Dying to Get Published (9 page)

She turned to her night stand and found her alarm clock. It read two o'clock.

Muffy, dozing on the floor, gave out a gentle woof and scratched at the carpeting before settling down again. Who knows what prey she was chasing in her dreams.

Jennifer's prey was chasing her. She hadn't been able to sleep since coming home from the party. How could she? Writing about murder was one thing. Actually depriving another person of her life was quite another, even if that person was a despicable, no-good, lowlife meanie who had no time or compassion for dedicated, talented writers whose only dream was to see their stories in print.

There was no way Jennifer could kill this woman for murdering her dreams or for fame or fortune or anything. She couldn't kill spiders, as much as she hated them (most likely a throw-back to that Buddhist phase she went through in college). She couldn't even eat meat, for heaven's sake.

She didn't even
want
to kill her. After all these nightmarish images, she wanted Penney to l
ive forever.

What had she been thinking? Had she lost her mind?

Apparently.

Jennifer slumped back down on the bed, tears gathering in her eyes. Her hand found the flat of her stomach. "Oh, Jaimie," she whispered. "What kind of mother would I be to you if… I would never, never hurt anyone, really I wouldn't, no matter how much they deserved it."

Thank goodness Jaimie didn't have ears yet—two sets of chromosomes were needed for that. She/He didn't know, would never know what horrible thoughts her/his mother was capable of. Jennifer would do better. She promised.

She was all done with murder, except the fictional kind, of course. After all, that's what she wrote about. Puzzles. Mind games. Who did what to whom and why. Nothing gritty, nothing gory. She didn't even describe the crime scenes. Too much blood.

Jennifer sat straight up. Of course! That's why her books hadn't sold. That's what Penney Richmond had been trying to tell her in that awful phone call. She had to get down to the nitty-gritty. How could she expect to write effective murder mysteries when she had no clue what murder was all about, knew nothing about how murderers feel?

She couldn't actually harm Penney Richmond, but she could go through with her plan. She'd simply omit that annoying murder part. She'd walk through her plot down to the very last detail, establishing an alibi, and somehow gaining access to Penney Richmond's home. At last she would know how a killer thinks. And she'd be able to write it, to bring stark reality to her work, to find that missing element. At last she would find success.

And no one would ever know how she'd done it, not even Sam, who was destined to play a part in all this. It had to be that way.

Jennifer settled back against her pillow. Everything was going to be just fine. She and Sam would find out what happened to Kyle Browning, and she would finally discover that secret that her books had been lacking. She could do it. She
would
do it. And Penney would be just fine. Everything would be just fine. She patted her tummy. Just fine.

Chapter 15

"Mr. Moore said I was to call this number first thing this morning."

"Look, whatever your name is—"

"Jennifer Marsh."

"Look, Ms. Marsh, you're going to have to go through Human Resources no matter what Mr. Moore told you. You'll have to put in an application, take some computer tests, supply references—the whole shebang. That office is open Monday through Friday from…"

Suddenly Jennifer felt a surge of power, power fueled by anonymity and by the knowledge that she had nothing to lose. This was Sam's investigation. She was only along for the ride—and a publishing credit. Of course, her power was tempered by the fact that the phone line could go dead at any minute if the person on the other end of the line caught on and decided to take control of the situation. The trick was to attack so quickly that the woman would never consider hanging up. After all, Jolene Arizona would never allow herself to be pushed around, particularly not when she held a power card: the boss's infatuation with her.

"Is Moore in the office?"

"Yes, he is, but he's busy."

"Tell him I'm on the phone."

"I'm afraid you don't—"

"Tell him, or once I get in that office—and believe me, I
will
be working there—we may have to review the status of
all
of the employees.
All
! Have I made myself clear?"

"Just a moment please."

Jennifer thought she detected a note of amusement in the woman's voice, but most likely it was her imagination. This telephone stuff was actually pretty easy. As long as she didn't die of embarrassment when she finally met the secretary face-to-face, she might even be able to carry it off.

She'd simply have to imagine going into that office the way Maxie Malone would. She would be playing a part, the part of a fearless undercover detective investigating a brutal murder made to look like suicide.

"Jennifer," Moore purred.

How could he make her name sound almost obscene? She might have to change it after this was all over.

"I'm so glad you called. Don't worry about all that red tape Edith was telling you about. After we lost Kyle Browning, the administrative assistant he and I shared quit. We need someone to replace her. We've had temps filling in ever since. I'll take care of everything. Could you start Tuesday morning, let's say about nine o'clock?"

She was a detective investigating a crime. She
had
to keep telling herself that. She was not being thrown into the Roman Colosseum; she was
not
. But she had never felt more Christian in her entire life.

"You want to know how to seduce someone? Just what
are
you planning?" Leigh Ann asked, her small, dark-haired head peeking up from among the deep cushions of Monique's sofa.

Jennifer had known this was a bad idea as soon as she opened her mouth, but it was too late. She'd asked the question from her rigid perch on Monique's other sofa, and now she'd have to live with the group's response.

"OOOO-eeee, you go girl!" Teri declared from her place on the floor, one bronzed leg stretched out behind her, the other straight in front.

As much as Jennifer liked Teri, she had always hated people who could do the splits. It seemed somehow unnatural. Teri reminded her of one of her Barbie dolls, the one with the broken leg that swung loosely all the way up to the back of her head.

Teri grinned up at her, bringing her back leg around front and then pulling her forehead down to her knees. "I knew we'd get you sooner or later. I knew we'd draw you into the fold. So what's this new book about anyway?"

"I thought I'd try something in the romance field. I understand that market may be easier to break into."

