by Carolyn Hart
“Bailey Ruth. Judy. What do I call you?” A frantic head shake. “What am I saying? How can I have a conversation with somebody who isn’t real?”
“I am real for the moment.” I felt this was a profound insight. “As for names, if we meet in public, call me Judy. When we’re alone, I’m Bailey Ruth.”
“Judy. Bailey Ruth.” She still sat as rigid as a post.
“Let me put your mind at rest. . . .” I described the Department of Good Intentions and Wiggins and his concern that she was stressed and that’s why I was there. “Wiggins speaks highly of you.”
She continued to sit as stiff as a starched crinoline.
“Pretend you’re in Miss Silver’s drawing room and her wonderful calm demeanor assures you that everything is going to be all right.” My voice was soothing.
She looked at me blankly. “Who’s Miss Silver?”
I was shocked. “You call yourself a mystery writer and you don’t know Miss Silver?”
Now she was ruffled. “I’ve had six books published. Secret of the Scarlet Macaw, The Dragon Hissed, Dance of the Derelict—”
I hastened to interrupt. “That’s wonderful. But all mystery readers know Patricia Wentworth’s Miss Silver.”
Her smile was quick and apologetic. “I’ll look her up.” Then her wary expression returned. “But let’s stick to the subject. You say you’re going to help me. How?”
“Yes. It’s really very simple. I intend to inspire you.” But first I needed to solve her job situation. Then she would relax and be able to write. “Tell me about you.”
She streaked fingers through her frizzy curls.
I wondered if she indeed resorted to old-fashioned permanents or if her hair naturally bristled.
“Okay.” She made a production of the word, a low o, and the emphasis on a higher-toned kay. “Life story of Frazzled Middle-Aged Multitasking Mother with Writer’s Block for Woman Who Doesn’t Exist but Here She Is. I’m—”
Her cell phone rang.
She shot me an apologetic look, yanked it. “My daughter. She’s at camp. I’d better take it. . . . Hi, honey. I thought you’d be in bed by now. . . . Your voice sounds kind of muffled. . . . Oh, Katie, don’t cry. . . . Of course it’s not a problem. I wanted you to go to camp. I had money put back for that. Now, you get to sleep and don’t worry about anything. Everything’s fine here. . . . That’s my girl. No more tears. Promise? . . . Good night, honey. Sleep tight. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.” She turned off the phone, looked at me. “They’re camping out and she called me huddled inside her sleeping bag, sobbing because the camp costs so much and she knows I don’t have the money and maybe she should just come home now and maybe they’d give us some money back.”
“Kids know when we’re in trouble.”
“You got that right.” She looked bleak. “I’m panicked about money and now my kids are panicked.”
“So you need this job.”
“In spades. And I’m thirty-six. It isn’t easy to get a job at my age, especially when you haven’t worked for a long time. I was a reporter on the Gazette, then I quit to stay home with the kids. My ex-husband walked out last year. I write mysteries but they only make enough money for a down payment on a car, like the Mazda he’s now driving in Dallas, or to pick up three months of house payments. I haven’t sold any books lately. The Gazette doesn’t need me and the pay there is only okay if you’re single. Now I’m a single mom without any savings. This great job opened up at Goddard and I applied. I’m qualified. Sort of. I don’t have an advanced degree, just a BA, but I’ve been a reporter, had six books published. I can teach writing. Between us, you can’t teach how to take an idea and turn it into a story that pulls in a reader like Poe’s maelstrom.”
I nodded approvingly. One of my favorite short stories.
Deirdre managed a lopsided grin. “I can do what writing teachers do, talk about character and plot and development and transitions. The neat thing is, I’d be on the faculty and I love to talk about writing and I like kids and the pay’s great and I’d have health insurance. But—”
I knew the answer. “Jay Knox makes the pick.”
