Books Can Be Deceiving (7 page)

He crossed the porch and stepped out into the rain. Lindsey watched him go. She wondered how Nancy had felt saying good-bye to her husband every time he went to sea, and she wondered what sort of love they had shared that Nancy mourned his loss more than thirty years later.

“A
re you nervous?” Lindsey asked. “There’s no need to be. Your work is great. She’s going to love it.”

“I wasn’t nervous until you asked,” Beth said. She cradled her art portfolio under one arm and ran her free hand through her hair. “Don’t you think this is a little pushy?”

“Not at all. Carole said the editor wanted to look at your work,” Lindsey said.

“That’s because Carole knows her boss,” Beth protested. “Ms. Carlisle was probably just being nice.”

“Maybe, but she still could have said no,” Lindsey said.

“I suppose,” Beth said.

They crossed the street and headed through the park toward the Blue Anchor Café. It was a perfect late morning Saturday. The sky was a pristine blue, the water in the bay sparkled, the sun was warm and the breeze was cool and gentle. It was impossible not to feel optimistic on such a gorgeous day.

The café was quieter than usual. Lindsey assumed everyone was out making the most of the weather. They sidled up to the bar and scanned the room. There was a family of four, a few people who looked to be tourists and one dark-haired woman, sitting alone in the corner.

Mary hustled over and whispered, “That’s her.”

“Oh, I think I’m going to be ill,” Beth said. “What if she hates my work?”

“She won’t,” Mary said. “Now come on. She’s been waiting for you. I’ll walk you over.”

Mary grabbed Beth’s hand and crossed the room, half dragging her behind her. Lindsey brought up the rear and took the opportunity to study Ms. Carlisle.

She was wearing a pair of Rag & Bone skinny cropped jeans with an equally expensive-looking peach-colored top and a pair of Cazabat flats. Her chestnut hair was done up in a casual twist, with long strands hanging down on either side of her face. A pair of reading glasses perched on her nose as she typed frenetically on the Netbook in front of her. She was the very picture of a New York editor on vacation.

“Excuse me, Ms. Carlisle,” Mary said as she approached the table. “Your party is here.”

Sydney Carlisle looked at her watch as if checking to see how on time they were. It was exactly noon. Lindsey felt Beth shrink on the spot and stepped forward to make the introductions.

“I’m Lindsey Norris,” she said and held out her hand. “I’m the director of the Briar Creek Library.”

“A pleasure,” Ms. Carlisle said. She took Lindsey’s hand, but her grip was cold and clammy, and Lindsey had to resist the urge to wipe her palm on her pants.

“This is Beth Stanley,” Lindsey said. The two women shook hands, and Lindsey added, “She’s the one Carole Towles told you about, the one whose work she wanted you to see.”

“Well, to be honest . . .” Sydney began but Lindsey cut her off, “Can I recommend the chowder? Mary is known for it. Isn’t she, Beth?”

Beth was looking at her as if she’d recently sustained a head injury. It was very clear that Sydney Carlisle had been about to beg off, but Lindsey had grown up watching her father, a researcher, blithely ignore any wishes that went against his own. As an underfunded researcher in an academic setting, he lived by the credo that it was easier to receive forgiveness than permission. Lindsey wasn’t his daughter for nothing.

“Actually, I’ve already ordered lunch,” Sydney said. “But I’ll keep the chowder in mind for next time.”

Lindsey put a heavy hand on Beth’s shoulder and pushed her into a seat. She took the remaining one and smiled at Ms. Carlisle.

“So, Ms. Carlisle,” Lindsey began but the editor interrupted her.

“Call me Sydney.”

“Terrific. Well, Sydney, what brings you to our tiny town?”

“Would you believe solitude?” Sydney asked.

“Tough to find in a town like Briar Creek,” Lindsey said. “The minute you booked your room, the whole town knew an editor was on her way here from New York.”

“I’ll have to have a chat with Mrs. Palmer,” she said. She looked very unhappy, and Beth was visibly cringing now.

“It wouldn’t matter,” Lindsey said. “The minute you stepped outside of the Beachfront, the town was intent upon discovering who you are.”

“Don’t you people have cable?” Sydney asked.

