Jane Goes Batty

by Michael Thomas Ford

  Jane regarded the woman beside her. “Really?” she said. “Posey Frost of the Vivienne Minx novels?”

  The woman nodded and giggled again. “I know,” she said. “I’m not what you expected.”

  This was an understatement. Jane had always imagined the author of the Vivienne Minx novels to be young and sultry, someone who would be comfortable wearing only stiletto heels and diamond earrings as she lounged on her black leather couch sipping champagne. Never had she imagined the very ordinary woman who was now picking pieces from her dinner roll and popping them into her mouth.

  “No,” Jane said. “It’s just that—”

  “It’s all right,” Posey interrupted, patting Jane’s hand. “I have looked in a mirror before.”

  Jane was unsure how to respond. Posey Frost seemed quite comfortable with herself. Still, it seemed rude to agree with her. Jane decided to avoid the subject altogether. “Are you here for the festival, Posey?” she asked.

  “Oh, no,” said Posey. “I don’t do any public appearances. My publisher doesn’t want to spoil the fantasy for my readers. When the books first got popular they thought about hiring an actress to play me at readings and whatnot, but then they decided it would generate more interest if people didn’t know anything about me. Also, they would have to get a new actress for every book, because who would want to make a career out of pretending to be Posey Frost? Oh, and you can call me Shirley. Posey isn’t my real name.”

  “Does it bother you that your readers don’t know who you really are?” Jane asked. She couldn’t help but compare Shirley’s situation to her own, and she was curious to hear how Shirley felt about her own anonymity.

  “Not at all,” Shirley said as she dabbed butter on a roll. “My own family doesn’t know. Well, Harvey does. That’s my husband. But no one else. Not even the kids. They think we got all our money from my Uncle Horace when he died.” She laughed. “Horace was a drunk and had about three dollars in the bank, but we told the kids he’d put everything into bonds during World War I.”

  “What do they think you do all day when you’re writing?”

  “I don’t write during the day,” Shirley told her. “I do regular mom stuff—clean the house, bake cookies, chauffeur the kids to soccer and piano lessons. I get an hour or two here and there, but mostly I write at night.”

  Jane was shocked. “So they’ve never read one of your books?”

  “Tara—my thirteen-year-old—thinks the Vivienne Minx novels are, and I quote, ‘fast-food fiction.’ She likes Jane Austen, Virginia Woolf, and Banana Yoshimoto. Ryan is sixteen, and he’s more interested in baseball than books. Harvey read the first book, but it wasn’t his thing. He’s a Tom Clancy kind of guy.”

  The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a waiter, who took their drink orders and went away again. Jane wanted very much to question Shirley further, but she felt she’d already pried enough. “So you’re not here for the festival,” she said. “Just for fun, then?”

  “I’m here for the movie,” Shirley told her.

  “The movie?” said Jane.

  Shirley nodded. “They’ve asked me to do some rewrites on the script. Well, they asked Posey to do them. I guess they want to sex it up a little.”

  Jane, confused, didn’t understand what Shirley was saying. Then it hit her. “You mean my movie?” she said. “Constance?”

  “That’s right,” said Shirley. A worried look crossed her face, and her eyes darted to Jessica and then quickly back to Jane. “Didn’t anyone tell you?”

  Jane shook her head and looked meaningfully at Jessica, who was examining the menu in her hand. “No,” Jane said. “No one did.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Shirley. “I thought you knew. Jessica said you were too busy working on the new novel to do it, so she recommended me.”

  Jessica set the menu down. “I worked with Shirley on the first Vivienne Minx novel,” she said quickly, as if that explained everything.

  “Of course, I’m still not Posey Frost,” Shirley said. “We’re telling the director that I’m Posey’s assistant, and that Posey can’t come out of the hotel because she’s afraid of paparazzi finding her.”

  “Hollywood people will believe anything as long as you throw paparazzi into the story,” Jessica remarked. “They’re terrified of them.”

  “And you say they want to sex up the script,” said Jane, ignoring the editor and addressing Shirley.

  “That’s what I understand,” Shirley replied. “I’m meeting with the director this afternoon to discuss it. It all happened very quickly.”

