Clark’s mouth dropped open. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“You believe women should stay home and not work, right?” I had no intention of backing down. “That’s what someone said.”
“I believe everyone should have the opportunity to provide for their family,” he clarified. “Once married, women should provide for their families by having children and taking care of the house. However, if kids aren’t on the menu right away, I think it’s fine for a woman to have a job and contribute to the household budget, as long as she doesn’t shirk her other duties.”
Wow. What a peach. I couldn’t believe how much I wanted to punch him in the groin. “How did Elsie take it when you told her about your world view?”
Clark narrowed his eyes. “I’ve told you, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Interesting. He was sticking to the lie. That would come back to bite him. I rationalized that he could be panicking — unaware that anyone knew his secret — but that seemed unlikely. He probably thought he plugged that information hole when he asked Carter to keep his friends quiet. If Carter was as well-liked as everyone said, that meant he had power. Apparently that power wasn’t enough to stop the gossip machine.
“Well, I guess I must have heard wrong,” I said finally, grabbing my tablet and tea and getting to my feet. “Thanks for the drink. My friends are expecting me and will come looking if I’m late.”
“Then you should definitely go.” Clark’s eyes were cold. “I’m sure we’ll talk again.”
I kept my smile serene and sweet. “I’m sure we will. I look forward to it.”
Twenty-Two
I was happy to make it outside even though the humidity was oppressive. Clark could suck the oxygen out of a room without even trying. Still, I’d left him feeling uncomfortable — I was certain of that — and it seemed prudent to relieve some of the building pressure if I didn’t want him to blow.
The patio between buildings was empty except for a young author I recognized because I’d seen him hanging around over the course of the investigation. I’d yet to talk to him, and yet when I focused on his face I realized he’d been lurking in the shadows since I first started talking to Lily and Sarah.
I was intrigued enough by that realization that I decided to sit with him. I didn’t wait for an invitation, instead grabbing the chair across the way and plastering a huge smile on my face.
“Hi.”
He looked up from his computer, swiping his thick black hair away from his forehead and looking me up and down. “Hello, Charlie Rhodes.”
He greeted me in a matter-of-fact manner, as if we’d known each other for years. I found his reaction interesting, if a bit disconcerting.
“Have we met?” I asked after a beat. “I can’t help thinking I would remember.”
“Because I’m memorable?”
“Because you’re younger than most of the people here,” I answered honestly. “Are you even old enough to drink?”
“I’m twenty-two.”
“So ... barely old enough to drink. How did you get caught up with all these people?”
He shrugged, noncommittal. “I’m a writer. This is where writers come to hang out.”
“What name do you write under?”
A small smile played at the corners of his lips. “Oh, any number of names. I don’t stick to one genre ... or name ... or one game plan. I’m an experimenter of sorts.”
He seemed open to conversation and yet I still didn’t know his name. “You know who I am. What do I call you?”
“Max Thatcher.” He extended his hand. “I know who you are because you’ve been hanging around Lily and Sarah.”
“Are you friends with them?”
“Yes.”
He wasn’t the sort to volunteer information. I was going to have to drag it out of him. I wasn’t opposed to that, but it made things easier if the person I was questioning blabbered. Thankfully, most of the authors I’d crossed paths with wanted to talk about themselves. Max was something different.
“What sort of things do you write?”
“Romance. Police procedurals. Prepper fiction. Space opera. High fantasy. Dark fantasy. Paranormal mysteries.”
My mouth dropped open. “You write all of that?”
He nodded, amused by my reaction. “I told you I was an experimenter.”
“Yeah, but you’re twenty-two. How can you possibly have written everything you just listed?”
“I’m highly motivated.”
“Because?”
“Because I have a certain plan for my life,” he replied, turning his full attention from his computer to me. “I’m not set to one path and I don’t want to spend my life struggling for money. That’s how my parents live.”
I could see that. Worrying about money was always a bummer. “How did you get involved in publishing?”
“I saw a news article on Lily Harper Hart when I was in my second year of medical school. It sounded interesting.”
Medical school? “You’re only twenty-two. How are you in medical school?”
“I finished two years of college while still in high school.”
“But ... how?”
“Advanced placement. I’ve always been motivated. It only took me a year and a half to graduate from college, and then I headed straight to medical school.”
I was impressed. “I guess you weren’t joking about being motivated, huh?”
“Not even a little. I’m trying to finish up my rotations right now so I can get a full-time job and better streamline my writing schedule.”
I was back to being confused. “Rotations? Wait ... you stayed in medical school even though you wrote all those books?”
He nodded. “I want multiple revenue streams.”
“You have to be working sixty hours a week to keep up that schedule.”
“More like ninety.” If he was bitter about the hours he was putting in, he didn’t show it. “It’s not as bad as it sounds. There’s a lot of downtime when I’m on rotation so I write my books on my phone between patients.”
