Dirty Tricks: A Kate Lawrence Mystery (4 page)

“Lawrence, Kate Lawrence,” I
hastened to supply as I scrambled to my feet and came around my desk. Closing
my laptop would be a dead giveaway, so misdirection was my only shot. I offered
my hand, which she accepted a bit reluctantly. Not a
toucher
,
I thought. “I’m so pleased to meet you at last. Ginny Preston and I worked
closely together during her last couple of years here.”
 
Oops, probably not the best idea to bring up
her predecessor.

“Yes, so I hear,” she replied
civilly enough, but her expression was wary. Not surprising, considering the
circumstances surrounding Ginny’s departure, but that’s another story. “I’m
afraid the residents are all too eager to share the details of anything that
takes place here, whether they’re true or not.”

I gave her a sharp look, but all I
detected was a glint of droll humor in her eyes. Huh, maybe there was a person
in there after all in spite of what Bert had told me.

“It kind of goes with the
territory in a small community like Vista View,” I offered with a small shrug.
“Rumors, gossip, you know the kind of thing. I have to say the residents here
seem to be a lot friendlier and more supportive of each other than they are at
other such enclaves. In fact, I’ve become quite fond of several of them, and
two of my dearest friends moved in a year or so ago on our recommendation.”
Might as well show her I was a team player, sort of.

“
Mmm
,
yes, the
Henstock
sisters, if the scuttlebutt is
accurate. Lovely
ladies,
and they seem to be enjoying
the amenities we offer here, especially the dining facility.” She lowered her
voice conspiratorially. “Between you and me, Dominick’s menus seem to be one of
our biggest selling points, but don’t tell him. He’ll want a raise.”

I chuckled along with her. “I’m
afraid it’s too late for discretion. Everyone makes such a fuss over Dominick,
he can’t help but know how appreciated he is. Fortunately, he’s not in this for
the money—or at least, not just for the money. Having his skill admired by more
than a hundred people on a daily basis is pretty heady stuff. How did you come
to join the management here, Isabelle?” I gestured at a visitor’s chair, and
she sat willingly. I took the other chair and turned it toward her, the better
to divert her attention from my still-open laptop.

“Oh, the title of Business Manager
is just a holdover from Ginny Preston’s tenure here. I’d hardly consider myself
management, although I’m sure that’s what most of the residents assume,” she
volunteered to my surprise. “The job has been entirely reconfigured. As you
well know, Ms. Preston practically ran the place, taking care of the physical
facility, supervising the hourly staff, and of course, overseeing sales and
rentals. When one operates a residence for the elderly, turnover can be quite
brisk.” This was delivered with another unmistakable twinkle in her eye.
Despite my colleagues’ warnings, I was beginning to enjoy our conversation.

“You’re right about that,” I
agreed.

“In any event, the job opening was
presented to me as primarily a paperwork function, preparing payrolls and
spreadsheets and generally crunching numbers for senior management on a regular
schedule. There isn’t a lot of excitement, but it’s something at which I’m
experienced. I’d reached a time in my life where a less challenging, shall we
say, position was very attractive, and the little apartment that came along
with it made it all the more appealing, especially after last winter’s awful
weather.”

I couldn’t argue with that. New
England is lovely in every season, but driving over hilly terrain in snow and
sleet gets old fast. I looked around at the quiet lobby.

“I totally get that, but doing
paperwork in an assisted living community in an office all by
yourself
can’t be much fun,” I demurred, hoping I wasn’t
becoming too personal. “Do you have family in the area, Isabelle?”

She met my eyes frankly. “No, no
family and not many outside
interests
either. I’ve
always been something of a loner, you see, which doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy the
company of other people from time to time. I’m just not a joiner, never have
been. I’d rather be burned at the stake than attend another committee meeting
in this lifetime. I don’t even attend church, but don’t let that get around.”

“Wow, a kindred spirit,” I
applauded. “My two kids are grown now, and outside of my husband and my business
partners, I keep to myself pretty much, too.
 
The way I look at it, I see more than enough people during my working
hours, and I’m quite happy to go home and shut the door on the outside world at
the end of the day. My idea of a great evening is a bubble bath and a new
novel.”

“Oh, I so agree.
 
In fact …”

Whatever Isabelle had been about
to say was interrupted by the ringing of her cell phone. “Please excuse me,”
she said as she fumbled to pull it from the pocket of her suit jacket.
“Normally, I wouldn’t answer it, but I am on the job.” She stood up and began
walking back to her office, phone pressed to her ear. I returned to my own
chair and closed down the Romantic Nights website. Tonight would be soon enough
to research May’s business in the privacy of my own home office.

Three

 
“I don’t understand. If you aren’t making any
money, why are you doing this?”
Strutter
waved her
hand at the dozens of framed book covers we were helping May hang along the
stairwell wall in her new house before treating ourselves to a dinner out. Our
men were bonding over major league baseball and pizza at Margo’s house. “It
seems like an awful lot of work. Why not take up something simpler?”

