With her boy toy?
"And just the name Fabiolino," she went on. "So perfect. What man would choose that? Especially after calling the guy Charlie for so long, it took real insight to change his name to Fabiolino.”
"Too bad his plot had holes big enough for the Space Shuttle," I said.
"The point is, Rhonda, Yvette married him for a green card. He'll be free again soon, and you should consider—I mean, how many men look like that and write like that?"
I could feel her wink, wink, nudge, nudge over the phone lines.
* * *
Fabiolino. Fabiolino.
As I hung up, a light went on in my emotion-saturated brain and the connection popped out like a huge pan of brownies fresh from the oven. Duh! The girl at the conference had read a scene straight out of James's book, including Fabiolino and Ariel. I'd been too brain-dead about Dal to connect the two until now. But how had she gotten hold of it? Did she know James? Was she one of his computer geek friends? Had she somehow gotten hold of James's book? Was she Reynard Jackson? If so, she had also stolen my book, but how? I didn't know her. Had James maybe uploaded my book off my CD to his laptop or flash drive and had she then raided his laptop or stolen his flash drive? Or was there someone else involved? I ran to the kitchen, found my purse, and dug out that conference reader's outline. Her name was Sylvia Bliss. I dialed her.
"Team Time Real Estate. Sylvia Bliss," she answered.
I peeked out the bathroom door. Two camera lenses were at the window. There was loud pounding on the door. I went back to the bathroom.
"Hi, Sylvia. I met you at the writer's conference last weekend. I don't know how to ask you this, but that scene you read at the conference, the one with Fabiolino and Ariel. Um … Did someone happen to give it to you or sell it to you?" Oh, that sounded awful.
"What? Sell it to me? Hey, who the heck are you? I wrote that scene myself. My hairdresser's name is Fabio Leno, he's very depressed, very hunky, and he smells just like my character!"
"But I've seen that scene before. I actually worked on it all summer with another writer, and—"
"Oh, you're Rhonda Hamilton! Miss Plagiarist 2006! Of all the nerve! You took my book? How did you get hold of my stuff? I saw you in the tabloids. I'm calling the Times right now to confirm their story." She hung up.
Oh, crud. I sat on the avocado tile floor with the stupid faucet dripping, dripping, dripping. Why had James's love scenes been so well written from a woman's perspective? It made much more sense for a woman author to write wonderful love scenes like that and name a character Fabiolino. James and I had worked more on his terrible action scenes and transitions between scenes. But all of us in the group had just drooled when he'd read the sex scenes. Had those scenes been a tiny part of my falling so completely in love with him? Or a big part? A guy who wrote such masterful heroes and such great sex must be the man of my dreams. Unless he hadn't written them.
So, if the work was Sylvia's, it would explain everything: why the love scenes gleamed, why the action scenes stank, and why James's real-life closet seduction scene reeked as well.
I dialed Sylvia again.
She was cranky. "I called the Times! Go away!"
"Sylvia, wait! Don't hang up! Please! Please! The press has it all wrong. My work was stolen, too, and I believe you. I'm not a plagiarist. But I may know who is. Did you possibly work on that manuscript with a critique group?"
"If you're implying that I copied from somebody—"
"No, no, no. Not at all. I think someone lifted your work. Like they lifted mine."
She snorted, but didn't hang up.
"Sylvia. Please. In your group, is there a James Connors or an Yvette Winkler?"
She sounded disgusted. "My group's in Brea on Monday nights. All older women. Look, however you got published, it doesn't give you the right to—"
"Fine. Sorry to bother you. It's just such a coincidence. My own book got published by someone else, and now I'm getting blamed for trying to steal it from him.”
"How?" Guarded interest.
I gave her the short version. "I know this sounds fantastic. But I just wondered how your work showed up in James's laptop. Maybe both our problems have the same source. You never worked with an irritating little redhead or a tall, hunk—blue eyes, dark curly hair?"
"Oh. You mean Jim O'Riley.”
