Cathy's and Largot's eyes lit up and they raced her to the door.
Outside, I limped up by Harley. "Harley. I trust my writing group members. It has to be an inside publishing job, somebody with a constant stream of incoming work who can pull strings. A crooked agent or editor."
"I know you think it's Yvette," she said, shoving me into her car. "We're just ruling out other people.”
But Jackie's house was all lit up. So we struck out for George's in Tustin, with the car radio blaring and Largot's cigarette smoke filling my aching head.
Harley parked by a fire hydrant on the side of George's well-lit corner house and turned to us. "What now?"
Cathy swung open her door and leapt out. "Time to rumble!"
"But he’s home! The lights are on!" I yelled to her chubby back.
"Let's dump his garbage and steal his car!" Skinny Largot jumped out of the car and stamped out her cig on the sidewalk, then took off after Cathy. A coil of thick rope flapped from her belt.
Cathy's rolls jiggled. "I call any loose change or liquor we find.”
Harley sprinted after them.
"Hey," I said. “Wait! What?”
Harley yelled back, "Call me Nancy Drew. I need a sleuthing fix.”
I, the overruled detention matron, limped behind the pack of hooligans as Largot practiced lassoing Cathy's head in her long, floppy loop of rope.
George's divorces had left him only enough income to rent a small house among a tangle of overgrown bushes and bougainvillea on an otherwise neat residential block. We took out our machetes and hacked through the foliage to get to an open kitchen window.
The girls snorted at the sight: piles and piles of paper, books and old newspapers had invaded George's kitchen floor and table, leaving just a tiny place to eat. No one was in there, but voices could be heard from a room on the front of the house.
"This is ridiculous," I said.
But the girls had already headed around the garage toward the living room on the other side of the house. I followed, and we all dropped to a crawl across the front lawn, as the front windows were huge and glowing.
"Crap!" Cathy whispered, in the middle of the yard.
The others snickered and then slowed at the smell. Her hand had landed in fresh dog poop.
Harley gave Cathy a wipe from her pocket. "Always carry them for shopping carts and doorknobs. And bird flu.”
Nasty yapping started inside the house. We froze.
"Oh, quiet, Jeeves," came George's voice through the front screen door, behind us. His stupid dachshund Jeeves, who I knew from writers' group meetings, didn't have the brains God gave a gnat.
We made it to the other side of the house, where the windows were curtained and shut. My giggling compadres squatted there amid some thorny bougainvillea between George's house and the neighbor's fence like a line of jungle cats, the light from the street lamp outlining their twitching ears. Music and a female voice carried out from the screen door twenty feet away, but we couldn't see in through the curtain or hear well enough to tell what was happening in the living room.
"Come on." I said again. "I'm tired. Let’s go."
Then a window beyond the backyard fence slid open.
"Oooh." Cathy said. "You wanna go listen in back?"
"We'd need vaccinations and a backhoe to get back there, even if that fence doesn't fall down when we jump it," Harley said.
Largot twirled her ever-present rope loop. "Yeah, I already had plague once this year.”
"Let's go home," I whined.
"Let's at least soap his windows." Cathy came up with two bars of Ivory.
We looked at her.
"What? They’re for emergencies." Cathy grinned.
I was painfully rising to go call a taxi when the living room window right by my head slid open and the curtain got pulled back. We all sank into the shadows. I held my breath.
George's voice rose over The Girl from Ipenima. "Sorry this wasn't open. The neighbors really hate Jeeves's barking."
Jeeves, sniffing at the window frame inches from my head, barked shrilly.
"Quiet, Jeeves," George said.
"Yes, bit stuffy in here," A familiar fruity British voice said. "George, I have a question."
I poked Harley's arm, mouthing, "Yvette!" and pointing frantically.
"Feel that hot, dry wind?" George oozed. "Those Santa Anas will dry you up like a prune in this city. And with all that brush fire smoke in the air, your skin will suffer and peel. But this body butter is just delectable. Formulated with fig paste, guacamole and a secret ingredient that could change the world.”
I could imagine George smoothing his bald pate with the twinkling pinky ring.