“You write books on your phone?” That seemed impossible. I couldn’t write a clean text on my phone because my fingers were too fat. “What kind of doctor are you going to be?”
“A psychologist.”
“Oh.” Well, that was slightly different than what I was imagining. I thought he was trying to be a surgeon or something. I kept picturing the doctors of Grey’s Anatomy trying to write books in their spare time between getting frisky in the on-call room and saving lives in the operating room. “And you’re close to finishing?”
“I am.”
“Will you actually set up a practice, with patients and everything?”
“I’m already looking at practices I can join when I’m finished.”
I had no idea what to make of that. I couldn’t imagine being that driven. “I guess that’s why you’re always the quiet one when the other writers are around. You don’t have the energy to be loud.”
“I’m quiet because that’s simply who I am. I don’t have a loud personality. Besides that, it’s easier to fly under the radar if you’re quiet.”
Now we were getting somewhere. “And what are your observations, as someone who flies under the radar, I mean?”
“My observations on what?”
He was going to make me say it. I guess he had that right. “Shayne Rivers.”
Max’s lips twitched. “I figured she would come up eventually.” He sighed. “Lily warned that you would sniff me out no matter how hard I tried blending in. I was hopeful that wouldn’t happen.”
“Why did Lily think I would sniff you out?”
“Because Shayne and I weren’t exactly friendly.”
“You didn’t like her?”
“Nobody liked her,” Max replied. “You must realize that by now. Has anyone said they liked her? If so, they’re lying.”
“Nobody has admitted to liking her.”
“T
hat’s because she was toxic and it was essentially career suicide to align yourself with her. The only ones who cross the line are the newbies who don’t understand the ramifications of what they’re doing. Writers have long memories, like elephants.”
I thought it was hilarious that a twenty-two-year-old was calling others “newbies,” but he seemed so sure of himself I was convinced that he was twice the age he claimed. “What was your beef with Shayne about?”
“She outed me.”
“Oh, you’re gay?” I felt sorry for him. Not because he was gay, but because anyone would pry into his personal business and make things difficult due to his sexuality. “She shouldn’t have done that. Your sexuality is your business.”
He chuckled. “I’m not gay. That’s not what I meant. She outed some of my pen names.”
I stilled. “I’m confused,” I admitted after a moment’s contemplation. “She told people your pen names? Is that bad?”
“It depends what genres you write in,” Max explained. “There’s a fight of sorts going on in romance circles right now. Female pen names sell better. It shouldn’t be that way, but there’s a bias with the readers.”
“So your pen name is female?”
“For romance,” he confirmed. “The problem is that a subgroup of authors is making a big deal about males writing as females. They’re saying it’s abusive to women. In the current climate, what with the MeToo movement and everything, you don’t want to be accused of being abusive to women.”
I was confused. “I don’t understand why it’s such a big deal to have a female pen name. I thought that happened quite often.”
“It does, and vice-versa. There’s a bias toward female writers in science fiction, so a lot of the women have to adopt gender-neutral names or male pen names to sell in that genre. That readership is mostly male.”
“Hmm.”
“The problem with what’s happening in romance is that a few unethical individuals started interacting with their fans as females, asking them personal questions and acting altogether skeevy,” Max explained. “When it came out they were really men — something Shayne was also responsible for — the women being bamboozled were understandably horrified. They completely freaked out.”
“Wow. That’s ... I guess I don’t know how to feel about that.”
“I started selling well in romance. Shayne figured out who I was, and she outed me to my readership. They didn’t react well, and that pen name is now essentially dead because of what she did. It’s too bad. I made good money off that pen name.”
“You’re saying you had a reason to want her dead,” I surmised. “You probably shouldn’t tell me that because I’m with the group investigating her death.”
“I’ve heard you’re on the up-and-up so I’m not particularly worried.”
“Fair enough.”
“As for Shayne, I wasn’t happy with what happened, but … ,” he shrugged. “I’m actually going to turn what happened into a psychology paper for industry magazines because I think it’s a fascinating look at the psyche of a narcissist. In addition, it will make for interesting reading on gender politics.”
He really was a marvel. “You have a good attitude.”
“I have a plan,” he repeated. “I’m not going to let anything derail me.”
“You’re a lot more put together than I am, and I’m a year older than you.”
“Your path is simply different,” he responded. “The thing is, I’ve been watching you. I’m curious about people, and you stand out in a sea of dramatic souls who want to spend the entire conference touting themselves.
“Before you think I’m disparaging my friends, I’m not,” he continued. “It’s natural to want to talk about the things that inspire you, and most of the people here are inspired by what they write. That’s a good thing. It’s rare that people can find inspiration in what they do, but writing is a creative outlet and for those who can make a living embracing the dream, well, they think they’ve hit the pinnacle of happiness.”
“And what do you think?”
