Dying to Get Published

by Judy Fitzwater

  Chapter 33

  Jennifer grabbed the phone and punched in Sam's number. His cheery voice came from his voice mail. Didn't he know she needed to talk to him? Now. Not later. And, no, she didn't care that her call was important to him or that he would return it as soon as possible, and she most certainly didn't intend to have a good day!

  Impatiently she waited for the beep. "Why aren't you answering your phone?" she sputtered. "I need you this minute. If I'm right, Steve Moore will be victim number three. I'm going to try to get in touch with him to warn him. I don't dare wait until nine-thirty for you to get here."

  She slammed down the receiver and did a quick phone search on the Internet. Moore's number was unlisted—of course—and she'd thrown out his card.

  She dialed Dee Dee. Her husband picked up. "Sorry, Jen, she's off on a job with April. She won't be home until late."

  Dee Dee turned off her phone during a job, so trying to call her to get Moore's number would be useless.

  She said goodbye and hung up.

  She had no options. She had no allies. She certainly couldn't drag Teri or Leigh Ann with her, even if she could find them on a Friday night. That'd be like taking along the Keystone Kops. She'd have to go it alone, like Maxie Malone would. But Maxie was so much better at all this than she could ever hope to be. Maxie was courageous. Maxie knew how to handle herself. Maxie was fictional.

  Jennifer threw on a light jacket and picked up her shoulder bag. Muffy whined and pattered after her toward the door. Jennifer turned, cupped the dog's face in her hands, and rubbed her briskly behind her ears. "I love you, baby," she said as though saying goodbye to a dear friend for the last time.

  Jennifer had always avoided dealing with real life in an up-close, personal way. Whatever happened tonight, she'd made the plunge. She just hoped it wasn't straight off a cliff.

  The outside of Moore's house was dark except for the porch light. He was, after all, expecting her later. Jennifer pulled into the drive behind a utilitarian blue Chevrolet—not exactly the babe magnet she'd expected Moore to drive—and cut the engine. At least he was home and she hadn't driven all the way out here for nothing.

  No lights from neighboring houses were visible, and the early evening dark was beginning to clothe the area in its shroud. The houses were set so far apart, it gave each lot a feeling of isolation.

  Jennifer took a deep breath. What was she going to say to Moore? Would he laugh in her face when she said she believed his life was in danger? It didn't really matter what he did. She had to do what she had to do.

  She slipped out of the car and made her way up to the front door. Her hand was poised to knock when she heard something, a laugh, a deep baritone chuckle echo down the hall. She leaned forward and pressed her ear to the wood.

  Jennifer could detect no sound from a TV or radio. No music. Then she heard the faint tones of a woman's voice. It sounded as if Moore had one of his women friends in. And he was expecting her at ten. What was the creep doing? Running them in shifts?

  She couldn't very well ring the bell, excuse herself for interrupting, and say, "Oh, by the way, I just dropped by to warn you that someone is going to murder you. Have a good evening."

  No. She'd have to assess the situation.

  If Moore and the woman were in the den, she'd be able to get a peek through the French doors around back. If they were in the bedroom… She shuddered. They'd better be in the den.

  She followed the outside of the house around to the back, cursing herself for not bringing a flashlight. A soft glow spilled from the French doors onto the brick patio. Thank goodness Steve Moore lived in the house alone. A woman would have had curtains over those windows two minutes after crossing the threshold. She snuck up to the brick wall, held her breath, and leaned forward to peer in.

  Moore was standing next to the sofa, a smile on his face, a wineglass in one hand. He was listening to a woman sitting directly in front of him on an ottoman. Her hair was soft on her shoulders, teasing the silky fabric of her dress. Her long, full skirt broke at the knee and brushed the middle of her calf. Her stockinged feet were crossed and stretched coquettishly to one side. She threw back her head and laughed, and then raised a bottle of wine toward Moore, bringing her face into profile.

  Edith. Oh, God! It was Edith.

  A terrible thought flashed through her mind. What if Edith had brought poisoned wine just like her murderer in The Last Goodbye Toast?

  Jennifer had to do something quickly. She stepped right in front of the window and frantically waved her arms over her head like a crewman bringing a plane in for landing.

  Moore didn't even blink in her direction. Edith poured wine into Moore's glass and then filled her own. They clinked glasses, and she splashed some into her lap. She got up, rubbing at her skirt, and left the room. It had to be poison.

  A stupid smile played on Moore's lips as he brought his glass dangerously close to his lips.

  Jennifer pounded on the door with her fist, and Moore turned, a puzzled look on his face.

  She fanned her hands back and forth in what she hoped was the universal sign for no and then cupped a pretend glass as though drinking from it.

