Dying to Get Published

by Judy Fitzwater

  Chapter 19

  Alone at last! And it was only ten o'clock. Moore and Edith had been called to a meeting, and Jennifer had been left to cover the phones. John Allen had yet to show up. He apparently wasn't required to attend the regular Thursday morning staff meetings, and, if Tuesday were any indication, he wouldn't be in until well after lunch. She had Allen's office all to herself.

  She went straight to the wooden desk in the center of the room and flipped through the appointment calendar that lay on top. Lunch and Drinks seemed to be his main activities, along with several appointments with a well-known orthodontist.

  The lap drawer contained some loose change, paper clips, half a dozen pens, and a ruler. The side drawers were filled with Channel l4 stationery and blank tablets. They looked as if they hadn't been disturbed since they were put there. Allen was either the neatest person she had ever encountered, which she doubted, or he didn't do much work in the office.

  Jennifer abandoned the desk for the bookcases that lined the back wall. They were filled with history books, atlases, and political works, along with personal biographies of newsmen like Tom Brokaw and Walter Cronkite. Tim's Russert's book was there. She drew one out and opened the cover. The book was signed by the author with To Kyle scrawled across the top. Hah! So whoever cleaned out Browning's belongings skipped the bookcase.

  She jerked open the doors to the covered area below. The shelves were bare except for three laser-paper boxes. The first was stationery personalized with Browning's name and the station's address. The second held plain sheets. The third was almost empty, but the top sheet was filled with print. She dumped out the small stack and took it back to Allen's desk.

  My Life as a News Anchor by Kyle Browning was centered on two lines above the first page of type. It began: "Growing up poor in Macon, Georgia, I never thought I would amount to anything."

  Jennifer scanned the first five pages, at the end of which little Kyle was walking and all of eighteen months old. The manuscript was forty-four pages long.

  Jennifer flipped to the last page. "I didn't go to my senior prom. Natalie Morgan turned me down."

  So old Kyle was a late bloomer; so late in some areas, his literary skills had yet to sprout. Browning was famous for reducing a major news story to a three-minute report. Too bad he couldn't recognize the high points in his own life.

  She started to slip the manuscript back into the box when she noticed a brown, nine-by-twelve-inch envelope folded in the bottom. It was addressed by hand to Kyle Browning with no return address. So even celebrities had to send self-addressed, stamped envelopes when submitting to a publisher or an agent.

  The envelope bore an Atlanta postmark. Jennifer unfolded it and slipped out an 8½ x11 sheet of paper. She recognized it immediately. It was one of those infuriating standard rejections.

  Dear Writer:

  Thank you for thinking of the Penney Richmond Literary Agency. We've read your work with interest, but I'm sorry to say it's not right for us at this time. We wish you luck in placing your manuscript with an agency that can give your work the enthusiasm it deserves.

  Across the bottom, in pen, was scrawled:

  Kyle, you've got to be kidding, sweetheart. It was a joke, wasn't it? Burn this thing and start over—and remember, what people want to read is the dirt, sweetie. You've got a name big enough to carry a bestseller, but you've got to tell your readers the story they want to hear, not whether or not you ate your peas and carrots as a kid. Do it, Kyle. Just do it. P.R.

  So Penney Richmond was an equal opportunity S.O.B., insulting the famous along with the unknown.

  Jennifer closed the box and took it back to her desk where she slipped the manuscript and the letter into the tote bag in her drawer.

  She wasn't really stealing, she rationalized. After all, Browning was dead, and dead people can't own property, at least under the law. And if anyone else had wanted it, surely they would have taken it by now. Aw, heck! What was one more cracked Commandment?

  She heard Moore and Edith chatting as they came down the hall. She grabbed the first thing her fingers touched, a desk calendar, and started frantically flipping through it.

  Moore stopped at her desk and leaned down. "Busy?" he asked, the faintest whiff of alcohol escaping with his breath.

  "I was just checking the holidays," she babbled. "Easter comes on a Sunday this year."

  "You don't say." Moore chuckled. "Come into the office. I've got a little project I want you to help me with."

  All right, so where was Sam, her protector, the guy who assured her Moore could be handled? She opened her lap drawer to take out a notebook.

  "Don't bother. You won't be needing that."

  No, she'd probably need a billy club or a baseball bat. Unfortunately, neither was handy.

  Edith threw her a knowing look but offered no help. Moore was standing at his door, holding it open. She had no choice but to go inside. Moore followed her and let the door fall shut.

  She felt his hands on her waist and his chin scrape against her cheek as he nuzzled her neck. She ducked away and put the full length of the desk between them, hoping Moore wouldn't stoop to actually chasing her around it. How clichéd could he get?

  But he just looked at her with his dazzling smile and pointed to a chair. "Have a seat," he suggested as though he hadn't just committed a sexual offense of one degree or another.

  "My book will be out next month, and I have a seven-city book-signing tour in the works: New York, Chicago, Washington, etc. I'll be needing an assistant, a traveling companion to keep things in order. I thought you might like to—"

  No, she would not like to do whatever his lust-crazed mind might invent. And she had no intentions of flying all over the country with a man old enough to be her father who had anything but fatherly feelings toward her. She needed an out, and she needed it now.

  "Muffy," Jennifer blurted out. "I can't leave Muffy alone."

  "And who is Muffy? Your roommate?"

  Jennifer nodded. "She lives with me."

  "What's wrong with her? Can't she feed herself?"

  "No, she can't. She can't go out of the apartment without me. I even have to bathe her."

  "What's wrong with the poor creature?"

  Jennifer paused for a moment. "I guess you might say it's a genetic condition."

  "Doesn't she have any family?"

  "Not that I know of."

  "And you've taken on her entire care yourself?"

  Again, Jennifer nodded. "She's like family to me. She was going to die, and I took her in." Real tears gathered in the corners of her eyes.

  Moore cleared his throat. He actually seemed moved. Maybe he wasn't a complete sleaze ball after all. "I understand. I know what it's like to face the loss of a dear friend."

  "I suppose you and Kyle Browning were close."

  "I knew Kyle for most of my life. He and I went to high school together. We both wanted to be newsmen, but who would have thought that one of us would actually reach the top."

  "I'm sure Mr. Browning had quite a story to tell." Here it was, her opening to find out what Moore knew about Kyle's ill-fated manuscript. "Too bad he never published a book about his life."

  "You want to know about Kyle Browning?"

  Jennifer nodded vigorously.

  "I suppose you're curious why a man like that would jump off a building. You, no doubt, followed the accounts of what happened in North Carolina."

  Again, she nodded.

  "Tell you what. I'll give you an autographed copy of my book as soon as it comes out. The real story—it's all in there. You just wait and see."