I was glad Julie had thought to provide fans for our guests. Despite the shade offered by the front yard trees, by the time we reached the second portion of our author event, the afternoon heat had slicked the inside of my elbows and soaked the back neckline of my dress. As Amanda talked about her road to publication, I stood at the edge of the lawn, blinking the sweat from my eyes while I tried to focus. It wasn’t easy—I was at the back of the crowd, and the heat made everything even a few yards away appear to shimmer.
The crowd didn’t seem to mind. While I waved my fan emblazoned with the Bookwaves logo so furiously that the cardboard pulled away from the wooden stick, the guests appeared oblivious to any discomfort. They were so attuned to Amanda Nobel’s every word that many of them had dropped their own fans to the ground or into their laps.
After Amanda spoke about the inspiration for her books, Julie jumped in with a series of interview questions before opening things up to questions from the audience.
“Quite a crowd.”
I turned to the tall, thin, older woman who’d moved close to my side. “Hello, Fee. Are you an Amanda Nobel fan?”
“Oh my, yes. I just love her books,” Ophelia Sandburg said, as she adjusted the yellow sash decorating the waist of her daisy-patterned cotton dress. “But I’m also here for Julie. She’s a book club friend, after all. And I do like to support Bookwaves. Having an independent bookstore in town is so important.”
“Very true. I’m delighted to see Julie get so much publicity for the store. Hopefully that will translate into future sales.”
“I’m sure she’ll sell a good many books today, at least.” As Ophelia shaded her eyes with one hand, her violet nail polish shone in sharp contrast to her fire-engine-red dyed hair. “Is that Scott in the front row? I can only see the back of his head, but that auburn hair is pretty distinctive.”
“Of course it is,” said the short, stocky woman who’d bustled up beside Ophelia.
“Hello, Bernie,” I said, with a nod of welcome.
Bernadette Sandburg looked like she was dressed for a tennis match rather than an afternoon tea, in a white polo shirt and blue plaid Bermuda shorts. “Would you take a gander at all those slack-jawed faces. Never seen such a bunch of obsessed fans since I attended that Beatles concert back in the day.”
“I imagine they think Amanda is just as much of a rock star,” I said.
Bernadette ran her fingers through her hair, which, while cut short like Ophelia’s, retained its natural steel-gray color. “Don’t see the attraction myself. I expect it’s that TV show that’s actually made her so famous. I mean, the books are all right, if you like that sort of thing …”
“Now Bernie, I know you mean if you like romance,” Ophelia lifted her sharp chin. “Because the books are very romantic.” She batted her pale lashes over her blue eyes. “Absolutely swoony.”
“Not to me, they aren’t,” Bernadette said. “It’s so typical. The antihero falls for some gal and changes his ways due to ‘twu love’ and all that sort of rot.”
I smiled. The way Bernadette said “love”—drawing out the word while squinching up her face—reflected some of my feelings about the books, or at least the one I’d read. While I thought the writing was good, and the character and plot development were strong, the use of too many typical tropes had the overall effect of making the book feel clichéd. At least, in my opinion.
“Hello there,” said a cheery voice.
I turned to the speaker. “Oh hi, Sandy. Hi, Pete.”
Like the Sandburg sisters, the couple who’d joined our little group at the edge of the lawn were members of the local book club that Julie and I hosted at Chapters once a month. Pete and Sandy Nelson, a long-married couple in their fifties, ran a popular local café serving breakfast and lunch.
“Sorry we’re late. Had to close up after the lunch rush.” Pete eyed my fan with interest. “Hey, where can we grab a couple of those? It’s sweltering, even in the shade.”
“Julie was handing them out earlier,” I said. “I believe she has a few more in a box up at the table.”
Pete wiped perspiration from his brow. “Don’t think I want to try to navigate this crowd to get one, so I guess that’s out.” He glanced down at his petite wife. “Perhaps you could slip through that maze of chairs better than my chunky self.”
