Praise Her, Praise Diana

by Anne Rothman-Hicks

  “And that’s when you thought of this other storyline which you were able to write, which you submitted to The Portal. It was inserted into the magazine by a sort of rogue editor, Heather, who authorized the second scheduled payment, much to Anthony and Harry’s dismay.”

  “Essentially correct, although in my defense, I did think someone other than Heather might actually like Diana. It’s a good book. It may even be an important book.”

  “I’m sure it is,” Jane said.

  Maggie slumped in her chair. “I really had no choice, Jane. I was down to my last pennies. The bank was threatening to foreclose my house. I used the advance to pay off other debts. I can’t possibly give any of it back.”

  “I just wish you had called me before you sent it in,” Jane said. “I would have told you to slap the title Staying There on the Diana book and change her name to Marissa. Bingo. Problem solved.”

  “It’s not nearly that simple,” Maggie said. She hesitated, flicking her tongue over her lips. “Remember, we had an outline for Staying There that was nothing like Diana.”

  “You still would have been better off. We would have had a creative dispute over an artist’s right to alter an outline, not a straightforward and very obvious breach of contract.”

  The waitress came by and filled Jane’s cup. Jane took a large swallow, wincing as the hot coffee burned her tongue, and asked for the check.

  “We’d better get going,” Jane said.

  “But what’s our strategy with them?” Maggie asked. “What are we going to do?”

  “We’re going to tell Harry Lesdock et al that Heather accepted the substituted manuscript on behalf of The Portal. And when they say she was a low level functionary who had no authority to accept anything, we’re going to tell him that authority or lack thereof is a jury question which a gorgeous and successful author like Maggie Edwards will win in a heartbeat over the crass conglomerate that seeks to take away her home.”

  Maggie remained slumped in her chair, although Jane’s description caused her to look up as if to see whether Jane were being sarcastic. She wasn’t.

  “Just so you know,” Maggie said. “Heather is an assistant editor who has worked at The Portal for all of six weeks, and she’s a bit of a kook.”

  Jane shrugged.

  “The creative type. Obviously brought in to import the pulse of youth for the magazine, which she achieved by substituting your book. It all fits together.”

  “Honestly? It doesn’t sound like much of an argument to me,” Maggie said.

  “Honestly, it’s not,” Jane replied. “And you should have thought of that when you submitted a substitute book. Even if Harry liked the substitute, he would have said he didn’t just to have you on the hook. That’s the way Harry is. The only thing you have on your side here is the bit with Heather. And that’s what we are going with. Frankly, the best we can do is to convince Harry that we can and will draw this dispute out and make it expensive for him. He’s a bully, but he’s also a smart businessman. I have a little bit of experience with Harry Lesdock. So, we’ll see.”

  Jane put down a ten-dollar bill to cover the cost of the coffee and flung her bag over her shoulder.

  “C’mon, let’s boogie!”

  * * * *

  The offices of The Portal were in one of the several sleek skyscrapers that line Sixth Avenue between 42nd Street and 57th. In front was a wide public plaza paved with squares of roughened granite. Panels of blue-green glass covered the building’s entire exterior and shimmered in the light of the early fall day, like a slightly darker swath of the sky. The Portal had moved there a few years earlier, when it was acquired by the Harry Lesdock Publishing Group at a bargain basement price.

  As Maggie and Jane emerged on the thirtieth floor, they were greeted by the receptionist, who guided them soundlessly across the plush carpeting toward a glass-walled conference room. Inside, they could see the representatives of The Portal waiting for them. The editor of Femme, Anthony Paolo, was on the left, dressed in his usual black turtleneck shirt, black khaki pants and black sneakers without socks. His short dark hair was brushed forward to disguise a receding hairline and a bald circle at the back of his head. The in-house lawyer, Daniel Meyers, sat on the right with a thin manila folder before him. He wore a gray suit, a shirt as white as virgin snow, and a tie that had undoubtedly cost him more than Anthony’s entire outfit. Daniel had a full head of pale brown hair, essentially uncombed, giving him an appealingly boyish look despite the strictly business attire. Between the editor and the lawyer, and a foot shorter than either of them, was Harry Lesdock. He wore a tie but no jacket and a pale pink shirt that went beautifully with his bleached-blond hair and tanned skin, the result of summer weekends in Amagansett. A light gel had been applied to his well-trimmed hair, holding it firmly in place. His fingernails were newly buffed.

