Scratch the Surface (2 page)
Read Scratch the Surface Online
Authors: Susan Conant
Tags: #General, #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Women Sleuths, #Detective and mystery stories, #Detective and mystery stories - Authorship, #Cats, #Mystery fiction, #Apartment houses, #Women novelists
She snapped the book shut, slipped it behind her back, smiled at the woman who’d handed it to her, and said, “Well, I’ve botched that one. Let’s try again. Are you sure you don’t want it signed to you?”
“Just your name, please,” said the woman, whom Felicity saw not as the plump, nondescript individual she was, but as a representative of the adoring public who clung with catlike claws to Felicity Pride’s every written and spoken word. “I collect modern firsts,” the woman explained. “They’re more valuable without an inscription. At least while the author is alive. As you are, of course. Obviously.”
Felicity waited for this unprepossessing representative of her worshipful readership to add some suitably flattering expression of happiness on that account:
Not just obviously but luckily!
Or maybe,
And thank heaven you are alive, because we devotees of Prissy LaChatte and dear Morris and Tabitha would be utterly bereft without you!
Not just obviously but luckily!
Or maybe,
And thank heaven you are alive, because we devotees of Prissy LaChatte and dear Morris and Tabitha would be utterly bereft without you!
To Felicity’s disappointment, the collector of modern first editions remained silent, as did the four women who waited in line behind her. Had Felicity written the scene, all five women would have borne subtle and charming resemblances to cats of various types: perhaps a plump gray Persian, a petite marmalade, a sleek calico, a silver tabby, and a striped alley cat with facial scars. Felicity herself would have been a long, lean Siamese with a patrician bone structure and an air of elegance and savoir faire. In reality, there was nothing especially feline about the book buyers, and far from looking like a Siamese, Felicity was short and had a sturdiness of build and feature more suggestive of muscular human peasantry than of feline aristocracy. She was, however, tidy and well groomed. Her charcoal wool pants and cashmere sweater were neither too old nor too young for her age, which was fifty-three, and the blonde highlights in her straight, blunt-cut hair effectively covered any white strands that had the nerve to emerge from her scalp. Felicity would have been happier to live with head lice than with gray hair.
“Still alive,” said Felicity, who was used to looking after herself. “Luckily for me. And I know what ‘Just your name’ means. You collectors! Some of you don’t mind having the date added.”
“Just your name, please,” repeated the woman as she handed Felicity a fresh copy of
Felines in Felony
from one of the piles that Ronald Gershwin had stacked on the table next to Felicity’s armchair.
Felines in Felony
from one of the piles that Ronald Gershwin had stacked on the table next to Felicity’s armchair.
The next woman in line was not buying
Felines in Felony
. Rather, she wanted Felicity’s signature on a paperback copy of
Out of the Bag,
which had just been released in what publishers referred to as the “mass market edition.” The term always struck Felicity as a wild overstatement, at least in the case of her own paperbacks, which sold well enough, she supposed, but could hardly be said to have “mass” sales.
Felines in Felony
. Rather, she wanted Felicity’s signature on a paperback copy of
Out of the Bag,
which had just been released in what publishers referred to as the “mass market edition.” The term always struck Felicity as a wild overstatement, at least in the case of her own paperbacks, which sold well enough, she supposed, but could hardly be said to have “mass” sales.
The three remaining women turned out to be major fans who’d come to Felicity’s reading together and deliberately waited at the end of the line for the chance to talk with her. Mindful that her readers irrationally persisted in seeing themselves as individuals and preferred, albeit unrealistically, to be so viewed by their favorite author, Felicity took careful mental note of their names when she inscribed their books. She subsequently made a point of addressing each of the women, Linda, Melody, and Amy, at least once by her first name. Although mnemonic devices had failed her in the past, she nonetheless tried envisioning Linda, who had a dark and mottled complexion, with ashes smudged on her face: Linda the Cinder. In the Boston accent that Felicity had labored to banish from her speech, the words rhymed. Melody, who wore a round-collared white blouse, was easy to see as a choir girl, her mouth open in song.
Amy
meant beloved. The association posed a challenge, since this Amy had a pinched face and a sour expression, but Felicity still succeeded in imagining her in the arms of a Hollywood leading man from a thirties movie, his dark hair slick with grease, his eyes heavy with passion.
Amy
meant beloved. The association posed a challenge, since this Amy had a pinched face and a sour expression, but Felicity still succeeded in imagining her in the arms of a Hollywood leading man from a thirties movie, his dark hair slick with grease, his eyes heavy with passion.
Amy immediately ruined the image by digging into a large purse and producing a fat little album packed with snapshots of her three cats, whose names Felicity made no effort to remember. “And Tabitha,” said Amy, pointing to a blurred picture of a black kitten, “is my baby. She came from a shelter, but I’m pretty sure she’s part Siamese. She has that look, doesn’t she?”
