The Renewable Virgin (15 page)

He knew; we'd talked about it. ‘Make the movie,' he said firmly. ‘You should have your own series. I don't like seeing you as a bit of fluff for Nick Quinlan to play with.'

‘Yes, sir,' I said, straight-faced.

He grinned, his eyes looking blue instead of invisible for a change. ‘Sorry, didn't mean to sound bossy. Kelly—do you like working for Nathan Pinking?'

Strange question. ‘Nobody
likes
working for Nathan. Except maybe Nick—they get along.'

He looked dissatisfied. ‘You could do better than Nathan Pinking schlock.'

‘
You
do business with him,' I pointed out.

‘That's different. There are other things involved.'

I decided to take the plunge; this had gone on long enough. ‘Ted, it's obvious you can't stand Nathan Pinking and it's equally obvious you don't want to sponsor
LeFever
. So why don't you just cut out? Why are you putting your company's money into a show you don't really want to have anything to do with?'

‘Sometimes these decisions are automatic,' he said in a tight voice, and refused to discuss it. He absolutely
refused
to talk about it.

Now, there was only one way I could read all that, and that was that Ted was being blackmailed and it sure as hell looked as if it was Nathan Pinking who was doing the blackmailing. Nathan was clearly forcing Ted to sponsor
LeFever
, and it probably went farther than that. Ted wanted his cousin Roger to put
his
company's money into what Roger called a hick sitcom. One of Nathan Pinking's other shows was titled
Down the Pike
and could be fairly described as a hick sitcom, I think.

There are few things I can think of that would be worse than knowing someone like Nathan Pinking had a stranglehold on your life. I got along with the man by telling myself
constantly
that other producers were worse, whether it was true or not—but Nathan was one of those people you just knew you could never trust. He liked being ugly merely to show you he could do anything he wanted. And if he controlled Ted, that meant he had Cameron Enterprises' assets to draw on, and
that
meant he had somebody to pick up the tab for whatever he wanted to do on television. What a guarantee against failure! An insurance policy to end all insurance policies, the deadbeat creep.

I was sorry about the company, but I couldn't get real worked up about that when I knew what this had to be doing to Ted. My God, it must be eating him up inside! And all this time I'd thought Ted was so in control of his life—the decision-maker, the man who gave orders. I'd just plain misread the signs. It was all a façade, a brave face Ted was showing to the world. How could he stand it? Must be like living in a torture chamber.

I was trying to think of something to do to help. How do you get rid of a blackmailer? Other than, well,
get rid
of him, I mean. The only thing I could think of was to get something on
him
, and then blackmail the blackmailer. But Nathan Pinking had a reputation for being able to protect himself in the clinches, and he wasn't just going to leave weapons laying around you could use against him. (Yes, I got it—
lying
around.) So could I hire a detective to dig up some dirt on Nathan? There
was
dirt; I don't think there could be any doubt of that. But how do you find the right kind of detective? I thought Marian Larch could probably tell me, but how did I go about getting the information out of her without letting it slip that Ted was being blackmailed? Oh, what a mess.

And still … and still no matter how I fought it, there was one nasty question that just kept on coming back to me: What did Ted
do
that was so awful he had to give in to Nathan Pinking in order to keep it quiet?

CHAPTER 10

MARIAN LARCH

Roberta Morrissey looked shaken when she came out of the interview room.

‘What is it? Did she say something?' I asked.

Roberta shook her head. ‘It's just seeing Fiona in a place like this … it takes some getting used to, that's all.'

I understood. Poor lady, she really looked upset. ‘Let's go somewhere for, ah, coffee?'

‘I'd rather have a drink.'

I took her to a place on Fifth that was fairly quiet. When she started looking steady again, I said, ‘There's something I'd like to ask you about. This isn't official, it's only to satisfy my own curiosity. Dr. Benedict was carrying a
Times
review of her book with her. Do you know about that?'

She smiled sadly. ‘The infamous
Times
review. Yes, indeed, I know about it. It was probably what tipped her over.'

