“… 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.
“Spiritu
al 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.
“—then you know they have the most bizarre love-hate relationship with the public you can possibly imagine. In fact, I’m sure you can’t imagine how totally and pathetically some people attach themselves to the rich and famous. And how many truly disturbed people are walking around out there.” Amber’s wave encompassed the city and the entire world beyond it.
“That last part I’ve had some experience with,” I said.
Sally Rinehart squeaked like a mouse. “One woman sent Chandelier a Tampax. Used. She wanted Chandelier to drink her menstrual blood.”
Everyone but Sally shuddered. I began to see her more as a ghoul than a sprite.
“Then there’re the critics,” Lark piped up. “Some of them are so insulted by Chandelier’s success they seem to become literally unhinged. One of them said there should be a federal law prohibiting her from writing any more books.”
“Are you seriously suggesting that one of them might be a suspect?”
Lark hesitated. “Allen Goodhew, maybe. Allen’s local—he writes the book column for an alternative weekly, the Riff. Allen seems to feel personally betrayed by Chandelier’s work. It’s as if he feels she’s become some sort of Antichrist.”
“I’ll talk to him. Anyone else?”
“Only her entourage,” Amber said with a sneer.
“What kind of entourage do you mean?”
“Copy editors, book designers, cover artists, publicists, store owners, talk show producers, various and sundry gofers and assistants. Everyone she comes in contact with, basically.”
“You’re saying she’s difficult to deal with.”
Amber laughed the way a hyena barks. “Has Cher had plastic surgery? All I’m saying is if you spend any time in her orbit, sooner or later Chandelier will accuse you of incompetence, treason, stupidity, or all of them, and not necessarily in that order. And the list of her victims includes all three of us.”
I thought Amber might be exaggerating, or even have some personal vendetta she was pursuing, but when I looked at the other two women, they nodded. “Then why do you keep on?” I asked.
“Money,” Amber Adams said gruffly. “Ten percent of a ten-million-dollar advance is hard to turn down.”
“It’s more than that, Amber,” Lark insisted. “Chandelier is gigantic. She’s one of the most successful women in the world. You just keep hoping that someday she will focus her energy and ambition on something larger than herself. Because when that happens, she’ll do major things with her life.”
“When pigs fly is when Chandelier will think of someone other than herself,” Amber Adams muttered in the echo of Lark’s encomium. Her bile was so obvious I decided to ask Lark about it the next time we were alone.
“She’s not that bad,” Lark protested. “She gives tons of money to charity.”
“Tax dodge,” Amber countered.
“She buys hundreds of books for the libraries.”
“Her books, mostly. Which has the fully anticipated result of pushing her higher on the bestseller list.”
“She’s a good mom.”
“When she’s home.”
“She’s a good speller,” Sally said, blushing.
I laughed. “I’ve known serial killers with fewer enemies.”
“We’re pretty sure the guy who wrote the notes is here in San Francisco,” Lark McLaren said. “Aren’t we?”
“Why?”
“The notes were hand-delivered, for one thing.”
“If you can hire people to commit murder, you can certainly pay them to deliver an envelope.”
“But this is where she lives. This is where most of her …”
“Victims live?” I offered.
“I suppose so.”
“Besides,” Sally interrupted, “I thought we were sure it’s the ex-husband.”
Lark shook her head. “I can’t see Mickey going that far. I mean, if Chandelier died, what would he do for money?”
“What would any of us?” Amber added morosely.
I sighed and finished my beer. “That covers the bases, I guess. I’ll see you all at the big party.”
“That reminds me,” Lark said. “Chandelier wants to make sure you scout out the place beforehand.”
“Scout for what?”
“Bombs. Booby traps. Assassins. You’d know better than I would, I’m sure.”
“Do you really think this is that serious?” I asked.
“Chandelier does,” they said in unison.
I shrugged. “Okay. I’ll take a look. Where is it again?”
“Jimbo’s. She’s had all her launch parties there for the past twelve years.”
“How many people do you expect to show up?”
