Chapter Eight

 

A lesser man would have sprayed gin and tonic across the table. I managed to choke mine down and demand, “Since when?”

Rachel raised her elegant eyebrows. “Since…forever, I suppose. It’s not a secret. He’s married.”

“He’s not wearing a ring.” I blushed as soon as the words were out, but yes, I had noticed. But that’s because I’m a mystery writer and we…notice things.

“Not everyone wears wedding rings. He’s straight. He’s married.” Rachel delivered it like an official pronouncement. Like she was one of the fairies gifting Sleeping Beauty’s christening: Beauty. Intelligence. Heterosexual.

“That’s impossible.”

She shook her head, like it was all she could do not to break out into guffaws.

“I’m telling you, I would know,” I said a tad heatedly. “I spent four days and three nights with him. He was not faking.”

“Maybe he was experimenting,” she said. “Maybe it was just a phase.”

“No.”

“I’m only telling you what everyone knows.” Her eyes were curious. “Does it bother you so much?”

Yes. It did. And I wasn’t sure why—unless it was the idea that three nights with me had turned him straight?

Rachel’s fingers absently caressed the keys of her laptop. “Christopher, you’re a mystery writer. Look at the evidence. He’s gorgeous, rich, talented, over thirty. Why wouldn’t he be married?”

“I’m thinking it’s because he’s a pain in the ass—don’t say it—perfectionist.”

“He’s married, and they have a baby.”

I swallowed hard. “Okay. I grant you that he’s probably in a relationship with someone, but I don’t believe he’s straight. How would you know this? I’ve read interviews with him, and he’s never said a word about his sexuality. Nothing. Ever.”

“I read People magazine. I remember the article.”

“When was this?”

“Five years ago.”

“Maybe he’s divorced.”

“Maybe he is.” Rachel was losing interest fast. “Why don’t you ask him?”

Yeah. Right. I said, “He lives in San Francisco. He writes a series about a gay San Francisco homicide cop.”

She shook her head. “Dirk Van de Meer is totally heterosexual. His partner Gabe is gay.”

“That’s obviously a commercial compromise—gay lit is in a slump.”

She sighed. “Christopher, you really need to pay attention to what’s happening in the market. Erotica is—”

“Everything is not always about books and publishing.”

Rachel’s face mirrored astonishment. “What an odd thing for you to say.”

It was.

I said, “This is all totally hearsay. Circumstantial.”

“Well, we’re not actually trying him in court.” Rachel’s restored good humor was irritating me beyond belief. “But I can see why you were confused. He is very well-groomed.”

“There,” I said triumphantly. Even impeccably turned-out Inspector Appleby didn’t dress “gay vague.”

“And he does wear an earring,” Rachel admitted, glancing at her wristwatch, “so he doesn’t mind wearing some jewelry.”

I could see she was only saying this to make me feel better. I said shortly, “Or maybe he’s in a rock band or has been shipwrecked a couple of times. It’s not like I really give a damn one way or the other.”

She closed her laptop and rose. “Exactly. You don’t even like each other.”

“That’s right.” I pushed my chair back.

There was really nothing more to say, and anyway, as the Lady of Shalott would have said, my curse was come upon me. I watched Rachel shove her laptop into the carrying case and followed her, my heart pounding in a sick mix of nerves and dread, into the bar where Steven Krass was holding court at three crowded tables that had been dragged together. He was regaling the assembly with a story that had the ladies all screaming with laughter.

I felt like screaming too, but I didn’t suppose it would help. Rachel seemed determined to throw me off this cliff.

I glanced around the room. It was a comfortable-looking hole in the wall with cozy leather booths—mostly filled with young women staring enviously at the center tables taken up by the Wheaton & Woodhouse retinue. There were Western-themed prints on the wood-paneled walls and an impressive array of bottles behind the massive bar. Every seat was taken. I picked out J.X. leaning on the bar, one boot propped on the foot rail like he was posing for a magazine layout.

Our eyes met. His gaze was level and not particularly friendly. Thinking of my recent conversation with Rachel, I glanced guiltily away.

Steven Krass beckoned to us. Maybe he’d suddenly remembered where he knew me from or maybe he was simply feeling sociable.

“Chris. Isn’t this delightful? Grab a chair. Join us.”

Chris. No one calls me Chris. My parents didn’t call me Chris. David didn’t call me Chris. Rachel and I exchanged looks. A couple of chairs scooted out. I squeezed into one, and she snagged the other. I found myself sitting across from Krass. Rachel was a couple of seats down.

“Delightful,” Krass repeated solemnly.

His handsome face was flushed, his eyes rimmed with red as though he had been drinking all day—or crying himself to sleep over the nasty things he did to people.

I offered my hand across the table littered with soggy napkins and empties and smudged glasses. “It’s a pleasure,” I lied.

His hand was soft, but his grip was hard. One of those assholes who has to try and crush your fingers to make up for having a short dick.

“Chris, you look like you could use a drink,” he remarked. “In fact, you look like you could use a lot of drinks.” He smiled—a personable, practiced smile. He tapped a teaspoon against an empty Tecate bottle as though signaling for a speech. “Drinks,” he commanded. “Drinks for Chris Holmes and…sorry, dear, what was your name?”