“It’s up to Jay. My fate’s in the hands of a guy who wouldn’t know work if he fell over it. All Jay’s ever done is play and now he’s playing at academia. I told you about his family. They’re top-notch. Everybody likes and respects the Knoxes. He has a special in at Goddard because his grandfather was a wonderful dean. When they decided to emphasize a creative-writing curricula, Jay got the job. He has”—her tone was grudging—“had a couple of books published. Thrillers. But he got the job because he’s a Knox. I’ve heard rumors about Jay. Happy hands with coeds, and willing ones get A’s. A lot of people know he’s a louse, but nobody wants to publicly accuse him. When I applied, he was a little too familiar but I thought I could handle him. I thought he’d be careful about sexual harassment. The law is clear. No hanky-panky to make a secretary keep her job. Except when it happens. Some guys still figure you need the job too much to squawk or you’re afraid nobody will believe you or you just don’t want a hassle. Anyway, Jay made it pretty clear. I show up at cabin five tonight or he picks Harry.” She gave me a despairing look. “How can you possibly change his mind?”
I tried to look calm and reassuring, though I hoped St. Jude had an ear cocked. Changing Jay’s mind would rank as a miracle. I never lay claim to miracles. A different department altogether.
“I’ll have to persuade him. So”—I looked around—“why are you and Jay at a hotel?”
She spoke rapidly, perhaps hoping if she satisfied all questions, I—somehow—would depart. “. . . Silver Lake Lodge . . . Goddard English Department sponsors a writers’ short course here every summer. . . . Jay Knox is the director. . . . People come from all over . . . some agents and editors. . . . I’m headlining tomorrow: ‘Knock ’em Dead with a Killer Beginning.’ In the afternoon, my talk is ‘Turning on the Lightbulb.’”
I nodded approvingly. “It is just like turning on a lightbulb. Bingo. An idea and it blossoms.” That’s what Deirdre needed. An idea.
She looked rueful. “That’s the irony. I can’t start a book and I’m supposed to tell the students how to come up with ideas. But”—she plunged both hands into her unkempt curls, looking like a poodle on a bad hair day—“I didn’t pick the topic.”
I quickly changed the subject. “Back to Jay Knox. He selects the new faculty member?”
“Right. I talked to a couple of other professors as well when I interviewed, but Jay has the final say.” Her face was bleak. “He’ll announce his choice in the afternoon session tomorrow. Right now my chances are nil. Unless—”
“I’ll deal with Jay.” I spoke hastily. “What motivates him?”
“In addition to sex?” Her tone was wry. “I don’t know him well enough to say. I know some stuff about him. He worked on the Gazette after my time, wrote a couple of thrillers. One of them got a movie deal. That helped get him the job in the English Department, that and his family name. He’s on tenure track. He’ll probably get tenure. He’s already turned his position into a cushy deal. He does consulting on the side. He takes money from writers for ‘advising’ them and what he really does is set up deals with agents and editors. I guess it pays pretty well. He has a classic Thunderbird. The Knox family isn’t rich, so Jay has to have a paycheck. The entrée to agents and editors is part of the draw this weekend and Jay’s clients have the inside track.”
“He takes money to connect writers to agents?” I frowned.
Deirdre shrugged. “He’s careful. He doesn’t take money from Goddard students but they don’t have any money anyway. He takes advantage of writers who will do anything to make connections. Three or four of Jay’s protégés are here this weekend. Most conference attendees are just thrilled to attend panels and maybe catch a word with an editor or agent in the bar.”
I glanced at t
he clock. Almost ten. “I need to talk to people who might unload on him.”
“Hoping for a little quid pro quo?” Deirdre asked.
I needed leverage to deal with Jay Knox. Heaven would frown on using information to coerce him, but I would be doing a great service to womankind if I discouraged Jay Knox from using his power to sexually harass subordinates. I was circumspect in my response. “Let’s say I hope to gain some insight into his character.”
Deirdre turned her hands palms up. “I know the guy, but I don’t know him if you know what I mean. I’m just trying to get my foot in the door. I don’t know the faculty. I’ve met Maureen Matthews. She also teaches creative writing. I like her a lot. She was quick and funny and very nice to me. But I don’t know the people running the conference. Maybe you can talk to somebody down at the bar. There was a big crowd when I came upstairs. I didn’t know most of them. I guess they’re attending the conference, especially the ones who have that lost, hungry look in their eyes. I understand. They’re desperate to sell their books.”
“How about faculty members?”