“Three to four hundred. And they’ll be lining up by three at the latest, so you’d better get there early.”
Chapter 7
I went home to change clothes for the party, which meant switching from corduroy slacks to twills and replacing the old tweed jacket with the one that still had all the buttons. As I fixed a cup of coffee to help me stay awake through the festivities, I got an idea.
“Hey, Ruthie,” I said when she answered the phone.
“Hey, yourself, Sugar Bear. How’s life in the fast lane?”
“I’m still looking for the on-ramp and you know it.”
Ruthie’s laugh was a wheezy growl that a grizzly would envy. “Still loving up that assistant DA?”
“Whenever I get the chance.”
“Time you tied the knot, is what I think, baby doll.”
“I’ll keep that in mind in case the issue comes up for a vote.”
“This one’s the one; I can feel it.”
“Could be,” I said, wondering how much Ruthie’s judgment could be relied on. And if it would help to have someone to blame if I made the plunge, then things fell apart.
“What can I do you for, Sugar Bear?” Ruthie was asking as I was estimating eventualities.
“What’re you doing at four o’clock?”
“Today?”
“Yeah.”
She thought it over. “Same as usual, I guess—inching toward the liquor cabinet and trying to keep Conrad off me till nightfall.”
I laughed because it was the truth and because I could picture it as vividly as if I were in the room.
Ruthie Spring was an old friend. Her first husband, Harry, had been my mentor in the investigations trade until he was murdered in a valley town named Oxtail more than twenty years ago. Her second husband, Conrad, is rich beyond calculus and spends his money on whatever Ruthie wants him to, which is usually one or another of Ruthie’s favorite causes. She’s a former army nurse and sheriff’s deputy and is currently a private investigator carrying on for her fallen husband. She works when she wants to and doesn’t when she doesn’t, a state of nirvana I aspire to myself, although it’s beginning to look as if I’ll never get there unless I win the lottery, which is problematic since I don’t play.
“What’s happening at four o’clock?” Ruthie asked as I was scanning our r
ecent history.
“Ever hear of Chandelier Wells?”
“The writer?”
“The very same.”
“Sure. She’s huge.”
“Read any of her books?”
“I have to admit that when Conrad goes off on one of his quail shoots, she gets my juices flowing a night or two. Gets me wet as a sweat sock sometimes.”
I was glad Ruthie couldn’t see my blush.
“The lady writes a nice slice of erotica,” she went on. “Not too gamy; not too tame. A sort of ‘I think I’ll try that myself next time’ kind of thing. Why does it matter?”
“She’s having a party celebrating her new book at Jimbo’s at four. Thought you might want to go.”
“You going to be there?”
“Yep.”
She chuckled with a ribald nudge. “Big fan of bodice rippers, are you, Marsh?”
“I’ll be working, actually,” I said quickly. Not that there’s anything wrong with bodice rippers. “And I could use some help.”
“Doing what?”
“Keeping an eye out for anyone who might have something in mind other than literature.”
“Something illegal, you mean.”
“Yep.”
“Even violent.”
“Yep.”
She paused. “Count me in, Sugar Bear. Might be a hoot, hobnobbing with the hoi polloi. What do I have to do?”
“Just keep your eyes open.”
“We going together or separately?”
“I’ve got to be there early, so come on your own about four. And don’t let on that we know each other, unless you need help shutting something down.”
“Do I pack my piece?”
“I think so.”
“No problem. I’ll be the one in the lizard-skin boots,” she added unnecessarily, then told me to be good and if I couldn’t be good, to send her a copy of the videotape.
I got to Jimbo’s a little after three. True to Lark McLaren’s prediction, the devoted had already begun to assemble, most of them women, many of them lugging bulging canvas book bags and sporting sweatshirts emblazoned with one of Chandelier’s book jackets, all of them surprisingly cheerful given the chill in the afternoon air and the length of the idolatrous line. I tried to remember if I’d ever gotten a book signed by its author and could only come up with the night I went to a reading by Mailer but didn’t have the nerve to ask for an autograph even though I bought his book.
Ellipsis Page 5
