by Libby Howard
“Meaning?”
“It looks like one book was contracted for a fee of one thousand dollars. I know it doesn’t seem fair since that Trainor woman was probably making a ten-thousand-dollar advance plus royalties, but that was what was agreed upon. There was no obligation for Mrs. Pook to continue writing for that amount past the first book. The fact that she did would tell me she was satisfied with the terms, no matter how lopsided they seemed. Even I have seen those vampire romance books prominently displayed on the front tables at bookstores. Mrs. Pook had to have realized that Ms. Trainor was making far more than she was, but she never requested additional compensation for the other books beyond what this contract says.”
“But audio, film, and foreign rights?”
“That’s where it gets tricky—and where I’m a bit out of my area of expertise. The way I’m reading this, I’d interpret the contract to mean only e-book and print rights are conveyed. It doesn’t specify whether those rights include translated works, but I’d be inclined to rule that the general nature of the contract does include translations. Film and audio…those formats aren’t addressed at all in the original contract, so I would rule they are not included. But contract lawyers who specialize in intellectual property or creative works might have a different take on it.”
I mulled over his words. “I’m wondering how paranoid production companies are when they buy the film rights to something. I can see an audio firm taking the word of a big-name publishing company that they own all the rights, but would a producer dig a little deeper? And if they found out there was a ghostwriter who wasn’t mentioned in the deal, wouldn’t they want to see the contract between the ghostwriter and the publisher? And if the publisher had no idea about the ghostwriter…”
“Then the film company would probably be very hesitant about the deal until all the details were locked in on paper. There’s a whole lot more at stake with movies. Audio production is, what, three or four thousand per book? Producing a film costs millions. And you said the author had already been hit with a plagiarism suit? That’s going to make a company offering to buy the film rights doubly nervous.”
“From what the agent said, the plagiarism suit was dismissed. Summary judgment, or something like that.”
“Still, it might have made the producer want their attorney to look at the contract between the publishing company and Ms. Trainor to double check any possibility of collaborators or ghostwriters, and to clarify who indemnifies who in case of a lawsuit.”
“I can’t imagine how they found out about Gerry though,” I mused, “even with the plagiarism suit. I got the impression that the agreement was all hush-hush between Luanne and Gerry. Gerry said that the publishing company, even Luanne’s agent, didn’t know those books were ghostwritten. That no one beyond Luanne, her husband, and her sister knew.”
“The husband was having a beer in a bar and started bragging?” the judge suggested.
I shot him a sideways look. “The guy is a minister.”
“Ministers drink. And ministers have been known to brag about their talented wives as well.”
“Talented wives who write about explicit sexual relationships between women and demons? Or vampires?”
He grimaced. “Okay, maybe not.”
“The contract between Luanne and the publisher would have looked boilerplate, and no one would have ever known about Gerry’s involvement, let alone questioned whether she’d conveyed the film rights in her deal with Luanne. How did they find out? How did anyone find out?”
“They had to have found out somehow.” The judge pointed at my phone. “The other contract, the one Gerry hadn’t gotten around to signing yet, is professionally done and does include all formats and specifically notes the film rights. If I had to hazard a guess, I’d assume Ms. Trainor modeled it after the ones she signs with the publishing company. I’m going to assume that the news leaked out. Ms. Trainor got wind of it and was trying to dot all the legal ‘i’s before either the film deal went belly up or the publisher accused her of breach of contract and sued her for damages.”
I frowned. “Could they do that? Breach of contract? Really?”
“I’m pretty sure her contract with the publisher included an assertion that these works were her own and that she owned all the rights to them. So yes, breach of contract. I doubt they would have tossed her to the curb with her name on all those bestsellers, but they’d definitely have significant leverage over her in future contract negotiations. They could threaten to expose the deal, go straight to Gerry for the books, and strip Ms. Trainor’s name from the novels. She’d go down in disgrace.”
I caught my breath. Luanne’s own books hadn’t been all that great. Without Gerry writing for her, she’d be nothing. And after everything went public, she’d be blacklisted. He was right. I would have felt sorry for Luanne had she not been such a horrible, nasty human being.
“If Gerry had signed the new contract, would it have been legal?” I asked. “I mean, she’d be giving away additional rights without any additional compensation. Doesn’t that void the contract?”
“It would have been legal. Unless she was drugged or drunk or somehow forced to sign it, it would have been legal. Sometimes contracts are revised and no additional compensation is given. I’ve seen it happen when a previous contract is vague or there are situations the parties assumed but weren’t addressed in writing.”
“She was going to sign it,” I told him. “She just had to find time to go to some office place to make copies because her printer was broken. Then she needed to go to the bank and have it notarized before sending it in. Luanne was pushing her to hurry, but the woman has like a dozen kids and is really busy with her husband’s church. Even if Luanne had convinced me to detour there on the way to dropping her off at the airport, Gerry wouldn’t have had it notarized yet. And it’s Sunday. I don’t think there’s anywhere to get something notarized on a Sunday.”
