Dying to Get Published (17 page)

"Who's Teri, and can she pull something like this off?"

"She writes romantic intrigue. She'll do great."

"What if Moore's secretary recognizes your voice?"

"Edith doesn't come in until nine. I'll speak to the front desk receptionist and have her leave a note. Edith usually has two or three messages waiting for her each morning."

"And O'Hara's Tara?"

"That one I'll have to deal with myself. Mrs. Walker deserves an explanation. I wouldn't be surprised to find she'd set up a college fund for 'our little one,' a.k.a. my towel."

"She's sending your towel to college?"

"It was a complicated relationship."

Sam nodded knowingly. "Will they let you back into the building?"

"The judge didn't issue a restraining order, so I don't see why not. We'll try first thing tomorrow morning."

The Sunday paper lay crumpled between the bucket seats of the Accord.

"It's a long way to Atlanta. Don't tell me you don't plan to talk to me the whole hour and a half it'll take us to get there." Sam had tried cajoling, joking, and a sterner, no-nonsense approach. Now he was back to coaxing.

Jennifer continued to stare out the car window. How could he? How could he let them put that awful, terrible, no-good headline over her lovely photo? It had been shot through a soft filter, in black and white, one slender hand supporting the side of her face, a half smile on her lips, her hair curled softly in a kind of Forties glamour look. And over the top of that picture were supposed to be the words: LOCAL AUTHOR ASTOUNDS CRITICS BY ACHIEVING NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER LIST WITH FIRST NOVEL. Instead, the headline read: MACON WOMAN INDICTED FOR THREATENING MURDER VICTIM.

"I don't write the headlines. I told you that. I was lucky to get the article past the editor without any major revisions. Besides, it's not a bad headline. It doesn't say, 'Mystery Novelist Suspected of Having Lived out Murderous Fantasy' or 'Bitter Writer Takes Revenge on Literary Agent.'"

Jennifer wondered if Sam realized how truly futile his lame, insensitive attempts to get her to talk really were. Under the circumstances, she wished he would show some maturity and just accept her decision to pretend he didn't exist. Besides, despite what he continued to say with almost every combination of words possible—she'd been admiring his ingenuity for the last fifteen miles—she doubted he really wanted to hear how she felt.

"Did you read the fourth paragraph? I got in two of the titles of your books, and I was even able to slip in a brief synopsis of your new Jolene Arizona novel."

He would pick that one. Any juror who got wind of Jolene's exploits would but her creator in jail on both literary and moral grounds. And justly so for the sheer act of devising that plot.

Jennifer had hoped to make a scrapbook for little Jaimie, detailing his/her mother's success before her/his—dang this gender nonsense—birth. Clippings from local and not-so-local newspapers, proclaiming her achievements, her honors, her—

"Jennifer, this has got to stop."

Now he was taking a paternal stance. She hated that tone of voice even when her own father had used it. He was recycling, running out of ways to force a response. But then all languages, she supposed, had their limits.

"Look. I did my best for you. I really did and if—"

"Thank you." The words surprised Jennifer almost as much as they did Sam, who had to swerve to recover his lane.

Sam was trying. He really was, and she knew that. Yesterday evening she thought she had her feelings under control, that she was going to be able to deal with having her name and image splashed across the media. And she'd continued to think so right up until she saw the article, in real black ink on flimsy newspaper stock, right up until the moment it had become tangible—and delivered to almost every doorstep in the Macon area. Shame. It was such a Southern emotion.

Jennifer had yet to count her allies, and she realized with her last shred of rationality that if she were going to keep Sam, she'd better get with it.

She'd seen Dee Dee only briefly when she dropped off Muffy, and she hadn't spoken to any of her critique group. They wouldn't know about her arrest unless they read the paper this morning. She hoped her answering machine was accumulating their words of support even as she and Sam sped toward Atlanta. But one never knew. Friends were unpredictable. They must be tested to know which ones stand strong and which ones disappear at the first hint of trouble. And an accusation of murder was more than a
hint
.

