Dying to Get Published

by Judy Fitzwater

  Chapter 2

  Choosing someone to murder was not as difficult as Jennifer thought it would be. The first criterion was obvious: the world must improve with the victim's absence. Second, she felt the death should be symbolic for all those poor souls struggling to publish the masterpieces that no one would ever read because of someone else's whim. Third, she felt an obligation (for Jaimie's sake) that the victim be childless and preferably spouseless. Fourth, he or she must be a true career S.O.B.

  Jennifer adjusted the bulky towel threatening to slide off her wet hair, pulled open the drawer of the file cabinet cramped in the back of her closet, and riffled through the file marked AGENTS. The rejection letters were neatly stacked on the shelf, but the lists of agents, names copied laboriously from lectures, professional newsletters, and Literary Marketplace, were all kept neatly within the file. Next to each name was a date and a notation reflecting their replies to her queries and sample chapters: FL, form letter; PR, personal reply; PRWP, personal reply with praise; and GAANWAW which stood for Go Away and Never Write Another Word.

  Most agents were polite. Some grew less polite with time. Her eyes wandered to the name of one agent with half a dozen notations in the margin. Jennifer's stomach began to quease. She had spent more than a year in correspondence with Penney Richmond. First, the query that took three months for a reply, then another four for the glowing response to the first fifty pages of The Corpse Found a Home, her fourth novel, and finally another six months before she read those awful words: "I just didn't love it enough. I'm sure you'll have no trouble placing it. It's a great book." And a year older.

  The phone call had been hell.

  JENNIFER: "What was wrong with The Corpse Found a Home?

  PENNEY: "Let me see. I read so many things. Was that the book with the body that kept getting shuffled from one place to another?"

  JENNIFER: "Yes. Four friends had gone out together, one died, and each of the other three thought something they did had killed him."

  PENNEY: "Cute idea. It made me laugh. It would never sell. Everything is reality-based now—gritty.

  JENNIFER: "Couldn't you tell it was funny from my query letter or at least the first fifty pages? You could have saved me nine months."

  PENNEY: "I don't have time for this."

  The phone clicked off.

  The woman had tied up her manuscript for a year, and she couldn't give her five minutes on the phone—five minutes to vent some of the pressure that had been building for years—five minutes that now might have made Jennifer pass over her name on that list of agents. Instead, her finger tapped ominously in the margin. Penney Richmond met criterion number two; the death of an agent would certainly be symbolic for any struggling author.

  Richmond was an Atlanta agent, which was perfect, little more than an hour and a half away from Macon. It would be a piece of cake to check out her family history. Maxie Malone, the sleuth in her first two novels, was a former actress with a talent for voices and an expert at collecting information.

  Jennifer slipped into the bedroom, clutching the paper with the agent's name and phone number. She sat down on the floor with her legs crossed and punched the number into the phone that lay on the walnut night table next to her bed. Muffy, the greyhound she'd saved from death after its racing days were over, nuzzled up against her on the floor.

  "Richmond Literary Agency. How may I help you?" a voice asked.

  "Ooooooh, guten morgen," she said in an exaggerated, sing-song fashion. Muffy wedged her head between Jennifer's elbow and her side. "I was given this number. I'm Mrs…. Mrs. Smith's nanny." She winced, unsuccessfully trying to push Muffy aside. Silently, she cursed herself. Couldn't she come up with something more original? Probably not with an emotionally needy greyhound at her side. "They are leaving the country for a year in Europe," she continued. "Frau Smith said Frau Richmond might need me."

  The woman at the other end of the line began to laugh, first a titter that gave way to a guffaw. Jennifer felt the heat from her cheeks spread all the way to her navel.

  "Boy, lady, have you got the wrong Richmond. Ms. Richmond doesn't have any children, bless their little unborn hearts, and she disposed of husband number three at least a dozen years ago."

  "But surely she is the Frau Richmond who lives at that most lovely of places the… the Magnolia…."

  "Couldn't be the right one. Ms. Richmond lives downtown at O'Hara's Tara."

  "So sorry to bother. Excuse the ring." Jennifer slapped the receiver back into its cradle, pushed the dog away, and crawled up onto the bed. It worked. It actually worked—just as easily as it had in her book. Maxie would be proud.

  No children. No spouse, although from the receptionist's reaction, a husband probably wouldn't have been a hindrance. He might have offered her a hand. Richmond met criterion number three.

  She reached down, opened the top drawer of her nightstand and extracted her address book. Tucked neatly in the front flap was a scrap of paper saved from a writer's convention she had attended in Columbus. On it was scribbled the name and number of a multi-published author she'd met who generously suggested that she feel free to contact her with questions. She called the Savannah number. A pleasant voice answered the phone, and Jennifer asked to speak to Agnes Weathers.

  "This is she," the pleasant voice answered.

  "I know you don't remember me, but I met you at the Midnight Dreary Mystery Convention last fall in Columbus. I'm looking for an agent, and I thought perhaps you could offer me a bit of advice," she said in a tiny, breathy, little-girl voice. She covered the mouthpiece with her hand and rolled her eyes. Where had that come from—"a bit of advice?" She sounded like someone from Masterpiece Theater.

  "Oh, dear. I'd like to help but I really can't recommend anyone to you unless I've seen your work, and I'm afraid I just don't have time—"

  "Actually, I just wondered if you might give me your opinion of an agent I was considering approaching—Penney Richmond."

  For a moment, Jennifer thought the woman had hung up.

  "Are you there?" she asked.

  "I don't know of any specific complaints about Penney. She certainly has never done anything illegal, such as fraud or withholding payment, at least not that I know of."

  "I hear a but. What's the but?"

  "You're new to the business?"

  "Yes," she whispered in the innocent voice.

  "Are you old enough to drink?"

  "Why no, and I wouldn't even if I could. But I can vote."

  "No one should be dealing with Penney Richmond unless they can have a stiff martini afterward. That woman will have you for breakfast. Stay away from her. There're too many good agents out there for you to get mixed up with her. And if you repeat any of this to anyone, I'll deny it." The phone went dead.

  A smile twitched at the corners of Jennifer's mouth. She ignored the nibbles Muffy was directing at her bare toes dangling from the edge of the bed. She had something far more important on her mind. Penney Richmond passed condition four. She was a true career S.O.B.