Leigh Ann threw her an icy stare. "Are you implying something about the quality of my work?"

Leigh Ann had been writing almost as long as she had and still wasn't published. Writers. Why did they all have such fragile egos?

"Look. We don't have to discuss this. As a matter of fact, I'd just as soon we didn't."

For several moments, no one said a word, and the creak of Monique's rocking chair was getting on Jennifer's nerves. Creak. Creak. Creak.

Disagreements were few in this small group of writer-friends, but they were inevitable. All had aspirations, and all felt the system had failed them in some way. But Jennifer was determined to break out of the endless cycle of queries, rejections, disappointment…

Monique's rocker stopped. This was not a good sign.

"Jennifer, what have I said to you more than once? What is the key to success?"

Jennifer searched her mind like an eleven-year-old trying to dredge up the proper answer for the teacher, knowing that whatever answer she gave, the teacher would look at her condescendingly and then correct her. If she waited long enough, the teacher always supplied the answer. And sure enough, she did.

"Inventory. Do you remember my telling you that?"

Jennifer nodded.

"And that's what you're working on, isn't it?"

Again, Jennifer nodded.

"And what's the important part of inventory?"

She'd gone to Hell, and Hell was being stuck in fifth grade forever with Monique as her teacher.

Monique was nodding, waiting for a response.

"Could you make this a multiple choice question?" Jennifer asked.

Monique ignored Jennifer and shifted her gaze to the others in the room. "Diversification," she stated. "The more fields we try, the more styles we try, the better chance we all have of publishing."

Of course, Monique was right. She almost always was, but Jennifer didn't have to admit it. Monique wasn't even really Monique. She was Betty. Just plain, old Betty. She'd published one science fiction novel as Monique Dupree and, she'd been Monique ever since.

Jennifer wanted to shout out, "All right, Betty. You made your point, the point I was making when I came in this evening and asked for some help with an idea for a romance novel." But, of course, she never had any intention of writing that romance novel. She really did want to know how to seduce a man. She needed an alibi, and her social life was in such shambles, she hardly remembered how to date, let alone seduce.

"If you want to try something different, why don't you do a picture book for preschoolers?" April suggested.

Images were forming in Jennifer's mind. Writers were always told to write about what they know. She could do one based on the game of Clue. This is a rope, this is a lead pipe, this is a knife, this is Miss Scarlet dead in the library.

Teri was shaking her head forcefully. "No way. Our gal's too much of a plotter. She'd never be happy with that."

"And I suppose by that you mean my Whacky the Duck stories have no plot?"

"No plot?" Teri said. "No plot? Of course not. Your stories are teeming with plot. We never know what dangers are lurking out in the big bad world for that little ducky. I'd like to see him run into a biker gang of Canada geese and see how you get him out of that one."

"Seduction, guys, please. Seduction—that was the topic of conversation, and I, for one, would like to get back to it," Leigh Ann purred.

Of course she would. Her books breathed seduction. Jennifer wondered why she was putting herself through this. She should have gone to the bookstore and bought a dozen or so romances and been done with it.

"How old?" Leigh Ann asked Jennifer, sitting up from her envelope of pillows and leaning forward.

"I beg your pardon?"

"How old are the hero and heroine? It makes a difference, you know. Different generations have different patterns. You wouldn't seduce a fifty-year-old man the same way you would a twenty-year-old."

Mentally, Jennifer sighed. Seduction was going to be more complicated than she thought.

"I'm making her late twenties, no more than thirty. And I guess he's something like thirty-two, thirty-three."

"Wonderful ages. Old enough to be sophisticated without being dated. Innovative, but dignified. Trendy, but chic…"

"Ethnic group?" Teri asked.

"Does it matter?" Jennifer said.

"Hey, girl, what planet are you from? Of course it matters, Miss White Bread."

"White, American born. This is going to be hard enough to do without adding factors I know next to nothing about."

"Do the flowers, wine, and food scenario," Teri suggested.

"Not a good idea," Apri
l countered, patting her belly.
"That's how my little number two got started."

"Which is precisely the point," Leigh Ann said. "Who's seducing whom?"

"She, him," Jennifer answered.

"Easiest way," Leigh Ann said. "Okay. She calls him up and invites him over for dinner. She has fresh flowers on the coffee table, fresh flowers on the dining room table—cut, mixed, no roses. Soft lights—pink bulbs are best; soft music—preferably instrumental; wine but not champagne—never champagne—too obvious. A simple meal—probably pasta, no garlic—with a sinfully rich, sexy cold dessert like cheesecake or cream pie, something she can slowly drizzle with chocolate syrup right in front of him
. N
o cookies or layer cake."

"You got any?" April asked Monique.

"Any what?"

"Cheesecake, cream pie, cookies, layer cake, chocolate syrup—I'm not particular. I forgot my snack bag at home."

"No, I don't
got
any. Go on Leigh Ann."

"She should wear something filmy and floral over something substantial like a black tank top and black leggings, so it's not obvious that she's thinking about slipping out of it the first chance she gets."

There'd be no "slipping out" of anything except her apartment once Sam had passed out. She didn't need any advice on what to give Sam to knock him out. She'd slipped more mickeys in her books than she could remember, and she knew one that was perfectly safe, that would give him the best night's sleep he'd had in a long time. Jolene had been a bartender in between circus gigs, so she knew how to mix all kinds of concoctions and what their side effects were. True, Jennifer had never tried to put one together in real life, but everything would be fine. Yes, her alibi would be in perfect health and unwilling to admit he'd forgotten the most romantic evening of his entire life. Of course, she'd have to clue him in later, but not while it was happening. She
had
to know if it would work.