Dying to Get Published (15 page)

The elevator popped open on the ground floor, and a clown in full makeup with a curly rainbow-colored wig, a billowing polka-dotted costume, and a half-dozen balloons pushed past her. Too bad Miss Slinky Evening Gown missed that one.

Jennifer snuck across to the other bank of elevators. Fortunately, Ernie was well out of sight.

The elevator doors opened and a bevy of black-clad yuppies spilled forth. They seemed to be all together and far more intent on where they were going than on noticing some frump. She sighed her relief, stepped inside, and pounded the
eleven
button with the side of her fist. Within two minutes she was staring at the door to apartment 1129. Somewhere behind it, in the bowels of Penney's lair, was the dragon lady herself.

A ball of panic began to rise from her stomach and inch up her esophagus. One hand flew to her belly and the other to her mouth. Oh, great! All she had to do was be sick all over the carpet. She swallowed hard and kept up those short, little gulps that had worked to keep her steady in the past. Some of the nausea began to pass, but the electric charges that scampered through her muscles left her in no better shape.

How did real-life murderers do it? Just the thought of looking Penney Richmond in the eye had her digestive system in somersaults. She had to get away from the door.

She slunk down the hall and pulled open the fire door to the stairwell. She slumped onto the top stair and pulled her bag into her lap, the towel bunching at her waist, the towel that shouldn't be a towel at all, but Jaimie growing, thriving, comfortably happy in his/her mother's belly. Sweet little Jaimie, her confidant, her legacy, her future.

"Everything is all right," she whispered, foolishly patting the stupid towel. What did she think she was doing slinking around some woman's apartment building, stalking her like some lunatic. And for what? Research for some book?

She needed to get a grip. Why had she ever thought walking through some idiotic plan would give her some secret element that would finally make her books sell? Was that
all
she wanted out of life?

She'd left poor Sam drugged and sleeping for this? Sam didn't deserve what she'd done to him—nobody did, but especially not him. He'd believed in her. "It'll happen for you," he'd said, and he had meant it—and that was before the drugs hit his system.

And Jaimie would happen for her, too. Isn't that what Dee Dee had said, if only she'd give some poor guy a chance, some silly, dark-blue-eyed guy who just might be different from the Steve Moores of the world, who just might share her dreams with her.

Jennifer let out the breath she'd been holding. She wanted to be published more than almost anything in this world, but this charade was not the way to do it. She'd never know how a murderer felt. She couldn't conceive of it.

No more tricks or games or gimmicks. She'd write like she always had, tell the stories
she
wanted to tell. And she'd wait, wait to be discovered like everybody else. She'd look up agents' addresses on the Net first thing Monday morning and create an email blizzard with her queries. Somewhere out there was an agent who would someday see the value of her work.

She stood, readjusted her "baby," tugged open the heavy door to the hall, and ran to the elevator. She couldn't get out of the building fast enough. She wanted to be back in her own apartment, out of her Sophie clothes, making sure Sam was all right. She'd let him sleep through the night, make him a wonderful breakfast, tell him the whole ridiculous tale, and assure him nothing had happened between them—at least, not yet.

The elevator doors parted, and the rainbow-wigged clown, still holding the balloons, stared at her in that eerie, unfriendly way that clowns have when they're not smiling. She stepped to one side, and the clown dragged his helium bouquet past her. She slipped into the elevator, pressed the down button, not caring this time if she left fingerprints, and breathed a sigh of relief as the compartment started to move. A freedom she hadn't felt in a long time washed over her. She had a lifetime to fulfill her dreams, and nothing was standing in her way.

Chapter 23

Someone was thumping on the door—loudly. Muffy was jumping up and down and skittering from the living room back into the bedroom, barking and snuffling. Jennifer groaned and rolled over in bed to stare through puffy, half-closed eyes at the clock on her bedside table. It read eight-fifty A.M. Way too early for someone to come visiting on a Saturday morning.

The building must be on fire
was her first thought. She pulled the comforter up over her head and burrowed down. She'd dig out of the ashes later.

The thumping continued, only louder this time.

"Go away," she mumbled.

"Police. Open up."

Jennifer's eyes popped open, and she dug her way out of the covers. What were the police doing at her door? And why wasn't Sam here? She could send him to get rid of them.

Last night she'd come home from Atlanta dragging in close to two A.M. to find him gone, relieved that he was at least well enough to get himself up. They'd have plenty of time to discuss matters later. She might even find out what he'd been trying to say to her last night before he passed out.

She'd have to reconsider those mickeys she'd been slipping so casually in her books. They didn't always work.

"We know you're in there. Open the door."

The pounding continued. They must want someone down the hall, but it was becoming more and more obvious that the men in blue wouldn't leave until she opened the door.

She stumbled to the closet, grabbed a pair of jeans and a sweater, pulled them on, and headed to the door.

Another thought occurred to her. What if Sam had awakened, realized she'd drugged him, and gone to the police station to file a complaint against her. It was a few measly sleeping pills, for heaven's sake, obviously not enough to do any real damage. She'd insist she was just trying to help him relax from all the stress of his work.

Jennifer paused at the door, took a deep breath, and released the lock. The door burst open. One plainclothes man and two uniformed officers, one male, one female, pushed their way in.

The detective, a big, burly, sandy-haired guy in a cheap gray suit, flashed his badge. She took it and inspected it. It belonged to Frank Sweeney of the Atlanta Police Department.

"You Jennifer Marsh?" Sweeney demanded.