  “It must have,” said Jane. She looked at Jessica and narrowed her eyes. “As I said, this is the first I’ve heard about it.”

  “It was all very sudden,” Jessica said. “Kelly called me yesterday afternoon to see if I thought you had time to do both the script and the new novel, and I said I didn’t think we should—”

  “Kelly?” Jane interrupted. “Kelly Littlejohn?”

  “Well, yes,” said Jessica. “Is there another one?”

  “I’m just surprised he didn’t call me,” Jane said.

  Jessica waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, I told him not to bother you. As I was saying, I didn’t want to overburden you. I know you’ve been having trouble with the novel.”

  “I’m not having trouble!” Jane exclaimed. “It’s just that there’s a lot going on at the moment and—”

  This time Jessica interrupted. “See? That’s exactly what I’m saying. You have a lot going on.” Her tone made her sound as if she were talking to a small child.

  Shirley, who had been listening to the exchange and systematically reducing her roll to tiny balls of dough that she pinched between her thumb and forefinger, suddenly stood up. “Will you excuse me?” she said, taking up her purse. “I need to go to the ladies’ room.”

  As soon as Shirley was out of earshot Jessica said, “Now look what you’ve done. You’ve upset her.”

  “Have I?” Jane countered. “Well, perhaps we should see what Kelly has to say about his.” She fished in her purse for her cellphone and started to dial Kelly’s number.

  “I wouldn’t do that,” said Jessica.

  Jane paused mid-dial. “And why not?”

  Jessica cleared her throat. “I gave Kelly a choice,” she said. “You can either deliver the manuscript within thirty days or you can pay back your advance and take the project elsewhere.”

  “Thirty days!” said Jane. “No one can write a novel in thirty days!”

  “Tell that to Anthony Trollope,” Jessica said. “Anyway, it states quite clearly in your contract that if you fail to deliver on time—which you have—we can request that you submit the manuscript in thirty days, and if you fail to do that, it can result in cancellation of the contract and recovery of all monies paid out against it.”

  “I know what it says,” said Jane, although this was only partly true. Kelly had mentioned something of the sort when she’d missed several deadline extensions, but he’d assured her that publishers never acted on the clause. Especially not when an author’s book had done as well as Jane’s had. She hesitated a moment, then clicked her phone shut and held it tightly in her hand, which was very sweaty.

  “So you see, we’re only doing what’s best for you,” Jessica said. “Now let’s have lunch, and afterward you and I can discuss the novel.” She paused for a long moment. “Of course, if you prefer to work on the film, I imagine Shirley might be persuaded to assist with the novel.”

  “Excuse me?” said Jane.

  “Of course, it would still be your name on the book,” Jessica said. “And she wouldn’t be writing the whole book. She could just, you know, outline it and get it started for you.”

  Jane was stunned. She sat staring at Jessica, unable to move her mouth. When she finally regained her senses she said, “You don’t think I can write it, do you?”

  Jessica took a drink of water. “To be perfectly frank, no.”

  “And why not?”
Jane asked.

  Jessica glanced around, as if checking to make sure Shirley wasn’t on her way back to the table. “Look, I don’t want to embarrass you if I don’t have to, but we both know you didn’t write Constance.”

  “What are you talking about?” said Jane. “Of course I wrote it.”

  “Violet Grey has evidence to the contrary,” Jessica said.

  Jane gave a start, as if she’d been slapped. “Violet Grey!” she said. “She has no evidence of any kind!”

  Jessica smiled thinly. “She said you’d say that.”

  “Let me guess,” Jane said. “She told you that I found a long-lost Charlotte Brontë novel and passed it off as my own.” She shuddered at hearing herself say Charlotte’s name.

  “Hardly,” Jessica told her. “It’s not good enough to be a Brontë novel, even a minor one. It’s not even good enough to be an Austen novel. Why do you think I rejected it when you sent it to me?”

  “You’re a Brontëite,” said Jane. “I should have known.”

  “Violet didn’t say whose manuscript you stole, just that you found one and passed it off as your own. But she says the evidence is there, and I trust her.”

  Jane sniffed. “How can you trust that vile little liar?”

