Thinking of You

by Rachel Kane

  “I have a favor to ask you,” he said, and immediately held up his hands. “Whoa, whoa, I saw you starting to say no before I even finished.”

  I sunk my trowel into the bag of soil in my wheelbarrow, and stripped off my gloves. “We’ve talked about this, Micah. No jobs. No favors.”

  “Believe me, I know. But this one is different.”

  “No, it isn’t different. You wouldn’t come to me if it was different, because I only ever did one thing well.”

  “But this is—”

  I shook my head. “I don’t care who it is. Some rich drunk teenager plowed his Mercedes into a bus stop? Another celebrity finding her offensive tweets from a thousand years ago being dug up and spread over the internet? I don’t care. I’m not in the business anymore.”

  “No. No, you’re not, and if it was some rich teen, I wouldn’t have come out here. This is different. My sister—”

  “Jane? Jane needs my help? Why does a literary agent need image rehabilitation, I thought they were supposed to be sharks.”

  “It’s not Jane herself, it’s a client.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “You almost had me. I would’ve done something for Jane. But whoever this client is—”

  Micah held up his phone. The sun glared off the screen, and I winced. Then, changing the angle, I could see he’d brought up a website.

  Big, bold letters on the small screen:

  Get ready to learn the TRUTH about Lying Author Cameron Carlyle!!!

  I shrugged. “Cameron. Is that a man or a woman?”

  “He’s a he. But from what I remember, you like them both.”

  “Cute. So what is this, a lover’s quarrel?”

  “Hah, I said the same thing. Jane assures me he’s practically a monk. No emotional entanglements. Sound familiar?”

  “Then he pissed someone off. It happens. Tell him to lie low.”

  Micah slipped his phone back in his pocket. “Alex, you know I wouldn’t be here if it was that easy. I sure as hell wouldn’t be ruining my shoes walking through your mucky garden, if this was just a matter of waiting it out.”

  “See, I know what you’re trying to do,” I said. I picked up the handles of the wheelbarrow and began rolling it toward the shed. “You’re trying to build suspense. Trying to get me interested, so I agree to take the case. I’m not interested, and even if I were…I don’t do that anymore.”

  “They spray-painted his building,” Micah said.

  That made me pause. I set the wheelbarrow down. “Where he lives?”

  “This isn’t some random internet troll making his life difficult. This is happening in the real world. Someone knows his address. Knows where he lives.”

  Now he was bringing up another picture on his phone. A door from one of those places downtown near the park. Hip neighborhood with a million coffee shops and small breweries. Some numbers had been painted on the door. Bright red, with drips that looked like blood.

  “What’s the connection?” I asked. “It’s downtown. Buildings get tagged all the time.”

  “On the same night that the harassment began? That’s a big coincidence, don’t you think?”

  “That’s what coincidence means, Micah. Two things coinciding. Doesn’t mean they’re related. If they were related, then that points to a personal squabble. Angry fan, maybe. You call him a monk, but what if this guy is flirting, giving signals to the wrong people?”

  “So it’s his fault that he’s being harassed?”

  I laughed. “Question withdrawn, your honor. But you haven’t proved your case. All you’ve shown is that he needs to call the police. Do you need me to dial the number for you, is that why you’re here?”

  Micah scowled. “Damn it, Alex, we’ve been friends long enough, I thought I could ask you for this one thing. When my sister comes to me worried over her client, you think I don’t ask her these same questions you’ve asked? She’s convinced there’s something bigger going on. I wouldn’t bother you for anything less.”

  “Good to hear. Now, don’t bother me for anything more, either, and we’ll get along just fine.”

  “What happened to you?”

  “Oh god,” I said, “here we go.”

  “No, I’m serious. A year ago, you would have been all over this. I would barely have gotten a word out before you got down to business. Now look at you, in your garden, going to seed. Where’s your curiosity? Where’s your drive?”

  “Let me know if you find them.”