“Rachel.” Rachel had to raise her voice to be heard. At Krass’s look of non-comprehension, she clarified curtly, “Ving. Rachel Ving.”

“Right, right. Rachel…like the cook.” Krass beckoned to the sole and harassed-looking waitress.

Thirty-minute meals—and drinks with Satan. I really had descended into Hell. Maybe we could spend the evening discussing recipes or reading War and Peace aloud or just driving spikes into my head.

Did Krass even recall that we had an appointment? Or was I supposed to make my pitch surrounded by the tipsy courtiers and bar patrons?

The waitress wriggled through the crowd, and Krass remarked, “New meaning to the words waitstaff.” He paused for the laughs from those around him, before adding, “Look, dear, can we get some more help out here?”

“Christopher Holmes,” cooed a voice to my left. I glanced over. An apple-cheeked elderly woman with pink spectacles and lovely gray hair was beaming at me.

“Good God,” I said. “Mindy Newburgh.”

She chuckled at my amazement. I noticed the beauteous George sitting to the other side of her—a faraway look in his eyes.

“So you’re George’s Mindy. I don’t know why I didn’t make that connection earlier.” Probably because Mindy was old enough to be George’s grandma. Maybe she was George’s grandma, although in that case, I’d have preferred him to stop stroking the back of her neck.

Mindy gave that comfortable chuckle again. “I couldn’t believe it when Georgie told me you were here, knowing the way it went down with Wheaton & Woodhouse. No hard feelings?”

Above the pink rhinestone specs her eyes were shrewd.

“I try not to burn bridges.” As though my finger wasn’t trembling on the trigger of a flamethrower at that very moment. “You’re still with them? You do the Rock Montana political thrillers, right?”

Mindy knocked back what appeared to be the last in a long line of Bloody Marys (if a forest of limp celery was anything to go by). “Well, kiddo, I saw the writing on the wall a year and a half ago, and I put Rock Montana out to pasture. I spun off a minor character—the divorced Jewish female CIA assassin from one of the early novels—and started a new series. It’s actually worked very well. It has that sexy chick-lit sensibility.”

“Are you serious? I mean, smart thinking,” I said hastily.

“It was. Of course I’ve been in this business a long time. I brought my Romance fan base with me when I moved into political thrillers.”

How? In her knitting bag? “That was lucky,” I said. Romance had never been a problem for Miss Butterwith. Her one true love died heroically and chastely in World War I.

Mindy bridled. “It was not luck. Luck has nothing to do with success in this business.”

That was what I used to think—back when I was successful.

We placed our drink orders. “Are we going to order any food?” Steven called to the table. He got a number of loud assents.

“We can’t serve food in here,” the waitress said.

He gave her an irritated look. “It seems you can’t serve drinks, either. I’d like to speak to the manager. You’ve been rude and borderline incompetent this entire evening.”

She looked like he’d slapped her.

“Go away,” Krass said. He waved a hand like he was fending off a fly. “Get me the manager. Now.”

She opened her mouth, then thought better of it and retreated to the bar. I could see her making her protests to the bartender.

“Did you know Peaches?” Krass asked, turning suddenly to me.

“No,” I admitted.

“She was…amazing. An amazing woman. And a hell of a talent.”

She had struck me as an arrogant bitch, but I’m sensitive about unprovoked attacks from people I don’t know—or even people I do know. I said, “I guess you knew her pretty well.”

“I knew her very well.” He raised his glass and said loudly, “To Peaches.”

Everyone down the length of the table grabbed their glasses, empty or full, and obediently echoed, “To Peaches.”

Krass drained his glass and focused blearily on my face. “I understand you went with J.X. to reclaim the…the body. What happened? Why is he being so mysterious?”

“Is he? I don’t know. I only showed them where to drive.”

“Yeah, he’s being mysterious. He’s being an asshole is what he’s being.” He turned around and flipped off J.X.

J.X.’s back was to us, but I could see his face in the long mirror behind the bar. I caught his gaze and knew he had not missed Krass’s gesture.

“Oh dear,” murmured Mindy, sounding amused. “Those two have a love-hate relationship.”

What did that mean? Surely J.X. and Krass weren’t…the mind boggled.

I leaned forward, trying to attract Rachel’s attention. She seemed to be avoiding my eyes. Obviously I was not going to be making any pitch tonight. Either Krass didn’t remember or he was cancelling our appointment in his own inimitable fashion.

The weary-looking waitress brought our drinks.

“Here’s to friends,” Krass said, taking his glass. “Friends and lovers.” He sipped and added, “Old friends and young lovers.”

Okay…so did that mean that Krass and Peaches had been an item? Or was this sort of a generic toast? He couldn’t be having relationships with Peaches and J.X., right?

His expression changed. He snarled at the waitress busily distributing drinks. “Where’s the manager?”

“On his way,” she said tersely.

“On his way out when I get finished with him.”

“Yeah, whatever,” she muttered.

