He'd offered to watch Music Man in the evening so I could go to my writers' group. Except I'd written nothing new for the group. I put pen to paper on my lunch hour and wrote three pages of a trite love scene with ill-disguised characters making out in a back yard. In the rain.
My research queries on Reynard Jackson and Pablo Reynaldo had all been dead ends. I googled other sources, but had little hope. James didn't call.
Heading home from work at 3:30, I got a call from the caregiver agency. Music Man had complained of dizziness and taken two naps already today. He'd awakened from each one claiming it was morning and demanding a huge breakfast of eggs and bacon. He had eaten so much at his third breakfast that he had thrown up.
Each time the caregiver had cleaned up the kitchen, Dad had rearranged things on all the surfaces in the house. He had hidden Ms. Diaz's wallet and keys in his bedroom dresser, and she was now ready to charge him with stealing.
The agency would be sending someone else tomorrow.
Too angry to face the aging delinquent, I got Arlene to watch him until Dal returned, and I visited my mother in the rehab facility. She looked a little better and was able to walk without fainting. I didn't tell her about Music Man's adventures with caregivers. Why worry her? Or my adventures with the Indian. None of her beeswax.
But I was bursting to tell somebody about the Dal/James problem, and Harley sure wasn't it. So I showed up early at Jackie's house for the writers' meeting.
"So the Indian's hot stuff, too? Wow. Sounds like the old sperm race," Jackie said.
I did a spit take with my iced tea.
"You know. Two sperm trying to make it to the egg first. You're the egg. James and Dal are sperm. Except it's normally a few million sperm. Got any more guys in the chute? The more the merrier where sperm are concerned.”
"Going from zero to two in a week isn't enough?" I asked.
Marian and George drove up outside.
I panicked, knowing I just had seconds to state my case. "But who do I choose? James cares about the folks and has a hundred tattoos, and Dal cares about the folks and is jobless. I want to eat him up. Except for my vision of myself next to him without teeth, care of Harley.”
Jackie hopped up to take her coffee cup to the kitchen. "I'd probably go for the doctor. But then again I might just relax and enjoy the view of all those muscles on both of them. Let things unfold. Let them duke it out. And when they do, I need every detail! My next book'll be a scorcher.”
Marian and George let themselves in and set their stuff in the living room.
In the kitchen, I whispered, "But Jackie—?"
She shrugged. "Which one kissed you first? Or best? Which one has better hands? Or a longer—?"
"A longer what?" George poked his head around the corner.
I blushed. I hadn't seen George since Thursday's spying escapade at his house. "Nose," I said. "We were comparing our dogs."
He chuckled. "Jackie doesn't have a dog. Hey, nice nose stud, Rhonda. And by the way, how's your butt? Did Jeeves do serious damage, I hope?"
"Damage? Jeeves?" Marian looked cheerful.
George rubbed his hands. "Ladies, Rhonda's been holding out on us. She's a roller girl! An Anaheim Amazon. They're a very athletic bunch with cute little asses and lots of tattoos. They play pranks on each other all the time, like listening in at windows to embarrass team members. I'm using that in my next book.”
"Yvette's a roller girl, too," I sang. "And she loves cosmetics."
George pulled me aside. "One more word from you and your protagonist gets it!" He could and would hold a writer hostage until the poor fool reshaped a character to please him. "And if you want forgiveness for last week, you have to tell all about the derby girls or it's the hot seat tonight."
Oh, man. No the hot seat.
Jackie had overheard. "What happened last week?"
I bolted for the bathroom. Oh, God. Maybe I should have skipped this meeting. Did George really doubt my integrity? After all these months? Had they been talking to each other? Did any of them realize I suspected them of plagiarism? What if James didn't show up tonight? What if he did? Could I handle these barracudas? But I had to know about my book, and these people still seemed to have more clues than anyone else. I took a deep breath, put on lipstick and a brave face, like Mom would do, and returned to the meeting. Immediately, they all produced notebooks and started pumping me for roller derby trivia. Which I provided, with my limited knowledge.
Marian finally said, "What about your book, Rhonda? Did you start a lawsuit?"