  “I swear, ever since that David Black case—”

  I froze. “Do not mention that name.”

  “What, David—”

  “Get out, Micah.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  I pointed at the garden gate. “Take your suit, and your tie, and your shoes, and get out of my garden. You want to stay friends with me, I have just two rules. You already know them. Same two rules that I give everybody. First, you don’t try to pull me back into the business. Second, you will never mention the name David Black in my presence.”

  Micah stepped back. “Will you at least think—”

  “No. Thinking is the one thing I will not do anymore.”

  The look of disappointment on his face might’ve earned sympathy from anyone else. Not from me.

  “All right, Alex. Have it your way. I’ll let Jane know you can’t help. But man…”

  “I don’t want advice, or parting words.”

  He stared at me sternly for a long moment, then gave me a curt nod.

  The gate hinge creaked as he let himself out.

  I made a mental note to oil that thing.

  Then again, maybe not. Maybe it was good to be warned if intruders were coming in. Especially intruders who brought along bad memories.

  Enter the mysterious world of Miss Katie Clemmons, said the publisher’s website. An image of a cup of tea, gently steaming, next to a cream-filled pastry. If you looked closely, you could see a skull and crossbones in the steam. And was that blood or jam next to the pastry?

  The titles of the books made me chuckle. Creme De La Scream. The Eclair Affair. To Pie For. Reading the descriptions of the books, they all seemed to fit a pattern: An amateur detective and her pastry chef friend visit a village, discover that a murder has been committed, then they solve the crime. Most of the crimes had to do with baking.

  I scrolled down until I saw the picture of Cameron Carlyle, the author. Younger than I would’ve expected, given the subject matter. A shock of blond hair, penetrating eyes. He didn’t look like a monk. He looked like one of the boys you saw in the clubs, sitting at the bar, gossiping with his friends. Laughing too loudly, then checking to make sure he’d offended onlookers with his hilarity.

  Oh come on, I told myself, don’t make snap judgments, you don’t even know the guy.

  “I don’t have to know him,” I said, closing my laptop. “I’m not taking the case.”

  Celebrity image problems come in two basic flavors: The Big Mistake, and the Jilted Lover. The approach occasionally differed, but really the steps you take are always the same.

  Say you’re an actor with a couple of big films in the can. You’re living the high life, everyone worshiping you during your fifteen minutes of fame. You’re coming home from a party, you shouldn’t be driving, you smash into a fountain in the middle of town. Passers-by snap your picture and are offering it around to gossip sites.

  That’s a Big Mistake. If you can identify the people who took pictures, you can double whatever the tabloids are offering them, make them sign scary nondisclosure agreements. We call them catch and kill contracts. Catch the story, kill it before it makes the news. Chances are, though, your guy’s going to have to make an apology tour. Book him on talk shows, maybe a few weeks of rehab, until public sentiment paints him as the victim, not just some out-of-control ego who could’ve endangered people’s lives.

  The steps weren’t that different if you were under attack from the Jilted Lover. If there was a sex
tape, you’d try to buy it before it reached the tabs. If accusations were being made public, you reminded your guy not to fight back. Nobody ever came out of those fights looking good. Instead, it was nothing but Sweet Positivity. Apologies. Promises to grow and change. Sappy stuff, like husbands told wives when they were trying to smooth things over, except this time you were trying to win back your loving public.

  But rule one, the one that came before all else, was lay low. Take a day or two. Just see what’s happening. Most scandals never end up seeing the light of day. They get lost in the ever-spraying firehose of celebrity news. Someone more important than you is always having a bigger, better crisis.

  Cameron Carlyle didn’t need me. He just needed some common sense. As long as he stayed quiet, his disappointed fan or grumpy ex would eventually go away.

  Honestly, why are you even thinking about this? I asked myself, as I poured another scotch. Not your case, not your business.