  Jane entered the room first, pushing the door open with a grand sweep and swinging her shoulder bag up and onto the table with a thud.

  “Hello, gentlemen,” she said, and nodded to Harry. “And hello, Harry.”

  Harry scowled at her.

  “You’re late, Ms. Larson,” he replied.

  “Oh, we’re going to be formal today, Harry? My apologies.” Jane paused for a beat, and then continued, adding a slightly musical lilt to her voice. “Good morning, Mr. Lesdock. And good morning also to your two colleagues, who I assume are Mr. Paolo and Mr. Meyers, your counsel.”

  The two men nodded. Meyers stood and reached across the table to shake her hand and Maggie’s. Somewhat awkwardly, Anthony did the same. Harry remained seated.

  “Always a wise ass, aren’t you Ms. Larson?” Harry growled.

  Jane sat down and leaned backward in her chair.

  “You know, Harry ... I mean, Mr. Lesdock ... I was going to ask if we were here today to fight or talk pleasantly, but I guess you already answered that.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about, Ms. Larson,” Harry said. “We’ve got a big problem. My advertisers are not happy. And when they’re not happy, I’m not happy.”

  “Why not, Harry? You wanted sex. You got sex and mayhem.”

  “Cut the shit. You both know we can’t print that in Femme.”

  “Then why did your editor accept it and run it in your magazine?” Jane asked in the same lilting voice.

  “Assistant editor,” Anthony said.

  “Shut up, Tony,” Harry said, raising his voice. “Ms. Larson, we are not even discussing what that stupid, fucking girl did. It’s outside the limits of this conversation. It’s...”

  Jane slid forward and slammed her open palm down on the wood surface with a loud smack that seemed to make the glass walls shudder.

  “Nothing’s off limits!” she shouted.

  Anthony blinked at the sudden noise and his head moved backward slightly. Meyers swallowed hard. Maggie began her rhythmic breathing.

  “Stop fucking interrupting me!” Harry shouted back. “Tell her, Meyers, will ya for Christ’s sake? We have a written contract that says no waivers or substitutions. Earn your fucking salary.”

  “Yes,” said Meyers, sitting up and clearing his throat. His elbows were on the conference table and his forearms and hands continued to move as he spoke. “The contract, paragraph 8.3 clearly states ...”

  Jane cut Meyers off.

  “I know what the contract states! But we have a modification of that contract by actual performance.”

  “I’m not listening to this,” Harry said, and stood up. “Do you have the fucking letter, Meyers? Give her the fucking letter.” He glanced at Meyers and then at Jane and Maggie again. “Here’s the deal, ladies. It’s all in the letter—the only deal I am offering. You will agree to deliver Staying There to us in one month, or you will give me my money back with interest. Period! And you have until the close of business today to sign the damn letter, or we’ll be filing a lawsuit as soon as the court opens on Monday morning.”

  Meyers took two copies of the letter out of th
e manila folder and handed them across the table. As he did so, everyone’s attention was drawn toward the argument happening by the front desk. A young woman spoke to the receptionist and waved a sheet of paper around in the air. She gestured insistently toward the conference room.

  Maggie turned around to look, and then whispered to Jane, “That’s Heather,” she said.

  Heather won the argument by pushing past the receptionist.

  “I thought you fired that girl,” Harry muttered to Anthony.

  “She’s just here to clean out her office, Harry,” Anthony said.

  The door opened and Heather came in. She was dressed in an old Sarah Lawrence sweatshirt and jeans. On her feet was a pair of hole-riddled Converse tennis shoes. More silver rings than could quickly be counted were attached to various parts of her face—ears, eyebrows, lips, nose and chin. Her hair was half purple and half bleached white, all with the consistency of straw.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt you, Mr. Lesdock,” Heather said, “But I thought you should see something that just arrived by e-mail. The message said it was a present to you, Mr. Lesdock. I didn’t have time to find a color printer.”

