***
Madeleine stared at the signing table in dismay. They’d seated her next to Tom Keneally, for pity’s sake. There were already five hundred odd people waiting in line for him. She sighed. It wouldn’t be art without the ritual humiliation.
Angela Savage hooked an arm through hers. She, too, had a place at the signing table, but it wasn’t so close to the festival’s star.
“Oh, bugger,” Angela’s voice was sympathetic. “At least you’ll get a photo with Keneally,” she offered in consolation.
Madeleine grimaced. “Unlikely to get a clear shot through this crowd.”
“There’re few people with your books.” Angela said, as they manoeuvred through Keneally’s hordes to take their seats at the signing table. Madeleine welcomed the elderly gentleman who stepped forward to have her autograph her latest novel. It was a genuine greeting, grateful, if a little eager. She did not hurry their conversation and composed a lengthy inscription for his book. In this way, the half dozen persons in her line would last at least thirty minutes. Fortunately, none of them seemed in any urgent haste.
Madeleine could see Edward laughing. She ignored him and signed and chatted and then sat clicking her pen as Keneally’s readers tried to avoid eye contact. She wondered idly if Edward McGinnity accepted festival invitations. Somehow, she thought not. But why?
“Because the work isn’t about me,” he said.
“No…but you’re behind it.”
He looked away from her for a moment. His hands were plunged deep into his pockets. “I appeared at one of those in-conversation interviews just after my book was shortlisted. They wanted to talk about the accident. Apparently, that was my story.”
Madeleine understood then. Writers were required to have a story aside from that which they wrote, to become a character spun off from their own books. Tragedy was a publicist’s gold, and if they found a vein, they’d mine it relentlessly. Not to be cruel, but because it was their job to make a writer memorable, and nothing lingered in the recollection like suffering. Unless it was humour, she supposed, thinking of Tom Keneally. Readers wanted you to either make them laugh or cry, in your books or in person. It was not surprising. To the reader, the author was an extension of his or her work and not the other way around.
“What happened to your family is part of your work, you know,” she told him gently. “It’s written into all your books.”
“You’ve read my books?” he asked.
“Of course I have, I’m writing you.”
He gazed at her and, though he still smiled, she could see pain in the unblinking wideness of his eyes.
“There’s a deep sadness at the heart of your work,” she said. “People are drawn to it.”
“Why would they be drawn to sadness?”
“It’s the irony of compassion, I suppose.”
“The deaths of my family are not entertainment, Maddie.”
“They’re not looking to be entertained, they’re hoping to understand.”
“You have a great deal of faith in my readers.”
“When they read your book, they put a great deal of faith in you. It seems fair.”
Edward recalled a conversation with his agent. Leith had said something similar about the trust readers place in the writer, though he couldn’t remember her exact words. Regardless, it seemed he was placing a version of it on the lips of Madeleine d’Leon. “So you come to festivals out of some sense of obligation?”
“No, I come because they’re fun. Because I like talking to other writers.” She studied him. “Don’t you?”
“I talk to you, don’t I?”
“Say bestseller!” Angela snapped a photo, holding the phone at an angle that would make it hard to distinguish Tom Keneally’s signing line from Madeleine d’Leon’s.
Madeleine cringed as she watched her friend post the picture online. “I suspect that’s fraud.”
Angela shrugged. “You’re a lawyer…you’ll get me off.”
With nothing left to sign and some hours before either was to appear again, they left the table to find lunch. In this, Madeleine deferred to her colleague. Angela Savage’s protagonist was a crime-solving food critic. Consequently Angela had eaten at most of the city’s restaurants in the interests of research.
“So what are you working on?” Madeleine asked as they sat down at Bahn Thai, apparently famous for its dumplings. The restaurant’s décor was functional, the chairs, tablecloths, and flowers all plastic. But every seat was taken, and a good proportion of the clientele were of Asian extraction. It was a noisy, aromatic place where taste and company were all that mattered.
“I’m writing a children’s book.” Angela ordered for them both mid-conversation. “A picture book for the children of foodies…We’re Going on a Truffle Hunt.”
“Are you serious?” Madeleine was already laughing.
Angela’s response was wickedly gleeful. “Oh, yes. The ultimate quest epic for the first-world child. Purple Duck is getting Tony Flowers.”
“Really?” Madeleine’s eyes widened. Tony Flowers was one of the most sought-after book illustrators in the country. His involvement all but guaranteed the project’s success.
Angela nodded happily. “I might finally have a book that sells out its advance. Children’s books are the only things that seem to be moving at the moment.”
Madeleine had heard that said before. When money was tight, people cut back on their own reading indulgences long before they were willing to deny their children books. Perhaps it was instinctive parental sacrifice or a fear that any deprivation would be irreversibly detrimental. As a result, the stringent economic times were being felt primarily by writers of adult books. Advances were plummeting and even established authors were being dropped by their publishers.
They talked of Angela’s picture book as they ate dumplings and drank peach iced tea. And then they moved to a French bakery for cake and coffee and to exchange gossip about the industry.