“Definitely,” said Felicity. “She definitely looks part Siamese. And is she named for Prissy’s Tabitha? If so, I’m very flattered.”
Amy blushed and nodded. “I got my other two cats before I discovered your books, or one of them would be Morris.”
Linda—Linda the Cinder—then asked what Felicity had come to think of as the second of the Two Inevitable Questions, the first being, “Where do you get your ideas?” The second was: “Do you have a new cat yet?”
Lowering her eyes, Felicity gave her Inevitable Answer. “I’m just not ready yet. My Morris was . . . my own Morris was irreplaceable. All cats are, of course. I know that it seems as if my grief is prolonged. But the fact is that I’m still in mourning for Morris. He was the inspiration for my books, you know, and, really, writing about Prissy and
her
Morris and Tabitha is my way of keeping my own Morris alive.”
her
Morris and Tabitha is my way of keeping my own Morris alive.”
Felicity had repeated the myth of her very own Morris so often that by now, her grief for her fictional muse was genuine, as was her fondness for Prissy LaChatte’s Morris and Tabitha, who were adorable, intuitive, and frolicsome. Best of all, when Felicity had had enough of the creatures, she was free to turn off her computer or to set aside her manuscript. Prissy’s cats were thus, as Felicity had often written, utterly purr-fect. Indeed, from Felicity’s viewpoint, the perfect pets were those who existed only in her mind, on the pages of her books, and—a matter never to be overlooked—in the hearts of her devoted readership.
Linda stooped to wrap a consoling arm around Felicity’s shoulders. “You’ll know when you’re ready.”
Never,
Felicity thought. “Yes,” she said, “I suppose I will. Thank you. And, of course, Prissy’s cats are mine, too, really.” With an arch look, she added, “Prissy is very generous about sharing them with me.”
Felicity thought. “Yes,” she said, “I suppose I will. Thank you. And, of course, Prissy’s cats are mine, too, really.” With an arch look, she added, “Prissy is very generous about sharing them with me.”
The three readership representatives gave gratifying chuckles.
“That’s why Morris and Tabitha are so real to us,” Linda said. “Because they’re real to you. We like the other cat mysteries—especially Isabelle Hotchkiss—but you’re our favorite.”
“Thank you,” said Felicity, who didn’t trust herself to comment on Isabelle Hotchkiss, author of the Kitty Katlikoff series and Felicity’s principal competition.
“Have you ever met her?” asked Amy, who was holding a copy of the new Isabelle Hotchkiss hardcover,
Purrfectly Baffling
.
Purrfectly Baffling
.
“No one has,” Felicity said, “as far as I know. She doesn’t do signings, and she never goes to conferences.”
“Isabelle Hotchkiss, a lady of mystery,” said Ronald, who had suddenly appeared. As usual, he spoke in a low, apprehensive tone, as if he were saying something he shouldn’t and were afraid of being overheard. With the same air of imparting a potentially dangerous secret, he added, “It’s a pen name. A
nom de mystère
.”
nom de mystère
.”
“Ronald, we know what a pen name is,” Felicity said. In the female-sleuth novels Felicity read, the protagonist’s best friend was usually a six-foot-tall woman with red hair and a manner so dramatic as to suggest mental illness. In disappointing contrast, Ronald was of medium height and rather paunchy. His thinning brown hair was gathered in a ponytail, and if his furtive manner hinted at theatrics, it suggested a small character part in an amateur production rather than a leading role in a professional performance. Ronald’s sly and even conspiratorial style was independent of the content of what he said. If a customer at Newbright Books asked to be reminded of the author of
The Cat Who
. . . series, for example, Ronald typically shifted his eyes left and right, lowered his head, and murmured, “Braun, Lilian Jackson.”
The Cat Who
. . . series, for example, Ronald typically shifted his eyes left and right, lowered his head, and murmured, “Braun, Lilian Jackson.”
Their tête-à-tête with the author having been interrupted, Linda, Amy, and Melody told Felicity that it had been a pleasure to meet her and said that they could hardly wait for her next book.
“Thank you,” she replied. “It’s with my editor. It’s called
Upon Our Prey We Steal
.”
Upon Our Prey We Steal
.”
