A reputation is built on manner as much as on achievement.
—Joseph Conrad, The Secret Agent
AFTER A BUSY afternoon, I made dinner for Spencer and sat with him, though I couldn’t eat more than a few bites. Sadie wasn’t hungry, either, opting for a brisk walk to the commons “to clear out the cobwebs.”
Things were slow at this hour. I knew things would pick up again in the early evening when the local movie theater and pizza place drew crowds, and older couples took after-dinner strolls down Cranberry. So I asked Bonnie to continue watching the register while I headed for our shop’s stockroom to do a bit of detective work.
Since the public altercation on the street that afternoon, I couldn’t stop thinking about Clifford Conway. I’d tried to phone Tracy Mahoney several times to get her side of the story. After leaving three messages, I gave up and decided to concentrate on the other participant in that confrontation.
The website for Clifford Conway Communications was slick and professional. The home page had a pitch for Conway Classics, a catalog of literary titles billed as “timeless masterpieces bound in quality faux leather, in a long-lasting hardcover format to read again and again. As seen on TV.”
Despite his line of public domain “classics,” it didn’t take much detective work to discover that Conway’s bread and butter was his vanity-press business.
According to the pitch, the “highly trained” staff of CC Communications would edit your book, design the cover, get your title into bookstores and online selling sites, and provide publicity and marketing support—all for a hefty but undisclosed fee, of course.
As a come-on dream teaser, there was a Design Your Own Book feature that allowed wannabe authors to pick from a selection of fonts and genres and cover art, to create the look of their own book.
“Okay, let’s give this a try . . .”
First I made up a phony name: Penny Thoughts. And typed in a phony title: What’s the Matter with Seymour? Then I picked a font and a genre (mystery, of course). I was about to be redirected to several pages of art to choose from (all licensed by Conway Communications) to create my sample cover when Sadie burst into the stockroom. Her face pale, she stammered in agitation.
“That man . . . he’s a crook!”
Uh-oh. “You don’t mean?”
“Yes, Clifford Conway!” Sadie cried. “I found complaints about his shoddy business practices through a search on the Internet.”
It appeared Sadie was even busier than I was on her downtime.
Sitting on a park bench, she’d used her smartphone’s browser to research Conway beyond his slick public image. What she found was his name and company discussed on a website posting for authors and artists. The site warned creators about unethical publishing practices in general—and the tactics of one Clifford Conway of Conway Communications in particular.
“Conway takes advantage of writers and artists desperate to call attention to their work. He’s a predator, Pen. That man took advantage of us, too. He intends to use our space and our good name to promote his predatory practices! And goodness knows what that man did to poor Tracy Mahoney!”
“Mom?” Spencer appeared in the doorway, a frown on his little-boy face. “Are you talking about that guy with the big white van? The man Tracy argued with today?”
“Yes, we are.”
“Then I should tell you something. When I got off the school bus, I saw Tracy and that man in the street. When I saw them arguing, I snuck up on them to listen.”
“Do you remember what they said?” I asked excitedly.
Spencer shrugged and shook his head. “Not much. I didn’t really understand what they were talking about.”
My heart sunk. Meanwhile Spencer turned sheepish.
“I have something else to tell you, Mom. Please promise you won’t get mad.”
“About what?”
“Last year my friend Denny was at the football game in Millstone. He saw a fight break out in the bleachers. And, well . . .”
Spencer paused. I was losing patience.
“What are you getting at, Spence?”
“Denny used his phone to film that fight. Later, when the boys were arrested, Denny’s recording was used in court and everything.”
Spencer paused a second time. When he spoke again, it was barely above a whisper. “I know you told me it’s not polite to spy on people, but . . .
“Wait!” I cried. “Are you saying—”
“When I saw Tracy and that man fighting, I used my phone. I recorded the whole thing.”