Every man is surrounded by a neighborhood of voluntary spies.
—Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey
SPENCER HELD UP his phone so both Sadie and I could see the screen. The recording was wobbly at first, and we had to turn the volume to maximum, but before long, we could see and hear everything.
The argument had already begun when Spencer started to record, and he wasn’t the only bystander, either. I could see a number of people watching the confrontation, including (embarrassing as it was) Georgia Gilder, along with Colleen and electrician Leo Rollins. I recognized my friend Brainert, too, getting out of a compact car driven by his stylishly dressed visiting professor friend. They both noticed the argument as well.
“You have to stop,” Tracy cried as angry tears ran rivulets through her Cleopatra mascara. “People are blaming me for what you did.”
“And just what have I done, Miss Mahoney?” Conway replied, his tone smug.
Tracy shook a blue fingernail at the publisher.
“I don’t like the way you’re using my art. It’s not right. I withdraw my permission for you to license my work, and I demand you remove all copies of it from your website!”
“I no longer need your permission,” Conway replied. “Quite simply, it’s not your art anymore because I altered it—”
“Yes, by putting word balloons on my portrait of Princess Florinda, all of them filled with lies about how wonderful your publishing services are!”
“I paid you a fair market fee for the worldwide rights to that artwork. You signed a contract.”
“I didn’t know you were a crook and a cheat, Mr. Conway. I’ll pay you back your money. I just want the rights to my art back.”
“I repeat. It’s no longer your art.”
“I’ll sue you!” Tracy shouted.
“You don’t have a legal leg to stand on, young lady—”
“I do!” she insisted. “I’ll sue for damages to my character, my illustrated fantasy novel—”
“Your unpublished fantasy novel. You balked at paying for our premium package, so your book remains unpublished and unread. And there are no damages because I never used a word of your silly, girlish prose or the name Princess Florida—”
“It’s Florinda!”
Tracy’s fingers curled into blue claws. I thought she was going to lunge at the publisher. Conway must have thought so, too, because he quickly switched to a more conciliatory tone.
“Listen, Miss Mahoney. You brought that artwork to me hoping I would publish it, and I have. People all over the world have seen your art, admired it. Why, I could easily sell more of your work if you’d let me—”
“But I didn’t want it used that way!” She sobbed. “Or in bits and pieces like that ‘Reach for Your Publishing Dream’ ad where you just used an arm from my painting—”
“As is my right. And your art is no exception. I just licensed a century-old self-portrait by a local artist named McClure.” Conway pointed to our bookshop. “I’m about to photograph every inch of that canvas, and I will use it as I like, including its ‘bits and pieces.’”
“But the way you used my art destroyed my reputation. A woman called me terrible things online and reported my ‘duplicitous behavior’ to the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators. She said she paid for exclusive rights to use my fantasy art on her cover, but another author with another book had the same cover art. She was humiliated. She blamed me because you told her that I tricked your company. You claimed some young assistant who ‘no longer works for you’ was taken advantage of when I sold her the same art multiple times. Lies!”
Tracy took a breath. “After that, I did my own research and uncovered four different novels with the very same piece of art—my art—on their covers: Barry Potter, Game of Gnomes, a vampire story called Sundown, and Her Dark Materials, about a magic seamstress. All four of those authors bought publishing packages from you. You bought one copy of my original art. Then you photoshopped in different backgrounds. You changed the color schemes, and you tricked these authors into thinking they were getting unique cover art for their works.” She shook her head. “It may be too late for me. But I feel sorry for the people who fall for your crummy crooked publishing packages—”
“That’s slander, Miss Mahoney. There is nothing crooked about my business. Each of those covers may have started with your original art, but the new backgrounds and graphics legally rendered them ‘transformative’ and thus unique. You’re just too young and inexperienced to see the truth.”
“The truth! The Writer Beware website warns creators about your publishing scams. I wish I had seen it before I believed your slick advertisements.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Well, SFWA, MWA, and the Authors Guild do! They warn their memberships about your predatory practices. How you charge seven hundred dollars to obtain an ISBN for an author’s work—when they can get one themselves for a fraction of that! How you claim you’ll put an author’s book onto store shelves across the country, but you don’t. Almost no bookstores sell the titles you publish, so you demand authors buy five hundred copies up front. You claim they can resell them at signings you’ll arrange ‘at the request of stores,’ but those requests never happen because you provide no marketing. Your ‘publicity package’ amounts to flashy ads on content-farm websites that look slick but deliver almost no traffic—and all happen to be run by a shell company owned by you. Finally, when your authors complain about the heartbreakingly low number of print or e-book sales, you really twist the knife, telling them it’s their fault as you pronounce their book a failure!”
Conway leaned close to the girl, almost looming.
“Miss Mahoney, I provide a valued service. The people who come to me aren’t destitute. They have careers, lives. Sure, they can write a book, pour their thoughts and dreams into their writing, but they don’t have a clue how to get their work onto the printed page or into proper digital formats for the array of e-book platforms—nor do they want to learn, because they simply don’t have the time. But they do have the money, and that’s where I come in.”
Tracy covered her ears. “Stop trying to justify your behavior!”
“Of course, no one wants to know how the sausage is made. They only want to savor the results. So I take some of their money and do the heavy lifting for them, and my clients enjoy the results of seeing their work professionally packaged and published or uploaded to an online store.”
Conway’s outward demeanor was all benevolence.
“Perhaps you should reconsider the premium package, Miss Mahoney. Printing an illustrated book can be quite expensive, but we have many payment plans for clients, like yourself, who are less fortunate. We can set you up with any major credit card, or . . . do you have a PayPal account?”
“Stop talking!” Tracy screamed. “All your promises are empty! All you sell are lies! Lies!”
With that, Tracy turned and fled down the sidewalk. A moment later I saw myself on the screen as I bolted out of the store in pursuit of the girl.
That’s where Spencer’s recording ended.
For a moment no one spoke. I looked to Aunt Sadie. She was literally shaking with rage.
“I’m going to call Clifford Conway right now,” she said through gritted teeth. “I’m going to cancel his contract with us and throw his advance right back at him.”
“Are you sure that’s the right way to handle this?”
Doll, you don’t want to get in front of that freight train.
Jack was right. Sadie swept me aside and grabbed the phone from her purse on the stockroom desk.
“Wait!” I cried.
Sadie blinked. “Why should I?”
“Because you have to set your phone on speaker first. Spencer and I want to hear the conversation, too!”
Sadie nodded and punched in the number. Conway answered on the first ring.
“I heard what you did to poor Tracy Mahoney, Mr. Conway, and what kind of businessman you really are. I refuse to allow you to use our shop to promote your unethical business practices. So I’m returning your booking fee. Our contract is canceled.”
Conway sighed audibly into the phone.
“What is it about the small-time minds in this town? Does no one read the fine print?”
“What do you mean?” Sadie demanded.
“It’s simple, really. The contract you signed for me includes a damage clause, Ms. Thornton. Of course, you have the perfect right to cancel at any time. But I have an equal right to recoup any losses incurred, and those losses are considerable.”
“Impossible,” my aunt insisted.
“Not at all. I’ve already hired a cameraman. I’ve hired actors. I rented your place in good faith. Your unreasonable cancellation on such short notice activates that damage clause.”
I could hear the triumph in his voice. “You may keep my advance, because you’ll need it. You now have thirty days to pay me damages of one hundred thousand dollars, or I will see you in court.”
Before Sadie could protest, Conway ended the call.