“I think we should wait until the question and answer portion is over,” Sandy said. “I wouldn’t want to cause a commotion while Ms. Nobel is speaking.”
“Are you coming to the special book club meeting Monday night?” Pete asked the Sandburg sisters.
“Of course. Even if I’m not really a fan, I’m interested in talking with Ms. Nobel in a quieter setting,” Bernadette said. “And I know Fee wouldn’t miss it.”
Ophelia fluttered her hands. “Not for the world.”
“We’ll plan to attend too,” Sandy said. “Even if Pete hasn’t read the books.”
Pete pressed one palm against the Dancing Dolphin logo on his T-shirt. “I feel wounded, dear. Besides, I watch the TV series. I think that counts.”
“The show does veer away from the books, although not as badly as some.” Sandy patted her husband’s arm. “I do try to keep Pete filled in on all the changes.”
Her husband groaned. “Yeah, there I am watching an exciting episode, and Sandy’s in the other chair, rattling on about how ‘they didn’t do that in the book.’”
“Uh-oh.” Bernadette held up one hand to silence our humorous convo. “Isn’t that Roger Warren grabbing the portable mic?”
“Looks like it,” Ophelia said.
I focused my gaze on a man of average height and build, with a full head of white hair that was cut long enough to straggle over the collar of his pale-blue shirt. I then gasped as he cleared his throat before asking, in a clear, precisely annunciated voice, why Amanda hadn’t bothered to do any research before writing her book series.
Tony, who’d been hovering on the front porch, his bald head gleaming from a sheen of perspiration, rushed down the steps in the silence that fell after this question. I tensed, ready to intervene if he or the fans decided to take action against the man who’d just insulted their idol.
But Amanda, in a watermelon-pink linen dress, remained cool as an icy sherbet. She motioned for Tony to step back, and hushed the crowd with a wave of her hand. “That’s a legitimate question, mister …?”
“Roger Warren,” her questioner said. “I’m an author as well, but I write nonfiction. My specialty is the colonial history of this area.” As he turned to address the seated guests as well as Amanda, I noted his well-trimmed white beard and horn-rimmed glasses.
Very professorial, I thought, wondering if his appearance—from his tailored shirt, with the sleeves rolled up above his elbows, to his chino pants and tasseled leather loafers—had been chosen to evoke that response.
“Well, Mr. Warren, or is it Dr. Warren?” Amanda’s gracious smile appeared almost beatific as she surveyed Roger. “I confess I didn’t dig too deeply into the real-life history of the area, or of my pirates. I leave that sort of thing to actual scholars, like you.”
“It’s Dr. Warren, but never mind that.” Roger flung out his hand as if sweeping such minor matters aside. “The problem is that many more people read your books than will ever read my historical tomes. And certainly, even more watch the television show based on your books. Unfortunately, they are likely to think that what you are presenting is the truth. Which it isn’t, as you and I both know.”
Murmurs rolled through the crowd like rumbling before a storm. After sharing a concerned look with my book club friends, I crossed to stand behind the last row of folding chairs.
“Of course it isn’t, Dr. Warren. I’m writing fiction. Romantic fiction at that.” Amanda’s tone was smooth as cream. She sat back in her chair. “As in those classic adventure films, like The Sea Hawk, or The Adventures of Robin Hood. No one expects them to depict actual historical events with any great accuracy.”
“But those are examples from the past, when there was less emphasis on depicting the truth in historical accounts, even fictional ones.” Roger Warren held up his hands in a mea culpa gesture. “I’m not trying to stir up trouble. I’m simply genuinely interested in why any author writing today would not include more accurate research in their work. There’s plenty out there, even if you only peruse the internet. It seems like sheer laziness to not make any attempt at accuracy, at least in my humble opinion.”
Amanda’s smile tightened as Julie rose to her feet and said something about “moving on.”
