You Don't Know Jack (16 page)

"Stella Cameron." Sophie beamed her Mrs. Santa twinkle. "A favorite local author. Even my Hermie was a fan, God rest his soul."

"We have all her books!" Ida bumped her cane against the floor for emphasis, like her voice needed backup.

"Sex and murder," Madam Zee whispered, as though she'd done another Tarot card reading and were predicting future events.

I could use some sex, but not another murder. I had the uneasy sense that this thought would come back to haunt me.

"Get that book of yours done and sold!" Ida shouted, making me jump. How did a small, ninety-year-old woman have such a loud voice? It was as if with each millimeter of bone she lost another decibel was added to her vocal chords. God making up for the waning of one asset by bolstering another? "We want to come to your book signings, Jack B!"

A fantasy about actually signing my own books for readers swept me away from the moment and from my mission, but Madam Zee's eerie voice brought me back. "You're here about Lars' murder, aren't you?"

Ida's eyes grew round within the folds of skin, and she cane-clawed toward me. "You on the hunt!?"

I realized this conclusion had been reached by the fact that we were standing beside Lars' books.

Before I knew what was happening, the three women were huddled around me, attempting to whisper. I was reminded of Maxwell Smart and the Cone of Silence as Ida brayed, "Can we help?"

The thought horrified. "No!"

Six silver eyebrows lifted in unison and uncertainty.

"No," I said calmer. "I'm not investigating. I'm just here for something to read while I'm recuperating."

"You do look a bit peaked, dear. As my Hermie always said, it's best to err on the side of caution."

I wasn't sure how that applied to my looking peaked.

"You sure you should be outta bed so soon?" Ida barked as Madame Zee seemed to be reading my aura and finding it black.

I assured them I was feeling better than I looked, but I did need to get a book and leave.

Ida caught sight of a woman striding through the front door. "Oh, there's Stella!" she squealed. "Come on, Jack B, we'll introduce you! You're gonna love her books!"

"That's okay. I'm actually looking for a particular book by another author this time."

"Suit yourself, dear," Sophie said over her shoulder, hurrying to catch up with the others, who'd dismissed me like a forgotten footnote in the novel of the day.

I followed in their wake, hoping to run into Patricia Pepper as well as hunt down a copy of Ruth Lester's one published book. I spied the Golden Oldies gathered around the book signing table, their favorite author welcoming them with a wide grin.

The bookstore owner was nowhere to be seen. I headed into the Romance shelves, alphabetically scanning the L's. The hairs on my neck stood up and that sense of being watched returned. I spun around but didn't find anyone paying attention to me. Which meant nothing. I wouldn't put it past Stone to sic someone on me. His idea of keeping me safe. One kiss. One breath-robbing, libido jolting kiss and that man thought he could order me around. He actually suggested he move in with me until after the trial.

I was so addlepated by his kiss I'd even considered it.

But then I realized he'd said, "until after the trial." As if Apollo being locked up for Lars' murder would keep me safe, as if Apollo was the one who'd tried to kill me.

I'd kicked Stone out of my apartment.

But now, with shivers crawling my spine, I wondered if I hadn't been too hasty, if I shouldn't have taken Stone up on his offer of police protection. Or... maybe the reason I was spooked was that Stone had put the idea into my head that the murderer might not be done with me.

Not that I didn't acknowledge that possibility... but I wasn't going to allow anyone to keep me locked in my apartment, cowering and frightened. Then why was I feeling again the spookiness I'd felt in the nightclub dressing room before being pushed into traffic? Maybe I wasn't done with Stone altogether. Maybe I needed to ask him to recommend a weapon and a source to obtain it. Maybe he could teach me to shoot.

The whole idea made my stomach pinch. I was being pushed to consider a means of self-protection that went against everything I believed in and I didn't like it.