“The chair of the department was there. Dr. Randall’s a big guy, thick shock of white hair, tidy white mustache, florid face. He fills out a seersucker jacket like an old fullback. Jay’s agent is Cliff Granger. Tall, thin, a four-hundred-dollar sport coat. Cliff usually looks bored and supercilious but he has smart green eyes. Jay’s editor is Jessica Forbes. She’s imposing, silver hair drawn back in a bun. Here”—Deirdre reached for a brochure on the coffee table—“everyone’s photo is in the program.” She handed the leaflet to me.
I looked at each in turn as Deirdre described them.
Deirdre was unsparing. “Jessica has a pleasant face but I get the feeling she’d put her grandmother on an ice floe for a best seller. Harry Toomey’s pudgy, his clothes are too tight, his hair looks like it needs a good wash, and he has a little mustache that reminds me of peach fuzz.”
I popped to my feet. A convivial gathering at the bar sounded like a perfect spot to begin my quest. I never doubted that Jay Knox had a history and I was going to dig it up. “Don’t worry about a thing, Deirdre. I’ll nose about a bit. You get a good night’s rest. I have a feeling tomorrow will be a new day.” Some things we can count on.
She rose, too. “Thanks again, Bailey Ruth. It’s been nice knowing you.”
Obviously she had no confidence I could assure her of winning the job. Her parting sentence even suggested she had no interest in meeting again.
I smiled with my hand on the knob. “You can rest easy, my dear. Tomorrow I’ll have much to report.”
I stepped out into the hall, closed the door. I hoped Deirdre would get a good night’s sleep. It was my intention to be thoughtful of her sensibilities by waiting to disappear. I made certain no one was in the passageway. I was midway gone, colors dissolving, dissolving. . . .
The door opened.
Deirdre stared at the fading colors, flinched, covered her eyes, slammed the door shut.
Had she intended to call me back? Or had she succumbed to curiosity? Whichever, she was now forced to accept the fact that I was exactly what I claimed to be, an emissary from the Department of Good Intentions, here on her behalf, sometimes seen, sometimes unseen.
In an instant I was hovering in the night sky. Light spilled from the front of Silver Lake Lodge. The two-story plantation-style structure once housed a big family, who had fallen on hard times. Since then the house had been a bed-and-breakfast, a bar and dance hall, and now, with the addition of two wings, a small hotel. Six cabins were nestled among cottonwoods, white oaks, and weeping willows. A winding path dotted with an occasional lamppost led to the lake and a fishing pier. The wooded area was dark and quiet, but lights illuminated the entrance. More light spilled out onto a back terrace.
The bar was noisy. Loud voices and outbursts of raucous laughter indicated the attendees were having an F. Scott Fitzgerald moment. Or moments. People stood two- and three-deep near the bar. All the chairs at a half-dozen small tables were filled. Several soft leather sofas and chairs were occupied. I saw flushed faces, heard rapid speech. Glasses were lifted, refills ordered. Everyone was having a grand old time, so this was likely a good venue to find out more about Jay Knox.
Most of the revelers were causally dressed. Polos and short-sleeve shirts with slacks were the norm for men. The shirts weren’t expensive. Trust me, I know. As for the women, I closed my eyes in a delicate shudder. Perhaps Deirdre should incorporate a tactful version of dressing for success in her presentation. I reopened them and the vision didn’t improve. Did women writers have no fashion sense? All that black! Blouses, slacks, shoes. Dear Heaven, it was summer.
I spotted the four-hundred-dollar sport coat, a blue window-pane with notched lapels and a two-button front over a navy turtleneck. Its wearer stood at the far end of the bar, but he wasn’t engaged in conversation. I came up beside him, unseen. Invisibility has its perks. He was half-turned on the high stool, his gaze flicking from group to group. Standing next to him, I was aware that he radiated tension. I gazed at his profile. Supercilious, as Deirdre said, but more than that, a man under intense pressure.
The occupant of the next stool stepped to the floor.
A plump woman darted for the vacant seat, beating out a thin, angular woman with eyes like a barracuda. The winner caught her breath, turned toward Cliff Granger. Her face had the hopeful look of a puppy seeking a treat.
Cliff’s smooth face and high forehead immediately reminded me of Franchot Tone, world-weary, a sophisticate, and, at this moment, disdainful.