I caught Julie’s eye and pointed my finger to my chest and then toward the table, trying to indicate that I’d be happy to step forward. But before I could do anything, Scott leapt to his feet.
“I have to concur with my esteemed colleague,” he said, nodding at Roger before turning to face Julie and Amanda. “You had a great opportunity, Ms. Nobel. I realize maybe you just had fun writing your first book, and probably hadn’t thought about the necessity of doing a lot of research. I also understand that you got your book deal surprisingly quickly, so maybe it was all a big rush, and if your editors never questioned you”—Scott shrugged—“why would you think anything needed to be changed? But surely there’s been time to reflect on this while writing the following books in the series, especially since scholars have called out all the factual errors.”
Julie’s dark brows drew together as she leveled a furious glare at her boyfriend. “As I suggested before, can we please move on? I think we’ve beaten this subject to death.”
If Scott heard the anger vibrating in Julie’s voice, he gave no indication. “I just think it would be nice for Ms. Nobel to address Dr. Warren’s concerns, rather than dismissing them as irrelevant,” he said as he sat back down.
“Trust me, I’m not doing that,” Amanda said. “I simply don’t see the problem. I write a certain type of fiction, one that’s obviously not intended to educate anyone,” she added, shooting Tony what I felt was an enigmatic glance. She focused back on the crowd of fans. “I just hope it entertains.”
Several in the crowd shouted, “It does!” while others chimed in with, “We love you, Amanda!”
In a few swift strides, Tony crossed to stand behind Amanda’s chair. “Of course we all know how beloved Ms. Nobel’s work is. That’s why we’re here, right?”
The exclamations of love and approval rose to a low roar. I surveyed the excited crowd before my gaze landed on Amanda’s face.
She looks tired, I thought, or even beaten down. Which is odd, with everyone cheering for her …
My musing was cut short by Julie’s announcement that the Q and A session was over. She swept back the few loose tendrils of dark hair that had escaped her low bun and waved her mic toward the rows of chairs. “Anyone who wants signed copies of Amanda’s books, please line up in the center aisle. Wrap around to the sides of the chair rows, if necessary, but let’s keep this to one line.” As the guests scrambled to their feet, Julie raised her voice to add, “After the signing, or if you aren’t interested in books, please assemble on the patio at the back of the house, where we’ll be hosting the reception.”
Julie placed the microphone down with careful deliberation, before stepping around the table and marching over to Scott, who’d remained seated. “So are you going to help me lug those book boxes off the porch, or would you rather stew in your own superiority,” I heard her say when I reached them.
Scott leaned back in his chair and stretched out his long legs before looking up to meet Julie’s blistering gaze. “I’m guessing you’re not too happy with me right now.” His brown eyes widened in puppy-dog innocence.
“Good guess, Nostradamus,” Julie replied, crossing her arms over her chest.
“I suppose I tapped the hornet’s nest a little too hard,” said Roger Warren, as he joined us. “By the way, Scott, it appears that both you and I will soon be sorry for our insolence.” He waved one hand in the direction of the fans lining up for signed books. “Or so I’ve been told by a few of the other guests.”
Julie looked him over with a sniff of disapproval. “Whatever it is, you can’t say you haven’t earned it. But enough of that.” As she dropped her arms, she made a brushing motion with her hands. “I have to go sell some books.” She stalked off; her head held high.
Roger offered Scott an apologetic smile. “Didn’t mean to get you into trouble with your ladylove.”
“It’s okay. We’ll work it out,” Scott said, as he rose to his feet. “Sorry, Charlotte. I know you put in a lot of work to make this event succeed.”
“As did Julie,” I said, not bothering to temper the frostiness in my tone. “Anyway, you’d better go help with the books if you don’t want to compound your troubles.”
As Scott strode off to join Julie on the porch, I turned to Roger Warren. “We haven’t met before, Dr. Warren. I’m Charlotte Reed, the owner of Chapters.”
“Nice to meet you. And please call me Roger,” he replied, extending his hand.