My perusing of shelves stopped as my gaze snagged on the name "R Lester" on the spine of a book. Forgetting the sense of being spied on, I pulled the book free. I'd found it. Ruth Lester's
Lipstick and Larceny
.

The cover, a lurid blue, depicted a half nude woman, her backside smashed against a handsome hunk in a cop uniform as though she were protecting him from the bad guys, rousing thoughts of Stone and me. At their feet lay a dead body. Talk about "sex and murder."

This was her debut book. The beginning and the end. My chest tightened at the thought of finally being published only to have the first book be the one and only. Landing a publishing contract wasn't the end of what I wanted. I wanted a career. That meant one contract after the other.

I knew from other writers what a tough business I had chosen, knew that most published authors couldn't make a living at it. Lars wasn't the norm; he'd been the exception. So much depended on elements outside of the writer's control — like marketing and numbers of copies sold. The current trend of digital readers and e-books added even more upheaval to a writer being able to count of their writing as solid income.

The public didn't realize writers were paid a pittance of the price of each book, and were paid nothing for used books bought in used bookstores. I had no idea if this book had sold well. Ruth bringing suit against Lars for plagiarism had sealed her fate. There were too many writers waiting to take her place for a publisher to put up with a trouble maker. I carried the book toward the café, unable to resist the lure of a latte for another minute. As I stood in line thumbing through Ruth Lester's book, I wondered what had become of her. Had she crawled back into whatever mouse hole she'd crept from? Stopped writing? Or was she now using a pen name? Writers often took on different pseudonyms, for all sorts of reasons, such as if they switched genres, or bad numbers.
Or if they had to overcome a bad reputation.

I ordered a grande skinny white chocolate mistos; I needed the caffeine. I found a table. As I set the cup and book down, my scarf slipped to the floor. I bent to pick it up.

"You hear there's a New York Times best seller signing copies of her books in the store right now?" a man near my table said.

I turned. The guy was eyeing my ass like a hungry logger looks at a twelve ounce steak. He was not my type, not my anything, but being admired like that had me regretting not falling into bed with Stone earlier and dealing with the fallout afterwards. I needed release. I needed a man. I needed what only Stone offered.

No. I needed to stay strong. To keep my resolve. I took a sip of too hot coffee and plunked down on the part of me that was causing so much indecision, hoping the hard bump against the wooden chair would squelch unwanted desires... at least for a while.

My gaze wandered the café and snagged on the very person I sought. Patricia Pepper aka Peppermint Patty. She was schmoozing the patrons at a nearby table, hyping the product of the moment as though the line for the book signing weren't already out the door.

Patty cast a Beam-Me-Up-Scotty grin in my direction, figuring me as fresh meat for her sales pitch, but as she neared my table, recognition slid through her bright eyes and the halogens dimmed. Was the reaction due to my being Lars' ex? To her having witnessed Bruce's and my smack-down at Lars' memorial? Or to her being a raving lunatic?

She started to frown and I realized I was wrong on all counts. It was my scratched and patched face.

"Ms. Smart," she said in a tone that asked what I was doing darkening her door.

I took in the too round face that no amount of dieting would thin. I'd assumed she'd won the confectionery nickname from her fudge brown page boy with the vanilla ice cream streak and unnatural sheen like waxed coating. But maybe it had more to do with her smelling like mint candy. She was still eyeing my bandages.

"You should see the other guy," I said, deciding to play it friendly.

"Looks painful." She wore mourning-black including an arm band. "I heard about your accident."

Heard about it? Or caused it? Was she the one who'd pushed me into the path of that speeding car? My mouth went dry and anger shredded my self-preservation instinct. "It will take more than a little push to get rid of me."

She ignored the reference to attempted murder. She pulled back the chair opposite me. "May I?"

I stopped my eyebrows just short of giving away my surprise. I figured I'd be lucky to find her at this store today, lucky to get her to give me the time of day. But here she was, eager to talk to me. Either she was falling into my trap, or I was falling into hers. "Sure."