“So I hear on the grapevine that you’re looking for a new publisher.”
Madeleine choked on her cappuccino. “No…well, maybe…I mean how did you—?”
“Settle, petal, it’s not common knowledge. I just happened to see your agent coming out of Harry Lewin’s office.”
“Harry Lewin?”
“He’s the commissioning editor at Purple Duck.”
“I’m not Leith’s only client,” Madeleine said, thinking of Edward McGinnity. She shook her head at the absurdity of that train of thought.
“I had a meeting with Harry later that day. He asked about you.”
“What did he want to know?”
“Just background stuff…your backlist, what you’re like to work with, that sort of thing.”
“Oh.”
“So, am I right? Are you shopping?”
“Tarquin doesn’t want my latest manuscript. Leith is checking my options.”
“Why don’t they like it?”
“Something about my market. They want to me to shut up and write Veronica Killwilly until the cows come home.”
Angela sighed. “It’s easier to show a one-trick pony. Still, you must really believe in this new manuscript if you’re willing to risk everything. Tarquin Press is a good operation.”
“Yes, I think I am beginning to believe in it. Perhaps too much.”
“Too much?”
Madeleine winced, retracting the confession. “I didn’t mean that. I’m just living and breathing the manuscript at the moment. Sometimes I have to remind myself what’s real.”
Angela sighed. “Are your literary constructs taking over? Therein lies madness, my friend.” She formed her fingers into a gun. “Kill them off quickly before they enslave you!”
“I’m not sure I can without taking myself out as well.” Madeleine propped her elbows on the table. �
�Veronica Killwilly always seemed to have an existence independent of me too, but not like Edward. Sometimes it feels like he’s making the decisions.”
“Decisions about what?”
“About what happens next.”
Angela smiled, sympathetically, or perhaps knowingly. Madeleine wasn’t sure. She asked.
“Does this happen to you, Ang?”
Angela shrugged. “I think it happens to every writer to some degree. Who knows what’s really going on in our poor beleaguered, broken-down intoxicated brains? I’m not sure it’s a good idea to look too closely into the mechanics of what we do; it may break the spell.”
Madeleine nodded. “It’s just that sometimes I feel like I’m on the precipice of going too far.”
“In fiction? No such thing, my friend.” Angela sipped her coffee, pausing to lick white froth from the scarlet bow of her upper lip. “If you’re nervous, it’s because you’re pushing yourself further than in your previous novels. It’ll strengthen the work.”
Madeleine said nothing. She hadn’t really been thinking about the quality of her writing. Angela interpreted the silence as a concern about just that.
“I wouldn’t worry about it, Maddie.” She cut each of the two desserts they’d ordered in half. “It’s a book.Actually, it’s not even a book…it’s a potential book. Nobody’s going to live or die. Just write, see what happens. You can always rewrite it if it doesn’t work.”
Madeleine bit her lip as she weighed the advice. Angela was right, but Madeleine recoiled from the idea that a story be changed once told. The process seemed unnatural somehow. Of course she polished prose, replaced words and restructured sentences, just like any other writer, but she didn’t ever alter what happened. To Madeleine d’Leon, the act of placing words on a page cast her imagined events into a kind of actuality which she could no more change than she could history. She left that to better writers, disciplined wordsmiths who could bring themselves to undo what they’d done.
Even so, there was comfort in Angela’s counsel, a collegiate empathy—a knowledge of what it was to scrabble for words that would make sense of the world both within and without. Fleeting, slippery inspiration that defied any sort of restraint.
In the corner of her eye, Madeleine saw Edward McGinnity smile. He knew already that she would change nothing.
A Pursuit of Justice
The gallery was in the process of bumping out the Willow Meriwether exhibition before hanging the next. Paintings were being taken down for packing and shipping to the art lovers and dealers who’d acquired them. The process was one of organised activity, bubble wrap, and paperwork.
Willow was watching as her grand debut was dismantled when Edward came in. A concerned curator intercepted him and asked his business.
“Ned! Hello!” Willow intervened and introduced Edward McGinnity. “Ned is my very dear friend. He’s come to support me…it is so very emotional watching one’s work come down.”
The curator smiled, mauve lips, bright even teeth. “You should be delighted! I don’t know of many people who sell out their first exhibition.” She whispered, her hand splayed beside her mouth. “I believe your agent is being inundated with offers to host your next show.”
Willow managed to blush. “Yes, Adrian would be furious if he knew I was here and not at home painting. Still…” She gazed beseechingly at the curator. “Someone should be here to see the exhibition off.”
Eventually, the curator was persuaded that the show needed some sort of farewell. She handed Edward a security pass and waved them in.
They wandered amongst the activity, Willow telling Edward who had purchased each of her paintings: several private collectors and a corporate entity. Chearles Pty Ltd had acquired the majority of the works for what Edward presumed a tax-deductible display in a boardroom or foyer. Soon they became unnoticed, as the curators worked to restore the gallery to pristine emptiness. As soon as Edward sensed that they were no longer of any interest, he guided Willow towards the fire stairs in which Vogel had died. The police cordon had been removed and the landing cleaned.