CHAPTER 39
Sylvia's dam broke. "That was my work! How dare he read it to a bunch of strangers and pretend it was his? That evil little … blot on mankind. See, I'm a positive thinker. But last fall, in my other writers' group, my critique partner, Jim O'Riley, said he was an agent's assistant and the women all swooned over him. We worked together for weeks until I finished my first draft and then he just turned on me. Overnight, he got all picky and convinced the whole group that my book would never sell. He said I needed to drop it and start over with a different premise. Everybody figured that as an agent, he must be right. So I started a new book. Then the weasel just disappeared after shipwrecking months of my work. Can you believe that?"
"Oh, yeah. I can. Real jellyfish." My stomach was livid.
"Well, except for the tattoos." Her voice warmed.
Oh, no.
She giggled. "We went to Santa Monica Pier once for a kite show, and I said how colorful it was. He said, 'You ain't seen nothin', babe,' and raised his shirt. Oh, my God! Every San Francisco landmark you can imagine. He made them dance for me.”
How come he never took me to a kite show? "So you really ditched your draft and started over from scratch?"
"Well, would you continue working on a book once your whole group hated it? And I didn't dare show it to the new group for fear of a repeat problem. So I scrapped it."
"So why did you bring it to a Read and Critique session at the conference?" I asked, wetting a wad of toilet paper to wipe a bloom of ants off the bathroom countertop.
"A freelance editor told me it might have potential. Boy would I like to strangle Jim."
* * *
I didn't go to the rink for Monday night practice, deciding to give myself some needed rest and the Amazons some extra time to cool off. They might still be a smidge mad at me. But the constant paparazzi pounding on the door got to me, and sleep was elusive, giving me all kinds of time to worry about Music Man and Dal. And get hungry. Really hungry. There was almost no food in the condo, and I needed food to think constructively. So around ten the next morning, I rocketed out of the condo on skates with a bag of clothes and three umbrellas blazing.
The paparazzi took this as a sign of guilt and snapped photo after photo, yelling, "Are you really Reynard Jackson?" and "Did you plagiarize twelve manuscripts?" and, "Are you hiding out from the law?" and, "Are you really pregnant with Jackson's baby?"
I got through the crowd and to my car without really hurting anyone. Much. Of course, I had to drive like Harley to lose them. Then I put on a wig and glasses and settled down at a Burger King to eat fries. And brood.
Was James really Jackson? If so, he'd need to be a great writer or a great actor. With a ghost writer. George? Marian? Jackie? Yvette? Stephen King?
I bit savagely into my fish sandwich. Yvette could easily ghostwrite, but she'd just moved here. Or was that a lie? Maybe she and James had been working together for a long time, he procuring manuscripts and she rewriting them. Together, they could equal Jackson. But lately, she seemed so afraid of James and so weird. Had their writing conspiracy gone bad? Had she been about to sell James out to me at the bout before he showed up and whisked her away so painfully?
I picked up the phone and dialed James, but his phone numbers were disconnected and Yvette's answering machine was full. I called everybody who knew either of them, with no luck. Now I wished I'd taken that wonderful weeping-tattoo opportunity to see James's apartment. Almost.
I drank root beer and considered. Then I realized where he'd go.
* * *
All Tuesday afternoon,
I sat in the car in front of Nadja's place, rain plunking on the car roof, thinking about slow ways to torture and kill James. Then there was my black weekend. And Jeff Karrey. Wait, he was James's brother-in-law and as an editor, he could write. First, I still resented never having been introduced to him before. Second, could he be Reynard Jackson? Editors could presumably publish books easily and fast. But Jeff didn't need to write fast. He could just steal unsolicited manuscripts from the slush pile and buff them up. How would the authors know? What could they do? And no one else had ever admitted to meeting Reynard before. That was very telling. So then why had he needed to steal my stuff? It was late afternoon. Harley didn't answer my call. So I called Cathy and filled her in.
She said, "Shit. You angry? That shit makes me crazy-ass angry. Want to go sock some college students to feel better? I know where they hang out."
I smiled. "No, thanks. I just want to get my good name back."
