Dirty Tricks: A Kate Lawrence Mystery

by Judith Ivie

  “So why can’t we have guests at our party?” demanded a resident whose name totally eluded me at this point.

  “The regulations only get sticky when a group function, such as the Halloween party, takes place in a Vista View facility like this dining hall,” Isabelle explained. “Then we get into areas such as insurance regulations and maximum capacity set by the fire commissioner and so on. The directors feel that because the annual party has become so popular, allowing guests would almost certainly exceed the legal maximums in one or more areas. They don’t want to risk a lawsuit if anything unexpected happens.”

  The group fell quiet for a minute as we considered the administrative realities Isabelle had laid out. Bert and I exchanged a glance.

  “Okay, that’s the problem. What’s the solution? You said you might have one, or at least a partial one,” Bert cut to the chase.

  Isabelle allowed herself a small smile. “According to the regulations, relatives are permitted to visit at any time. You could all suddenly acquire lots of nieces and nephews and cousins.”

  That got a laugh, but Bert shook his head. “No good, Izzy. We can’t risk overcrowding in case there’s an emergency. I should know. Last year I was the emergency.”

  We turned solemn, remembering.

  “Bert had a serious heart attack at last year’s party,” I filled Isabelle in quietly.

  “So we keep track, issue guest passes, first come, first served, until we hit capacity,” said Helen. Yes, I was almost sure it was Helen. “We get to have our guests, and the directors have no legal problems. What do you think? Can you sell it to management?”

  We all looked at Isabelle expectantly.

  “I can certainly try,” she responded.

  Bert and the ladies cheered and applauded, turning every head in the now crowded dining hall toward our table.

  “Hey, Izzy,” Bert teased. “How about I invite my nieces, Kate and Margo, and my sister Maybelle? She seemed like a nice gal, and she might enjoy getting to know a few of us old farts.”

  I felt Isabelle’s tension return. She looked at her watch and stood up abruptly. “I’ll see what I can do, but I can’t make any promises. Now, please excuse me. I really must get back to work.”

  Sixteen

  Safely back in her office behind a closed door, Isabelle sank down at her desk and put her head in her hands. What had she done? By presenting a solution to the problem of party guests, she had inadvertently opened the door to having that Farnsworth woman invade her territory yet again. The possibility of her being invited to the Halloween party had never occurred to her. Damn and blast. Was there no end to her interference in Isabelle’s life?

  She stared bleakly at the closed door and wondered if she were doomed to sit behind it indefinitely. Solitude was something she had always prized, but involuntary isolation was another thing altogether. Just as she’d felt she was making some progress with the residents this morning, which she freely attributed to Kate’s management of the situation, that Farnsworth person got in the way again. Wasn’t it enough that Maybelle or M.M. or whatever she was calling herself today had singlehandedly crushed Isabelle’s dream of having a romance novel published? Technically excellent, she’d said in her e-mail rejection, but lacking the emotional depth Romantic Nights sought in its titles. Perhaps at a later date, if she cared to try again blah blah blah.

  But Isabelle wouldn’t try again. She couldn’t. The manuscript she’d submitted to Romantic Nights had taken her years to craft. It was the very best she could do. Trying again would only compound her humiliation when she submitted more of the same, so what was the point? And if a small press like Romantic Nights wouldn’t give her a chance, how would she ever persuade larger, more sophisticated publishers to look at her work?

  Fresh anger burned in her cheeks as she powered on her computer and logged into her Amazon account. She searched the books department for author Farnsworth and was taken aback when more than two dozen Ariadne Merriwether titles populated the screen. Until her conversation with May of a week ago, she’d had no idea that popular mystery author Maybelle Farnsworth and romance publisher M.M. Farnsworth were one and the same, but now she would use that information to her advantage. She would teach publisher Farnsworth a lesson in humility by trashing author Farnsworth, which apparently was very easy to do. Better yet, no one would ever know, as reviews could be posted anonymously. It would be Isabelle’s little secret.