Sam was her friend. He was practically begging to be her friend, and she'd been treating him like… well, with less respect than he deserved. She could count on him.

When they got to Atlanta in just a few minutes, she'd find out about another important player in this drama, one who could help her or hurt her. Yes, there was a significant question to be answered at O'Hara's Tara. Whose friend was Mrs. Walker—Jennifer's or Sophie's?

Chapter 26

Ernie seemed more confused than suspicious as Jennifer watched his eyes travel up and down her slender frame, pausing on the flat of her stomach.

"No baby," he declared. He obviously felt betrayed. Jennifer was certain he'd hoped to deliver her baby and suspected he might even have hoped to eke out a godfather spot in the process.

"Nope. Never was," Jennifer confessed.

"Is this the guy who wasn't the father?" he asked, gesturing at Sam.

Jennifer stared at him, not sure what to say.

"I like the hair better." Ernie nodded approvingly. "The color suits your complexion. And the clothes," he added.

"Ernie, just ring Mrs. Emma Walker for me."

"Your aunt?"

"No, she's not my aunt."

"And I guess the other night wasn't Tiger's birthday, either."

"You were right. Tiger doesn't have birthdays. He's some kind of alien life-form. Just ring her."

"I don't know if I'm supposed to be doing this."

Jennifer smiled her best, trust-me-I-know-what-I'm-doing smile. "What instructions did the police give you?"

"No one is to go into Ms. Richmond's apartment without their permission."

"Was that it?"

Ernie nodded.

"So, you see, it's just fine if I go up to see Mrs. Walker. Call her," Jennifer insisted.

Ernie hesitated.

"Please," she added, stifling an urge to create another crime scene.

Ernie took up the phone and turned his back on Jennifer and Sam, whispering into the receiver.

He turned again, and Jennifer once more felt that searching, intrusive study of her unpregnant self. "Are you sure?" he was saying. "If it was up to me… yeah. No. Okay. I understand, but I'll keep an ear out and if anything…" He lowered his voice and cupped the mouthpiece with his left hand. "Yes, I did like your Christmas
bonus, Miz Walker… U
h-huh. I do understand who pays my salary. I'll send them right up."

Ernie hung up the phone and cleared his throat.

"You can go on up. Mrs. Walker—she's in quite a state. Says she's been expecting you for two days."

Mrs. Walker desperately crushed Jennifer against her petite frame. "Where have you been?" she demanded. "I've been worried sick about you. Do you know there's been a murder in the building? But of course you do, the police arrested you for it—you, of all people."

Jennifer drew back and cocked an eyebrow.

"Get yourself and whoever this is you've brought with you into the living room," Mrs. Walker ordered, pushing Jennifer down the hall before shutting and locking the door. "Who knows what kind of lunatic may be roaming the halls. Now, why didn't you call me? I can't bear to think of you in that horrible police station. I would have sprung you, dear, surely you know that."

Sam obediently followed Jennifer to the sofa, where they sank into the downy cushions and Tiger nipped and snarled first at one shoe and then the next.

Mrs. Walker impatiently grabbed the beast and carried him down the hallway. Jennifer heard the door to the powder room slam shut. Mrs. Walker returned, breathless. "I love that critter, but sometimes I wish I'd left the little rat in the alley where I found him."

Mrs. Walker obviously mistook Jennifer's surprise for horror. "Oh, don't worry, dear. I'll let him out later. We can't very well have him chewing up your shoes, now can we?"

Suddenly, Mrs. Walker seemed to catch sight of Jennifer's flat abdomen. She let out a strangled shriek. "The baby! Don't tell me—"

"There never was a baby, Mrs. Walker. I'm sorry. I never meant to deceive you."