“That it’s always prettier when you’re outside looking in,” he replied. “No life is easy. People who want to be full-time writers think their lives will be perfect if they simply get to the position where they can fulfill their dreams. Once there, they realize they have a new set of problems to deal with and it starts all over again.”
“Well, that’s profound.”
Max merely nodded.
“It’s also kind of a bummer,” I added, causing him to laugh.
“I’m interested in how people interact,” he admitted. “I’ve infiltrated a lot of the groups so I can learn what makes some genres tick. That’s why I have so many names.”
“Does anyone know all your names?”
“Nope.”
“I guess you’re playing it smart.”
“That’s how I like to see things,” he agreed. “I don’t participate a lot. I’m often an outsider, which I’m fine with. It allows me to keep track of what everyone is doing without drawing attention. I was even in Shayne’s private groups under another name.”
The admission sparked in the back of my brain. “What do you mean? What private groups?”
“Shayne had at least three private groups in which she communicated with her followers,” Max replied. “You had to be invited in. She invited one of my pen names without realizing it was me. That meant I got to see the crazy firsthand and she didn’t even realize it.”
“Could you show me?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Sure, but if someone asks, I’m not the one who gave you access.”
“I wouldn’t dream of ratting you out.”
“Lily says you’re trustworthy. I’ll take her word for it.”
MAX SHIFTED GEARS QUICKLY. He had me inside Shayne’s inner sanctum in a few minutes, and the world I found myself immersed in was flabbergasting.
“Wow. Look at this. She’s accusing some action adventure writer of having sex with one of her enemies and she was even in the middle of organizing a plan to have her followers email his wife in an attempt to implode his marriage. Why would she do that?”
“She’s not a good person,” Max answered, amused by my reaction. “I’m surprised you don’t realize that. You’re an investigator. You’ve seen the ugly side of life.”
“I’ve been an investigator for two months. I guess it’s closer to three. You’re younger but have more life experience.”
“I’m simply a student of humanity.” Max’s grin said he was messing with me. “This is hardly the only instance of Shayne trying to rally her followers to ruin people. Look here. This woman, Lourdes Henley, used to be one of Shayne’s best friends. She distanced herself from Shayne when things hit the fan and Shayne decided to launch a full-out assault on her books as payback.”
“Wow. Is this Lourdes Henley here?”
Max shook his head. “She’s British. She couldn’t make the trip. Before you get too sympathetic, I heard that Lourdes is just as terrible to deal with as Shayne. She simply hides it better. She does a lot of vague posting, attacking her enemies without naming names.”
“I never knew there was so much vitriol among writers,” I said.
“You’re not seeing us at our best. Most authors — I would say ninety-nine percent of them — are perfectly fine. I won’t say ‘normal’ because it’s a subjective term and who’s to say what is normal? But most authors have a few squabbles and go on with their lives like normal people. It’s only a random few who make the rest of us look bad, and because they’re almost always attention seekers, it seems like they’re taking over. They’re not.”
“All these people in this group are jumping at the chance to do someone else’s dirty work.” I scrolled through the messages, my heart sinking. “I don’t understand why they would get involved in something like this.”
“The newbies simply want to be involved. It makes them feel important. They believe Shayne’s diatribes about being victi
mized and bullied. They truly want to help. When they realize they’ve been used, they’ll turn bitter and attack other authors. It’s basic human nature.”
That didn’t sound like the sort of life I wanted to live. “That’s just with authors, right?”
“No, but it is more pronounced with authors. It’s that whole ‘tortured artist’ thing we’ve got going on. There are some writers who believe that if you don’t suffer for your craft you’re doing it wrong.”
“What do you believe?”
“I like experimenting.”
He was so easygoing it was hard not to like him. “What about Clark Savage? What can you tell me about his relationship with Shayne?”
“It wasn’t pretty.”
“That’s it?”
He sighed and took the computer from me, scrolling down a long time before coming across the message he was looking for. When he did, he pointed. “That’s Shayne explaining why Clark is attacking her on a community message board. She claims it’s because he tried to control her even when they were teenagers. She fought back, put him in his place, and became a hero in her own mind when she did it.”
“Do you believe the story?”
“I don’t know. Shayne lied so much it was impossible to believe anything she said. And yet, I’ve met Clark. I can see him trying to control her.”
I could see it, too. “People aren’t only one thing,” I murmured, my mind busy. “Shayne was a terrible person, but she wasn’t always a predator. Occasionally she really was the victim.”
“Very good.” Max nodded approvingly. “You’re catching on.”
“That still doesn’t help us figure out who killed her.”
“I thought a shark killed her.”
“Maybe. Her cause of death is impossible to determine because of the state of her body. I don’t think she voluntarily ended up in that water. I’ve been on that pier. Falling seems out of the question given the way the railings are built. She was too narcissistic to kill herself. That means someone else either pushed her over the side or dumped her body after the fact.”
The Megalodon Mix-Up Page 21