“If Ms. Trainor had a signed contract showing that she owned all rights, then it probably would have blown over. The publisher would have slapped her on the wrist for not letting them know, but I’m guessing as long as the lawyers felt the contract looked solid, the film deal would have gone through and all would have been okay.”
“But it was all going to blow up before she could get the new contract,” I mused. “And the old one was so horrible that the film company would have run away, taking their offer with them. Luanne had to have that new contract—and she had to have it yesterday.”
“Well, now that she’s dead, it’s kind of a moot point, isn’t it? So what is the ghostwriter going to do?” Judge Beck motioned again toward my phone. “Gerry. I guess she can get it notarized and send it to the agent. Ms. Trainor’s death shouldn’t hold up the film production or the final contracted books as long as your ghostwriter is amenable. It wouldn’t be the first time books have been published posthumously. It doesn’t sound like Gerry wants her name on any of the books, so future novels would just continue to be released as Luanne Trainor books and everything would proceed business-as-usual.”
I shrugged. “I left a message over at the inn for Eva to call me. I’ll text these over to her once I get her cell phone and I’m assuming she’ll contact Gerry and have her sign with the agency and with the publishing company. Eva will probably want to make sure the last few books in the series are firmed up with her as well as the film rights. And I think there was talk of a third series, too.”
I guessed Gerry would be happy to continue seeing those books published posthumously under Luanne’s name. Judge Beck was right—it wasn’t unheard of. I’d read of a crime fiction author who’d been publishing for ten years past his death through ghostwriters contracted through his estate. As long as the writing was as good—which it would be—none of the readers would really care. At the end of the day, they only wanted an engaging story with their favorite characters, no matter who was putting words to paper behind the scenes.
Yes, Gerry was getting ripped o
ff, but she didn’t seem to care. The woman was thrilled that no one in her husband’s church or any of her family beyond her sister knew about her hobby. She was equally thrilled to be making some spare money off her work. She wrote at her own pace. Outside of Barton Wells, she had complete creative control. And that money had added up over the years to quite a nice supplemental income in her eyes. There were ten Infernal Awakenings books and six Fanged Darkness books to date. That was anywhere from sixteen to thirty-two thousand dollars she’d made depending on when Luanne had started paying her extra. And in spite of the millions everyone else had made from the books, Gerry was obviously satisfied with what she’d received.
Neither she nor her husband seemed resentful. Neither would have wanted Luanne Trainor dead. If the author hadn’t died, everything would have gone on as before. Luanne’s death hadn’t really changed anything for Gerry. As far as murder suspects went, I felt safe ruling out Gerry and her husband.
Not that there was a murder. Although with Daisy’s continued insistence, I’d begun to wonder if Luanne’s death wasn’t an accident after all, even though there was nothing from what I could see at the parking garage to lead me to believe otherwise.
Accident or not? I’d ask J.T. tomorrow at work. He knew all the police and was probably on a first-name basis with all the people at the medical examiner’s office. If there was the slightest hint of foul play, my boss would know. And maybe then I could put my curiosity and my suspicions to rest.
Chapter 17
I got up early on Monday and made maple spice scones as well as my favorite cherry vanilla ones—a double batch of each so I’d have enough to take in to work. I’d gotten to the office, had a pot of coffee brewing, and was thumbing through the skip-trace files when Holt appeared, a dark indistinct shape over near the copy machine.
“We’ve got an exciting day today,” I told the ghost. “Two people with bad debts to track down and a car repossession. We won’t actually be repossessing the car, just figuring out where the guy has it stashed. Pretty much the whole day is going to be me doing searches on the computer and typing up reports.” I figured one day of watching me do the most boring detective work ever would send Holt right to the afterlife. Personally, I found the research interesting, but I doubted the ghost of a young football player would. He probably thought I was going to be chasing down criminals and tackling drug dealers in back alleys like in the movies. Boy, was he about to get a surprise.
I’d just sat down with my cup of coffee and began sorting through one of the files when J.T. came waltzing in, making a beeline for the scones.
Waltzing. More like skipping. The man was downright giddy with excitement.
“Have a good weekend?” I asked.
“Actually yes. Better than yours, I hear.”
I grimaced. “This is becoming a habit of mine, finding the recently deceased. It’s a habit I’m not particularly thrilled about.”
“From what Nancy told me, no one is going to be crying at her funeral.” J.T. poured himself a cup of coffee then turned to sit on the edge of the table. “Unless she left a series hanging, that is. No one likes an unfinished series.”
Huh. He was friends with Nancy? Friends enough that he’d gotten the details of the disastrous event the day afterward? I made a mental note never to doubt J.T.’s information network.
“I can pretty much guarantee there won’t be any unfinished series, even for decades to come,” I drawled. “She certainly wasn’t a very nice person, and both Nancy and Paula Billingsly probably got the worst of her terrible social skills, but I still wouldn’t want the woman dead.”
“You talking about that author woman?” Miles walked through the door, sighted the scones, and went straight for them.
“Word certainly travels fast,” I told him.
“Well, you know, two celebrity deaths within two months.” Miles bit into the pastry. “It’s gotta be a record or something.”