Beth laughed, tried to stifle it, and laughed harder. It was obvious her anxiety was giving her a case of the giggles.

Sydney swiveled her head in Beth’s direction for the first time. “Why don’t we get this over with so you can stop being terrified?”

Lindsey was pleased that Sydney’s voice was not unkind. Beth had been a basket case all morning. Lindsey wasn’t sure how much more her nerves could take.

“I’m giving you fair warning, however, that I am very harsh, so if you can’t handle it, you’d better leave now.”

Beth sat up straighter. “I can handle it.”

Sydney held out her hands and Beth handed her the black case. Despite her bravado, Lindsey saw sweaty handprints on the case where Beth had been clutching it. She had no doubt that Beth was scared to death.

Sydney untied the portfolio and opened it wide. She flipped through the pages, muttering “uh-huh” but showing neither pleasure nor displeasure at the work.

“You have talent,” Sydney said. “Your story is age appropriate for your intended audience, and your illustrations are engaging without being overdone. The idea of a hamster detective who lives in the library is charming. I see a future for you as a children’s book author, if you want it, but not with this book.”

“Why not?” Lindsey asked.

She could tell Beth was warring with herself over reveling in Sydney’s compliments about her work versus having her hopes dashed at the rejection of her book. She hadn’t decided which way she was going yet.

“Unfortunately, this type of story has already been done,” Sydney said. Mary arrived with their food just then, and Sydney said nothing until she left. “You have the ability, Ms. Stanley. You just need to do something fresh.” Maybe she felt badly for crushing Beth’s dream because her voice was noticeably nicer now than it had been when they first sat down.

Beth nodded and excused herself to go to the restroom. Lindsey could tell she was disappointed, and she felt a twinge of guilt. Maybe she shouldn’t have pushed her so hard.

Sydney put aside her Netbook and tucked into her lunch, a platter of fried clams with french fries and coleslaw on the side. She didn’t seem to care whether Lindsey joined her or not.

Lindsey picked up her spoon and pushed it around in her chowder. “Do you think it would be worth Beth’s time to query another children’s book editor?”

Sydney glanced up and gave her a considering look. She swallowed her mouthful, wiped her lips with her napkin, and said, “Not with that idea. In fact, if she shops it, she’ll be ruined.”

“But she’s worked so hard on it.”

“Did she really?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sydney gave her a long look. “I didn’t want to get into this with her, because this is supposed to be my free weekend and I am really trying to avoid any sort of drama.”

She let the rebuke wash over Lindsey, but it held no sting, as Lindsey was too annoyed on Beth’s behalf to care much about Sydney’s free time.

“But . . .” Lindsey prompted her.

With a sigh, Sydney leaned over the armrest of her chair and rifled through the briefcase at her feet. She came back up holding a glossy book catalog. Post-its marked several of the pages, and she flipped to one at the back.

“Look familiar?” she asked.

Lindsey scanned the page, and halfway down she saw it. In full color there he was, the same chubby, brown hamster sporting a monocle as the one Beth had created and dubbed Sherlock Hamster, detective.

“But I don’t understand,” Lindsey said. She flipped the catalog over to scan the cover. It was for the winter, meaning this was a preview of books to come. But how had Beth’s gotten in here? She flipped back to the page that described the book. The name of the author leapt out at her—Rick Eckman.

“I think it’s fairly obvious, don’t you?” Sydney asked as she kept eating. “Your friend plagiarized her book idea from my author Mr. Eckman.”

“Beth would never do that,” Lindsey said. “That’s preposterous.”

Sydney suddenly looked weary. “I don’t want to get into a debate about what is plagiarism. I’m just telling you that he has a book coming out with virtually the exact same story line and characters. I know you want to help your friend, but she can’t steal other people’s work to get ahead. It will get her blackballed from the industry.”

“Beth didn’t steal anything from him,” Lindsey said. She knew she sounded defensive, but she just couldn’t believe what was happening. This was a nightmare.

“He’s a Caldecott-winning book author,” Sydney said with a sigh. “Surely you’re not suggesting he stole his idea from her. Why would he? No one would ever believe it.”

“That may be true,” Lindsey said. “But that’s what happened.”

She snatched up Beth’s portfolio and pushed back her chair. “Thank you for your time.”

