Kissing the Beehive

by Jonathan Carroll

  Kissing the Beehive

  Jonathan Carroll

  FROM THE PUBLISHER

  Bestselling author Sam Bayer is stuck. Burned out from his third divorce, bored with the formulaic rut his writing has fallen into, and unable to deliver the manuscript for which he has been paid a stratospheric advance, he is desperate for inspiration. But a chance visit to his hometown of Crane's View, New York, sparks his imagination. Soon he immerses himself in an unsolved case of murder that took place when he was a teenager – Sam himself had discovered the body of the victim, a beautiful and wild teenage girl named Pauline. At the same time he is drawn into an explosive affair with a gorgeous but seriously loopy fan with the improbable name of Veronica Lake. As Sam learns the disturbing facts about his lover's past, Pauline's murderer reappears – not only endangering Sam but putting his beloved fifteen-year-old daughter in jeopardy as well. Not knowing whom to trust, Sam has to brace himself for the truly unexpected resolution to this decades-old mystery.

  FROM THE CRITICS. Library Journal:

  Popular fiction writer Sam Bayer is in a slump, without a single idea for his next book, and both his publisher and his agent are breathing down his neck. On a whim, he visits his boyhood hometown, a small place in New York, and encounters an idea for a nonfiction workhe will write about the murder of Pauline Ostrova, whose body he discovered floating in the Hudson when he was a high school boy. When he shares the idea with an intriguing woman, a fan of his, improbably named Veronica Lake, he unleashes a series of events that bring the old murder back into the open, setting off the killer again. Carroll's (Panic Hand, LJ 12/96) book is strung like a piano wire whose surprising final note only sounds on the last page. Stephen King has aptly compared Carroll to Alfred Hitchcock. This novel is sure to find a wide audience and will be in demand by Carroll's rabid fans. Recommended.David Dodd, Santa Cruz Cty. Lib. Sys., Cal.

  Jonathan Carroll

  Kissing the Beehive

  All of the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  To

  Pat Conroy

  Stephen King

  Michael Moorcock

  Paul West

  Friends/ Mentors/ Wizards

  If you don't know the kind of

  person I am and I don't know

  the kind of person you are a

  pattern that others made

  may prevail in the world and

  following the wrong god home

  we may miss our star.

  – WILLIAM STAFFORD, "A Ritual to Read to Each Other"

  One

  I do not like to eat alone and that is one of the reasons why I became famous. There is something both pathetic and unattractive about a person eating by himself in public. Better to stay at home drinking orange soup from a can with a handful of dry white crackers in front of the TV, than be seen sitting by yourself waiting for that forlorn single meal to be served.

  I was having lunch with my agent, Patricia Chase, when I made this observation. Patricia is a big beautiful woman with balls of titanium. She looked at me as she has so often over the twenty years we've known each other – her unique mixture of amusement, exasperation and scowl.

  "Where do you come up with these ideas, Sam? There's nothing nicer than having a meal by yourself! You bring along a book or your favorite magazine, you don't have to talk or be the life of the party, you eat at your own speed . . . I love eating by myself."

  I ignored her. "On the other hand, the greatest thing in life is having dinner in a restaurant with a new woman. You order, and then you really get to talk with her for the first time. Everything till then has just been chatter. There's something magical about sitting with that new being in your life in a nice restaurant . . ."

  She smiled and took a roll from the basket. "Well, my boy, you've had your share of meals with new women over the years. What's the latest report on Irene?"

  "She calls and taunts me with the fact that she's hired one of the best divorce lawyers in the city. Then she cackles when she says how much she's going to ask for in court."

  "But you had that prenuptial agreement thing."

  "Those sound good when you're getting married, but somehow they go up in smoke when you're getting divorced."

  "Irene is your third wife. My God, that's a lot."

  "Just because you're mad at the fleas, doesn't mean you burn the blanket. Whoever said optimism was a good thing?"

  "Seems to me that with all the money you're paying the other two, you should take Irene as strike three and just have girlfriends from now on. And speaking of money, what's up with your new novel?"

  I cleared my throat because I didn't want the next sentence to come out either a peep or a squeak. "Nothing, Patricia. Zilch. The cupboard is bare. I'm word dead."

  "This is not good news. Parma called and asked what was going on with you. He's used to chatting. He thinks you're hiding from him."

  "I am. Besides, Parma's spoiled. I gave him five books in eight years and made him a lot of money. What else does he want from me?"

  She shook her head. "It doesn't work like that. He gave you a big advance for the new book and has a right to know what's going on. Look at it from his side."

  "I can't. I have enough to look at in my own life. Everything in the book is goo. All the characters are stuck in suspended animation and the story is going nowhere."

  "The synopsis looked good."

  I shrugged. "It's easy writing a synopsis. Ten pages of snap, crackle and pop."

  "So what are you going to do?"

  "Maybe I should get married again. Take my mind off things awhile."

  She sat back and had a good laugh. It was nice to see because I hadn't made anyone laugh for a long time. Especially myself.