“Like
knittin
’,
you mean?” Margo stopped rooting around in the open carton at her feet and
rolled her eyes at
Strutter
. “Or maybe she could
cultivate an interest in needlepoint, so tasteful and appropriate for a woman
of mature years.”

I smiled around the extra tacks I
held between my lips as I banged one into the wall, and May hooted from the top
of the stairs.

“After forty-five years of
deferring to at least a dozen different bosses, none of ‘
em
with a heck of a lot of brain power to spare, I needed something to call my
own, where things get done how and when I want just because I say so.” She
twitched a frame into alignment and gave it a fond pat. “And because I write
the checks, of course.” She winked at me and held out her hand for another
cover, which Margo produced from the carton. This one featured a gorgeous,
bare-chested blond—and the woman he was embracing wasn’t bad either.

Strutter
looked thoughtful. “I get that,” she said, polishing the glass in another frame
with Windex. “In fact, we all get that. It’s the reason the three of us came to
be in business together, did you know that? A few years at the low end of the
food chain at a big law firm, and it was either
start
our own shop or start taking potshots at people.”

Margo and I chuckled with her
while inwardly flinching at the memory of the self-important blowhards for whom
we had all worked several years previously at a well-known Hartford firm.

“I did know that, which is why I’m
sure you can understand.
Runnin
’ my little publishing
company isn’t really about money, although I’d just love to find myself with a
bestseller in my catalog one of these days. I pay myself a stipend of a few
hundred dollars a month, but mainly it’s about
doin
’
something I love to do and do well. Y’all need to read some of my titles.
They’re not at all crude, and they’re really well written. In fact, I insist
upon it. You wouldn’t believe how many aspiring novelists I reject in the
course of a month.”

She sat down on the top step to
take a breather. “Whew! There’s a reason they call
movin
’
the M-word. Anyway, being a published author myself in the mystery field, I
know all about big publishers and greedy agents and rejection slips, and having
worked in marketing and sales for many years, I had the computer skills I
needed to do everything from the editing to
keepin
’
the books. I was giving a presentation one night to a group of local business
women about how anyone with the right software and some common sense could
start up a virtual business these days, and I thought to myself, why am I not
doing this? About a month later, Romantic Nights was up and
runnin
’,
and here I am some five years down the road, still at it. The
mailin
’ address has changed, but other than that, it’s
business as usual.”

She rose and dusted off the seat
of her navy sweat pants. On her, even they looked good, a trait she shared with
Margo. I suspected her of having them tailored. Well, why not?

“How about I fix us a little
refreshment while you get the last few of these on the wall? I don’t know about
you, but I’m parched, and it must be five o’clock somewhere.”

Half an hour later, we were all
enjoying a glass of Pinot
Grigio
in May’s cozy, but
still cluttered, living room. Still, progress on the renovations was evident,
and we could see how comfortable the house would be in another week or two.

“I admit to being fascinated by
your work, May,” I picked up where we’d left off as the wine was being poured.
“I got so caught up in exploring the Romantic Nights website Friday afternoon
at Vista View, the new business manager was standing right in front of me
before I noticed her.”

“Isabelle
Marchand
?
What did you think of her?”
Strutter
wanted to know.
She helped herself to a corn chip and some of May’s excellent guacamole.

“Pretty cool customer, isn’t she?”
Margo said around a mouthful of the same.

“I kind of liked her,” I said. “We
didn’t get to talk very long, but I actually thought we might have some things
in common. And she’s not really the business manager like Ginny was.” I
summarized what Isabelle had told me about the redefinition of roles at Vista
View. “So it’s mainly number crunching and other paperwork,” I finished up.

“Sounds pretty boring, if you ask
me,” May commented. “What does she do with her spare time for fun?”

“We didn’t get that far, but I
plan to pick up the conversation next week. You should try to get to know her a
little,” I advised my partners, whose faces radiated skepticism.

“So what’s it like working with
authors from all over the country?” I said, returning to our earlier theme.
“They must be a fascinating group.”

May’s snort was so much like
Margo’s, when amused, that I couldn’t help but smile.

“Fascinating, to
be sure, but not always in a good way.
Most of the good ones are lively,
creative and, just as important, realistic about their gifts. Unfortunately,
there are a few whose self-esteem is wildly disproportionate to their talents.”

Strutter
looked over. “Forgive me, but aren’t you an author, too?”