The officer and I had struck up a sort-of friendship during the Holt Dupree investigation, and now he was a regular at the offices of Pierson Investigative and Recovery Services—especially on Mondays when I tended to bring in home-baked goods.
“I was first on the scene for both those celebrity deaths,” I reminded him. “It was a bit of a shock finding Luanne Trainor sprawled at the bottom of the steps leading out of the parking garage.”
“She was at the exit heading out into that little street behind the taco place, wasn’t she? There’s only three steps up to the door at that exit. What did she do, slip on a banana peel or something?”
I shrugged. “That’s for you guys to determine, not me.”
Miles’ phone buzzed and he looked down at it before stuffing the rest of the scone in his mouth and stepping into the back office to answer the call. Holt’s ghost moved from the copier to stand in front of the doorway. Miles shivered as he passed through the spirit, and I noticed Holt followed the officer in a drifting fog sort of way.
I sipped my coffee and looked through my work for the day. J.T. had filled out the paperwork for me to get my actual license, but even after I was authorized to do actual detective work, I’d still be primarily responsible for the online investigative side of the business. Although being a licensed PI wouldn’t change my duties all that much, it still thrilled me that I’d soon have a slip of paper and new business cards, making it all official.
Journalist. Then caretaker and freelance writer. Then skip tracer and soon-to-be detective. This job had started out as a way to make ends meet and put food on the table, but I was loving my new career.
“Oh, and thanks by the way. I owe you one.” J.T. grabbed another scone and waved it at me.
I raised my eyebrows and gave him a puzzled look.
“I have a date tonight,” he told me with a smug smile.
“Daisy?”
“Finally. I guess I have you to thank for that.”
“Just make sure you run a razor over your head and wear your cowboy boots,” I told him. “Where are you two going?”
“Manzana’s downtown. You can’t go wrong with pasta, and they’ve got the whole dim-room, candlelight and chianti atmosphere down pat.”
“Don’t get too romantic,” I warned him. “Daisy wants interesting conversation more than smarmy compliments. I mean, a few compliments are always welcome, but don’t go overboard, okay?”
He nodded. “Any topics I should avoid?”
I laughed. “Depends on how spirited you want the conversation. Get her talking about her work, or community events, or local history. You guys grew up together. Surely you’ve got a lot of past in common you can discuss?”
“We both knew each other, but we didn’t hang in the same social circles when we were kids. Or as adults, either. Honestly, I hadn’t seen Daisy in years until you started working for me.”
“You’ll do fine,” I assured him, hoping it was the truth. Yes, my boss was quirky, but so was my best friend. I didn’t want to force a square peg into a round hole, but if the pair of them hit it off, I’d be thrilled.
“Guys!” Miles burst back into the room, waving his phone in excitement, Holt’s ghostly shadow so close behind him that he actually did look like Miles’ shadow. “I just got off the phone with my buddy over in Milford. He just got the Luanne Trainor case on his board!”
J.T. and I exchanged perplexed looks. “Case?”
“Murder.” Miles nodded smugly. “The M.E.’s office rushed it since she was a celebrity and the brother is pushing to have the body shipped out to Chicago. Seems someone bashed her on the back of the head.”
I stared at him. “Why didn’t anyone notice that at the scene? Paramedics? The police? And what in the heck did they hit her with that broke her neck, because although her head was…” I shuddered. “Well, I’m no doctor and I could tell her neck was broken.”
“No, someone hit her on the back of the head, then she fell forward and whacked the front part of her head on the edge of the step. Everyone assumed t
he blood was from the side of her face. Plus, with all that poofy red hair, nobody saw the wound on the back of her head until the M.E. got a look at her.”
I frowned, visualizing the scene. “But there was no weapon. I didn’t see anything there that an attacker could have used to hit her with.”
“Maybe he took it with him,” Miles suggested. “Or stashed it in a parked car.”
J.T. snorted. “Milford isn’t exactly crime central, but no one leaves their car unlocked, especially in a parking garage. The guy either took the weapon with him or stashed it somewhere.”
Miles nodded. “If everyone assumed it was an accident, no one would have been searching the parking garage for a weapon. He could have just tossed it in the stairwell or out into the back dumpster and no one would have known.”
I shook my head in disbelief. So Daisy was right. Luanne’s death wasn’t an accident after all. “So someone pushed her.” I mused. “No, not pushed her. Someone hit her. Was the blow to the head severe enough to prove intent to kill?”
Miles shrugged. “That’s for the lawyers to decide. It was certainly severe enough to cause injury and make her fall to her death. Plus, whoever did it must have seen her fall. They left her there, dead on the parking garage floor.”
He was right. An innocent person would have called for help, not snuck off and left poor Luanne there for me to find. Well, not poor Luanne, but still the woman didn’t deserve to be murdered.
“Your friend has the case?” I asked Miles, immediately wondering how I could somehow weasel myself into the investigation. If it were Miles, I would have no problem, but a detective I didn’t know in Milford, and me without an official P.I.’s license yet…
“Desmond Keeler,” he told me. “And he wants to see you as soon as possible. Since you found the body and had helped with the event, you know.”
