Ellipsis (3 page)

“Second tier?”

“The smaller cities. Reno, Wichita, Des Moines, Columbus. Twenty-eight in all. Actually, I tend to draw larger crowds in the smaller cities than I do in the big ones.”

“Less competition, I imagine.”

She scowled. “I prefer to think it has to do with taste—that readers in the hinterlands are less prone to the winds of intellectual incest and political correctness that prevail in more metropolitan areas.”

“Could be,” I said, to be agreeable. “Or maybe they're just bored.”

Chandelier looked out the windows at the ancient cypress trees that bordered a backyard that fell away toward the bay like a ski slope. “They hate me, of course,” she murmured in a non sequitur.

“Who? The folks in Des Moines?”

She shook her head. “The aesthetes, I call them. The reviewers in
The New York Times
and their ilk in Chicago and L.A. and the newsmagazines. Mostly male, of course. But not all, sad to say. They flatter themselves that they're the literary vanguard, entitled by birth and education to dictate the reading habits of the country. To them I'm a joke, an insult to their impeccable taste, but what I
really
am is proof of their impotence. I sell a hundred times more units than their precious geniuses do, and they can neither understand nor acknowledge it. Deep down, they would prefer that I stop writing, but what they
really
don't get is that at this point they are what keeps me going. And the fans, of course.” Her eyes grew as moist as fresh melons. “My fans are wonderful, Mr. Tanner. Truly. They send me the most amazing gifts, handcrafted work of immense skill and even greater hours of labor and of love. I'm humbled by it. Truly.”

“Except that one of them sent you a death threat.”

She shook her head vigorously. “Not a fan. Never.”

“Then who?”

“I don't know. If I did, you wouldn't be here.”

She looked out over the grounds, as if to confirm her fortress was still impregnable. “Tell me about them,” I said to her back. “The threats, not the fans.”

She waved away my request as a nuisance. “Lark will take care of that.”

“Do you have any idea at all who might want to harm you?”

She spun back toward me with vigor, the antique chair squeaking under the centrifugal strain. “I have several suspects in mind, but I have neither the time nor the inclination to narrow down the list myself. Lark can give you those names as well. It is a sobering thought when the list of people who want you done away with approaches double digits.”

Before I could comment, she shrugged off the circumstance and looked at her watch. “Now you really must excuse me.
The Sacramento Bee
is calling for an interview at nine, then I'm on-line with AOL for an hour, then I have books to sign for my media people, then I need to review my notes for my talk after the readings. If you need anything at all, Lark is the one to talk to.”

She pushed back her chair and stood up. When I did the same, I noted she was nearly as tall as I was.

She came to my side and put her hand on my arm in the only affectionate gesture I would ever see her make. “I find you a satisfactory choice as my guardian angel, Mr. Tanner. If it's agreeable to you to take on the task of my protection, you should be here at four tomorrow. We go to the launch party, then to dinner afterward with my editor and publicist and agent. It shouldn't be a long night—we've done this, let's see, twelve times in the past ten years. We're getting pretty good at it.”

“What about here at the house?” I asked quickly. “Don't you need someone on duty while you're home? If you'd be uncomfortable with me clomping around, I know a woman who would be perfect for—”

Chandelier shook her head. “This house has the best security system money can buy. Primarily to guard the valuables, of course, but to safeguard my work in progress as well. Also, one member of my staff is a former FBI agent who has been trained in weaponry and counterintelligence. For various reasons he is not amenable to public appearances. You need only report for duty when I'm going out—Lark will provide you with a schedule. Do we have a deal, Mr. Tanner?”

Prodded primarily by my debt to Millicent Colbert, I stemmed an urge to abstain. “Yes, we do.”

“Good. I assume you've signed Karla's contract.”

I nodded.

“I will sign it this evening as well, and you'll get a confirmed copy tomorrow. In the meantime, Lark will make arrangements for payment of a small advance, just to get things going.”

“Thanks.”

She took two steps toward the door, then turned back. “Have you ever read one of my books, Mr. Tanner?”

“I'm afraid not.”

“Do you plan to?”

“I don't know. Is it a requirement of the job?”

“Not at all. But you might enjoy it. They're not nearly as bad as you've heard.”

Chapter 3

Lark and I looked at each other, then sighed and smiled simultaneously. The tension in the room had dropped by a factor of five.

“Quite a woman,” I said.

“Definitely.”

“Tough boss?”

“At times.”

“Good pay though, probably.”

She shrugged. “Good enough. For now.”

“What did you do before this?”

“Editor.” She blushed. “Well, editorial assistant.”

“Where?”

“New York. Madison House. Chandelier's publisher.”

“How long have you been on staff with Ms. Wells?”

She squirmed uncomfortably. “This is beginning to sound like you're interrogating me. Are you?”

I grinned. “Sure.”

“Am I a suspect?”

“Not yet.”

“If I wanted to do something to Chandelier, I'd just …”

“What?”

Her back straightened and her nerve firmed. “Never mind. I've been on Chandelier's staff almost four years.”

“You edit her work?”

She hesitated. “I read it and tell her what she wants to hear.”

“Which is what?”

“That it's her best book ever.”

“Is that a genuine response?”

Her smile was thin and resigned, as though it answered a question she'd asked herself too many times. “No comment.”

“Do you want to be a writer yourself?”

She chuckled without amusement. “Not anymore.”

“Why not?”

“If you hang around here very long, you'll know.”

I walked to the couch and took a seat beside her. “Okay, Ms. McLaren. Let's get down to brass tacks. Why am I here?”

“That's easy.”