  Old habits die hard, I guess. I took a sip of the scotch, letting it burn its way down my throat. Nothing more than professional curiosity. That doesn’t mean I’m taking the case.

  An author, though? That was unusual. Who cared about writers? I’d worked with singers, actors, CEOs. People who had a long way to fall. But who was Cameron Carlyle? I’d never heard of him, and I had to assume most of the world hadn’t either. How far did he have to fall? Couldn’t be too far.

  Get ready to learn the TRUTH about Lying Author Cameron Carlyle!!!

  I found that I’d opened my laptop back up, and was looking at the blog of someone called Secret Reader. Whoever this was, they couldn’t be sophisticated. You didn’t make your own website for this stuff, it would be so easily traced back to you.

  While that window was open, my computer made a tiny ping! sound, and a little red 1 appeared. An update notification. I refreshed the page.

  There are things about Cameron Carlyle you NEED TO KNOW, shouted this new entry. Questions that HE MUST ANSWER! Question One: Why are you a PLAGIARIST, Mr. Carlyle?

  Ah, there it was. The big accusation. So this was definitely a Big Mistake instead of a Jilted Lover. Sorry about that, Cameron. Guess you dug your own grave.

  Would Micah tell Jane to have the website owner investigated? Would he tell her to have Cameron lie low, guide him not to respond at all? Would Micah handle any cease and desist orders?

  Don’t get involved. This isn’t for you. You don’t do this anymore.

  Yeah, I know. I don’t do it anymore. I’m not picking up the trash for one more person. I’m not cleaning up one more mess caused by someone’s inflated ego.

  But it bothered me on a professional level, that Micah might not tell Jane exactly what to do. Might give her the wrong advice. Lawyers knew plenty about lawyering, but they didn’t necessarily know how to handle PR disasters.

  That’s why they hired guys like me.

  “Alex? I didn’t expect to hear from you so quickly,” said Micah over the phone.

  “I’m not taking the case,” I said.

  “Of course not.”

  “But I have some advice.”

  Micah was an old friend. He knew better than to laugh at that. Knew better than to tell me how predictable I am.

  “Go ahead,” he said. “I’m listening.”

  3

  Cam

  “Be good,” Jane texted me, right before the meeting. “It was like pulling teeth to get you this appointment.”

  I sent her an emoji of a shocked face, along with a comment, “But I’m always good!”

  She sent back a grimace.

  I didn’t mention to her how nervous I was. These past couple of days, I’d been a wreck, hardly leaving my computer, carrying it with me to bed, so I could click over and over to see if there were any new developments.

  Secret Reader had gone silent after the last accusation…but that didn’t mean the world had stopped talking about it. My heart sunk into my stomach, reading response after response.

  I didn’t look my best, showing up to the lawyer’s office with two days of stubble, my hair a wreck. At least I’d changed out of my PJs into actual clothes. A secretary showed me into a small conference room, where I waited.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  I checked my phone after a year or two had passed, and saw I’d been sitting here for fifteen minutes. Maybe I should go out and talk to the secretary. Ask how long this usually took.

  Maybe I should storm out. Don’t you know who I am, don’t you know I’m a Very Important Mystery Writer?

  I didn’t like this feeling of doom creeping over me. Making me wait like this was a signal. My case wasn’t very important. They weren’t going to do anything about it.

  Plagiarism. What the hell? Of all the things I could be accused of—and there were so many—why that one?

  When the door opened, I looked up as hopeful as a sad dog in the pound, Maybe this is the person who will save me.

  But no. The guy who glanced in didn’t look like a lawyer, or an image consultant, or anything else that might help me. Not a bad-looking guy, mind you. The bright flecks of silver at his temples and in his thick stubble put him at a few years older than me. Nice broad shoulders inside a chambray shirt…but the shirt needed an iron, and the shirt-tails were out for the world to see. Battered loafers on his feet. And if I thought my hair was a mess…his had apparently never seen an actual comb, just his own fingers running through it.