Cathy smacked her gum into the phone. "But why would Jeff get James to steal stuff if he had a pile of that stuff on his desk already?"
I thought. "Maybe someone at the old publishing house got wind of his activities right when he needed another book fast. So he asked James for one. Maybe it's why Jeff moved to a new publishing house. Folks at the old one realized what he was doing and fired him. It all fits. I didn't send him my manuscript, but James could have done so when he fixed my computer."
"Can you prove he stole your work?" she said.
"My computer's been stolen, but James may still have proof on his computer. He must have files that link him with Sylvia, and maybe with me. I'm outside his sister's house now. Waiting until he comes so I can nail his butt to the fencepost."
"Oh, I'd love to see that, but I like have to work. Hey, I'll send somebody over there if you promise to come to our flat-track exhibition bout with the Veggie Girls at Orange Fair Mall at noon tomorrow. Free publicity for the league. But some of the girls can't make it there on their lunch hours. We need you, chica.”
Still wedged behind my steering wheel, I agreed. Then I broke into my Fritos and carrot juice as a light drizzle turned into another unseasonable downpour. And I waited. And waited.
James didn't show up all day. Neither did Cathy's emissary. I didn't knock on the door at Nadja's place, hoping to maybe surprise James when he showed up there. Twice, I drove down to Irvine and banged on Yvette's door. No one home. Had she and James left town? But that didn't feel right. James just had to show up at Nadja's again, and if he didn't, then I'd break into the care home and strangle them all to find out where he was.
I staked out Helena Street all night in the rain, writing plot points for my new book on napkins to keep me awake. I woke in the morning with a crick in my neck and drool on my shirt. And missing Dal's dark ponytail.
Mid-morning, a car pulled up behind me and Hippo stepped out, a pale Easter Island statue in jeans and a hoodie. She leaned on her car like a statue until the rain forced her back inside. Was this Cathy's idea of a joke? Hippo sat sullenly back there, staring out her window at the drippy day and scarfing down donuts while I listened to Persuasion on CD and got a sore butt.
Near lunchtime, Hippo tapped on my window. "Time to go to the bout.”
I opened it. "Thanks for—um—spending your day with me. But I can't go."
Disgusted sigh. "Just what I expected from you, bitch. I come here because Cathy says you have a serious problem and she won't sub for me when I go to Hawaii unless I come here. So here I am, and all you do is sit here in a dripping car for hours. Idiot."
"I'm waiting for the guy who stole my manuscript to show up."
"Jesus. How lame. Let's all sit around and wait all day for the bad guys to show up."
"But my book was published—"
"Well, my masterpiece was stolen, too," she said.
"Um, masterpiece?"
"Yeah." Her bulldoggy face closed in on mine.
I took her manuscript from the back seat, where it had been floating around for days, and shoved it at her. "I read it. It needs mega-work, Gina Johansson."
"That's Regina.”
I did a facepalm. "Perfect. R. J." The rain was coming faster, wetting the top pages.
Hippo wiped wet hair out of murderous eyes. "Where the hell did this come from? You thieving minx! You were in my house." Hippo pushed an index finger at me. "Book thief. Man thief." She hauled off and I rolled the window up just in time to block her punch.
A white face appeared at the window of the house we were in front of.
Hippo yelled at the face. "Fuck off, lady. Private argument." She raced to the other side of my car and got in before my wonky locking mechanism would perform. A hammy hand grabbed my forearm. Ouch.
"Spill. Now." Wow, few people could really pull off such a growl.
I surprised myself by calmly spewing a lovely load of fiction about Cathy taking me to Hippo's house and us breaking in as a prank, making Hippo's cats scatter and knock over the plant so we accidentally found the manuscript. "The tabloids are lying through their teeth. I'm a victim, not a thief. And Harley won’t admit it, but Dal met me first, and he chose me. Ask him.”
Hippo sat with her face inches from mine, her fist ready to strike.
I was amazed at my composure as I added the clincher. “You really think I’m a good enough writer to be Reynard Jackson? Seriously?”