The fans smiled appreciatively and headed for the front of the store with Ronald trailing after them. Felicity removed the ruined copy of
Felines in Felony
that she’d jammed behind her back. Feeling no need to revisit the scene of her unintended crime of self-revelation, she did not open the book before slipping it into her tote bag. When she got home, she’d rip out the title page and burn it, and the next time she visited Newbright Books, she’d replace this copy with a fresh one from her own stock. Thus no one would ever know that instead of autographing the book in normal fashion, she’d written:
Felines in Felony
that she’d jammed behind her back. Feeling no need to revisit the scene of her unintended crime of self-revelation, she did not open the book before slipping it into her tote bag. When she got home, she’d rip out the title page and burn it, and the next time she visited Newbright Books, she’d replace this copy with a fresh one from her own stock. Thus no one would ever know that instead of autographing the book in normal fashion, she’d written:
Felicity Pride
For deposit only
TWO
The name of
Ronald Gershwin’s store, Newbright Books, referred to its location near the Newton-Brighton line. The store, which sold both new and used books, was anything but new and bright. In the two decades since Ronald had opened the establishment, his redecoration had never gone beyond dusting and vacuuming. The fabric on the armchairs was threadbare, and the floorboards were worn to bare wood. As Felicity made her way to the front of the shop, she reminded herself to search for just the right moment to have a word about the decor with Ronald, whom she considered to have no business sense. Had the bookstore been hers, she’d have repainted the walls, tiled the floor, and added an espresso bar, if not a full café. She had, however, no more desire to run a business than she did to return to teaching, the day job from which writing had liberated her; whenever she sensed a drop in her motivation to continue the adventures of Prissy LaChatte, the prospect of returning to the classroom roused her ambition and set her fingers flying over the keyboard.
Ronald Gershwin’s store, Newbright Books, referred to its location near the Newton-Brighton line. The store, which sold both new and used books, was anything but new and bright. In the two decades since Ronald had opened the establishment, his redecoration had never gone beyond dusting and vacuuming. The fabric on the armchairs was threadbare, and the floorboards were worn to bare wood. As Felicity made her way to the front of the shop, she reminded herself to search for just the right moment to have a word about the decor with Ronald, whom she considered to have no business sense. Had the bookstore been hers, she’d have repainted the walls, tiled the floor, and added an espresso bar, if not a full café. She had, however, no more desire to run a business than she did to return to teaching, the day job from which writing had liberated her; whenever she sensed a drop in her motivation to continue the adventures of Prissy LaChatte, the prospect of returning to the classroom roused her ambition and set her fingers flying over the keyboard.
When Felicity reached the area near the cash register, Ronald was replenishing the stock of
Purrfectly Baffling
in a prominent display stand devoted exclusively to the works of Isabelle Hotchkiss.
Purrfectly Baffling
in a prominent display stand devoted exclusively to the works of Isabelle Hotchkiss.
After ascertaining that there were no customers in hearing distance, Felicity pointed at the rack and said, “Ronald, is
that
really necessary?”
that
really necessary?”
“Probably not. Her books pretty much sell themselves.” With a smile of redeeming sweetness, he added, “Her publisher gives her a lot of support.”
“For talking cats!” Olaf and Lambie Pie, the feline stars of the Kitty Katlikoff series, spoke aloud to each other and to Kitty in a manner that Felicity found cloying. In contrast, Morris and Tabitha “communicated” with Prissy LaChatte via channels that had remained mysterious throughout all ten of Felicity’s books. One never-to-be-forgiven reviewer of
Paws for Murder
had commented that the ability of the cats to transmit ideas was the only puzzling element of the supposed mystery.
Paws for Murder
had commented that the ability of the cats to transmit ideas was the only puzzling element of the supposed mystery.
“Isabelle Hotchkiss
is
very popular,” said Ronald, whom Felicity credited with what she called “the social sense of a none-too-bright bivalve.”
is
very popular,” said Ronald, whom Felicity credited with what she called “the social sense of a none-too-bright bivalve.”
“Ronald, I know that.”
“I’ve hurt your feelings. I’m sorry.” After a pause, he asked, “How are you making out with your Russians?”
“They aren’t
my
Russians. But thank you for asking. I finally found the contract, not that it’ll do me any good.”
my
Russians. But thank you for asking. I finally found the contract, not that it’ll do me any good.”
Five years earlier, Felicity’s agent, Irene Antonopoulos, had phoned with the exhilarating news that a Russian publisher wanted the rights to the first four Prissy LaChatte books. The amount offered as an advance was small, but Felicity was thrilled. Russia! Prissy had already been translated into German, but the Germans had evidently not taken to her, and the German editions had rapidly gone out of print. Besides, Germany wasn’t exotic. It wasn’t Russia! Felicity had savored images of Moscow subway cars packed with readers entranced by Prissy, Morris, and Tabitha. The contracts had been signed. Then Irene had called to say that the deal had fallen through. The Russian economy was in terrible condition. So sorry. Having announced her Russian sales in the newsletters of Mystery Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, Witness for the Publication, and several other organizations, Felicity was mortified.
Two months ago, her humiliation had turned to rage. She’d been on a mystery writers’ panel at a local library when a young Russian woman had shown her a book with a title in Cyrillic characters and the words
Felicity Pride
. “I thought you might not know about this,” the young woman had said. “My mother bought it in Canada. It happens all the time.”
Felicity Pride
. “I thought you might not know about this,” the young woman had said. “My mother bought it in Canada. It happens all the time.”
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