Sixteen
The receptionist looked Goddess up and down, barely able to contain her excitement, but also puzzled at Goddess’s costume. Today she was Raggedy Ann, complete with fake pasted-on freckles and a red-yarn wig. She was also chewing gum.
“Goddess and Jane Stuart to see Hamilton Kiels,” Jane told the young woman behind the desk, who called back to announce them and asked them to please have a seat.
Jane and Goddess sat in facing armchairs. Goddess stared up at a lighted display of Corsair’s current books on the wall nearby. At last she said, “Do people really read that stuff?”
“Yes, certainly. In fact, the third book from the left on the top row—Relevant Gods—that’s Carol Freund’s novel that I handled. You remember the party was for Carol. It’s a wonderful book. I’ll give you a copy if you like.”
“I don’t read,” Goddess said, looking bored, and blew a huge bubble and popped it, gathering the gum back into her mouth. “That’s your department.”
Minutes seemed to stretch to days, and finally the door to the offices opened and Jack Layton appeared. “Jane! So good to see you.”
“Good to see you, Jack,” Jane said. “And you know Goddess, of course, from the . . . party.”
“Yes, of course,” he said enthusiastically. “I never got a chance to tell you how much I enjoyed your performance.”
Goddess simply stared at him. He looked surprised and quickly turned to Jane. “So! Shall we go back and chat?”
They walked through the door and down a corridor to a conference room.
Three people, two women and a man, were already seated at the conference table. They rose as Jack, Jane, and Goddess entered, eyeing Goddess’s getup.
Jack introduced Barb Goldman, Corsair’s director of sales and marketing, a thin woman in her fifties with a mop of brown hair threaded with gray; and Ellen McIntyre, director of publicity and promotion. Jane had met Ellen before; Ellen and Jane and Carol Freund had had lunch to discuss publicity and promotion plans for Relevant Gods. Ellen was another publishing “type” that Kenneth had found amusing: the publicity director who was chronically shy and socially inept. True to form, she gave Jane and Goddess one sharp nod and sat down without putting out her hand or saying a word.
“And this gentleman,” Jack said, “is Hamilton Kiels.”
Kiels was a portly dark-haired man who looked to be in his early forties. He wore black-wire-rimmed glasses, a bright red bow tie on a button-down denim shirt, and, peeking out from under his blue blazer, red suspenders. The classic editor look. Kenneth used to make fun of the way editors dressed, saying they took a perverse pride in looking scruffy and disheveled. Jane wished he could see this one.
“Jane, I know, of course,” he said. “I saw you at the party, Jane, and never got a chance to speak to you in all the—uh—confusion.” He looked uneasy. “And you,” he said to Goddess, “were just marvelous.”
Goddess just stared at him. He sat down, looking uncomfortable.
“Now then,” Layton said, turning to Goddess, “I want you to know we’re extremely excited about the possibility of publishing your book. We’re glad you wanted to meet with us today, because we’ll be able to get a sense of what you intend to do with the project.” He turned to Jane. “I assume you already have a ghost?”
“No,” Jane replied uneasily. “You see, Goddess—”
“I’m writing the book myself,” Goddess announced flatly, chomping on her gum, and proceeded to blow a bubble that grew and grew until it was bigger than her head. Suddenly she stuck her index finger into it and it popped loudly. It began to deflate, but before it could cover her face, she sucked it quickly back into her mouth with a slurping sound.
Out of the corner of her eye, Jane saw Barb and Ellen exchange glances.
“I see,” Layton said. “Well, I’m sure that will be fine. Ham here is a fine editor and can help you in any way necessary.”
Goddess just stared at Layton. Suddenly she giggled, and Jane heard her murmur, “Ham.”
Layton went on, “The book, I understood from—uh—Holly, will be your autobiography?”
“That’s right.” Chomp, chomp.
“Well, that should be fascinating. And pretty straightforward. A nice hardcover, two sixteen-page photo inserts . . .” He looked at Barb. “Six-by-nine?”
She nodded.
“Wait a minute,” Goddess said. “Wait a cotton-pickin’ minute.”
They all stared at her. Jane wondered what on earth she was going to say.
