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Authors: Kenneth L. Levinson

Tags: #Mystery, #Murder - Investigation, #writing, #Colorado

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BOOK: An Unconventional Murder
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He felt his mouth go dry. It was just a flimsy lock, but it was gone. He could get fired for
this. He forced himself to calm down, making a mental note to add a sturdy padlock when he
made the other alterations to the display case.

Meanwhile, he'd better find out what happened to the missing weapons. Damn it! That
meant hanging around the hotel and making some discreet inquiries.

But he saw no other choice. He couldn't just pack up and leave, knowing that they might
be floating around the hotel somewhere. It was probably no big deal, but you never know.

After all, these weren't toys.

These were extremely dangerous weapons.

And someone could get seriously hurt.

CHAPTER THREE

Upton surveyed the rows of faces arrayed before him in the Aspen Room. It was the
largest conference room at the Marquis Hotel, outfitted as a small auditorium, with six tiered
rows of cushy stadium seats, a state-of-the-art public address system and an overhead projector
system for computer-generated displays. Beside him stood Royce Fontaine. Neither of the
writers, of course, intended to use any of the high tech equipment. He knew Fontaine was still
writing his books on an IBM Selectric. Upton, himself, did all of his architectural work on a
laptop computer using
AutoCAD
and was also comfortable with
Word
, but had
no interest in the multimedia programs.

A few CWFA members were bunched together in the front rows, some chatting idly
while others waited silently for the presentation to begin. He figured that the seasoned writers
already knew first-hand everything he had to say, and then some. They were just there to be
polite--or because they didn't have anything better to do, he decided. Presumably, the novices
would be eager to hear everything he and Royce could tell them about the process of becoming a
professional writer.

"How many do you think there are?" he whispered.

Fontaine squinted as he surveyed the room. "Let's see, there are fifteen seats per row and
six rows of seats. That totals ninety. I count eleven people leaning against the walls. So, one
hundred and one."

Upton's lips tightened. He had only been trying to make conversation. He wasn't asking
for a head count. But since Royce seemed completely oblivious to his irritation, he decided to let
it go. "Let's give them another minute or two to get settled in, and then we ought to get
started."

"I concur. Arthur, thank you for dealing with that impertinent facilities manager. If you
hadn't intervened, there is no telling what I might have done."

"You know, you so much as called him a liar, Royce. Maybe if you hadn't--"

"I
was
calling him a liar. I can state categorically that the doors to this room
were locked at 8:15 this morning. The impertinent young buck!"

"That he is," Upton agreed, in a tone intended to end the discussion.

"I was hoping to ask him where I might find the hotel's Lost-and-Found, but given his
reprehensible behavior, I certainly had no intention of giving him the satisfaction of knowing I
had misplaced something."

"Oh? What did you misplace?"

"A muffler. Green and yellow plaid. It must have fallen from inside the left sleeve of my
overcoat last night. I've had it for years." He added with a sorrowful shake of his head, "These
days, I seem to have increasing difficulty keeping track of my things."

Inexplicably, Upton felt a pang of sympathy for Fontaine. He remembered his own father
expressing those same feelings, the dread of growing old and watching helplessly as your
faculties slowly but steadily fail.

He gave Fontaine a kindly smile. "While you're checking the lost and found, would you
mind asking if they found a ski hat? It's red with navy blue stripes."

The normally harsh lines around Fontaine's eyes softened. "
Et tu
, Arthur?"

"These days, I can't remember a damned thing, let alone where I left my hat." He
gestured toward the crowd. "Shall we get this show on the road?"

"Absolutely."

Upton stepped forward to the podium and twisted the goose-necked holder, pulling the
microphone closer to his mouth. He let his gaze drift along the tops of the one hundred and one
heads, feeling an odd satisfaction in knowing exactly how many people there were out there.