  Jessica frowned. “Because that vile little liar happens to be my sorority sister.”

  Jane was about to ask Jessica if “sorority sister” was a euphemism for something more sinister, but Shirley’s reappearance stopped her.

  “What have I missed?” Shirley said as she pulled her chair out and sat down.

  “Just girl talk,” Jessica chirped. “Jane was saying how grateful she is that you’re able to help us out. Right, Jane?”

  Jane forced herself to smile. “Right,” she said. “So very grateful.”

  “Then you don’t mind?” asked Shirley. “I was a little worried when you said no one had spoken to you about it.”

  Jane laughed lightly as she imagined sinking her fangs into Jessica Abernathy’s throat. “Not at all,” she said. “It was just a little miscommunication.”

  Shirley smiled. “That’s a relief,” she said as she picked up a menu. “So, what’s everyone having for lunch?”

  “The Cobb salad looks wonderful,” Jessica said, acting as if she hadn’t moments ago told Jane that she was a plagiarist, a liar, and a lousy writer. “What about you, Jane?”

  Jane was thinking dark thoughts about having Jessica for lunch when the waiter appeared.

  “Oh, there you are,” Jessica said. “I’ll have the—”

  “I’m sorry,” the waiter said. “I’ll take your order in just a moment. Is one of you Jane Fairfax?”

  “I am,” said Jane.

  “There’s a call for you at the host stand,” the waiter informed her. “You can follow me.”

  Jane excused herself and trailed behind the young man. When they were out of sight of the table the waiter stopped. “There is no call,” he said in a low voice. “But there’s a gentleman outside who says it’s very important that he speak with you.”

  Jane peered toward the front of the restaurant. All of a sudden Byron’s face appeared. Seeing Jane, he motioned for her to come quickly.

  “Thank you,” Jane told the waiter. “Will you tell my friends that I had to leave to attend to an emergency at work?” She fished a ten-dollar bill from her purse and slipped it into the young man’s hand. “Tell them I’m very sorry.”

  The waiter nodded. “Of course,” he said. “And may I just say, I loved your novel.”

  Jane raised an eyebrow. “Did the man outside tell you to say that?” she asked.

  “No,” the waiter said. “I recognized your picture from the jacket. I just pretended not to know you in case you were trying to be anonymous.”

  “Which of the characters in the novel is your favorite?” Jane asked.

  “I’m ashamed to say so, but Jonathan Brut,” the man said.

  Jane smiled. “He’s terrible, isn’t he?” she said. “But so handsome. Don’t be ashamed. We’ve all fallen for him at some point.” She looked toward the window again, but Byron had disappeared. “Anyway, thank you for the kind words. They came at just the right time.”

  She hurried out the door and found Byron pacing on the sidewalk.

  “It’s about time,” he said.

  “Bite me,” Jane snapped. “I didn’t realize we had an appointment.”

  Byron looked wounded. “What’s the matter with you?” he asked.

  “Sorry,” said Jane. “It’s not important. I’ll tell you later. What’s the emergency? Did you find Chloe?”

  Byron was walking quickly down the sidewalk. Jane hurried to keep up with him. “Oh, I found her all right,” he said. “She’d made her way back to the film set. I caught her just as she was about to feed on the best boy.”

  “The what?” Jane asked.

  “Best boy,” said Byron. “A crew member. Works under the gaffer.”

  “The what?” said Jane.

  “Never mind,” Byron said. “She was about to feed. I had to glamor the boy to forget.”

  They’d reached Byron’s car, and Jane waited for him to unlock the doors. “So where’s Chloe?” she asked.

  Byron patted the trunk. “In here,” he said. “And she’s none too happy about it.”

  As if in response, a loud thud came from inside the trunk. Byron opened the car doors and he and Jane got in.

  “Where are we taking her?” Jane asked.

  “Back to my house,” answered Byron as he started the car. “But first we have a stop to make.”

  JANE WALKED INTO THE BOOKSTORE AND GLANCED AROUND FOR any sign of the Hawthorne boys. Neither seemed to be there, but Lucy was behind the front counter.

  “Have you seen Ned?” Jane asked. “Or Ted?”