  Moore frowned and came toward the door. "What are you doing here? Can't you see I'm busy?" he asked through the glass.

  "Don't drink the wine," Jennifer called out in a whisper she prayed he could hear.

  "What?" Moore asked.

  "The wine!" Jennifer shouted, abandoning all pretense of discretion. "Don't drink it. It's poison."

  "I can't hear you through this glass," Moore insisted. "It sounds like you're saying something about poison." He opened the door, and Jennifer grabbed the wine from his hand and poured it on the ground.

  "Have you lost your mind?"

  "It was Edith. Edith killed Browning, Edith killed Richmond, and she's about to kill you."

  "You must be crazy. What are you doing here?"

  "Warning you. Besides, you invited me. I know I'm a little early, but—"

  "I most certainly did not. And it's my understanding you are the one who killed Penney Richmond. When the police told me you'd gone over the edge, it was hard for me to believe, but now that I see you like—"

  "Why don't you ask Miss Marsh in, Steve?" Edith was standing in the doorway, a gun held firmly with both hands and pointed in their direction.

  "See. I told you," Jennifer whispered.

  "Come on in, Jennifer. You're a little early, but this will do just as well. I'd planned on your standing trial for the murders, but I guess the state won't mind if we save them a bit of money."

  Moore was standing almost directly in front of her. For a brief moment, she considered giving him a push, propelling him in Edith's direction. She might actually be able to escape into the outside darkness. But then again, she might not. In either case, Moore was sure to wind up dead. Edith couldn't chase her and hold a gun on Moore at the same time. And after all, she had come there to save him, not precipitate his death.

  Jennifer sighed and obediently followed Moore into the room. Edith motioned them toward the sofa with a wave of the gun barrel.

  "Sit," Edith ordered. "I did tell you ten o'clock, didn't I?"

  Jennifer nodded, sinking onto the couch. "Why did you ask me to come?"

  Edith shrugged. "It's not that I dislike you, Jennifer. In many ways, you remind me of my younger self. But the police are quite ready to believe you killed Penney Richmond. I thought if they believed that, they could as easily believe you killed an unimaginative lover-boy like Steve here."

  "Unimaginative?" Moore grumbled.

  "And you planned somehow to frame me for it?"

  Edith shifted the gun to one hand and pulled a large, gold, hoop earring from her skirt pocket, dangling it on one finger.

  Jennifer stared in disbelief. "I've been looking all over—"

  Edith stuffed it back into her pocket. "You shouldn't leave your jewelry lying around where anyone can pick it up."

  Whateve
r sympathy Jennifer felt for Edith was rapidly disappearing. The woman was a jewelry-swiping, writer-framing psychopath.

  Steve opened his mouth, but Edith cut him off. "Save it, you thieving—"

  Jennifer put up her hand as if asking a question in school. "Ah, excuse me. I don't think he knows."

  "Knows what?" Moore looked thoroughly confused.

  "Browning's manuscript," Jennifer said. "He didn't write it, at least not in the conventional sense."

  A look of surprise spread over Edith's features. "Aren't you the clever little detective."

  "What do you mean he didn't write it?" By this time Moore was red in the face, and Jennifer wondered if he were on medication for high blood pressure. An aneurism about now would defeat Jennifer's reason for being there.

  "Richmond wanted a manuscript from Browning, but he couldn't get it together." Jennifer looked to Edith for agreement.

  "Go on," Edith ordered.

  "Very well. Browning was a good TV journalist, but he had no concept of how to structure a book. Richmond was urging him to get with it and produce a salable manuscript. She was, after all, the most high-powered agent, as well as the most unethical, in the area. Edith had a manuscript, apparently a good one."

  Edith nodded. "Damn good."

  "She sent it to Richmond, who must have copied it. I'm guessing she used it for the basis of Browning's book, used the structure, the opening events, following the basic outline, including all the pertinent details. How close am I?"

  "Close enough. Richmond had the audacity to toss my book back at me saying it was unmarketable. I didn't have a name to carry a scandal book."

  "Maybe she was right," Moore offered.

  Edith's grip tightened on the gun. "Don't give me that. Every maid and babysitter write them."

  Jennifer stared at Moore thoughtfully. "Moore's too stupid to live. I think you're right. He deserves to be shot."

  "I was there—at Browning's side. I heard and saw it all firsthand," Edith spat out. "And I was the only one willing to tell it like it was."

  "The only one both willing and able to write it," Jennifer added.

  "And then when Kyle died, you took up the project." Edith shook the gun in Moore's direction. "As if you had any right."

  "My dear Edith…" Moore began.