The woman said hesitantly, “Mr. Granger.” Her voice was uneven; obviously it had taken all her courage to speak to him. “I wonder if I could talk to you for a minute about my book—”
“Panel tomorrow at eleven. I’ll take questions then. Individual appointments in the afternoon.” He turned away.
She stared at his shoulder, then slid off the stool, eyes shiny with tears, lips quivering.
I don’t like people who kick puppies.
His half-full drink sat on the bar, golden liquid and glittering ice.
I lifted the glass an inch or so and flung the contents with force.
Liquid splashed across Cliff’s lap. He jerked, stared at the bar.
The bartender was perhaps a foot away, bald head damp with perspiration, fielding orders with an automatic smile.
“What the hell’s going on?” Cliff glared at the bartender. “Why’d you knock my glass over?”
The man on the next stool was staring at the glass, his face perplexed.
Perhaps I am too tidy. The empty glass stood upright. I’d flung the contents, put the glass down. In the world of physics, a glass whose contents spewed should be lying on its side. That’s what usually happens when glasses are pushed over.
“That glass.” The man’s words were slightly slurred. He wrinkled his nose, peered. He looked like a befuddled owl, beaked nose and no neck. “The glass came up in the air a couple of inches and then it tipped toward him. All by itself.” He paused, repeated belligerently, “All by itself. The glass lifted in the air, then it spilled. Stuff slopped all over him. Then”—he spaced the words slowly—“the glass came back down on the bar.”
Cliff glared at him. “Did you knock my glass over?”
The little man with the big nose and no neck slid off the stool, stood wavering. “I think I don’t feel very good.” He turned unsteadily and stumbled away.
Cliff swiped a cocktail napkin across the front of his sport coat, his jaw rigid.
The bartender was solicitous, handing him a clean cotton towel. “Here, sir. Guess that guy’s elbow caught it.” He tried for some levity. “Looked like he’d seen a ghost.”
I listened for the clack of wheels on silver rails. Would I ever master my impulsive nature? Precept Five blazed in my mind like neon: “Do not succumb to the
temptation to confound those who appear to oppose you.”
The man who had occupied the now-empty bar stool shot a furtive look over his shoulder, hurriedly lurched around a potted fern. I hoped his room wasn’t too far away. On the bright side, it is a human necessity to transform what happens into a better reality. Instead of a UFO, it was obviously a weather balloon. That rattle in the attic was the weather, not an ax murderer. The wind caught the ball. It wasn’t a slice. That sudden vivid sense of an unseen presence? Hoo-hah, nobody believes in ghosts.
Cliff Granger mopped at his soggy jacket and trousers, then was abruptly still, his face turned toward the archway leading into the bar. He slapped the wet towel on the bar, was off the stool. He moved purposefully through the crowd.
A tall, imposing woman stood there, white hair pulled back in a bun, smooth oval face. Deirdre had described Jessica Forbes’s face as pleasant. I would add commanding. Her face had character, deep-set dark eyes with a penetrating gaze, long thin nose, rather thin lips, a firm jaw. She surveyed the gathering, gave a slight head shake, turned to go. She reminded me a Persian cat, fastidious, not finding the company to her liking.
Cliff Granger was one of several people hurrying toward her, but he arrived first, bent toward her, spoke rapidly.
I joined him.
Jessica’s posture was revealing. She stepped back a pace, stood straight and still, met his gaze with a dismissive look.
“. . . had a chance to reconsider. Look, Jessica, I’ll send you—”
“More dreck?” Her voice was deep.
“Jessica, I’ve got some good stuff. I’ll—”
She cut in, that deep voice cold and deliberate. “You sent me six manuscripts that a desperate dog wouldn’t pee on. If you have good stuff, am I your go-to dead-letter drop for rubbish?” Her look was appraising. “I heard about your new wife, young and expensive. So I get it, you need to make money. Flooding editors with lousy books isn’t the answer. Or are you just a shill for Jay Knox’s manuscript mill? Maybe you better have a heart-to-heart with Jay. I’ll look at one more, Cliff. This one better have a killer beginning, a roller coaster middle, and a Technicolor finale.” With that she moved past him, the Queen Mary leaving a barge in her wake. She strode around a potted plant and was gone.