“This is my book,” Goddess announced, sitting up straight at the table now, “and I decide how it looks and what goes into it. Got that? ‘Cause if you don’t, Simon & Schuster will.”
Layton looked at Jane with something close to horror. Jane smiled, embarrassed, and shrugged. Layton turned back to Goddess. “Do you have some special ideas in mind for the book?” His tone was deferential.
“Sure do,” Goddess replied. “First of all, I want it long—you know what I mean?”
“Mm-hmm, horizontal format,” he said, nodding.
“No jacket.”
“No jacket?”
“Nope. I don’t see the point of them. They just fall off or tear. I want the picture—my picture—right on the book.”
“Paper on boards,” Layton said, to no one in particular.
“Whatever you call it. I got some more ideas, too. For instance”—chomp, chomp—“I want a pop-up, maybe a few pop-ups.”
“Pop-ups?” Kiels repeated, looking queasy.
“Yeah, you know—like in a kids’ book.”
“A pop-up of what?” Layton asked pleasantly.
Goddess rolled her eyes. “Of Gloria Swanson,” she said sarcastically. “ Of me, who do you think? I’ve got the whole thing worked out in my head. On one page, here on the right, you got this beach scene—waves, sand, maybe a palm tree. Then you turn the page and there’s me, rising out of the sea like Venus on the half shell. That’s the logo for my show. We’ll do cross-promotion. It’ll be marv.”
“Marv?” Ellen repeated. “Who’s Marv?”
Jane said, “I think she means marvelous.”
Ellen frowned. She looked quite alarmed.
“I got a few more ideas, too,” Goddess went on. “I want a music chip in the cover, so when you open it, you get me singing a few lines from one of my songs. I haven’t decided what song yet. Maybe ‘Stranger Than Fiction.’ ”
“Well, that would certainly be appropriate,” Layton said, and everyone laughed—except Goddess. Layton continued, “Jane, I think we’ve got a pretty good idea of what you and your client have in mind.” To Goddess he said, “It all sounds absolutely terrific.” And then to Kiels, Barb, and Ellen, “Doesn’t it?”
The three of them bobbed their heads rapidly in unison.
“We really appreciate your coming in today,” Layton said to Jane and Goddess. “Let us run some numbers, have a few discussions, and we’ll give you a call, Jane, see what we can work out.”
They all rose, Jane said good-bye to Barb, Ellen, and Kiels, and Layton walked Jane and Goddess to the reception area. Before Layton could thank Goddess for coming, she walked straight out the glass door to the elevator bank and pressed the DOWN button. As soon as the door had swung closed, Layton turned to Jane.
“What are you, nuts? She doesn’t want a book, she wants a toy!”
“Well, why didn’t you say so in the meeting, instead of kissing her ass?”
He glared at her. “It is your job to keep your client in line, to explain the realities and practicalities of publishing a book.”
“Hah! Practicalities and realities are not two things Goddess worries much about. Let me save you a lot of time and trouble. If you really want this book, be prepared to do it her way. ’Cause if you won’t,” she said cheerily, heading out to join Goddess at the elevators, “Simon & Schuster will!”
He was still standing there, watching them, as the elevator doors slid shut.
“So that was a publishing meeting,” Goddess said thoughtfully as they descended.
“Yes,” Jane replied, “that was a publishing meeting.”
“They don’t know much, do they?”
Jane opened her mouth to respond, then thought better of it and said nothing.
“Call Greenberg,” Daniel told Jane when she entered the office around noon. “It’s important.”
Jane called him from her office.
“Jane, I wanted you to know this from me, since you’re friends with Louise,” Greenberg said.
“Know what?”
“I’ve just had Ernie Zabriskie in for questioning in the murder of the woman found hanging behind his inn.”
For a moment Jane simply sat speechless.
“Jane?”
“I’m coming over to see you.”
She hurried back out of the office and drove to the station. Greenberg looked uneasy.
“What’s this all about?” Jane asked him.