Patty sat, gaze glued on the book separating us, her brows less trained than mine climbed into her bangs. I would bet the cover price that she was mentally adding, subtracting and dividing reasons for me to be in her bookstore in possession of this book. She said, "There are better reads, if that's your genre. We have a local author in store today. I can recommend her highly."

I sipped my espresso. "You don't think much of Ruth Lester's... talent?"

"I didn't say that... exactly." Her lips pursed as if weighing the right response. Unbiased bookseller? Or honest critic? A dark fog shifted through her eyes, a whiff of disgust, but when she spoke, it was as impartial critic, "But a few reviewers suggested there was room for improvement."

I sipped more coffee and waited for her to go on. I'd learned this technique from Stone. It was supposed to rattle a suspect into filling the silence with chatter until they accidentally say something incriminating. Peppermint Patty obviously didn't know that.

No matter. I would do whatever it took to rattle her cage and enjoy it as I did. I threw a hammer blow against the monkey bars. "I hear you prefer Lars' books."

She ignored that and tapped the cover of Ruth Lester's book with one of her typist-short fingernails. "I admit I did read it. Not when it came out. Only after she filed the lawsuit against Lars over her so-called second book."

"And?"

She sighed, keeping her voice low. "The plot is...  plausible, but the prose... could use polishing. A lot of polishing."

I was less surprised that she'd read the book and more that she permitted a copy or two in her store considering the rancor dripping from her assessment of Ruth Lester's writing. "I heard her publisher dropped her."

Patty's smile was nasty. "Like a hot potato."

"You don't know what became of her, then?"

She looked away. "If she's writing under a pseudonym, it's as unknown as the Zodiac killer's identity."

I needed to shove the needle deeper. "Kind of a shame, really. I mean, you can't buy notoriety like hers."

Peppermint Patty puffed up like an offended skunk. "That woman didn't deserve to publish another book after accusing Lars of plagiarism."

"Oh?" I was starting to rock at wide-eyed innocence. Too bad there wasn't a career for that. "I'd think that kind of controversy would make a second book pure gold. You know, 'bad publicity being good publicity' and all."

She grunted, the scent of mint ripe in the space separating us. Okay, so she stank like a box of Campfire Girl Mints not a skunk. My espresso was nearly gone. I needed another. A double, double.

Peppermint Patty leaned toward me. "Lars' did not steal that woman's plot."

Finally, a rise out of her. I felt mean and powerful. It felt good. "The judge seemed to believe that, too, but between you and me, I wouldn't put it past Lars. He could be one selfish, disloyal son of a bitch."

Patty's face flamed. She looked ready to knock me off my chair. Or worse. I stifled my glee. "How–how-could—?"

"How can you defend him?" I cut her off. "I heard he was trying to get a restraining order against you at the time of his death... of course, his murder curtailed that."

"That's a lie." Her coloring flared redder than flame. Almost purple. Not her best hue. "Books and reading were my salvation as a kid. Over the years I became an advocate for writers. Was I Lars' fan? Yes. Admiring someone's talent doesn't make a person a stalker."

"Courts don't issue restraining orders against benign fans."

"He wasn't getting a restraining order, and don't you dare spread such a lie." A fanatical glint flashed through her cocoa eyes. "If you must know, I wrote a book. I asked him to look at it."

My eyes widened at this revelation. Not that she had written a book; more people wrote books than were ever published. But that she'd also thought Lars would help her. The only career he was interested in furthering was his own. I almost felt sorry for her. I'd been on the receiving end of Lars' view of aspiring writers. "He refused, right?"

She tilted her head in unnerving amusement. "To the contrary. He insisted on helping me find a publisher."

"What?" No. Fucking. Way. That was a flat out lie. I knew. Firsthand. Lars wouldn't. This was more nuts than a squirrels' winter stash. More nuts than a Planter's warehouse. I needed to cut to the chase and be gone. "Did you kill Lars?"