"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. I guess we're ready to begin. Thank you for
coming out in this god-awful weather. I'm Arthur Upton, President of the CFWA. The gentleman
next to me is Royce Fontaine, a distinguished author and member of the CFWA Executive
Board. As the brochure says, our topic today is
Becoming a Published Author.
I
recognize a few faces in the group, some of whom have more books in print than the two of us
put together." He paused for the reaction he expected and was rewarded by a smattering of polite
laughter. "But I'm assuming that most of you are still looking for that first sale and, for the most
part, you're the ones we will be speaking to."

Upton's eyes darted along the rows of faces in front of him. "How many of you are still
trying to get your first book published?"

All but a dozen members of the audience thrust an arm into the air.

"I see," Upton said. "So--"

Fontaine interrupted curtly, "How many of you have actually written a complete
manuscript?"

Nearly a third of the hands were lowered. Upton shot an irritated glance at Fontaine, but
tried to take the disruption in stride. "I guess we'll have to make that our first issue. Must you
have a finished book in hand before you start trying to market yourself as a writer? My own
personal--"

"Of course you do," Fontaine snapped. "A first time writer is a risky investment for a
publisher. The editor needs to know you are capable of producing a finished manuscript.
Otherwise, he won't give you the time of day."

"He
or she
," Upton corrected. "This is not a Boys Club."

A woman in the fourth row timidly raised her hand. Upton gestured an invitation for her
to ask her question.

"What if you're not sure you've got an idea anyone might be interested in? Do you really
have to write the whole book before you can test the market?"

Upton stepped in before Fontaine could respond. "If you're a first time author, there are
two things going on here. First, of course, you have to have a good idea. If the idea stinks,
nobody will ever buy it no matter how brilliantly you present it. But even if you've come up with
the greatest plot line since Tolstoy, you still have to master the craft of writing. And that means
you must write. And write and write."

Fontaine added, "And even if your idea stinks, as Arthur so poignantly phrased it, that is
no cause to abandon your effort. Sometimes even a ghastly idea will evolve into a splendid book.
The genesis of my fourth novel was nothing more than a passing curiosity as to why Abraham
Lincoln preferred to wear a stovepipe hat over some other variety. Before my project was
finished, I had discovered an epic tale about the waging of the Civil War in a portion of the
Kansas Territory that was later renamed Colorado."

"Okay, so let's assume you've got a finished manuscript," Upton said. "You're absolutely
certain it's the next great American novel. What do you do with it? Do you just mail it off to the
first publisher whose name comes to mind and wait at the mailbox for your checks to start
arriving?" He turned toward a few of the CFWA members. "Did any of you have that kind of
luck?"

"I did," a sultry female voice volunteered. Its owner was a glamorous woman in her late
thirties, with a thick mane of hair that, Upton noted, was currently tinted a fiery red. "I met my
agent in the bar downstairs. Over a
very
dry martini."

He laughed and made a sweeping gesture in her direction. "Ladies and gentlemen, meet
the dazzling and beguiling Suzanne Gibbons-Powers, or just GP as some of us call her. She's
published nearly a dozen best-selling novels including, most recently,
Chastity
, through
Hyperion. She's also an esteemed member of the CFWA Executive Board."

"Thank you," she cooed.

"So there you have it," Upton told the crowd. "Sometimes things do happen right
away."

"Yes, if you're a whore," Fontaine muttered softly.

Upton whirled, astounded at the comment, but said nothing. He was fairly certain the
audience hadn't heard it.

Aloud, Fontaine told the audience, "Her story is not typical."

"Oh, there's nothing typical about GP," Upton said. "Let's talk about agents.
Royce?"

Taking his cue, Fontaine seized possession of the podium. "There are those who contend
that a beginning writer must find an agent in order to publish anything of any consequence.
Others will assure you just as confidently that you should sidestep the agency process and market
your materials directly to a publisher, especially in these days of the Internet. I say it depends
upon the market. This is a key point. You
must
study the market. If you're writing a
romance novel, then you must read romance novels, scores of them, of every style and manner."
He added with a grimace, "Assuming you can stand that particular genre."

Upton stirred peevishly, but didn't speak.