‘But why? I read it. The reviewer said a lot of nice things about her book.'

‘He said even nicer things about Ormsby's. That's the trouble with these double reviews—one book always ends up looking inferior. The reviewer acknowledged Fiona's book as the more scholarly piece of work, but it was
Lord Look-on
that got the nod of approval in the final analysis. Ormsby's version was “more fun” to read, he said. He actually said that—“more fun”. As if entertainment value were
the
ultimate criterion.'

It still didn't seem that bad to me and I said so.

Roberta looked at me a moment and then asked, ‘Marian, when was the last time you bought a history book?'

I grinned sheepishly.

‘Did you
ever
buy a history book?' she persisted. ‘In fact, have you even read any history since you finished school? Don't look like that, you're in the majority. I write a book about the Brontë sisters and I can count on some slight general interest outside academic circles. Historians don't have even that. Barbara Tuchman's work always sells—but she's an exception. Oh, occasionally a book of contemporary history will be highly touted and have respectable sales, but Drew is convinced most of them are never read beyond the first fifty pages.'

‘Not even Richard Ormsby's books?'

‘Well, Ormsby has an advantage over people like Fiona and Drew. He has no scruples about oversimplifying things that perhaps ought not to be made simple at all. And that jazzy writing style helps sell his books to the popular market. But the legitimate historians can't write for that kind of market.'

‘So they end up writing for … each other?'

‘For the record, say—for libraries, in a way. You know it's sustained library sales over the years that justifies the publisher's investment. But the way library budgets have been cut to the bone the last few years, librarians aren't going to order two new biographies of Lord Lucan when the world has been happily bumbling along with none at all for over a century and a quarter now. Know how many books are published in this country every year? Almost fifty thousand.'

‘Every
year
?' I'd had no idea.

‘Every year. So library purchasing departments have to depend on publications like
Library Journal
or
Publishers Weekly
to help them decide what to buy. Both those periodicals gave brief, equally favorable reviews to Fiona's book and to Ormsby's. That means the librarians have to turn to other reviews.' She finished her drink.

I held up two fingers to the waiter. ‘So the
Times
review will affect library sales.'

‘Undoubtedly.' Roberta Morrissey looked depressed as she thought about her friend's book. ‘Do you understand what that means? It means that all over this country
and
in England history students will be consulting Ormsby's book when they're studying the Crimean War.
He
will be the authority, not Fiona. Oh, the large universities with strong history departments will know the difference and they'll order Fiona's book. But the kids won't know. In most schools that assign papers on the war the students will consult Ormsby and maybe never even know about Fiona's work.'

So it was more than just professional jealousy; it was a matter of professional responsibility. Fiona Benedict must have felt her whole life was under siege when
Lord Look-on
started shooting the foundations out from under her own book. So she'd picked up a gun and started shooting back.

I drove Roberta to her hotel and thought about having another go at Nathan Pinking, but decided against it. I'd talked to him once right after he got back to town. When I confronted him with his lie about never having been in business with Leonard Zoff—he simply claimed he'd never said any such thing. I'd misunderstood him, he said, both sides of his mismatched face equally bland. Leonard Zoff must have been right; Pinking lied automatically. He didn't even care that I knew he was lying.

At Headquarters I found Kelly Ingram waiting for me. She was sitting quietly by my desk, seemingly oblivious of all the attention directed her way. It was the first time I'd seen her since the advent of Ted Cameron.

She seemed nervous about something. ‘Marian, I … I wanted to ask you, uh, I wanted to, uh …'

‘Yes?' I put as much encouragement into the one syllable as I could.

‘I wanted to ask you … could I go see Dr. Benedict?' she finished in a rush.

You're lying
, I thought. That wasn't why she'd come in.

But before I could say anything Ivan Malecki came up to the desk and cleared his throat. ‘Hello, Kelly, remember me?'

Kelly glanced up. ‘Oh hello, Ivan, how are you?' She'd not only remembered him, she'd remembered his name as well. After a minute's worth of inane dialogue, Ivan strutted away, his existence justified.