  “Does it matter which one?” asked Lucy.

  “A bit, yes,” said Jane.

  “Gay or straight?” Lucy said.

  “Straight,” said Jane.

  “Ned,” Lucy told her. “He might be in the storeroom. One of them is. The other went to get lunch, but I didn’t see which of them it was. May I ask what you’re planning on doing with him?”

  “I’ll tell you later,” Jane said. “Oh, and if Jessica Abernathy or Posey Frost comes in, tell her you don’t know where I am.”

  “That should be easy,” said Lucy. “Because I don’t know where you are. And why is Posey Frost here?”

  “I’ll explain that too,” Jane promised. “I also want to speak to you about a certain young rabbi.”

  Lucy blushed. “Good,” she said. “Because I want to speak to you about a certain young rabbi.”

  Jane started to head for the storeroom, but came back. “We are both talking about Ben Cohen, right?” she said.

  Lucy nodded.

  “I just wanted to make sure,” said Jane. “It’s getting a bit difficult to keep track of everyone.”

  She walked back to the storeroom and opened the door.

  One of the Hawthorne boys was standing beside an open carton of books, a copy of the latest Posey Frost novel in his hand. How perfect, Jane thought darkly as she forced herself to smile. “Hello,” she said. She had no idea to which twin she was speaking.

  “Hi,” the young man replied. “We haven’t seen much of you around here lately. What brings you in?”

  Jane thought frantically for a way to identify the twin without having to actually ask. “Things have been crazy,” she said. “Is your brother here as well?”

  “Ted? He’s out getting lunch. But he should be back in a few minutes if you want to talk to him.”

  Jane breathed a sigh of relief. She was speaking to Ned.

  “That’s all right,” Jane said. “I was hoping to have a chat with you. Actually, Byron and I were hoping to have a chat with you. About a certain young lady whose acquaintance you made?”

  Ned set the book down and dusted off his hands. “I thought as much,” he said. He looked down. “I don’t know what
happened. I just got carried away.”

  Jane put her hand on his shoulder. “It happens to the best of us,” she assured him. “But we do need to speak with you. Byron is waiting in the car out back. Come with me.”

  She went to the door and ushered Ned into the hallway, motioning for him to go out the back. “I’m going to borrow Ned for a little while,” she called to Lucy.

  “Just don’t bring him back dented,” Lucy yelled back.

  Jane hurried Ned outside, where Byron waited in the idling car. Jane indicated that Ned should get in the front, and she slid into the backseat behind him.

  “Well, well, well,” Byron said as Ned clipped the seat belt in place. “If it isn’t the prodigal son.”

  “Don’t start,” Jane said. “I’m sure he feels bad enough as it is.”

  “I do,” Ned agreed. “I really do. I didn’t mean to—”

  “Don’t apologize to me,” said Byron. “Apologize to Jane. She’s the one who had to turn the girl thanks to your sloppy technique. What were you thinking, draining her to the point of death? Of all the amateurish—”

  “Wait a minute,” Ned said, swiveling around to look at Jane. “You turned her?”

  Jane nodded. “And I’m not terribly pleased about it, young man.”

  Ned slumped in his seat. “That’s not good. Well, I mean it’s good that she’s not dead.”

  “But she is,” Byron reminded him. “Undead. Thanks to you.”

  “No,” Ned said, shaking his head. “Not thanks to me.”

  “Don’t blame Jane for this!” Byron said. “She was just cleaning up your mess.”

  “It wasn’t my mess!” Ned shouted. “It was my brother’s!”

  “Ted?” said Jane. “But you’re the vampire.”

  “No, I’m not,” said Ned.

  Byron looked at Jane. “Do you have any idea what he’s talking about?”

  Jane leaned back in the seat. “I think what he’s telling us is that he’s Ted,” she said softly. “Is that right?”

  “Yes,” said Ted. “I just pretended to be Ned to give him time to get away.”

  “Get away?” said Byron. “Get away where?”

  Ted shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “He was totally freaked out by what happened. He thought you’d be mad at him.” He looked at them both, and his eyes were wet with tears. “He really didn’t mean to do it. And he was scared. He thought she was dead.”