then proceeds to go through, one by one, all the bodies I’ve found, starting with Abby Delgado, the victim from my first murder investigation, and “logically” explains it all. I wonder how long it took him to come up with all this.
I give up.
I’m never going to convince Travis that I’m a human lie detector or that Paco sees ghosts, so I’m not going to try anymore. Which answers the question I’ve been struggling with these past couple of weeks. Any chance that Travis and I could end up together is gone. There’s absolutely no way I can be with someone who doesn’t believe me when I tell them the most essential thing about myself.
It all makes sense. I’ve always believed that Will is my soul mate. I’ve been in love with him forever. He’s my best friend. When I was seven, he saved me from a squirrel attack, which is no small thing. And most importantly, he’s always believed in me. Maybe not completely, since he never told me he was J.W. Quicksilver, but he’s never questioned my abilities.
“What’s wrong?” asks Travis. “You look like you just found out there was a national ban on muffins.”
“What?” I shake myself back into the conversation. “Nothing’s wrong. Except that the man we saw tonight is not J.W. Quicksilver.”
“Not that again. Exactly how do you know this?” he challenges.
This is where things get dicey, because I can’t prove it without telling him about Will, so I try another tack. I tell him all about Hoyt Daniels and the publishing scam he and the fake J.W. are running.
Travis considers this a few moments. “That does sound shady, but it doesn’t prove that he isn’t J.W. Quicksilver.”
“Think about it. Why would a famous author like J.W. Quicksilver need to take people’s money? It makes no sense.”