I slumped. "Not yet. But James has connections. He may have some news tonight."
George said. "Did you register the manuscript for its copyright?"
"No. I just assumed I had copyright … Boy, was I dumb! I thought it was safe." I kneaded my forehead. "But how could Reynard have gotten the whole story from a synopsis? I never gave the complete final draft out. Except to those four agents. And Harley.”
"And us," Jackie breathed.
"Oh, come on. It can't be you guys." I smiled reassuringly. "Or maybe the thief stole an early draft from my parents. Using my cleaning lady. But I haven't even compared my book with Jackson's yet to see how alike they are. Every copy of the damned Jackson book is sold before I get to the bookstore." Well, except for the copies that went in the toilet.
Marian nodded. "That contest."
"Wait." George ran out to his car.
Then James showed up. With Yvette, looking way out of sorts. I knew Jackie had asked him to bring her, but I never figured she'd show after the scenes in the hospital and at George's house. Carrying a copy of Jackson’s damned red book, George followed Yvette's peach sweater into the room.
Marian said, "Find out anything useful for Rhonda, James? She's just going to check Jackson's book against hers now."
James, cute as ever in jeans and a tight t-shirt, shrugged. "Jackson's agent's even top-secret. It's like this guy lives under a rock."
George handed me the Jackson book with an odd look.
I took it gingerly, and suddenly realized its contents could demolish a friendship in minutes. A friendship with someone in this house. But no. It couldn't be a group member. It had to be Yvette. I itched to confront her now, before she could bolt. But I had to have proof.
"Could I use your study, Jackie? I need to concentrate." I might also be able to clear Jackie by checking her desk.
James sang, "Aw! Can't we see?"
"No." I ran off as everybody sat down to hear Jackie's latest book chapter about a guy who had found his nemesis/new love in the woman detective who was looking for his stolen champion show dog.
But halfway down the hall to Jackie's study, George caught up with me. "Be careful who you accuse, Rhonda. There's a lot at stake for Jackson. Approach him or her with care. Preferably in a group.”
"Okay," I whispered weakly and shut the door to the study. Shaking a little, I shoved a pile of paper aside on Jackie's messy mahogany desk and flipped both the book and my laptop open to the second chapter, where I'd made the last changes.
While the computer booted, I rifled through some file drawers and found Jackie's bank statements. Hmm. No way would her monthly income support the thousands of dollars' worth of dishes, renovations, furniture, and clothes she'd recently bought. But there were some very round-numbered large deposits. Something fishy here. I couldn't find her IRS stuff.
Then I focused on my computer and the dreaded book.
Oh. God. There they were, in black and white on page thirty-five of my word document, my final July changes. I flipped pages. And there they were in Jackson's book as well. Damn. The group of suspects had just narrowed, mostly to the people in this house.
Did George suspect Jackie? Was that why he'd referred to Jackson as "her"? Jackie and Jackson were almost the same name. I needed to get back to the group soon, but I quickly groped through the desk. Finally, shoved at the back of a drawer, I found three p
ersonal letters addressed in the same cramped hand.
The door opened behind me, and I shoved the letters under my shirt fast. I turned to see Yvette closing the door and leaning back against it. "Rhonda, how long have you known James? What's your relationship like?"
"What?"
She said, "What game are you playing? Look, I know a bunch of agents. You sent out—"
I slammed the book and laptop closed. "Yeah, and you know Reynard Jackson. How do you explain that?"
She looked surprised. "What do you mean I know Jackson? Is that some sort of hint? Look, it's one thing to act all innocent with this group, and pull some identity prank, but playing with acquisition editors is career suicide. The agents and the editors for the big eight publishers all know each other. We know what's out there, including the new Jackson book. That was a dumb move, Rhonda, sending all those queries out last month. Now they're all laughing at you for copying Memory Wars. They all know you're either crazy or a criminal."
"Which version are you spreading?"
"—or that you're desperately seeking media attention, claiming to be Jackson. But believe me, they'll bury you instead. Your career is dead. Unless you really—"
"Oh, for God's sake, Yvette. I admit it. I am Reynard Jackson." I took pleasure in making her eyes pop. "So who the hell are you?"