I gripped his fingers for a moment before giving them a quick shake. “Well, Roger, you do have a way of making yourself known.”
“But not liked?” Roger raised his bushy white eyebrows. “I’m afraid my professorial inclinations got the better of me. And, to be honest, it does rankle, seeing someone lionized for writing appallingly ridiculous fiction when scholars and writers of authentic research are so roundly ignored.”
I studied his intelligent face for a moment as I considered these words. It seemed there was some animosity buried beneath Roger Warren’s calm façade. Perhaps a long-standing grudge against those who’d made fortunes off of a subject he’d spent decades studying, without reaping the same fame or financial reward. “I can see where that would be frustrating,” I said. “But isn’t that way it always goes? Society doesn’t always reward the best and brightest, or the most dedicated.”
“How well I know it.” Roger cast me a rueful smile. “But perhaps I should head around back and grab a drink before this crowd fills up the patio. I’m sensing quite a few daggers aimed at my back, to be honest,” he added, with a little head bob toward the fans lined up to meet Amanda.
“At least it’s way past the Ides of March,” I replied, with an answering smile. “Don’t worry, we’ve hidden all the real knives. We learned our lesson last year.”
“Ah yes, the murder. But, you know, knives aren’t the only weapons easily obtained. In this century as well as in the past. Just ask any real pirate who, despite Ms. Nobel’s rather romantic and sanitized depiction, is someone to be feared.”
As Roger turned away, I caught a glint in his eyes that made me shiver, despite the heat of the afternoon. Gripping my upper arms with both hands, I allowed my gaze to drift, taking in the tightly packed line of fans waiting for their chance to meet Amanda. Some clutched their own copies of her books; others pulled out credit cards as they approached the table, now piled high with brightly colored paperbacks and more subdued hardback editions of Amanda’s series.
As my gaze wandered, I noticed a man, half-hidden behind the magnolia tree. He appeared out of place, in his sleeveless shirt and baggy shorts, and he was staring at something with the intensity of a predator stalking its next meal.
Not something—someone. Lisette Bradford, oblivious to the man’s gaze, continued her conversation with Harper and Molly, her sharp voice raised and her hands gesticulating wildly.
I bet the three of them are plotting revenge against Roger and Scott for dissing their idol, I thought, as I strode across the yard, dodging scattered chairs. But that wasn’t what concerned me. I was worried about a stranger who appeared to be stalking one of my guests.
“Hey there,” I called out, as I approached the man. “Are you here as a guest? Because if not, you need to move along.”
Lisette and the two other women spun around at the sound of my voice, while the stranger jumped to one side before bolting. He took off down the street like the police were on his heels.
When I turned back to face my three guests, Lisette’s face was white as paper. She gripped her upper arms as Harper stepped closer to me.
“That was him,” she said, her voice hollow. “That was the man we warned you about—Lisette’s ex-husband, Billy Bradford.” She lowered her head, veiling her eyes beneath the fall of her dark hair. “Not to be overly dramatic, but I’d alert the police if I were you, Charlotte.”
I glanced at Lisette. “Is that what you want?”
She bobbed her head. “Please. Even though we’re divorced, he just won’t leave me alone.”
“Don’t worry, I have a contact in the police department. I’ll let them know about the situation right away.” I offered Lisette my most comforting hostess smile. “Why don’t you three head on back to the reception area. Ask Damian to make you his special Chapters cocktail. It’s sweet, but has a kick,” I added, with a more authentic smile. “I’ll make sure our unwelcome visitor doesn’t bother you again.”
The women nodded before hurrying off. As soon as they disappeared around the side of the house, I pulled out my cell phone and called Detective Johnson.
I didn’t know if William “Billy” Bradford was just annoying, or truly dangerous, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I’d had to deal with one deadly incident at Chapters the previous summer. I had no intention of allowing something like that to happen again.
Not if there was any way I could prevent it.