He closed his office door and sat behind his desk. “I didn’t tell you this before, but we found a man’s handkerchief in the dead woman’s pocket. We’ve now identified it as belonging to Ernie Zabriskie. We had him in, as I told you. He says he has no idea how it got there, says he’d never laid eyes on the girl before she was found there in the woods.”
Jane was stunned to silence. She thought about Ernie and Dara, and about what Laura had told her in the car on the way to New York. Yes, Ernie was quite clearly a philanderer—but a murderer? Could the hanging woman have been one of Ernie’s girlfriends, whom Ernie had killed for some reason? No—it just wasn’t possible. Jane just couldn’t see Ernie in the role of a killer. She decided to say nothing to Greenberg about Dara and the secret room. She’d spare Louise at least that embarrassment, and besides, it wasn’t relevant anyway.
From the police station Jane drove directly to Hydrangea House to see Louise. Greeting Jane at the door, Louise looked worse than Jane had ever seen her look—her eyes red from crying, her face pinched and gray. They sat in the kitchen and Louise poured them coffee.
“I know all about the questioning,” Louise said. She looked as if she was about to burst into tears, and hung her head over her mug. “Jane, you’ve got to help me. I love Ernie. I know it’s hard to believe, after all I know, all he’s done, but I love him, and I know he loves me. He’s made some mistakes, but we can work all that out. I can win him back, but not if he’s in prison for a murder he didn’t commit.”
How, Jane wondered, could Louise be so sure Ernie hadn’t committed the murder? But she did not voice that thought.
“Of course I’ll help you in any way I can, Louise.” Jane realized she’d already helped Louise by warning off Dara. “Where’s Ernie?”
“Upstairs in his study. He’s in shock.”
“What can I do to help?” Jane asked.
“Talk to your friend, Detective Greenberg. Tell him what Ernie is like. Tell him Ernie could never do a horrible thing like that. You know Ernie, Jane; you’ve known him for ten years. Please, Jane.”
“I agree with you, Louise. I don’t think Ernie is capable of murder. I’ll tell Greenberg so.”
There was a message from Jack Layton waiting for Jane when she got back to her office. She rang him back and was put right through.
“What a nutcase,” Layton said. “We’d like to make you an offer. A million, hard/soft,” he said, referring to a deal in which the publisher bought both hardcover and paperback rights at the same time. “Standard royalties.”
“A million! Jack, you’re the nutcase. Morrow paid Whoopi Goldberg six million dollars!”
“Not a good example, Jane. The book bombed. And, uh, look at Morrow now.”
He was right. Whoopi, whom most would consider a genius on the same level as Goddess, had not succeeded as an author. And Morrow, her struggling publisher, had been swallowed up by HarperCollins.
“Irrelevant,” Jane said in a tired voice. “I want five million, North America only.”
“What? Jane, you’re as crazy as this girl is. A million five, and that’s it. Best I can do. You’d be a fool not to take it.”
“I’m writing down your offer, Jack, to present it to my client, who I fear will want to explore other options. Keep in mind, too, that she will want to confer with her manager and probably her lawyer as well. So I may need a few days to get back to you.”
“Don’t you dare shop this, Jane. We have your promise that Corsair is seeing this first and exclusively.”
“Seeing what? There’s nothing on paper.”
“Don’t be cute, Jane. Present our offer to your client and call me.”
“I’ll present it, but I can’t guarantee she’ll want it. In fact, I’m pretty sure she won’t.”
“Present it,” Layton repeated, and hung up.
Jane glared at the phone. Negotiating this deal was the last thing she needed right now. It was also, financially speaking, the first thing she needed right now, because even if by some fluke Goddess accepted Corsair’s offer, Jane’s commission at 15 percent would be $225,000. Not all at once, of course, since advances of that size were usually broken up into payments on signing, acceptance of manuscript, and publication, at the very least. But still, that was good money, even spread out—money Jane could definitely use.
She dialed Goddess at her pied-à-terre, and to her surprise Goddess answered the phone. Without preamble, Jane told her Layton’s offer.
“Take it,” Goddess said in a bored voice.
“Take it! But we haven’t even negotiated.”
“You just said it’s the best they can do.”