Her jaw dropped as I snatched my laptop and the book and headed out of the room.
She shouted after me into the hall, "Don't tell me rubbish, Rhonda. Why did you follow me to the roller rink? This is a dangerous game. You don't know how dangerous.”
I turned. "My ass. It's just robbery, Yvette, pure and simple. Somebody took my book.”
Which was when James walked up, shook his head no at Yvette, like a reprimanding teacher, and escorted me into another bedroom. He closed the door before I could tell Yvette I'd nail her ass to a printing press.
"My goodness, Little Red Riding Hood," he laughed. "Tired of Grandma Yvette being around every corner? Let Mr. Wolf take the sting out." He took the book and laptop, set them on the flowered day bed, and pulled me close. "I'm sorry, Rhonda. She's a bit rabid. But that Jackson, now he's evil. Stealing your stuff wholesale, wrecking your career and your dreams. I'd like to deck him."
Or her. My heart still beat fast from the confrontation with Yvette. But at least James believed me over her. I relaxed, breathing in his smell: hospital soap and breath mints. And found my voice. "She thinks I'm crazy." I gulped air. "Or a criminal. I'd like to …"
He wrapped his arms around me. "Shh. I think I found something. Remember Marcella Anderson? She's got a son connected to the Enron scandal. He may be the guy we're looking for.”
"No, forget about Marcella." I said. "The final changes from the last summer rewrite are in the book, so she can't be the culprit. But please don't tell anyone yet.”
"Don't be too hasty." He kissed my hair. At which point I should have turned all liquidy, but my mind was whirling about Yvette and the book and who could have taken it and why.
He kissed my neck, and I pulled back, distracted. "Who? Who? Who took my book in the summer?"
Jackie called us from the living room.
This bedroom had a very big closet. Laughing, James scooped up the book and computer and took my hand and pulled me inside it. Then I found myself crouched down under the clothes rod, crammed between Jackie's fancy dresses and over six feet of sexy man-hunk.
He said, "Well, the group is not exactly out of the clear yet. Jackie was a Communist in college, you know. She got in pretty heavy with all those Greenpeacers and environmentalists and shit. And neither George nor Marian has sold a book all year, so they must have a monetary motive." His hands went for my breasts. "Did you like my roses?"
"Uh," I stammered. The closet reeked of mothballs. My eyes teared up as Jackie’s letters slipped down my front. I tried to nudge them back up and they crackled.
I talked to cover up the sound. "The roses—very nice. How did you get Yvette …"
Mothballs had never been my friend, and now they were burning my sinuses something awful. James leaned in to kiss me just as I wiped my dripping nose on my sleeve. My elbow whacked his chin.
"Ouch." He sounded peeved.
Steps came down the hall.
James held a finger to his lips as the bedroom door opened, then closed. Then suddenly, he was sitting down. He pulled me onto his lap and his tongue made its way halfway down my throat. Reflexively, my hands went under his shirt. Amazing realization: Tattoos didn't matter in the dark. Now, if an image of Dal's nose would just leave my mind screen.
James's hands hit the letter paper on my stomach.
"That a girdle?" he laughed. "Or stuffing?"
I thought fast. "Take your shirt off, big boy." I pulled the edge of his shirt up over his head and left it there.
"Ooh, you're one hot author." As he pulled it off, I dropped the epistles behind me to the shoe-infested closet floor.
"But I just can't see Jackie or George—" I tried, but suddenly, my shirt was unbuttoned and his hands and lips were an assault on me. And so were the mothballs. I started to wheeze as his lips found my neck. "Listen. This could be fun, but I can’t breathe."
He breathed hotly in my ear. "Hmmm. Your bra needs loosening," he crooned, unfastening my front bra snap, "And your laptop needs to be checked for hacking.”
Huh? My laptop? Odd subject for foreplay. Oh, well. I tried to respond in kind. "But I need it, big boy. Check it fast, okay?"
He plunged a hand down my pants.
"Not that fast!" Ticklish, I bolted up to a bent stand, laughing and wheezing and swatting at his hands. I'd always envisioned passionate lovemaking with James, but this …"Slow down!"