May grinned. “That’s why I can
tell you the truth, because I’m one of them. I have a healthy ego, too, but I’m
able to assess my talents realistically and rein it in a bit.” Her expression
turned thoughtful. “I’ll tell you a little story. There’s a gal back in Georgia
who tried unsuccessfully for years to get a publisher before
decidin
’ to self-publish her own stuff. It’s easy enough to
do these days on Amazon and Google and what have you. Then she sent a manuscript
to me, and I initially agreed to publish it because a mutual friend asked me to
look kindly on it; but it was so full of mistakes and sloppy grammar, I wound
up spending more than forty hours getting it into passable shape.”

“No good deed goes unpunished,” I
murmured.

“Exactly.
So while I was already
regrettin
’ my decision, I sent
her a very rough cover concept done by my designer, thinking she would be able
to visualize the final version. But this woman turned into a snake, condemned
everything from my intelligence to the cover designer’s abilities. Mind you,
she’d been a handful to deal with from the get-go, see-sawing between neediness
and arrogance, but now she was
showin
’ her true
colors, and they weren’t pretty. So I decided I’d had enough. I terminated her
contract before publication, as was my legal prerogative, and returned all
rights to her. Want to guess what happened next?”

“She tried to sue you?”
Strutter
opined, and Margo and I nodded agreement.

“Good guess, but a lawsuit would
simply have been dismissed. No, she started e-mailing and calling and whining,
beggin
’ me please,
please
to
reconsider blah
blah
blah
.
She left two messages on my home phone, called my lawyer’s office, drove to my
house and left a pleading letter in my mailbox. She even got her husband to e-mail
me, implying that his wife was going to have a nervous breakdown if I did this
dreadful thing to her.”

“Oh, my god, that’s so weird and
scary, and she lived close to you. Then what happened?” I asked.

“I sent her one last e-mail,
tellin
’ her if she didn’t stop her nonsense, I’d have no
choice but to involve the police. She promptly sent another hysterical message,
so I printed out every e-mail we’d ever exchanged and called the cops. A nice
young officer came to my home and read them. Then he listened to the voice
messages on my answering machine and read the letter that had been left in my
mailbox and concluded this woman was officially harassing me. He paid her a
little visit and told her to knock it off.” May took a deep swallow of her
wine. “But that’s not the end of the story.”

“Good grief, what else could there
be?”
Strutter
wanted to know.

“As I said before, she did the
only thing she could do, since no agent or publisher would touch her, and
self-published the book. Her work background was in public relations, so she
knew how to manipulate the truth. She actually managed to attract a small
following and made the rounds of the libraries and other local venues,
billin
’
herself
as, get this, a Pulitzer
Prize nominee.”

“Wow, that’s impressive!” I said.
“Isn’t it unusual for somebody who’s self-published to be nominated for such a
prestigious award?”

This time May’s laugh was
full-throated. “See, you did the same thing everybody else does, pick up on the
Pulitzer Prize part and skip over the qualifying words. She was never really a
nominee, just an entrant. Do you know how to enter a book in the Pulitzer
competition?”

My partners and I looked at each
other, mystified. “Do tell,” Margo prompted.

“You send four copies of your
book, along with an application form and fifty dollars, to the nominating
committee, and presto! You’re a Pulitzer Prize entrant.
 
Notice the word ‘entrant.’ You’re not a
nominee until the prize committee nominates you, but since the general public
doesn’t understand that distinction,
the
wanna
-be
gets away with calling herself a nominee. Thousands of writers pull that stunt
by entering themselves every year. That’s how the prize money is accumulated.
They don’t have a shot in hell of winning, of course, and never achieve the
status of nominees. It’s easy enough to check on the Pulitzer website, but
hardly anyone ever bothers to do that.”

“Unbelievable,”
Strutter
summed up our thoughts. “Is it working? Are her
books best sellers?”

May
looked
amused. “The short answer is no, and it’s simple to figure that out if you ask
yourself a few questions.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“Like how come,
if she’s such a fantastic writer, she’s still self-
publishin
’?
Wouldn’t she have an agent by now? Wouldn’t Random House be
beggin
’
her to sign with them? Wouldn’t Hollywood want to option a title or two?
 
All you have to do is go on the review sites and
see that only a handful of reviews have been posted for each of her titles—all
five-star, by the way, which is a dead giveaway they’ve been written by her relatives
and close friends. The poor thing has become a joke among those in the know. It’s
really pretty sad, or at least it would be if it weren’t so
irritatin
.”

 
“Good lord, why do you want to engage with
such people?”
Strutter
asked in amazement.

May smiled with perfect good
humor. “There are always a few bad apples in any profession. Fortunately, I
work with mostly excellent, ethical writers who are simply a delight. We’re not
all loony tunes with delusions of grandeur. Most of us are happy knowing we’re
gifted enough to tell a decent story that our readers seem to enjoy, period.
Why, some of us can even spell.” She plunked her wineglass on the coffee table
and patted her tummy. “Thus
endeth
today’s sermon on
the darker side of
publishin
’.
 
So are we
goin
’ out
for dinner, or are we ordering in?”