Ellipsis (6 page)

The only one of the women I'd met previously was Lark McLaren, but even if I hadn't seen her at Chandelier's, I'd have known she was the one who was local. Garbed in black from head to toe not excluding lips and fingernails, sheathed in long-sleeved and floor-length dresses that flattened every contour below the jawline, draped with capes and scarves of similar tints and functions, the two New Yorkers looked as if they had just come from a funeral of someone who didn't matter very much. My faded corduroys and threadbare tweeds looked cutting edge in comparison to the Easterners' monochromatic garb, which made me wonder why such high-powered women would choose to dress as similarly as sheep. As for Lark, she looked swell in a bright print dress that didn't try to erase all evidence of her gender.

Although their outfits suggested they were twins, beneath their macabre couture the New Yorkers were distinctly different. Amber Adams, the agent, was large, buxom, and brash and wasn't bashful about any of it. In contrast, Sally Rinehart, the editor, was slim to the point of emaciation, with chalk-white skin and straight, dark hair drawn back in a bun that made her look three times her age, which I guessed to be no more than thirty. Her skittish black eyes never seemed to light on anything for more than an instant, and her manner suggested the outside world was as potentially damaging as a peptic ulcer. The idea of Sally Rinehart imposing an editorial judgment on the deathless prose of Chandelier Wells was one of those concepts around which my mind had difficulty wrapping itself.

Whatever the women had been discussing clanked to an immediate halt when they noticed me. It took a while, since there was wine to be drunk and shrimp to be nibbled, but when I made it onto their radar, the three of them looked up expectantly, as if I were bringing an advance copy of
Publishers Weekly
. I hated to disappoint them, but my most creative contribution to the meal was going to involve a meat-loaf sandwich.

Amber gripped my hand like a lady wrestler the moment Lark introduced us, and her eyes roamed over me like a Sotheby's appraiser's—I don't think I made the list for the next auction. Sally Rinehart made do with trying to pretend I was invisible.

After I took my seat, we exchanged small talk about the weather and the city. Amber found San Francisco a major disappointment on this trip, especially in the amenities at her hotel and the stock on hand in the new boutiques around Union Square. For her part, Sally loved every single thing about it, especially the new museum of modern art, which she'd visited the day before. Despite several provocations, I refrained from becoming either a jingoist or a cynic.

We placed our orders—the women each had a salad featuring various esoteric amendments and another eight-dollar glass of a Sonoma chardonnay; I had a turkey sandwich and an Anchor Steam, meat loaf not being featured for some reason, probably involving longevity.

“I take it all of you know why I'm here,” I began when we were comfy and cozy and slightly buzzed. Each of them nodded her head. “I haven't come up with anything helpful so far, so I'm going to need a history lesson, provided there is one.”

The women exchanged looks. “History of what?” Amber Adams asked. “Or who?”

“Chandelier Wells,” I said.

“Boswell himself couldn't do justice to that one,” Amber muttered sardonically, though loudly enough for all to hear.

I tried to stay in front of the agenda. “Before the first of the threatening notes arrived, was there any sign that Ms. Wells was creating trouble for anyone? Threatening them? Embarrassing them? Complicating their lives? Anything like that at all?”

The women looked at one another once again and once again let Amber take the lead. “If you're talking about her books, then as far as I know the answer is no. If you're talking about personal relationships, it's an entirely different story.”

“What story is that?”

Amber shrugged. “Chandelier is aggressive, demanding, and ambitious, both as a writer and a businesswoman. She drives people hard and demands nothing short of total perfection and absolute loyalty.” Amber paused for a sip of wine. “What makes it tolerable for those of us on the receiving end, usually, is that Chandelier drives herself even harder than she does the rest of us.”

Sally Rinehart nodded a meek concurrence. Lark McLaren didn't move a muscle. Apparently she had her own take on Chandelier and wasn't about to go public with it.

Just then a cell phone rang. Amber and Sally looked at each other. Amber took hers out of her purse, flipped it open, pressed a button, and said, “Adams.”