  Jennifer rolled her eyes. Charm, especially Moore's version of what passed for charm, was not going to have much sway over Edith.

  "…Penney thought the book would be more successful with someone to promote it on tour," Moore continued. "She thought we could finish the manuscript, use Kyle's death as a springboard and me as his spokesperson. If I'd had any idea—"

  "How did you find out?" Jennifer asked Edith, hoping to distract her.

  "That idiot Browning had me work on the manuscript. He and that woman would meet on Friday nights, and he would come in with handwritten pages every Monday morning. It became increasingly obvious I had typed the same manuscript before."

  "He must not have known," Jennifer said. "No one could be that—"

  "He knew when I told him—that afternoon on the roof."

  "You told him and he jumped off?" Moore seemed astounded.

  Jennifer and Edith exchanged looks. "Maybe we could take turns shooting him," Jennifer suggested.

  "What did happen on that roof?" Jennifer asked. "Browning must have been standing by the wall and—"

  "I got angry. He suggested I might work as a ghost writer on the manuscript. Can you believe it? My own manuscript."

  "And you pushed him," Jennifer said.

  "Pushed, shoved, whatever. Actually it was more like pounding my fists into his chest. I didn't mean for him to go over, but the wall caught him at an awkward spot, and before I realized what was happening, he was gone."

  "And then-with Kyle hardly cold in his grave—Moore, here, took up the work. At Richmond's request," Jennifer concluded.

  "At Richmond's request," Edith repeated. Her face took on an ugly purplish hue at the mention of Richmond's name. She took two deep breaths and then turned curiously toward Jennifer.

  "How'd you know? How'd you know I killed them?" she asked.

  "I saw you," Jennifer said. Well, it was the truth, and bringing up Teri, Leigh Ann, and the fire didn't seem like a smart thing to do, everything considered.

  "What?" Edith suddenly seemed off balance.

  Jennifer rushed to take advantage. "I saw you—that night at O'Hara's Tara—in the elevator and then on Penney Richmond's floor."

  "You couldn't have…"

  "White face, red nose, rainbow hair, balloons, and not the most attractive ensemble."

  "What the—" Moore started, but Jennifer threw him a warning look.

  Edith seemed truly shaken. For just a second she lowered the gun and then raised it again. She shook her head.

  "Do you remember passing a pregnant woman—long curly black hair, mud-colored sweater, frumpy dress?"

  "Pregnant? I thought she was just fat. Oh, my…" Edith's jaw dropped. "Don't tell me that was…"

  "Absolutely. And those threatening letters to Penney Richmond they mentioned in the newspaper, I meant every word. The woman was a fiend. I was there that night to kill her." Not really, but she had to develop some camaraderie with Edith beyond their mutual disdain for Moore.

  "But I passed you coming away from her apartment. She was still alive."

  "It was the gun," Jennifer said, as though that said it all.

  "It jammed?" Moore threw in.

  Both Jennifer and Edith turned toward him with a who-invited-you-into-this-conversation stare. He shut up, apparently smart enough, at last, to realize bringing attention to himself was not such a good idea.

  "It belonged to my father," Jennifer explained.

  Edith nodded knowingly.

  "But why did you want to kill her?" Edith asked.

  Good question. The fact that she never intended to kill Richmond and was only doing research for a book wouldn't cut it. She'd have to come up with something Edith could relate to.

  Of course—vengeance.

  "I write science fiction novels—in addition to mysteries," she lied. "I even had one published."

  "Title?"

  "Moons of Death."

  "I've never heard of it."

  "Of course, you haven't. Penney was my agent. She was in the business for the money and only the money. Not to promote a writer's career like most agents. She wanted her cash as fast and as easy as she could get it."

  She obviously wasn't telling Edith anything she didn't already know, which was exactly the way she wanted it. "Sales for the book weren't high. When I submitted a synopsis for a second book, she stole the universe I had created and most of the plot." Silently she thanked Monique.

  "You know, Jennifer, I really hate to have to kill you."

  "Then don't. I mean, Moore's got to go. We're both in agreement on that. Right?"

  Edith nodded.

  Moore cringed, his eyes darting fervently about the room. Jennifer prayed he wouldn't try anything, no sudden movements. He could easily ruin her plan.

  "We can frame Moore for Richmond's murder and dispose of his body, make it look like he panicked and ran off. We'll plant the clown suit and the murder weapon in his bedroom. The police still think Browning jumped off that roof on his own. And even if they don't, they'll never have enough evidence to prove otherwise."

  Edith stared at her.

  "Believe me, Edith. We can do it. The police will never find him. I've disposed of bodies before."