  She handed a printout of a picture to Harry and gave a copy to Maggie and Jane as well. Even in black and white it was gruesome—an image of a man lying on his back with his shirt off, his pants down to his ankles, and a bloody mess where his penis should have been. Four lines were typed on the bottom of the e-mail.

  Dance beneath the moon's pale light,

  Praise her, praise Diana.

  This is the work of woman's hand,

  Another stag has fallen.

  “Oh my God,” whispered Maggie.

  Harry slid the picture over to Meyers and looked up at Jane.

  “What kind of stunt is this?” he asked loudly, leaning forward across the table, his face red with agitation, his hand and index finger shaking as he pointed at Maggie. “Are you trying to fucking scare me?! Is that it? Are you out of your fucking mind?”

  “Watch your mouth, Harry!” Jane shouted. “My client has nothing to do with this.”

  “Bullshit!” Harry shouted back. “I know scare tactics when I see them.”

  Jane leapt to her feet.

  “Get a grip, Harry!” Jane screamed, enunciating each word. “You’re acting like your own balls were cut off.”

  Harry spun on his heel and started to walk out of the room. He was stopped by the receptionist who appeared in the doorway.

  “Mr. Lesdock, Scott Harper is on the phone. He says it’s important that he talk to you right away.”

  Harry pointed to a table in the corner of the conference room where there was a phone. “Put it in on that one,” he said.

  As he walked over, Heather leaned toward Jane and Maggie.

  “Scott Harper is one of The Portal’s best crime reporters,” she said.

  “What is it?” Harry said irritably, his eyes focused on the floor as he listened. “Fucking unbelievable,” he said. “Yeah? I got one too. I don’t know. I really don’t. Do what you think is best.”

  Harry looked up when his conversation ended.

  “Apparently, they found a guy this morning with his balls cut off, just like in Maggie’s book,” Harry said. “Seems like the picture we just got is of that guy.”

  “Oh my God,” Maggie said again.

  “Yeah, oh my God,” Harry said sarcastically. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing here, lady, but I’m going to find out who’s behind this fucking photograph. And it ain’t going to be pretty when I do.”

  “Knock yourself out, Harry!” Jane said.

  “And you still owe me a fucking book!”

  Chapter Four

  Jane put her arm around Maggie’s shoulders and shepherded her out of the conference room and towards the elevators. A small crowd of curious secretaries, file clerks and editors had gathered in the reception area, drawn by the sounds of Harry’s shouting and by the rumors that had circulated around the office about Heather’s e-mail.

  The crowd made a path for Harry as he walked through like a school of minnows parting before a shark. He called loudly over his shoulder to the receptionist as he passed, casting a glance in Jane and Maggie’s direction.

  “I want the head of I.T. in my office immediately! And Meyers, I want you there too! She’s going to regret these scare tactics. I swear to God!”

  “Go fuck yourself, Harry!” Jane said as the elevator opened and she and Maggie stepped in. “You know you don’t believe in God.”

  The doors closed and Jane pressed the “down” button. An instant later, the elevator started to move. Compared to the reception area and the conference room, it suddenly seemed very quiet.

  “Well, I guess that didn’t go too well,” Jane began to say when Maggie turned and flung her arms around her and hugged her tight. Until that moment, Jane had not realized how strong Maggie was, or how tall. She kissed Jane easily on the forehead before releasing her again. Her face was flushed as if she’d been exercising on a hot summer day.

  “Please stop it,” she said. “I’m very grateful.”

  “I thought you’d gone into shock.”

  “You’re right. My brain was in a vapor lock. I couldn’t talk. But I didn’t have to. You stood up to that son-of-a-bitch for me. I can’t begin to tell you how good it felt.”