‘You don't really want to see Dr. Benedict,' I said.

‘But I do!' she protested. ‘I should have been in before this but I, uh …'

‘Kelly. You once told me you couldn't get away with telling lies off camera. You were right. Now why did you come in?'

‘I told you—I want to see Dr. Benedict.'

‘Your nose just grew another inch.'

She looked at me disconsolately a moment and then made up her mind. ‘All right, here it is. I need a private detective, and don't ask me why because I'm not going to tell you. The yellow pages are full of names, but they don't tell me what I need to know.'

‘Which is?'

‘The ones that are legit and the ones that are a smidge on the shady side.'

‘Uh-huh. And which kind do you want?'

It was hard for her to say it. ‘The shady kind.'

Oh my! Now what did this pretty doll-woman want with a shady detective? What had gone so wrong in her glamorous, successful life that she should need expert help from someone who wasn't averse to bending the law a little if the pay was right? There was only one new element in her life that I knew of.

So I said: ‘What's Ted Cameron done?'

‘Oh,
Marian!
' She looked hurt and exasperated at the same time. ‘Are you going to give me a name or not?'

‘No, I am not going to give you a name. At least not the kind you want. I'm a policewoman, remember? Sworn to uphold the law? I will give you the names of a few reputable people, if you like.'

‘I thought you'd help.'

‘I'm trying to. But I can't read minds. Why don't you tell me what's wrong?'

‘I can't do that. Damn it, Marian! Just one lousy stinking name.'

‘Forget it. Why do you want to have your boyfriend investigated?'

‘I don't! Oh, you've got it all wrong.'

‘Then set me straight. Tell me what's going on.'

She thought about it a few minutes, but ended up shaking her head. ‘I can't tell you. I can't tell anybody.' She sighed. ‘As long as I'm here—I might as well go see Dr. Benedict. I'm allowed, aren't I?'

It would be my second trip to the detention cells that day. ‘I'll have to take you. This isn't a regular visiting day.'

‘Oh—I didn't think of that. Marian, I don't want to put you out—'

‘It's okay,' I said. And it was. I was thinking that on the drive over I might get a little more out of her about why she wanted a shady detective.

But what I got was a new lie she'd had time to think up. ‘I might as well tell you,' she said. ‘I want somebody to find out who sent me the laxative and the toilet paper. You remember that time, don't you?'

I stopped at a red light and just looked at her. The lie was so blatant she had the good grace to laugh at her own clumsiness.

‘Won't do, Kelly,' I said.

‘Won't do,' she agreed. ‘Especially between you and I.' She frowned. ‘I?'

‘Me, I think. Besides, it's easier to tell the truth.'

But mentioning the laxative had started her thinking. ‘I probably never will know who sent it, will I?'

‘There's no way of proving it,' I said carefully. ‘You can make a reasonable assumption, however.'

‘You think you know? Who?'

‘Laxative and toilet paper,' I said. ‘Who is it among your acquaintance that can't get through a conversation without using the word
shit
over and over again?'

Her eyes grew large. ‘Leonard Zoff? Leonard sent me the laxative?'

‘He'd be my guess.' The light turned green; I eased the car forward. ‘Didn't you once tell me you thought he didn't like women? And here you are, extremely female, one of his brightest prospects for success if not
the
brightest. Maybe sending you that laxative was a way of relieving his own tensions a little—oh dear, bad word choice. But all that's just speculation, Kelly. I may be maligning the man.'

‘If he sent
me
a doctored bottle of Lysco-Seltzer …' She didn't finish.

‘Did he send one to Rudy Benedict too? We don't think so. Whoever substituted the cyanide had to do it the same day Benedict died. Zoff had an alibi for almost the entire day. He was on the go, had a lot of appointments. But we checked all the people he met with, and there just doesn't seem to have been time for him to slip down to Chelsea, make the substitution when Rudy wasn't looking, and keep to his schedule. It's not airtight, so he
could
have found a way of doing it. But it doesn't look likely.'