I looked at Lark and Lark smiled indulgently. Just then another cell phone rang. This time Sally made the move for her purse, with the same result. And then it was Lark's turn. For the next five minutes I was in the middle of an Altman film, with two and three people talking simultaneously, in incomplete sentences and cryptic jargon, about subjects that were mostly foreign to me:

“… Don't forget we have jacket approval. Yes, that includes flap copy, and blurbs, cover art, author bio, and the photo, too. The whole nine yards.…
Final
approval, that's right.”

“… First printing is definitely two point five million. Sandra approved it at sales conference.”

“… It's hard/soft or nothing, Max.… I know England isn't the U.S., but let's face it, you're all going to be owned by the Germans sooner or later, so what the hell difference does it make?… If Random House couldn't say no, what makes you think
you
can?”

“… Pub date is February 14 because Chandelier's pub date is
always
February 14.… Valentine's Day. Right.… It's Chandelier's gift to her fans.… Of course she's serious. Chandelier is
always
serious.… No, adding Tucson to the schedule is not an option. I won't even bring it up with her.”

“… That's not what I hear, I hear she's jumping to Putnam and taking Johnson with her.… That's old news, Max.… No, dramatic rights went for a million five.… No, he didn't. I'm an
agent
. I'd
know
something like that.”

“… We want the Amazon reader reviews to start coming in now.… They don't
have
to use the ones we drafted and sent out, but if they improvise, it had better be an improvement. And there'd better be at least fifty of them.”

“… She brings her hairdresser with her. We'll fax them a menu a week before she arrives and we expect each item on it to be available from room service twenty-four hours a day during her stay.… If that's a problem, I understand there are one or two
other
hotels in Chicago, Mildred.… Oh, yes, she would.”

“… Our buyers will hit the stores on Monday.… I know, but last time we opened at number two behind Clancy. Jesus. I don't know how that happens. I've never met a single breathing soul who's ever read a word that guy's written.”

“… Okay? See you Thursday.”

“… Fine. Lunch on Friday.… Not Balthazar again.… Whatever.”

“Let's get back to the threats for a minute,” I said when the phones were back in the purses. “Ms. Rinehart, has the publisher received any complaints about the content of any of Chandelier's recent work?”

Sally Rinehart blanched as though I'd suggested we go back to her room and get naked. “I don't think you grasp the nature of the relationship Chandelier has with her public, Mr. Tanner,” she managed finally in a voice the size of a gnat's. “We get thousands of letters about Chandelier. Most are addressed to her personally, of course, and those that are we forward to Lark without opening.”

When I looked at Lark, she nodded. “We average close to a hundred pieces of mail a day.”

“Jesus,” I blurted.

Lark grinned. “Not one from Him as yet. I think I would have remembered.”

“I'm sure He's a big fan,” Amber said sourly. “Although the conceptions Chandelier portrays can hardly be termed immaculate.”

“Which is why she sells,” Sally Rinehart offered meekly.

Meanwhile, I was trying to imagine what would make me read a thousand pieces of correspondence unless each of them was a personal missive from the pen of Michelle Pfeiffer. “Does Chandelier read all her mail?” I asked.

Lark shook her head. “She can't. There's too much of it.”

“She doesn't answer fan mail? Isn't that kind of an insult to her public?”

Lark sniffed. “Her public is well served.”

“How?”

“I answer them in her name.”

“You mean you forge her signature.”

Lark glanced left and right. “Each of us does, from time to time. It's the only way to keep things running smoothly and leave Chandelier enough time to write. She reads much of the business correspondence, of course, though only those items that contain proposals Amber or I feel she would be interested in.”

“You're her filter, in other words.”

Lark reddened. “Among other things.”

I turned back to Sally Rinehart. “How about the letters you open in New York? What are they about?”