  The rest of the meal was a wrestling match between my glum and glib sides. Patricia knew me as well as anyone and could tell when I was faking it. I assumed her conversation with my editor, Aurelio Parma, had been a bad one because I was rarely summoned for a business lunch with her. Usually we spoke on the phone once or twice a month and then had a celebratory dinner whenever I handed in a new manuscript.

  "How far have you gotten?"

  "The man's left his wife and is with the girl."

  "That was on the first page of the synopsis, Sam!"

  "I know, Patricia. That's what I was just telling you."

  "Well, what about . . ." She tapped her ringer on the table.

  "Forget it – I've thought through all the 'what abouts,' believe me. I started a short story but it was so dreary that even my pen threw up. I'm telling you, it's bad. It's not writer's block, it's writer's drought. My brain is Ethiopia these days."

  "You're lucky it hasn't happened before. You've published nine books. That's quite a few. Sounds like you're just written out."

  "Bad time for that to happen. Especially with Irene out there, sharpening her knives."

  We talked about other things, but the subject of my big silence hung over the rest of the meal like Mexico City smog. When we were finished and getting up to leave, she suggested I take a vacation.

  "I hate vacations! When I was married to Michelle we went to Europe, but all I wanted to do was stay in the room and watch CNN."

  "I liked Michelle."

  "I did too until I married her. She thought I could be a great writer if I only tried harder. What did she think I was doing at that desk all day, making sushi?"

  Patricia gave me one of her wise-old-owl looks. "What would you rather do, write great books or ones that sell?"

  "I gave up trying to astonish people a long time ago. There's a Russian proverb: 'The truth is like a bee – it goes right for the eyes.' One of the
few truths I know about myself is I write books that are entertaining, but they'll never be great. I can live with that. I'm one of the few people I know who is genuinely grateful for what he's been given. I was in an airport one day and saw three people reading my books. I can't tell you how happy that made me."

  I thought the subject was finished, but Patricia said, "Need makes you cry, sing or spring."

  "Huh?"

  "I know those Russian proverbs too, Sam. I gave you the book, dumbbell! It's all right to be satisfied with what you're doing if you go to bed at night feeling good. But you don't anymore.

  "You wrote thrillers, they were successful, you were happy. Now you can't write, you're empty and sad. Maybe it's time to try and write a great book. See what happens. Maybe it'll get you out of your rut."

  There was a long pause while our eyeballs dueled.

  "I can't figure out if you're a bitch or a guru for saying that."

  "A bitch. A bitch who wants you to get back to work so you can feed all your ex-wives."

  The ironic thing was the day was originally intended to be a celebration. My latest, The Magician's Breakfast, had just been published in paperback and I was in New York to do a signing at my friend Hans Lachner's bookstore, Cover Up.

  I always like a book signing because it is one of the few times when I am face-to-face with the people who have shared the most important part of my life with me – the time when I am telling them stories. Sure, I get a screwball now and then who wants me to autograph a towel, or someone I wouldn't dare sit next to on the subway, but all in all they're nice events and hearing compliments about my work doesn't hurt either. At first they scared me because I was convinced no one would show up. I will never forget the feeling of walking into that first signing session and seeing a horde of people waiting around for me to arrive. Rapture.

  Hans Lachner had worked as an editor for a few years at a famous publishing house but got fed up with the politics and intrigue. When his parents died, he took his inheritance and turned it into Cover Up. It was a small store but beautifully designed, intimate, and his taste in books was impeccable. I once dropped in and saw him deep in conversation with Gabriel Mбrquez. Later when I told him I didn't know he spoke Spanish, Hans said, "I don't. But I learned that day."

  He had given my third novel, The Tattooed City, to a Hollywood producer he knew who bought it and eventually turned it into a film. I owed him a great deal and did whatever I could to repay him.

  After my lunch with Patricia, I must have walked into his store looking like Peter Lorre in M, because Hans came right over and said I looked like shit.

  "Dog or human? There's a big difference."

  "What's the matter?"

  "I just had lunch with my agent and she fricasseed me."

  "Mr. Bayer?"

  I turned around wearing an instantaneous big smile and was greeted by a camera flash square in the puss. When the suns burned onto my retina faded, I made out a chubby woman wearing a Timberland baseball cap and large silver-frame glasses.

  "Would you mind, Hans?" She pushed her camera into his hand and came right up next to me. She took my arm. Hans counted to three and flashed my eyes back into blindness.

  "I'm Tanya. When you sign my books, remember I'm Tanya."

  "Okay."

  She took her camera back and bustled off.

  Hans put his arm around my shoulder and steered me toward the back of the store where a table and chair were waiting. "Tanya always buys two copies of your books. Gives the second to her sister."

  "God bless her."

  I sat down and the first people came up hesitantly, as if they were afraid to disturb me. I tried to be as nice as possible, always asking for their names and then signing something personal so they could have a smile when they looked at the inscription. "Breakfast with Charles. Thanks for sharing this meal with me." "This magician says hello to Jennifer." "To Tanya, who always buys two and deserves a double thank-you for her support." Time passed as I signed and smiled and made small talk.

  "My name is Veronica. I have a whole bunch, so it's fine if you just sign them and . . . well, you know, just sign them."