"Octopus urine," he breathed.
In the light from the street lamp, Cathy's and Largot's eyes were popping, their face jewelry twinkling, their hands slapping their knees as they held back laughter.
George went on, "We don't want those nasty old free radicals making liver spots on your delicate skin. My, my. Which is just … sort of … magical. Translucent. Like … mermaid skin."
I cringed at the oily change in his voice. Largot's rope landed on my shoulders. I squeaked and grabbed it away from her.
Yvette said peevishly, "No one ever said I needed moisturizer before.”
Jeeves barked at the window again and footsteps approached the window. George's nose and glasses touched the screen, and we plastered ourselves to the wall and the fence.
"Look, Jeeves. No cats. Now settle down," he said.
"Do I look that dry?" Yvette whined.
Canine sniffing recommenced at the screen as George said. "It's not you, dear. It's the harsh weather, the sun, the smoke. It's so hard on fair people. And this one is the only cream you'll ever need. Anti-wrinkle, anti-aging, anti-freckles, anti-skin cancer guaranteed for just twenty-four dollars. Heck, I think this one's even anti-bankruptcy and anti-divorce. Ha, ha. Leave it to Alice Fay Cosmetics. We have normal/dry, combination/oily, or sunscreen. Let's see which one you need. If I may?"
A smarmy pause. Then, in a husky voice: "Wow. You don't seem to be dry or oily."
Harley started shaking and Largot and Cathy did barf mimes. Cathy produced a candy bar and her wrapper rustled. Jeeves barked.
"Bad boy, Jeeves. Excuse me." Steps approached us, then retreated. Sniffing stopped. A door closed.
Yvette said, "Really, I—"
George resumed, "Sorry about the dog. Now, for your blemishes, there's the Alice Fay Midlife Derma-Bliss Set. Believe me, those tiny, adorable puffs around your eyes will disappear like magic with Alice Fay Eye-Firming Cream."
Harley rolled around in the dirt holding her sides, about to explode.
George went on, "I'd never pressure you, but there's a special this month. Buy two, get one free for your friend who couldn't come. Wish I could have met her."
In hopes of a threesome? My stomach turned.
"Well …" Yvette said.
"Listen, I'll make it half price. Whatever you want. You're my last customer," he said. "Don't tell my exes, but I'm about to inherit a bundle from a dying uncle. This was his ring. So I’m packing up shop here. This all goes back to Alice Fay tomorrow. Except what you choose tonight.”
Largot's cell phone chirped.
My heart seized up and Cathy levitated half a foot off the ground as Largot punched at the thing. The dog went nuts deep inside the house.
"My neighbors wander around for cell phone reception," George said smoothly, closing the window down to a few inches.
We craned our ears.
But Yvette spoke up. "Listen, George, I didn't come here for creams. I came about Rhonda. A paranormal romance writer who's barely been published. Isn't it odd that she suddenly claims to have written a bestselling book in a different genre? Tell me. Is there any way she could have just pretended to write that manuscript while somehow … well … procuring it from someone else? Some retired group
member, say?"
My mouth fell open. The night got quiet with the long pause inside. I was going to kill George for that pause.
Finally, he spoke. "But why would she do that? And how? We were with her every step of the way, at least since she joined our group last winter." Then doubt crept into his voice. "Unless she's a damned good actress and she's taking fancy computer lessons, but I can't really … Of course, if she got the bare bones of the book from another writers' group, and we helped her buff it up, maybe, but … No, she's not clever enough for that."
Not clever? Me? Harley was nodding emphatic agreement with George, the streetlight gleaming in her wild eyes, pointing at me, just daring me to burst out screaming. I reached out and clamped my hands around her neck.
George continued, "Now James can handle a computer, but he's just a pup writer. Unless they worked together somehow. Hmm. He does seem to have a little thing for—"
Yvette snapped. "No, he doesn't. She's not his type. Those … you know … they're probably fake.”
"You think?" he asked.
Oh, man. I'd boil them both in oil and feed them to Bing.
Cathy and Largot put hands over their mouths, Mount Vesuvius and Mount St. Helens, ready to blow.