"Well, thank God for that. For a moment there I was afraid this mess had caused you to miscarry, but then I don't suppose it made your hair turn brown." Mrs. Walker leaned forward and carefully inspected Jennifer's tresses. "And straight, I might add."

"It was a wig," Jennifer explained.

"So the police told me when they came by yesterday afternoon. They brought it for me to identify." She laughed self-consciously. "My eyes aren't quite as good as they used to be, but then neither is the rest of me. They tried to grill me, but I wouldn't squeal. I insisted on serving them something to drink before I'd answer any questions, and then I plunked a tea bag in each cup and filled it with coffee." The old woman laughed devilishly. "They think I'm demented. They couldn't get out of here fast enough."

Jennifer took a deep breath. "You've got a right to know who I really am. My name isn't Sophie. It's Jennifer, Jennifer Marsh, and I'm not Italian."

"Of course you're not. I can see that perfectly well now, and that horrible mug shot they showed me hardly did you justice."

Mrs. Walker again leaned forward and said in a hushed voice, "Now give me the lowdown. Were you on a stakeout? Do you work for some gumshoe? And who's the hunk you've got in tow?"

Sam reached past Jennifer and shook Mrs. Walker's hand. "Sam Culpepper."

"Nice eyes. He your boss or some other operative?" Mrs. Walker gave Sam a good once-over out of the corner of her eyes.

"
Macon Telegraph
," Sam explained.

"A journalist. How nice." She beamed at Sam and then leaned to whisper into Jennifer's ear, "They don't make much money, you know."

"I know. Mrs. Walker, we need your help."

"Well, of course you do, dear. Why else would you be here?"

"Were you here Friday night when Ms. Richmond was murdered?" Sam asked.

"I was in the building. I got back to my place shortly after nine. Mae Belle had three of us in for a few hands of bridge and a light supper. She's three floors down." Mrs. Walker studied Jennifer's face. "Why did you come here in the first place, dear, and get yourself in so much trouble?"

Lying now seemed pathetic, even if the truth sounded ridiculous.

"I was researching a mystery novel I want to write," Jennifer said.

"Oh, you're a novelist! I should have guessed. How absolutely fabulous," Mrs. Walker squealed. "Have you written anything I might have read?"

"Not unless you've been in my closet."

Mrs. Walker stared at her blankly.

"Actually, I'm not published yet," Jennifer rushed on.

Mrs. Walker patted her hand. "Someone as clever as you, dear, should have no trouble…."

Someone as clever as she should never have gotten herself into a situation where she could be charged with murder. But all that aside, she didn't have time to clue Mrs. Walker into the harsh realities of book publishing.

"The police think I killed Penney Richmond."

"Now why on earth would they believe that?"

Jennifer bowed her head. "I sort of wrote her a few notes that could have been mistaken—"

"Oh, dear, dear. I think I understand. She was a literary agent. Yes, I see now. Really, I'm surprised at you, Jennifer. Surely you know better than to put anything in writing. I've always preferred using the telephone myself. That way there is no hard evidence—of the threats, I mean, unless, of course, they have one of those antiquated answering machines with the
R
ecord
feature, but generally they give themselves away before they press the button. And most people have caller ID now. A pay phone is really the best, if you can find one. Or a prepaid, disposable cell. Remember that for the future."

Sweet Mrs. Walker had more sides to her personality than Jennifer would have imagined.

Sam jumped in. "Whoever killed Richmond was in this building Friday night, sometime between nine and midnight."

"Yes, that would logically follow, wouldn't it," Mrs. Walker agreed.

"Do you think you could find out, ask around, if any of the tenants saw someone suspicious in the building that night? Maybe get your bridge friends to help," he continued.

"Sort of like Holmes's Baker Street Irregulars, you mean?

"Exactly," Jennifer agreed.

"I see. My friends and I aren't exactly a band of street urchins, but I'll see what I can do. I suppose you'd like us to throw in whatever gossip we can manage to dig up, too."