"Better safe than sorry." He started to rise, still caressing my jean-clad backside.
Was this the romantic tryst I'd imagined for months?
"Safe?" My insulted lungs and the images of the group's worried faces wilted any lust I might have had. "I'm not safe," I wheezed, pushing his hands away. "I'm having an asthma attack."
"Safe for your motherboard." Laughing, he reached over and unzipped my jeans, then yanked them down.
"Stop!" I shot up straight, hitting my head on the clothes rod. "Ouch!" I wheezed and my knee jerked up, pushing him into the door, which popped open, sending him toppling out of the closet.
I tried to follow, but something pulled hard at my hair. "Ouch! Ack! I'm stuck! I can’t move."
Dazed, he straightened up, all tousled and gorgeous in the light, and examined my hair, which got caught more tightly with my every move I made.
"Ow! Ooowwww!"
"Oops. Designer jacket. Your hair’s caught on the beads. We'll have to cut it off." He pulled the jacket's wooden hanger off the rod and walked me out into the room, where he produced a pocket knife. I took one look at the blade and lurched away from it. He lost his grip on the heavy hanger, which fell, bonking my shoulder and yanking my scalp to China. I howled in pain and flailed around, narrowly missing being impaled by the knife.
And there was Jackie in the doorway. "Oh, it's not the cats. It's you. Pants down. At knife point. God love ya.”
* * *
"Interesting new fashion idea, Rhonda," Jackie teased, as she cut the thing from my head in the kitchen minutes later. "I can see the red-carpet fashion release: Five-hundred-dollar red beaded Donna Karan jacket worn on head with hanger attached, open bra and crotch unzipped.”
"All the runway models will clamor for that one," Marian said.
"Didn't know you could meow, Rhonda," said George.
I dabbed my eyes, puffed my inhaler, and held a Kleenex to my nose faucet. "Where's James?"
They all pointed toward the door.
"He took Yvette away for safekeeping," George said, "Took your laptop, as well, to fix it." He rolled his eyes.
I wheezed again.
* * *
Back my condo, I sat at the kitchen table and called Har
ley.
"You did what with who in the where what?" she said.
"With whom," I wheezed.
"How hot was he?"
"Well," I took a pull on my inhaler. "Not exactly—"
"During a group meeting? Dang, Rhonda. You're insane."
"Yvette agrees. You can be her BFF." I sighed. "And it was awful. Now my hair's chopped up and I smell like mothballs. Ick."
"Good, you'll keep. So, what's Jackie's deal? How'd she get the money? Is she like divorced from Wayne Newton?"
"I didn't see her IRS stuff but her bank statements weren't equal to her recent spending. I did find three letters, and rescued them on a bathroom break from some strappy silver Jimmy Choos."
"I'm on the edge of my seat.”
I unfolded one. "Let's see. Dated January of this year. Dear Ms. Shawn, Enclosed you'll find payment for the vitamins I ordered. Signed F. H. Aw, shit. Same note on all three, just different dates."
"F. H.?"
I said, "Yeah. Probably some guy named Finklemeier Hearthstone with dry skin. But I've never seen any vitamin catalogues around Jackie's house.”
"That's telling. Usually, salesmen flash their stuff around. And why were the notes in the back of a drawer?"
"Beats me. No return address. I don't know. Jackie’s salt of the earth, good people. But George was acting funny, like he suspects her of being Jackson.”
"Maybe they're not vitamins. Maybe she sells dope or steroids."
"Or maybe she sells installments of my book. Look, this isn't helping me one bit. I still don't know who Reynard Jackson is."
"What about your garbage man?"
"Must be him," I said. "So far, I'm all wrong. George seemed like the gambler type, but the gambler is Marian. He sells Alice Fay Cosmetics, which seems like Jackie's line. Instead, she may sell steroids. I thought Jackie was a sex machine, but Marian has the boy toy. So which one of them would sell me out?"
"No, the real question is who of them could pull off such a nationally known, award-winning persona as Reynard Jackson? How would that work? None of them ever leave town.”
Roll with the Punches Page 21