"Wait." Yvette sounded hopeful. "Had they known each other before you met them? Could they be working together? Or could it have been done without hacking? By Rhonda alone, taking hard copies from …"
"Well, maybe." George's voice had gotten too silky. He was a dead man when I saw him next. "You don't think someone could have plagiarized the book from her, like she says?"
"Not bloody likely. I mean who—George, what are you doing?"
There was a long pause, and something crawled up my leg. I swatted it.
After a moment, George growled, "You know, I just knew you'd taste good, and feel—Mmm! Even better. You want to continue this upstairs?" I could tell the pinky ring was trying to express more than it was capable of.
Cathy was strangling herself with her tattooed hands, her tongue lolling, as she faked an agonizing death.
Yvette shrilled, panting, "Oh, piss off, George. You and your sodding anti-aging creams. Like I was an old hag. God, you Yanks are about as subtle as a barrel of tar. Maybe you blundering blokes can ooze by with your boorish manners with these American tarts, but not with this Brit.”
Angry spike heels staccatoed over the living room floor as we four delinquents, no longer able to control ourselves, exploded into the front yard like a passel of first-graders hitting the schoolyard after a tense subtraction lesson.
Yvette stomped outside and George followed. "I'm sorry, Yvette. You're not old. You're wonderful. Wanna go out for pancakes?"
Cathy and Largot, drunk on hilarity, roared and pointed at Yvette, who was steaming toward her car. "That's Gold Diggeressa. From the Irvine Irritations! We hate her!"
Then a loud, vibrating ball of claws and teeth headed out the door at us.
CHAPTER 14
In the car, my butt shifted restlessly from one dog-bitten bun to the other. That damn Jeeves had sharp teeth. The back seat resounded with mimicry of Livid Yvette and Curious George. Cathy held her dangerously jiggling spare tire and cackled again, "Oh, piss off, George!"
"Octopus urine!" Largot gleefully spun her rope and caught it on her lip stud.
The Mustang careened around a corner on two wheels, slamming us into the doors.
"They’re probably fake," Harley said, eyeing me. I scowled, and she added, "Hey, Rhonda, speaking of bosomy heroes, you could be Boudicca.”
Largot said, "Yeah, Booty-Ka! Get it?"
"Nah. Her butt's not big enough," Cathy said.
Largot added, "Yeah. If anyone should have a booty name, it should be Cathy."
Okay. They weren't so bad, after all. They poked each other all the way to the local cowboy bar, where we dropped them off. Then I took the wheel from Harley and headed back to the rink and my car.
"What the hell was Yvette doing back there?" I screamed. "Framing me with George's help? Why?"
Harley said, "I don't know, but I'd watch her. At least we know George isn't Reynard Jackson. Anybody that stinky at seduction, and reduced to hawking cosmetics for a living—"
"—and that house? And the dumb inherited ring," I agreed. "Not enough money there to be Jackson material.”
"Unless all his money's invested so he can't get at it."
I frowned. "Right. In real estate. Or some damned Babe Ruth collector’s bat. Well, put him on hold for now. What about Marian and the mysterious Pala?"
"Not likely.” Harley said, “Um. Did James ever get a hard copy of your book?"
"No, I made him a CD, but he never took it."
"He didn't read your book?" she asked.
"Don't worry, he will soon." Oh, yes, my magic kisser would. I would see to that. "The other CD was for George, the shit. There were a lot of early pages I handed out, but they were just chapters. I only made five complete paper copies of the final draft of the book. Four I just copied to go to agents last week. The other one Jackie just returned to me.”
"So, maybe it was Jackie. Did George return his CD?" Harley asked.
"He gave it to Marian, who can't find it."
"Maybe her boy toy stole it. He was cute. Now him, I could see as Jackson."
"So Jackson has to be cute now?" I shook my head.
"Duh. What about your earlier drafts? Maybe Asshole Jackson copied one of those. Or got into your computer when you weren't looking, like at a conference.”
"Nope. When it’s not at Mom’s house or my condo, I keep my laptop with me at all times, especially at conferences." I pulled into the rink lot. "When I go pee, it does, too.”