“I said he said it’s the best they can do. They always say that, but they usually don’t mean it. They’re testing us. You’re one of the biggest stars in the world. You’re worth far more than that. But we’re probably going to have to go to another publisher to get it. I’d like to get something on paper and auction this project. That’s how you drive up the money.”
“I don’t want the money ‘driven up,’ ” Goddess said flatly. “I just told you to take it.”
“The one-point-five million?”
“Yeah, whatever. The money doesn’t matter to me.”
Maybe not to you!
“I want Corsair to have this book. They . . . get me. They understand where I’m coming from. Take—the—deal. And don’t blow it!” Goddess hung up.
“Why the arrogant little . . .” Jane muttered, and fiercely punched Layton’s number.
“We would consider four million,” she told him.
“Good-bye.”
“Wait! What’s going on here, Jack? You know you’ll make back far more than you’re offering. Why are you lowballing me on this?”
“Because I can,” he said simply. “Goddess wants this deal, she wants it with us, and she could care less about money. She told all this to Holly. Let’s face it, Jane, the girl’s got more money than you and I will see in ten lifetimes. So you’ve got zero leverage and a client who wants to close fast. I’d say you’d better do so, or you’re in serious danger of losing your client.”
Jane didn’t know what to say. It didn’t matter, though, because Layton rushed on.
“Besides, you owe us this book, Jane. After all, Corsair brought Goddess to you. She was practically a gift.”
“Excuse me, Jack,” Jane said, fuming, “but you’ve contracted a common disease known as publishers’ amnesia. It wasn’t Corsair that brought Goddess to me; it was Holly Griffin.”
“For Pete’s sake,” Layton said, exasperated. “Holly worked here. It’s the same thing.”
“I’m surprised you remember who she was. How long did it take you to move someone else into her office?”
“What, now you’re insulting me? Of course I remember who she was. But life goes on. Now this is your last chance. One and a half mil, we work the rest out later. Are you taking it or not?”
“Yes,” Jane said numbly.
“Thank you, Jane,” Layton said sweetly, and rang off.
When Jane looked up, Daniel was hovering in her doorway with an armful of mail.
“I’m afraid I was eavesdropping,” he confessed.
“No prob,” she said, banging her pen on her knee in irritation. “He’s insufferable.”
“Jane—don’t you realize you just made your biggest deal ever? A million and a half advance! I don’t see Bertha getting that.”
Jane looked at Daniel, brightening somewhat. “You’re right. We should be celebrating, shouldn’t we?”
“Absolutely.”
“It’s just that the advance should have been several times that—you know that, and I know that, and Jack Layton knows that.”
Daniel shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. Your client is happy, and you got the deal, a great deal. I insist on taking you to lunch to celebrate.”
“You’re on. Thanks,” she said, giving him a warm smile. “You always know the right thing to say.”
He smiled back and dropped the mail onto her desk. On top was this week’s edition of Publishers Weekly. As Daniel left her office, she picked it up and leafed through it. Something caught her eye and she spread open the magazine to look at it.
In Memoriam
Holly Griffin
Our Dear Friend and
Respected Colleague
CORSAIR PUBLISHING
Jane could only shake her head. She threw down the magazine and dialed Goddess.
“You’ve got your deal,” she said with forced cheerfulness.
“Fine. I’ve been thinking about it, though, and I want a different editor.”
“A different editor? Why?”
“That Kiels guy is a total nerd bomb. I want that Layton guy.”
“But he’s the editorial director. He doesn’t do much actual editing.”
“He does now. Besides, he’s way cuter than Ham bone. I want him.”
“I can ask,” Jane said, holding her head with her free hand, “but keep in mind that Hamilton Kiels is reputed to be quite a good editor—better than Holly.” Jane grimaced at what she’d just said. “Sorry—I shouldn’t have said that. Holly was your friend. And I should be grateful to her for recommending me to you.”
“What did you just say?”
“I said I should be grateful to Holly for recommending me to you when you were looking for an agent.”
There was a long silence on the line. Finally, Goddess spoke. “When the contracts come,” she said distractedly, “send them to Yves. That’s Yves Golden—”
“Yes, I know—your manager.”
“You catch on fast.”