  Oh well. “I’m having a meeting here,” I said to him, “you’re probably looking for another room.”

  He looked at the empty chairs and raised an eyebrow. “This is a meeting?”

  “Yes, a very exclusive one, invitees only,” I said, bristling when he didn’t leave immediately. Dude, come on, the last thing I need is a spectator hanging out during my darkest hour. Get on to your divorce lawyer or whatever you’re up to here.

  “Maybe you should’ve invited more people to your party,” said the guy, who had the audacity to come up to the table and pull out a chair.

  There are times in life when you’ve had almost no sleep, when things are going badly, you forgot to get a coffee on the way to your appointment, and your last nerve is on its last nerve. Times when you might respond a little more sharply than strictly necessary.

  Then there are times when you suddenly realize someone has been playing with you.

  “Are you the party?” I asked him.

  “Don’t I look festive?”

  I looked at his empty hands. “Where’s your briefcase? Your laptop? The pad of paper you’ll write your notes on, so that I know you’re taking this seriously?”

  He shrugged and scratched his chin. “I’m not taking this seriously, trust me.”

  Oh fuck, Jane, what did you get me into? Am I even in a real law firm, or is this some fly-by-night ambulance chasing outfit?

  It didn’t feel like a fly-by-night place. The chairs were leather, and you could sink straight into their thick cushions. The table was half a ton of tropical hardwood polished to a gorgeous gleam.

  Maybe I didn’t warrant the royal treatment. Maybe that’s why they pulled Bus Stop Larry off the sidewalk and in here to talk to me.

  “That’s really unprofessional,” I said.

  He nodded eagerly. “Exactly. I’m not a professional. Glad we can agree on that from the outset.”

  “But…then why are you here? What the hell?”

  “I’m doing a friend a favor,” he said. “No, scratch that. I’m keeping a friend from giving you bad advice. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s people giving bad advice.”

  I realized again: He’s playing with me. He keeps doing it. He’s trying to throw me off my balance…and I’m not sure why.

  If there’s one thing everyone knows about me, it’s that I don’t give up control of a conversation, ever. He’d been easily batting away my every attempt to get a hold of this meeting…but that was going to come to an end right now.

  “I get what y
ou’re doing,” I said. “I’m sure it must play well with the rubes. Coming in here dressed all shabbily, talking nonsense so that people don’t take you seriously. No doubt you then come up with some astounding little bit of wisdom that lets them know they misjudged you…so then you’ve got them, and they’re hanging on every word.”

  He propped his elbows on the table and said, “Is that what I’m doing?”

  “I write about crime,” I said. “I spend 90% of my day thinking about motives. Yes. That’s what you’re doing. I don’t have time for it. I’m here because I’ve got a problem.”

  “I’ll say.”

  He reached into his shirt pocket and drew out a picture. He flicked it over to me.

  It was a picture of me. The one the publisher paid for. “One of the best pictures of my life. That photographer was seriously cute, plus he knew exactly which angle to catch to bring out my cheekbones.”

  “You look a lot happier in the picture than you do sitting here,” he said.

  It was such a random thing to say. I could have snapped. Do you blame me for looking unhappy? My life is being torn apart by some crazy stalker—

  But no, this was still his manipulative little plan, wasn’t it? Throwing me off guard by showing me the picture—which proved that he’d been researching me—then focusing on emotions.

  One of my favorite parts of writing a mystery is when Katie and Roger sit around dissecting the conversations they’ve had with suspects. Who was lying, who thought they were telling the truth but were mistaken, and who was hiding everything? I love getting inside people’s heads.

  So did this guy, clearly.

  “You’re looking to see how I react,” I said. You’re expecting me to tell you how unhappy I am right now, because my level of emotion will tell you something about the case. So, forgive me a writer’s curiosity, but what are you hoping to learn about me from that? You think I might’ve drawn this stalker’s attention by being a drama queen? Or—”