  The elevator doors opened and they walked briskly through the lobby and into the plaza outside. Maggie stopped when they reached the sidewalk, looking up at the dark blue sky and white puffy clouds. She hadn’t really appreciated the beauty of the day when she had been heading in the opposite direction an hour earlier. With the meeting over, she felt as if she had been released from a prison.

  They walked a block or so in silence, matching their steps, an easy sense of companionship between them after the battle with Harry.

  “So, what do you think is going to happen now?” Maggie asked.

  “I’m not sure. Harry is a pain in the ass, but deep down he’s a pain in the ass businessman who listens to his pocketbook above all else. I’m still hoping that Meyers will tell him that we can keep him tied up in court for a long time, and scare him into making a deal. Maybe we can give him a right of first refusal for Staying There if you ever write it.”

  “I never will,” Maggie said.

  “I know that, and you know that, but he doesn’t. You would never actually have to write it.”

  Maggie smiled.

  “Okay then.”

  “And in the meanwhile, we have to be ready with the second installment of the Diana book. I’m going to e-mail Meyers when I get back to the office to say we will send it to him as soon as they withdraw their threats of legal action.”

  Maggie nodded her agreement.

  They walked on for another block at the same easy pace.

  “You really didn’t send the picture, right?” Jane asked.

  Maggie stopped walking and turned to Jane, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “And you don’t know who did?”

  “No more than anyone else does—a woman who calls herself Diana.” She paused. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

  “I wouldn’t have put it quite so harshly. I think you may be leaving out some details. It’s a little hard to believe that it was just a big coincidence the e-mail arrived right when we were in the meeting with Harry.”

  “Anyone who looked at the ‘findingmaggie’ website would have known about the meeting and how important it was to me.”

  “So you think a fan of yours killed a man to help you and your book?”

  “No. I think a woman read my book and killed a man. Period.”

  Jane tilted her head to the side, rolling the scenario over in her mind.

  “Stranger things have happened.”

  “I swear that’s the truth, Jane. I have no idea who that woman is. I hope you can trust me on this.”

  “Oh, I can trust you. I’m just
not so sure that the police will.”

  “Whether they do or don’t, it’s the truth.”

  Jane’s shoulders lifted in a shrug.

  “Okay, I’m just the lawyer. But please bear in mind that I work most effectively when I know all the facts.”

  “I saw the way you work,” Maggie said. She put her arms around Jane and hugged her again, kissing her on both cheeks as she let Jane go. Tears appeared at the corners of her eyes. She whisked them away. “Don’t worry, Jane. I’ll tell you everything you need to know very soon. And thank you, again. I really mean it.”

  Jane spotted a cab and waved it down.

  “I’m going back to my office. Can I drop you anywhere?”

  “I’m on my way to the Iphigenia Gallery. I promised Ellen I would help her this afternoon with the WPW exhibit. But I think I’ll walk. I’m feeling too good right now to sit. I’ll cut through the park and come out near the gallery.” The cab stopped and she opened the door for Jane. “I’ll pick you and David up tomorrow morning then? I’m looking forward to meeting him and having you visit. You’re still coming to the country. Right?”

  “I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Around eight-thirty, okay?”

  “Eight-thirty it is,” Jane said, getting into a cab.

  The cab drove off, and when Maggie started walking again a quiet smile appeared on her face. She thought about showing Jane around her house and the surrounding grounds and of falling asleep at night free of the fear that it would soon be taken from her. For the first time in many months, she felt confident and happy. Or had it been years?

  * * * *

  The Iphigenia Gallery occupied the second floor of an old townhouse between 68th and 69th Streets on Madison Avenue. Ellen Briars had been at work all morning, helped for the last hour or so by her friend, Ariel (“please call me Ari”) Fields. Every year since its inception, the group Women Protecting Women, best known by the acronym WPW, sponsored an artistic event as part of its yearly fundraising activities. This year they had planned a show of photographic self-portraits donated by prominent female artists, celebrities and executives from the New York area, to be sold at auction following the two-week run. Three years earlier, a similar show by WPW had been well attended and financially successful. When Ellen heard they were going to organize another exhibit, she leapt at the chance to have her new gallery host it.