"Spare me the details." Harley said. "Want to go interrogate Marian's boy toy tomorrow night?"
"I'll talk to Marian about the CD first."
"Want to go spy on Jackie?"
"No, Mata Hari." I got out of the car. "Jackie'll have the place fully alarmed after the report she gets from George tonight. This is serious, Harley. My group may ban me for life."
"Hey, since it was Yvette, I bet it just looked like you were harassing a fellow roller girl." Harley grinned. "Wouldn't you love to catch her in the middle of blood and thunder?"
"Insecticide." I smiled.
* * *
Dad insisted he was fine alone at home that night, so I went to my condo and located every hard copy, old or new, paper or disk, of my manuscript, put them all in a cupboard, and locked it. Then I unlocked it. Who was I kidding? The damage was done. Who'd want the thing now that it was published? And I still had no idea how it had been done. Had someone found Marian’s copy of the final draft?
Then I remembered. In December of last year, I'd made a flock of copies of my very rough first draft to give to friends as a test read, but then I'd gotten busy with Christmas. Where had those gone, exactly? I didn't remember disbursing them at all. Were they lost? Were they hiding in my condo? Maybe all those little paper piles were floating around Orange County in the general miasma of excess printer paper, like lost dryer socks. Or, more likely, in the dump, available for anyone to find and publish. This just got worse and worse.
Mom called at midnight, saying she'd finally found a church friend to help Dad with his food and medicines the next day while I worked, so I shouldn't worry. But I hadn't been worried. That's how awful I was at taking care of people. I'd barely thought of Music Man all evening. Besides, the doctor had said he'd be fine at home, right?
"You went out?" Mom yawned. "Did you meet any new friends?"
"Uh. Yeah.”
"Nice?"
"Well …"
"Male?"
"No."
Pause. "Say, did you hear anything new about your book? Any eager publishers?"
"Uh, no, Mom. It's … too soon." How could I tell her the truth and listen to the disappointment in her voice? Rhonda had messed up again. "Just Rhonda." "Just Rhon
da," who never quite succeeded at anything.
I said, "Hey, do you know where Manuela went or how to find her?"
"I think Henrietta Smith at church uses her sister. Oh listen. Ed's moving into the house tomorrow. Put clean sheets on the bed and sweep up, okay?"
CHAPTER 15
An eerie, hot wind howled all night. At 7:30 on Friday morning, I woke in my own little condo and unbent myself inch by inch, still groggy from the four Motrins and three Tylenols with codeine I'd needed to sleep. After two cups of coffee, some failed yoga, and a stiff email from my last hope of an agent, Ivy Liygh, dumping me and my book and recommending serious therapy, I limped into the Rancho Santa Margarita Library with two bags of frozen peas, since all my ice packs were leaking blue gel.
At this point in October, we were between travel season and the science fair. So my morning work was full of information searches about Santa Ana winds, hurricanes, the World Series, elections, real estate booms and busts, ghosts, and Halloween. During my break, I found out Pala was an Indian casino. Hmmm. Which made G. A. Gamblers Anonymous and wholesome Marian quite the card shark, although I'd pegged George for the gambler in the group.
I called Henrietta Smith and got a phone number and address for Manuela's sister, Concepcion, in Santa Ana. I called the number, shaking my head all the while. Manuela had never had any interest in print whatsoever. She threw away magazines and newspapers just like trash unless I guarded them. I just couldn’t see her stealing my book, though she might have trashed a copy. No matter. The number was disconnected.
Then I found I'd been banned from my two online writers' groups for fear I might plagiarize the members' postings. Furious, I googled Jackson again and found that of all the people claiming in tabloids to be his angry ex-wives or illegitimate children, none knew where he was. If they had, I'd have gone there and J-checked his ass into the shrubs.
I was just getting ready to call Marian's copyright lawyer, Jack Pruitt, at lunchtime when my cell phone rang.
"Rhonda? Is that you?" said an older female voice.
"Yep. This is my cell phone.”
"It's Arlene, honey. You don't happen to know where your dad is, do you?"
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