“I’m sorry,” Sydney said. It was the first time Lindsey thought she might actually be sincere.

“May I keep this?” Lindsey asked, holding up the catalog.

“Oh, it has all of my notes,” Sydney said with a grimace. “Do you want to just tear out the pertinent page?”

“That will work. Thank you,” Lindsey said. She opened the catalog to the page she wanted and carefully tore it out, making sure not to damage the page or the book.

She glanced up and saw Beth headed their way. “I hope you enjoy your stay with us, Sydney, and thank you for your time.”

“No problem.” Sydney took the remainder of her catalog and stuffed it back into her bag. She returned to her lunch while Lindsey crossed the café to Beth.

She noticed that the tip of Beth’s nose was bright pink, and her eyes looked puffier than usual. She’d been crying. Lindsey really hated that she was about to make a bad day much worse for her friend, and it was all Rick Eckman’s fault. If he were here, she’d give him a swift kick in the pants or possibly a solid punch to the nose.

“Beth, let’s go take a walk,” she said.

“Oh, no, I don’t want to seem like a big baby,” Beth said. “It’s rude to walk out on Ms. Carlisle. We should finish our lunch with her.”

“Oh, I think she’ll be fine,” Lindsey said.

“I guess I can call Rick now and tell him he was right. I was rejected and crushed by it.”

“Not so fast,” Lindsey said. “I’ve got something to show you.”

“W
hat is it?” Beth asked as Lindsey hustled her out of the café and across the parking lot to the town park.

A seagull was perched in its usual spot on the back of one of the benches, and seeing that they had no food, it gave them a sideways stare of disapproval before lifting off onto the air currents that swept in from the water. Feeling duly chastised, Lindsey promised herself she would remember to bring some stale bread the next time she came to the park.

An elderly couple was parked on a bench down the way, sharing a newspaper and drinking coffee out of paper cups. A mother with two young ones was sitting under a tree on a blanket while the baby had some tummy time and the toddler collected leaves.

“Sit here,” Lindsey said. She gestured to an empty bench.

“What’s going on?” Beth said. “You look angry, and not just a little angry but more like a swarm of killer bees angry.”

Lindsey took a steadying breath. She
was
humming like a swarm. In fact, she was so mad, everything was going fuzzy and she was beginning to see spots.

“Here,” she said. She couldn’t trust herself to say anything more. She handed Beth the glossy page from the Caterpillar Press catalog and sat beside her.

“I don’t understand,” Beth said. “What is this?”

“Sydney gave it to me,” Lindsey said. “It’s from the publisher’s catalog of upcoming books.”

“But that’s my book,” Beth said. She pointed to the picture. “How did they . . . and why is Rick’s name . . . ?”

Her voice trailed off as the ugly truth came into focus.

“He stole my story, didn’t he?” she asked.

“I’m afraid so,” Lindsey said.

“But that’s . . . he told me it was too amateurish,” Beth protested.

“Well, I guess we know why he didn’t want you to show it to anyone,” Lindsey said. “He’d already sold it under his own name.”

“What did Ms. Carlisle say?” Beth asked. “She must be furious that he’s deceived them.”

Lindsey did not want to have this conversation. She really didn’t. If Beth’s feelings had been hurt before, she could only imagine how upset she was going to be now. But there was no need to explain. Her silence was telling.

“Oh, no—Ms. Carlisle thinks I plagiarized him!” Beth cried.

“I’m afraid so,” Lindsey winced.

Beth stared out at the Thumb Islands. The breeze coming in from the water ruffled the spikes of her black hair. Her large, gray eyes narrowed. Lindsey wondered if it was to hold back tears.

“I’m going to murder him!”

The elderly couple glanced over from their bench, obviously startled by her outburst.

“I’m going to deep-fry him in oil,” Beth ranted. “No, that’s too messy. I’m going to chop him up and feed him to the sharks, piece by miserable piece.”

Now the mother by the tree with the young ones was looking at them with her eyebrows raised up to her hairline. Lindsey recognized her as a regular at story time. Uh-oh.

“Beth,” she said. “Get a hold of yourself.”

She looked at the older couple and the mother, still watching them, and forced a laugh. In a loud voice, she said, “You’re such a kidder.”