“Piece of work,” Krass said, shaking his head as though it were sort of funny, like what could you expect here in the wastelands? His eyes met mine over the rim of his glass.

“So, Chris, I hear you’re working on a new book.”

“Oh,” I hedged. “This probably isn’t the time.” I felt Rachel’s elbow in my ribs—which was pretty amazing since she wasn’t sitting next to me. I blabbed, “It’s about a female private eye in the Regency era.”

Krass winced. “Historical P.I. novels are death at the bookstore.” He turned as Edgar Croft appeared at his shoulder. Edgar leaned down and spoke low-voiced into his ear.

Anger crossed Krass’s flushed features.

“You’ve one hell of a nerve, pardner, considering the fact you’ve got us trapped here like ducks in a shooting gallery.”

Edgar’s face tightened. He bent still lower.

Not low enough. Krass snarled, “I’ve got news for you, cowboy, this will be the last writers’ conference you folks hold, if I have anything to say about it—and I will have plenty to say about it.”

It didn’t sound like much of a threat to me, but Edgar’s expression was grim as he straightened up. Whatever he might have answered was forestalled as J.X. wandered up to the table.

“Come on, Steven,” he said easily. “Everyone’s doing the best they can under the circumstances.”

Krass’s smile reminded me of a great white shark charging at the bars of an underwater cage. “J.X., sport. Pull up a chair. Chris was telling us about this evening. About bringing Peaches…home.”

J.X. gave me a long, level look.

I opened my mouth and then gave up.

“No need to look at him like that,” Krass said. “The best thing would be if we all pooled our knowledge, right? Isn’t that what all the law enforcement agencies do? Pool their knowledge?”

J.X. said dryly, “What law enforcement agency is this supposed to be? The Torchwood Institute?”

Krass laughed. “Very funny.” He said to me, “He’s very funny, isn’t he?”

“I thought I’d die laughing earlier,” I said, and reached for my glass.

Krass drawled, “Funny ha ha or funny queer?”

Stillness seemed to vibrate from J.X. I couldn’t look at him.

“Yeah,” Krass said. “I think we ought to pool our knowledge. Like the last pages of one of Chris’s novels. You might be surprised at what you learn, J.X. One of us might easily have seen something last night.”

Everyone was still talking at once, yet I had the oddest feeling that someone was listening very closely to this conversation. I glanced around. No one seemed to be paying particular attention.

“If you do know something about Peaches’ death, your best move is to speak up now,” J.X. said.

Krass laughed. “Are you sure about that?”

Something flickered in J.X.’s eyes.

Krass turned his back on him. “Anyway, Chris, continue telling us about this marvelous new idea of yours.”

A minute earlier the sound level matched Shea Stadium during a Beatles concert; now you could practically hear crickets chirping. I moved back to allow Rita Croft room to gather up the dirty glasses.

“Uh…it’s about a private eye in an alternate universe very similar to the Regency Period but magical.”

“So it’s fantasy?”

“But with that sexy chick-lit sensibility,” Rachel put in.

“Half mystery, half fantasy, half romantic comedy,” I said.

“That’s three halves,” J.X. noted, for the record. I ignored him. With those math skills why the hell had he wasted himself on popular literature? He could have been giving Stephen Hawking a run for his money.

“Tell him about the demons,” Rachel urged over the clink of glassware and bottles.

But Satan Krass wasn’t having any part of my Regency demons.

“To tell you the truth, Chris, we already bought a manuscript very similar to this a few weeks ago.”

“Christopher has several projects,” Rachel started, but again Krass cut her off with a look.

“I’ll be frank, Chris,” he said. “I pride myself on being honest with my writers. You write with a lot of warmth and…understanding. Understanding of what I have no idea.” He laughed heartily. “Kidding, Chris. Your books are wonderful. Really. Very pleasant. But you’re simply not in sync with what’s happening in publishing right now. We’re looking for edgy, new voices. We’re looking for fresh, for fat.”

“For what?” Because if he said what I thought he said, I figured I was still in the running—not too much running, obviously.

“Phat. P.H.A.T. You don’t know what that word means, do you, Chris? And that’s the problem in a nutshell.”

“Sexy, first-rate, excellent,” supplied Mindy out of the side of her mouth.

“God knows, I love your stuff, but you don’t fit the new direction of Wheaton & Woodhouse. Try one of the smaller houses; try one of the indies. They’re not under the same pressure to perform.”

I could feel myself turning red, then white, as anger and embarrassment hit the litmus paper of my nervous system. In a minute he was going to advise me to self-publish. Rachel’s chair scraped as she got to her feet. I was already standing. Everyone at the table seemed to be looking at me. Even J.X.’s dark gaze was sympathetic—that was probably the worst thing of all. He was sorry for me.

“Now, now,” Krass said, full of sudden good humor. “No need to hurry off. Tonight we have to put aside our differences. Tonight we say good-bye to one of the greats in our industry. Tonight we bid farewell to an old and valued friend…Peaches Sadler. Stay and have that drink.”

“That might not be a good idea,” I said, almost managing a smile. “I might be tempted to slip poison into yours.”

He raised his glass in a mock salute.