  One by one, she purchased the latest half-dozen e-books in the Ariadne Merriwether series and had them delivered to her computer. The e-book versions were inexpensive, and it wasn’t as if she intended to read more than a few pages of each one. She would merely scan a title until she found enough typos and grammatical errors, formatting or other flaws, to give her negative comments credibility. Plot twists, characterizations, story line—they meant nothing to Isabelle. She needed specific ammunition with which to convince prospective purchasers that, while the books of Maybelle Farnsworth were mildly amusing, at best, they clearly had been produced by an author who didn’t value her readers sufficiently to have her manuscripts competently edited.

  Isabelle had read enough snarky, unsubstantive reviews to know just how to word hers. She would make a few dismissive general comments, find a typo to cite, click and post, all under the protection of an alias, of course.

  She paused as she considered what name to use. Perhaps Desirèe L’Amour, the pen name she’d used for her romance novel? No, too risky. If the woman even bothered to read her own reviews, she might make the connection too readily, and what was the fun in that? Her review name had to be slyer, subtler. Ah, she had it. I.M.D.L., her reviews would be signed, here to avenge humiliated writers everywhere.

  She pulled out a lined pad and prepared to make notes as she scanned the first title. It took only minutes to find a SpellCheck error, “than” instead of “that.” Isabelle hadn’t read a book in ten years that was free of such errors because few authors, and even their editors, bothered to learn how to spell anymore. They relied on SpellCheck or similar programs to pick up spelling errors. Unfortunately, the programs failed to consider context. As long as a letter sequence created a correctly spelled word, any word, it would be accepted.

  Isabelle knew herself to be an excellent speller and grammarian, both of which made her current task easier—so easy, in fact, that she breezed through the first three reviews in only a couple of hours. Resolving to do another three after lunch, which she had brought with her, she turned her attention to her Vista View work, polishing off the day’s spreadsheets and reports in short order. As had been the case with most of her previous jobs, her current position offered little challenge. She remembered to send an e-mail to her managers, reminding them of Vista View’s longstanding visitors’ policy and urging that it be extended to the upcoming Halloween party, so long as attendance was closely supervised and legal maximums were not exceeded.

  She took a break and moved to one of her visitors’ chairs to rest her eyes and eat her chicken salad. In a way it was too bad, she reflected, thinking about her conversation that morning with Bert and the others. If it weren’t for the tedious nature of the job, which would be unbearable without something else, like the romance writing she had planned, to alleviate the boredom, she might quite like Vista View and could see herself finding suitable companionship among some of the residents. The facility itself was attractive and comfortable, and she had come to appreciate the friendly staff, not to mention Dominick’s tasty and nutritious meals.

  Her little apartment suited her down to the ground. It would be too bad to have to give it up, but she knew now it would be impossible for her to continue here. She couldn’t put up with the Farnsworth woman’s presence, and as the aunt of one of the Mack Realty agents and the friendly acquaintance of several of the residents, present she would be. No, best that Isabelle make a clean break and go elsewhere. Fortunately, money wasn’t a problem, thanks to her recent inheritance, but Isabelle wasn’t one to remain id
le for long. She would need to find something productive to do with her time.

  She replaced the lid on her empty salad container and returned to her computer. At least she would strike a blow for rejected writers and teach Ms. High-and-Mighty Farnsworth how it felt to be on the receiving end of insensitive criticism. That should help, she thought as she resumed her self-assigned task.

  So why didn’t she feel any better?

  Seventeen

  “That’s it!” May slapped her desk with both palms and frowned fiercely at her computer screen, startling Strutter and me as we sipped cups of soup, a delayed lunch, in what had become May’s de facto office. Although the renovations on her house were now complete, May lingered at the Law Barn, as reluctant to leave as we would be to see her go. “I’ve had enough of Isabelle Marchand and her wounded ego.”

  I goggled at her over the rim of my soup mug. “You’ve heard from Izzy?” Despite my best intentions, Bert’s nickname for Isabelle had stuck.

  “That’s odd, after cold-shouldering you the way she did when you were at Vista View,” Strutter agreed. “What did she say?”

  May yanked off her computer spectacles and dropped them on the desk.