She put her fist down and loosened the hand on my wrist. “No. But if I choose to believe you, then why's your butt glued to this street?"
"James. He stole my manuscript and published it. This is his sister's place. He should—"
"How's it gonna prove anything if he does show up?"
"I don't know!" Tears spilling down my face, I got out of the car and slammed the door. "That book was a year of my hard work! He took it and published it!"
She got out, too.
"Look, just leave me alone." I walked away, hunched against the rain, brushing rain and tears off my cheeks. Damn. Breaking down in front of this iceberg. The pits.
"Come on. Don't you have a job or something?" she said, catching up to me. Why was she suddenly being nice? "So this guy got you good. You can't really believe you'll get him back this way.”
"Then how? His phones are disconnected. He’s in the wind.”
"I don't know. Just go home." She turned back to her car.
I stood there, sodden. My cell phone beeped.
"Rhonda," Mom said, on speaker phone. It had been stuck on speaker phone for three days. "Your picture's on the MSN homepage. Not flattering at all. I was just checking on those Ladrona mudslides, and there you were, a plagiarist on page one. After all those Sunday school lessons, too. God. I'll never live it down. Is that why you haven't called me? Are you in big trouble?"
I'll say this for my mother. My sniffles dried right up. "No, Mom." I turned and slogged after Hippo, anger piling on top of my worry.
Mom said, "People keep calling here for you. I had to call your sister for this number. She's really worried.”
Great. "Look, Mom, I'm on Helena Street. How could you do this to Dad?"
Mom said, "Why are you there? He needs—"
"He was fine at home. We were doing fine.”
She said, "The Bible. He threw the Bible at me. What would he be throwing next, the dog? I've got a black eye and a huge purple bruise on my arm. Don't try to make me feel guilty. "
I got in the car, dripping wet. Hippo surprised me by getting in next to me again and wringing out her hair.
"Mom." My eyes brimmed. "He's going nuts in there. I could help him calm down, but they won't let me in." I set down the phone and blew my nose on my shirt. "I'll do anything if you'll get him out of there. Please."
Pause. "How long have you been there?" Mom said.
"All fucking night." I wiped wet hair from my face. But not for Dad I almost added. For my damned book. Or was I there for Dad?
"Rudeness will not help you, Rhonda. Nor will ste
aling things."
"I don't steal shit! That’s all lies. Thanks for your support!"
"Another thing. Yvette keeps leaving you weird, cryptic messages about knowing Reynard Jackson and someone stealing something. You should call her.”
"Yvette?" I said, wriggling out of my wet jacket.
"Rhonda," Mom said, all perky, "If she does know Jackson, Arlene and I would love autographed copies of his books. Boy, if you could write like him, you'd be rich. Have you entered that online contest to guess his identity?"
"Mom! We're talking about Dad here! Let me bring him home."
"What's your plan for his care?"
What could I commit to? I looked at Hippo. "I'll do anything. I'll stay at your house and take care of both of you full-time." There went my writing career and the condo.
"I don't know. Your care skills are pretty weak. You lost your father three times.”
I thought it had been four or five.
She went on, "Arnold Schwarzeneggar did a better job in that movie—"
"Huh? Kindergarten Cop?" The rain eased off outside.
"No the Terminex thing."
"The Terminator?"
Hippo grinned.
"There you go, challenging the sick person. You'll have to be nicer to us, if you're our caregiver, Rhonda. I heard about you pushing Dad into the flower bed."
"I was trying to get him to the doctor! At least I didn't commit him! Look, just get him out of here, Mom. Then I promise I'll do whatever you two need."
"You'll move back in with us and do round-the-clock care?"
"Dad might not need it if he has NPH," I hedged.
"He'll need it. And promise not to see that Indian anymore. He's bad news, stealing from old people. The worst kind."
"Mom, please."
"I'll only come and get him when you promise."
I smacked the steering wheel hard. Hippo sat staring at her manuscript. The sun had come out behind her. And there was blue sky.
"No." I closed the phone. Turned out there were things I wouldn't do, even for her and Dad.
Roll with the Punches Page 33