She stood up, walked to the bookcase nearest the desk, swung open a hinged panel disguised as a matched set of Thackeray, opened the wall safe that was secreted behind the panel, extracted a manila folder, and brought it to me. I opened the folder and looked at the contents. Six sheets of white bond paper were inside, each sheet protected by a transparent plastic sleeve and each containing a message, handwritten in black block print with a Magic Marker or a Sharpie. All six messages were essentially the same as the one on top: IF YOU DON'T STOP, YOU WILL DIE!

I put the sheets back in the folder and looked at Lark. “I don't suppose it's as simple as she's poached the property of an irate wife. Or husband, for that matter.”

She shook her head. “Nothing like that, I'm sure. Chandelier dates quite a lot when she's not writing, but she doesn't date married men.” She grinned. “Or women. Chandelier is relentlessly heterosexual, if it makes any difference.”

“It usually doesn't.” I gestured toward the notes. “I take it you provided the plastic.”

“Yes.”

“Have the sheets been dusted for prints?”

“Yes.”

“So the cops are in on this?”

She shook her head. “The testing was done privately by an independent forensics lab in Sacramento. At this point, the authorities have not been consulted about anything. I'm sure Chandelier wants to keep it that way.”

“Why?”

Lark took a deep breath. “For years, Chandelier was both unhappy and unpublished. Her marriage was a mess, her first book didn't sell, she weighed well over two hundred pounds, she couldn't have children, and she couldn't afford to do what you have to do to make a splash in the business, such as hire a publicity person, mail out expensive promotional materials, and travel to stores and book conventions all over the country. But she saved her pennies and made a plan and slowly but surely it worked. She got where she is by taking total control of her life, both professionally and personally. As much as is humanly possible, nothing happens in Chandelier's world unless she wants it to. Among other things, she has created a marvelously potent image of herself. She feels if the police are brought in, if she's seen as incapable of responding to and resolving a crisis in her life, she'll risk undermining that image to a degree. At this point, she's not willing to take that chance.”

I'd heard Baptist sermons less fervent. Clearly Lark looked on Ms. Wells as something more than a boss. “If these notes are serious and someone takes a pop at her,” I said easily, “she'll wish she hadn't been so worried about image.”

“At that point, if it comes, I'm sure she'll do the sensible thing and inform the police. In the meantime, we're hoping you can put the matter to rest unofficially.”

I didn't bother to temper her tribute to my expertise. “When did the first note show up?”

“Three weeks ago.”

“How?”

“In the mailbox. In an envelope. But not postmarked so not mailed.”

“The writer wants her to stop something. Stop what?”

“Writing, I assume.”

“Why would her writing put someone on edge?”

“I'm not sure, but she sets all of her books in a realistic context.
Shalloon
is about fraud in the cosmetics industry—substituting cheap imitations for the real thing. Shalloon is the name of the fictitious perfume in the book. The novel she's just finished is called
Ship Shape
. It takes place on a luxury cruise where the sponsors prey on customers both physically and financially.”

“These books are based on actual practices in those industries?”

“By some companies. Yes.”

“Have there been any repercussions from outraged corporate flacks or their counsel?”

“Not that I know of.”

“What's she working on next?”

Lark shook her head. “I don't know. She probably doesn't either. I never know till she's finished the first draft. No one does.”

“You're sure about that?”

“Yes.”

“So presumably not many people know what
Ship Shape
's about either.”

“Not for another week, when it will hit New York City. And then it will only be Madison House and book club and chain-store people till the bound galleys are ready. Of course TV and the film studios often share the same corporate parent as the major publishing houses, or they have moles inside the smaller publishers to alert them to hot properties, so confidentiality is never assured.”

“Ms. Wells doesn't have some sort of critique group of other writers who read her stuff as she goes along?”

Lark shook her head. “Chandelier doesn't feel anyone knows nearly as much about what she's trying to do in her fiction as she does herself.”

“Sounds a little egotistic.”

Lark made a face. “In my experience, writers are all egotistic. How else would they keep going?”

I laughed because I guessed she was right and because at one point in my life, I'd wanted to write a novel, which made me an egotist myself. “Are her agent and editor both in New York?”

“Their offices are there, but at the moment they're here in San Francisco. Ever since Chandelier became a bestseller, they always come out for the launch party.”

“I'd like to meet them before this show goes on the road.”

Lark nodded. “I thought we could do that tomorrow. Chandelier's hairdresser and personal shopper are coming to the house at noon to get her ready for the party. I won't be needed, and Sally and Amber are free as well. I thought we could all meet for lunch.”

“Sure.”

“Where?”

“Wherever.”

“You're near North Beach, right?”

“Yep.”

“How about the Black Cat? Or Tavolino?”

“They're a little steep for my budget.”

She looked away to avoid augmenting my embarrassment. “We'd be paying the tab, of course.”

“Still.”

She frowned in thought. “Enrico's?”

“Fine.”

“One o'clock?”

“One it is.”

I handed back the manila folder. “You won't need it?” Lark asked.

“Not until I have a suspect. Speaking of which, Ms. Wells suggested that she'd given you some ideas along that line.”

The shift in focus seemed to discomfit her. “Oh. Yes. Well, I wouldn't go so far as to call them suspects.”

“Then what would you call them?”

“Possibilities, is all.”

I got out my notebook. “Give me a rundown.”

Lark leaned back on the couch. Although she put up a good front, at bottom she seemed exhausted, or bored, or exasperated, but something definitely less than chipper. I had a feeling that a day tending Chandelier Wells could do that to a person. After four years of it, well, I'd be surprised if Lark remained unmedicated.

She held up her index finger. “First and foremost, there's the ex-husband.”

“Name?”

“Mickey Strunt.”

“Address?”

She consulted a Rolodex beside the phone and read off a number on Judah Street.

“Where's that? Out near the ocean?”

She nodded. “A block away, I believe. Mickey used to be a surfer.”

“Other than the obvious, why does Mickey lead the list?”