"Yes," she said hesitantly. So much for the felon down the hall.

"Do you know a Penelope A. Richmond of Atlanta?"

A lump the size of a tennis ball formed around Jennifer's windpipe. Had Penney been watching through her peephole while she stood outside her door? Had she used some kind of alien, X-ray vision to pierce the cloth of her tote bag and see the gun she'd been carrying, and was Penney now somehow accusing her of stalking? No wonder she had eight novels on her closet shelf. The man had asked her one question and she already had enough material for three chapters.

"Do you know her?" the policeman repeated.

She cleared her throat and sucked in air. "Not personally. I know
of
her."

"Penelope Richmond received a number of threatening letters over the past two weeks, one of which was written on personalized stationery bearing your name and address and carrying what appears to be your signature. Several of the others are in the same handwriting. Do you know anything about that?"

So that was what this was about. Inwardly, Jennifer sighed her relief. At least she wasn't losing her mind. That creature Penney Richmond had reported her to the police for sending threats. Couldn't ol' Penney take a little joke?

"Oh, that." Jennifer shrugged. Maxie would be cool—ever so cool. "Samples from a book I wanted her to consider handling. You see, I'm a mystery writer and the letters are from a novel with this really screwed up villain named Marcus who—"

"Oh, yeah? Sounded like you thought this Richmond woman was some kind of Ebola virus."

Sweeney wasn't far off.

"Want to tell me where you were last night?" Sweeney asked.

Oh, sure. Why not? I was standing outside Penney Richmond's apartment trying to get up the nerve to con her into opening the door, so I could see what's it's like to plan a murder.

Jennifer smiled sweetly. If she'd learned only one thing from researching crime novels, it was not to answer any questions from a policeman, innocent or not, especially if she had no idea why he was asking them.

Muffy was still scampering around the room, rushing from one policeman to the next, rolling in front of them, begging to be petted. The traitor.

"Are you arresting me?" Jennifer asked. "You haven't read me my rights."

Muffy suddenly darted past Jennifer into the bedroom and came back shaking something black and hairy in her mouth.

"What's this?" Sweeney asked, bending and coaxing Muffy over to rub her back and extract the wig. He stood up, holding it in his hand. "What was that description we got from Ernest Tuttle?"

"You mean the doorman?" one of the uniforms asked.

"Yeah.  Read me the one with the wig."

"He said she was young, in her twenties, pregnant, with large glasses, and a long, black, curly wig. Went by the name of Sophie McClannahan."

Jennifer could feel the blood drain from her face. Whatever the police were there for, it was more than the threats. It had something to do with her being at O'Hara's Tara. But what?

"Said she was always wearing some god-awful brown floral dress and shapeless sweater. He thought she might be undergoing some kind of medical treatments that made her hair fall out because the three times he saw her, she was wearing the wig."

"Mind if we take a look in the bedroom?" Sweeney asked.

"You got a search warrant?" Jennifer silently prayed that Muffy wouldn't drag out the Sophie dress she'd left in a heap on the floor near the wig last night.

"Not yet."

"Get it," she said defiantly.

"So you want to play it that way, do you?" Sweeney said. "Fine with me. You have the right to remain silent. If you give up the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have—"

"What's the charge?" Jennifer asked.

"For starters, it's making threats, and I do have a warrant for your arrest. We'll see how long it takes us to work up to first degree murder. Cuff her," Sweeney ordered the uniform.

Jennifer's knees buckled. Fortunately, the policeman was holding her wrists. "Who died?" she squeaked out, already sure of the answer.

"Have you been following this conversation?" he asked.

"Not well," she admitted.

"You have the right to speak with an attorney and to have an attorney present during questioning. If you so desire…"

In her mind, Jennifer tried to sort out what had happened. Penney Richmond must have somehow got herself killed. But the police were here, at her apartment, arresting
her
, and Sam was who-knows-where. She had no alibi, she had no defense, and it was becoming painfully obvious, she had no future. Something had gone terribly, terribly wrong with her plan.

Chapter 24

The jail cell was cold. Cold and gray and ugly. And all Jennifer wanted was to go home.

Things were alive in that cell. Fortunately, they weren't human, but she'd spotted a large, unidentified insect earlier, and heaven knows what was lurking on the microbiotic level. She shuddered and sat up a little straighter, clutching her sweater closer about her shoulders.

She'd gotten herself into it this time. And now, not only God, but the Law was going to get her for it.

Bargaining with Him didn't seem particularly promising at this point. Too many necessary admissions. After all, she had planned the whole murder even if she hadn't intended to carry it out. And just her luck, Someone Up There, no doubt, had been taking notes.

She sighed. Crime was so much easier to cope with as words on a computer, words that could be moved, deleted, and retyped, but this real life cement floor, iron bars, and (she couldn't force herself to look at it) that awful stainless steel toilet lurking in the corner, were more reality than she had ever hoped to deal with. She'd like to delete
that
thing with a keystroke.

She rubbed at the black ink on her fingertips. It marked her as the common criminal she was. It'd take a week for the stain to fade, not that it mattered. No telling how long she'd be locked up in the slammer. She'd been charged with communicating threats. Thank goodness she'd had enough sense to use a courier service so they couldn't charge her with a felony. Of course, if they could establish a link between her and the other poison pen letters—the ones she didn't write—they'd throw away the key to her cell, with or without the murder charge. They were mailed.

The judge had been reasonable in setting bail, if $10,000 could be considered reasonable. But then she hadn't looked the least bit threatening when she stood before him, scared witless.