"Studying the market doesn't mean you can copy what you see in the bookstores and call
it your own," Fontaine continued. "That would amount to plagiarism, which is a cardinal sin for
any author. You must also follow the rules of the genre in which you're writing. For example, as
a writer of historical novels, I am permitted to make reasonable deductions about events or
people, primarily to fill in details that I cannot verify by research. In fact, I encountered that very
problem in writing my most recent novel..."

Twenty-five minutes later, Fontaine and Upton had finished their prepared remarks.
Upton invited the audience to ask questions.

"How much do you make if you do sell a book?" a burly man wanted to know.

"Precious little," Upton answered. "Other than the advance, the author only receives
royalties after the book sells enough copies to cover the publishing costs."

"
If
it sells enough copies to cover the costs," Royce added. "Only a very few of
us are successful enough to have the luxury of writing full time."

"For the rest of us plodders, that means keep your day job," Upton said. "In fact--"

Rena Oberhaus suddenly appeared beside him at the podium.

"Time to wrap up?"

"It is."

Upton detected an unmistakable shakiness in her voice. He raised a questioning brow,
but she turned her attention back to the audience. "Let's thank Mr. Upton and Mr. Fontaine."

The hundred and one spectators clapped politely and began gathering up their
belongings. A few sidled up to Upton, eager to ask questions. He answered each one of them,
making a special effort not to sound patronizing when one young man in a Metallica sweatshirt
and faded black jeans posed a particularly naive question. But Upton's eyes kept darting back
toward Rena who stood tensely in the corner of the room, her face furrowed with a look of deep
concern.

Something was obviously wrong.

CHAPTER FOUR

Upton disengaged himself from the man in the Metallica sweatshirt and hurried over to
Rena. There were still half a dozen people in the room, some of whom were waiting to talk to
Royce Fontaine.

"Rena, are you okay?"

She looked as if she were going to burst into tears. "Can we go somewhere and
talk?"

"Of course." There were half a dozen questions he wanted to ask, but her expression told
him to wait until they had reached a safe harbor.

The sounds of the convention faded as she steered him down a long hallway that,
according to the sign posted on the wall, led to the exercise room, sauna and indoor swimming
pool.

She stopped abruptly in front of the glass doors outside the pool area. "There's a woman
here at the hotel, making all sorts of threats against the CFWA."

"Threats?" he demanded. "What sort of threats? Shall we call the police?"

"No, no, it's nothing like that. She cornered me out in the hallway and, boy, did she give
me an earful!"

"About what?"

"Her entry in last year's CFWA fiction writing contest."

"Last year's contest? For crying out loud! She's mad because she didn't win? Or because
she received an unkind critique? Or--"

"Art, it's nothing like that. She didn't win, but that's not what she's upset about. She
claims that someone in the CFWA stole her story idea."

"She claims what?"

"Someone stole her story. She says that the newest book of one of the CFWA members
is really her book."

Upton grimaced. "I don't like the sound of that. Plagiarism is a serious matter. So who is
she accusing?"

"Someone named Theia Rand. I don't think I've ever met her, but--"

"Theia Rand? Are you serious?"

"Do you know who she is?"

"Of course, I do. It's a pseudonym. And it belongs to one of the last people I'd ever
suspect of stealing someone else's story."

"This woman is adamant about it. She repeated the name three times. Was this Theia
Rand one of the judges in last year's contest?"

Upton paused to think. "I don't know. I think Suzanne Gibbons-Powers served as the
contest chairperson last year. She ought to remember who the judges were."

"She should," Rena observed dryly. "She probably slept with every one of them."

Upton eyed her disapprovingly. "Rena, I'm shocked!"

She touched his arm imploringly. "Please don't tell--"

He interrupted sternly, "First of all, I'd never tell anyone what another CFWA member
said about her. Secondly," he added in a lighter tone, "knowing GP, she'd take it as a
complement."

Rena patted his arm. "Thank you. God, I can't believe I said that. So what do I do about
the woman who claims we conspired to steal her book?"

BOOK: An Unconventional Murder
2.54Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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