  “I heard from her, all right, but she didn’t say anything, at least not directly to me. Oh, no, that would have been too straightforward, require too much integrity. She’s taken the anonymous sniper route preferred by literary weasels everywhere and started trashing my mystery novels by posting snarky reviews.”

  She jumped up and stalked into the lobby, where she paced back and forth in fury. Strutter and I abandoned our lunch to have a look at her computer screen. It was open to a review of May’s latest Ariadne Merriwether novel, Miss Merriwether Investigates: “Typical cozy, utterly predictable,” I read and jumped ahead a few lines. “All in all, a mediocre read. I would have given it two stars but for the typographical errors, which should have been caught and corrected before publication. Such negligence is clear evidence that the author has little respect for her readers.” Two typographical errors were cited, complete with location numbers for the e-book editions. I blanched, and my eyes jumped to the review’s headline, where the reviewer had given Miss Merriwether a damning one-star rating.

  “I.M.D.L, Rocky Hill, Connecticut,” I read the signature aloud. “You’re right, it’s a cheap shot, but it could be a coincidence that the reviewer—and I use the term loosely in this case—is from Rocky Hill. What makes you so certain this is Isabelle Marchand’s doing?”

  May hugged herself and kept pacing, obviously needing to blow off steam. “Up until today I wasn’t entirely sure that Isabelle and Desirèe were the same person, but I am now. This isn’t my first rodeo, ladies. Remember my telling you how the authors whose work I reject sometimes try to get even with me by posting snide reviews of my personal titles? They use aliases, of course, but very often they forget to block the city and state of origin.”

  “Like this one,” Strutter confirmed. “It’s suspicious, but how can you be sure it’s her?”

  May huffed in disgust. “You may also recall my saying that most people’s writing exhibits consistent characteristics whether they’re drafting a novel or dashing off a letter. They make the same mistakes, misspell the same words, things like that. This review has Desirèe L’Amour all over it.”

  Strutter and I scanned the words on the screen before us again.

  “Sorry, May, I don’t know the woman well enough to be able to say that. We’ve only exchanged a few words during my days at Vista View, and I’ve never read anything she’s written,” said Strutter.

  I shook my head uncertainly. “I’ve spent quite a bit of time with her, but like Strutter, I’ve never seen anything of hers in writing. Frankly, I can’t find any errors at all in this review. What are you seeing that we don’t?”

  May stopped striding back and forth and put both hands on her hips. “That’s it exactly. There are no mistakes, none. It’s mean spirited and petty, but it’s perfectly punctuated. If you remember, Kate, I mentioned that it was too bad Desirèe didn’t have a yen to be an editor instead of a romance writer, because she’d make a hell of a good one.”

  I nodded slowly. “I do remember your saying that.”

  May stomped back to her desk and jostled her way between us. “So we’ve got perfect syntax and a match on geographic locations, plus the timing is about right, since this was posted a week after I told Isabelle about my connection with Romantic Nights. Now take a good look at the alias she’s using.”

  “I.M.D.L,” Strutter read dutifully. “I.M. could stand for Isabelle Marchand, I guess, and D.L. could conceivably stand for Desirèe L’Amour, but why would she even want to hint at that connection if she’s bothering to use an alias?

  “You’re not hearing it,” May snapped. “I.M.D.L. as in ‘I am Desirèe L’Amour, and I’m here to stick it to Maybelle Farnsworth. Don’t you get it? She absolutely wants me to know it’s her and realize there’s not a thing in the world I can do about it. In her mind, I’ve disrespected her work, so she’s dissing me back, only she gets to do it publicly. We might as well be in the schoolyard, yelling, ‘So there, nyah, nyah.’”

  She glowered at the screen for another moment, then clicked the mouse a few times to navigate to reviews for another one of her titles. She sorted them by date so the most recently posted reviews came up first. Sure enough, there was one submitted by I.M.D.L. It described the title as tedious and amateurish before condemning it with a one-star rating. May jabbed a finger at the posting date.

  “This was done the same day she posted the other one, and I’ll just bet you there are more.”