  Hans was handing me a Coke when she came to the table, so I didn't look when she spoke. I put the glass down and saw the book on top of her pile: the German edition of my first novel.

  "Jeez, where'd you get this?" I smiled, looked up at her and froze. She was a California blond with great waves of hair down to her shoulders. Skin so radiant and fine that if you hung around her too long you'd have to sit on your hands or end up in trouble. Her eyes were large, green and friendly but with a depth and intelligence to them that sized you up while welcoming you at the same time. The lips were heavy and almost purple, although it was clear she wore no lipstick. It was a decadent mouth, much too decadent for the sunniness of the rest of the face. It was a contradiction I didn't know if I liked. It turned me on, but I didn't know if I liked it.

  "I bought it in Germany when I was there. I'm trying to collect all editions of your work, but it's difficult."

  "Are you a collector?"

  "Not really. I just love your books."

  I opened the cover and turned to the title page. "And your name is –"

  "Veronica. Veronica Lake."

  My pen stopped. "What?"

  She laughed and it was as deep as a man's. "Yup, that's the name. I guess my mother was kind of a sadist."

  "And you look so much like her! That's like naming your son Clark Gable."

  "Well, in South America they name their kids Jesus."

  "Yeah, so when they die they can go to heaven. When you die, you're going to Hollywood, Veronica."

  I signed the book and reached for the next. The Japanese edition. Then came the Spanish. Outside my own shelves, I'd never seen such a collection.

  "You write the kind of books I would, if I could write. I understand them."

  "Will you marry me?"

  She pouted sweetly. "You're already married."

  I went back to signing. "Not for long."

  Before we could say anything else, I felt a hand on my shoulder and smelled the memorable cologne of my memorable editor, Aurelio Parma. "Sam the Sham. Where are the pharaohs?"

  Instantly on guard, I tensed and said, "The sham? Are you telling me something, Aurelio?"

  "Nope. I just came down to watch you." Aurelio turned to Veronica. "I'm his editor," he said condescendingly in his best "L'etat, c'est moi" voice. Then he flashed his dazzling Italian smile at her.

  "I'm his fan." She didn't smile back.

  "She's got you there, boss."

  Aurelio doesn't like being one-upped. He shot her a glare that would melt Parmesan, but she looked back at him as if he were an asterisk on a page. She won and he walked away.

  "So Veronica, you're in the diplomatic corps?"

  "I came here to see you, Mr. Bayer. I want my five minutes. He gets to be with you all the time."

  "Not if I can help it." I mumbled and picked up my pen again.

  "I know this isn't the place to do business, but I'm a documentary filmmaker. I would really like to do something on you. Here's my card. If you're interested, please call me. Even if you don't want to be filmed, I'd love you to call me anyway."

  "I'm flattered." I was finished with her books.

  She scooped them up and bent down toward me. "And I'm serious."

  She looked as good going as she did coming. Her directness was a little scary, but thrilling at the same time. The next person put a book down on the table and huffed, "It's about time!"

  "Sorry about that. Tell me your name."

  Chatting with Veronica had slowed things way down, so I worked fast and tried to keep my mind on what I was doing. It wasn't till a half hour later that I looked at the card she had handed me. Another big jolt.

  In my novel The Tattooed City, the most important moment in the story comes when the bad guy takes off his shirt and the heroine sees his back for the first time. In Russian prisons,
convicts who have done a lot of time have their backs tattooed with the most elaborate and Byzantine designs imaginable. The work is done with a combination of razor blades, needles and inks made from urine and burned shoe heels. The illustration is the convict's autobiography – what crimes he has committed, whether he is addicted to drugs, where he stands in the prison hierarchy. Each image is symbolic – a diamond means he's spent half his life in jail, a spider that he specializes in burglary, and so on. On my villain, angels, the Russian church, bridges, dragons, clouds, trees . . . take up almost every inch of his back so that it looks like a kind of naive painting of the City of God.

  Somehow Veronica Lake had gotten hold of the same photograph that inspired me years ago and used it for her calling card. The exact same picture, with only her name and telephone number embossed in silver letters over it. The picture, the memory of how I had worked it into my story, Veronica's boldness . . . all of them combined to send a big shiver up my spine. I hadn't been so intrigued by a woman since meeting my last wife.

  But the day wasn't finished playing tricks on me. After the signing was over and I had bullshited my way past Aurelio with a Mormon's zeal about the new book, assuring him that everything was hunky-dory and boy, wait till you see it, I hurried out the door. I took a cab uptown to the garage where I'd parked my car, hoping to beat the rush-hour traffic out of the city. The drive to my house in Connecticut took a good two hours if there was no holdup, but gridlock hit as soon as I got on to the West Side Highway. If you have to be held up anywhere, this road was the most bearable because of its beautiful view of the Hudson River and the boats of all sizes moving up and down it. I plugged in a tape of a current bestseller and listened to two chapters of someone else's words before the cars started moving again. Things got better once we passed the George Washington Bridge. I sped up, reveling in the knowledge that this day of forced smiles and false promises was over for me.