She thought it over while she nibbled a crouton as if it constituted her entire meal. “I would say the hostile ones are equally divided among the religious zealots who feel Chandelier is an agent of the devil in advocating immorality in one form or another, usually sexual; the crazies who believe she speaks to them through their TVs or their toothbrushes or their toenails; and those who believe she is their long-lost mother, wife, daughter, or lover. Or son, as one of them insisted. Or that she is Marilyn Monroe reincarnated. Or Edith Wharton. Insert the name of your favorite ghost.”

I looked at Lark. “You get this kind of stuff, too?”

“All the time.”

“What else?”

Sally squinted to summon her mental list. “There are requests for money, of course, and proposals of marriage, and ideas for new books and new wardrobes, and hair and makeup and wellness advice, and requests to promote products or services. And gifts of homemade fudge and hand-knit sweaters and on and on and on. You wouldn't believe what shows up in our mail. Drugs, even, once in a while. Pot, usually. Homegrown.”

I smiled. “Does Chandelier partake?”

Lark smiled back. “No comment.”

I looked at Amber. “Do you get letters, too?”

“Tons. And faxes and e-mails and phone calls. I expect a carrier pigeon any day. Most of them are from people who say they can write as well as Chandelier so I should be their agent, too.”

“Do you take any of them on?”

Her mouth made mincemeat of the question. “You must be kidding. I also get commercial proposals of various kinds, mostly offers to option film rights from self-styled producers who think a thousand bucks will lock up dramatic rights in Chandelier's work for life. God, there are a lot of morons in this world,” Amber concluded bitterly. “And agents see them all.”

I drank half my beer and ate half my sandwich and left the ladies to graze at their salads and talk New York talk. My plate was empty and I was wondering about dessert before their piles of greens had noticeably diminished.

“I take it none of these letters have threatened bodily harm,” I said after a while.

“Some of the religious ones do,” Sally said.

“What do you do in those cases?”

“Send the letter to the authorities.”

“In New York or out here?”

“Both.”

“Police or FBI?”

“Postal inspectors, actually,” Lark said. “They've opened files on several of Chandelier's more imaginative antagonists. I think they've interrogated some of the more vociferous ones.”

“But none of them have ever followed through?”

“No. Not until now.”

“Does Chandelier see the stuff from the crazies?”

Lark shook her head. “She asked me to stop showing them to her when there got to be so many.”

I laughed. “I have to say that being a successful author sounds like a depressing experience.”

“Not totally,” Lark said quickly. “Most of the letters are from fans. True fans, I mean; people who have enjoyed the books or have had their lives changed by Chandelier in some way.”

“Literally?”

“Oh, yes. We have a whole folder full of letters from women who say Chandelier's work has encouraged them to persevere in the face of financial hardship, or keep fighting a debilitating disease, or take steps to end an abusive relationship. We're thinking of publishing a selection of them, in fact. I'm sure you find it surprising, but Chandelier is a spiritual icon for thousands of women all over the world.”

“How many countries is she published in?”

“Twenty-eight, at last count.”

At first blush, I found Chandelier's transcendent importance both surprising and sad. Surprising because she didn't seem particularly holy in person. Sad because so many people search so desperately for salvation.

“Spiritual icons get blame as well as credit sometimes,” I said without voicing my skepticism. “Do you ever hear from women who feel Chandelier has let them down in some way? Caused even bigger problems than they had before?”

Lark nodded. “Once in a while. Some women interpret the books as encouraging them to leave their men, or stay with them, or turn them in to the police, or some such conduct that turns out to be a mistake. When it doesn't work out, they blame Chandelier, who had no idea what was going on in the first place and is not in the business of giving advice to the lovelorn in any event.”

I looked at each of the women in turn. “You're not helping me narrow this down, ladies.”

Amber Adams spoke up. “In her world, Chandelier is as big a celebrity as Julia Roberts and Madonna are in theirs. Even bigger, in some ways, since most women can relate to Chandelier a lot easier than they can to movie or rock stars. If you know any celebrities—”

“I don't,” I interjected.