“What are you doing?” Willow asked.
“I just wanted to have another look.”
“Why?”
“I’m trying to get it clear in my head how Vogel might have been lured into the fire stairs and murdered without anyone noticing.” Edward scanned the stairwell. “You know, it’s almost ironic that they don’t put fire alarms in the fire escape.”
Willow looked up at the ceiling several floors above. “You’re right, there’s no alarm.”
“Vogel was a smoker, wasn’t he?”
Willow nodded. “Yes. He used one of those Bakelite cigarette holders. Do you think he came in here to smoke?”
Edward started down the stairs. “He might have joined his killer here for a covert cigarette.”
“That might explain why no one noticed him being forced into the escape—he snuck out voluntarily.”
“So the killer could be someone he knows.”
“Who smokes,” Willow added.
“Could be.” Edward ran his eyes over the recently scrubbed landing on which they’d seen the body, not really sure what he was looking for. “Do you have a guest list for the opening, Will?”
“I could get one.”
“Would you please?”
“Of course. But why?”
“It’s a place to start. I presume there’ll be names we can eliminate straight away and we’ll look through the others for those who Vogel might have joined for a cigarette.”
“So you’re…investigating?”
“Just looking into it.”
“The police—”
“Are idiots…not to mention they think I did it, so they’re unlikely to listen to my theories.”
“You have a theory?”
“Nothing more than that the killer smokes…maybe.”
Willow’s smile curled gently to the right. “And you can’t think of any other reason someone, or two, may wish to slip out of a crowded party into the privacy of a fire escape?”
“Vogel? You can’t be serious.”
“There’s somebody for everybody, Ned.”
“So I’m told.” He shrugged. “We’ll check the guest list for any potential mystery seductresses as well…How many blind, deaf, and dumb women could possibly be attending an art exhibition?”
“You’d be surprised,” Willow murmured.
Edward ran up the stairs and held open the door back into the exhibition rooms. “After you.”
They slipped back in. It seemed no one had noticed their retreat into the fire escape, or perhaps the watching world had simply assumed it a tryst. The artist was, after all, married and the young man was clearly besotted.
Edward’s eyes were directed above once again. “There’re security cameras on every painting, Will. One of them must have caught something.”
“Surely the police will have thought of that?”
“Yes, you’re right. Still, I wouldn’t mind seeing that footage.”
Willow folded her arms. “I might be able to help you with that, if you think it’s important.”
“You? How? The police aren’t going to release the footage to either of us.”
Willow laughed. “You really are a Luddite sometimes, Ned! We’re not talking about videotapes…the security system is digital. It would take seconds to download another copy of the footage.”
“And you can do this?” Edward was sceptical.
“I know one of the guys who works in security. We’ll buy a memory card at the gift shop and drop by and see him before we leave, if you like.”
Madeleine watched the exchange carefully. There was something casually devious about Willow Meriwether—she slipped so easily into espionage. The writer found herself wondering about the artist.
&nbs
p; Edward and Willow remained in the exhibition hall for only a few more minutes while Willow called her acquaintance in security. “Lou’s made the appropriate access changes to our security passes,” she said as she returned the mobile phone to her pocket. “We can just go down.”
Security was based on the ground floor in a control room which contained video feeds from every part of the gallery. When the writer and the artist came in, Lou Mattlock was nowhere to be seen. Then Willow noticed the grunting and followed the sound behind the console where they discovered a young guard doing sit-ups. He held up his hand for them to wait until he completed his set, finishing with an explosive count of “hundred.” He grabbed the towel hanging over the office chair and wiped his neck as he stood to speak with them. “Gotta drop a few pounds, you know,” he said apologetically. He patted his belly. “I’m on the desk this entire month.”
“You definitely look thinner,” Willow said. “They’re bound to accept you soon, Lou!”
The guard beamed and Willow introduced him to Edward McGinnity. “We have a favour to ask you, Lou.”
“Sure thing. Whaddaya need?”
“We were hoping to see the footage you gave the police. Of my opening.”
Mattlock’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
Willow appeared to hesitate. She glanced at the door and lowered her voice. “There’s a man. He’s been bothering me for months—turning up at my studio, sending flowers, following me. I think he might have been there that night.”
“Have you told the police?” Mattlock straightened his shoulders.
Willow shook her head emphatically. “I’m not sure he was there, you see, and I don’t want to give the police his name unless I’m sure. He’s an important man, very powerful in the art world. I don’t want to invite trouble if I don’t have to.”
Edward said nothing. Clearly Willow had this in hand.
“You did keep a copy of the footage you gave the police, didn’t you?”
The security guard wavered. “Yes, it’s on the backup hard disk, but I don’t think I’m strictly supposed to.”
“Please, Lou. I don’t want to overreact, but I’m frightened.” She held out the USB stick they bought at the gallery shop.
Crossing the Lines Page 12