  Deftly, she maneuvered through the reviews for her most recent titles, and sure enough, four more were soundly panned by I.M.D.L. on the exact same day.

  “Energetic assassin, I’ll give her that,” May snorted. “Well, if she thinks I’m just going to lie down and take it, she’s mistaken. Actions have consequences, and she needs to take responsibility for hers.”

  “But what can you do about it? You told us these review sites allow people to say whatever they want, whether it happens to be true or not, because reviews are categorized as opinions,” Strutter protested.

  “That’s correct. This is a free country, and everyone is entitled to an opinion, so I’m going to exercise my right to express mine,” May told us. “The difference is, I won’t be hiding behind some phony identity when I do it.”

  I was alarmed. “You’re going to risk chastising her publicly in an on-line rebuttal? Oh, May, don’t do it. You told us yourself that every other so-called reviewer will rise to her defense and shred you like cabbage. Engaging with these people would be professional suicide.”

  She laughed without humor. “Easy, there, I’m not an idiot. I will do what every other published author with any common sense does under these circumstances, remain silent and keep writing the best books I can. Eventually, the overwhelming number of thoughtful, conscientious reviewers will prevail.” She powered off her laptop. “But I’m also going to do what I.M.D.L. doesn’t have the guts to do, confront her face to face. I’m going to tag along with Margo to Vista View tomorrow morning, and I promise you that before noon, Isabelle and I will have had an open and honest—and probably very loud—conversation in her office. I wouldn’t be surprised if a little profanity is involved, too. I only hope Mack Realty doesn’t lose the Vista View account because of it.”

  Strutter and I exchanged looks of concern. Vista View was our bread and butter during lean times in the real estate business. There had been plenty of those in the past few years, and we counted on the regular income the account produced. Great. Now I had something else to worry about.

  True to her word, May accompanied Margo to Vista View the following morning, although she drove her own car. Strutter and I spent the day on tenterhooks, tidying files and doing busywork while consumed with curiosity and concern for both May and Isabelle. Despite Izzy’s petty act of revenge, we recognized it as the wo
rk of a woman whose heart had been broken—not by a lover, in this case, but by a seemingly uncaring publisher who had crushed her dream of publication with a few dismissive sentences.

  Still, Izzy had “poked the bear,” as Margo put it to me on the telephone Thursday evening. “It takes some doin’ to get May riled up, but once you’ve done it, look out. I have to say I’m a little worried about Isabelle. As you well know, I was a bit of a handful in my younger years, and Auntie May was the only one who could pin my ears back. I remember one whole month when all she would allow me to say to her was, ‘Yes, Ma’am.’” She chuckled. “I have a feelin’ she hasn’t lost her touch.”

  When May still hadn’t appeared at the Law Barn by three o’clock, Strutter and I were beside ourselves. We dropped all pretense of conducting business as usual and took cups of tea into the lobby, where we sat and frankly waited. Fortunately, things were slow, and the phone gave us a break.

  “When does Emma leave to visit the new boyfriend?” Strutter asked in an effort to make conversation while trying valiantly not to look at her watch yet again.

  “She’s flying out tomorrow, now that you mention it. She’s trying to keep up the pretense that this is a very casual thing, but come on. Flying across the country is about the least casual gesture I can imagine, although that’s probably attributable to my advanced age and general out-of-touchness with current standards for such things. I haven’t even told Armando. He’s had enough on his mind lately, and he’d go all Latino-protective on her.”

  Strutter sniffed into her teacup. “I can just picture J.D. fifteen years or so from now under the same circumstances with Olivia. It wouldn’t be pretty.”

  “Well, he’d best get a grip on those daddy instincts. Like the song says, it’s a small world, and it’s getting smaller by the day. All of this texting and Skype-ing and so on creates the illusion of proximity. It’s only the difficulty of actually transporting our physical selves from one corner of the country to another that reminds us of the reality, and frankly, I’m hoping against hope this trip will be Emma’s wake-up call. She can have a lovely fling, then come to her senses. With any luck, I might not even have to tell Armando anything about it.”