by Nancy Warren
Irving leaned forward and jabbed his finger towards Philip. “When my lawyers are finished with you, you’ll be mincemeat. And destitute. Destitute mincemeat. Sounds like something you limeys would eat.”
“Where is this contract?” I asked him.
He turned to me, looking confused. “What?”
“The contract you had with Candace Branson. I’m sure Detective Inspector Walsh would like to see it.”
The DI looked as though that had been the last thing he’d been thinking of, but with a quick glance at me, he said, “Yes. We will need to see that. It’s evidence.”
Irving got huffy. “It’s my proprietary business information.”
The DI looked like he was getting fed up with this. “As I said before, you’d be most welcome to come down to the station if you’d prefer to continue our discussions there.”
Irving puffed his chest out and looked even more belligerent. “Fine. I don’t carry those things around. The contract’s in my office back in New York.”
“I’m sure your assistant could email it,” I said.
He sent me a nasty look. “You’re a clerk in a bookstore. What do you know?”
While that was true, it was pretty rude of him to say it in that condescending manner. And it was exactly the opening I needed. “I manage that bookshop and, as you may have noticed from the gala opening party, I’m pretty well-connected in publishing.”
This was completely untrue, but Irving didn’t know that I’d had the combined resources of Bartholomew Branson and Lochlan Balfour at my disposal. It was obvious that whoever had organized that gala did have excellent connections in publishing. It was sort of embarrassing that I’d gotten all the credit, but right now that was paying off. I said, “You don’t have a contract at all.”
He stood up so fast, he knocked his chair over. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Course I do, and if Candace Branson was here, she’d set you straight.”
“But she’s not here, is she?” I shook my head. “Everyone I’ve spoken to remarked on how important money was to Candace Branson. When she was married to Bartholomew, I understand she was always asking for bigger advances. Money was far more important to Candace than loyalty. Right, Philip?”
“Yes, indeed. Not that I wish to speak ill of the dead.”
“So I started thinking. If she was willing to abandon both the editor and the agent that Bartholomew Branson had worked with for his whole career in order to sign with you, then what was to stop her aiming even higher?”
Irving jammed a sausage-like finger at my face. “Because we had a deal.”
“Now that’s a funny thing. Because Mr. Myron Warner also seems to think he has a deal with Candace Branson for All Fall Down. And he did email me his contract.” He hadn’t, his assistant had emailed it to Lochlan, but that was a detail that would only muddy the waters.
Beneath his belligerent attitude, I could see Irving was shaken when I uttered that name.
“You see, I do have connections in publishing. She’d been after him for years, hadn’t she? Myron Warner is the agent who is famous for blockbuster movie deals, getting top dollar for his authors, and dropping them the minute they aren’t selling. It’s probably why Bartholomew never wanted to sign with him. But Candace did. Giles heard an American man arguing with Candace that night. We all thought it was Tristan. But it wasn’t, was it? It was you.”
“That’s ridiculous.” He tried to sound tough, but I could see the sweat glistening on his forehead. “And so what? If Candy wanted to go to a different agent, I wasn’t going to stop her. Sure, a new Branson novel would be something, but I have a huge list of clients. I didn’t need it.”
“That’s not what my sources in New York tell me. You were betting everything on this new book. Things haven’t been going so well for you lately, have they?”
“Never better.” He blinked as a drop of sweat landed in his eye.
I shook my head. “My sources in New York tell me that your agency’s in big trouble financially. You needed this surefire hit. You’re losing your big clients, you’re deep in debt, and a brand-new Bartholomew Branson was going to change all of that. You even came all the way to a tiny, little town in Ireland so you could stay close to Candy. And then she ripped the rug right out from under you.”
“That’s nothing but a bunch of circumstantial evidence. It won’t hold up in court. And I’m an American. I have rights.”
DI Walsh interjected again. “So did Candace Branson. She had the right to justice. Sure, the evidence is circumstantial, but if Quinn’s right, it’s substantial. And certainly gives us reasonable cause to investigate you and your business.” That boxer’s face cracked in a grin. “Like Quinn here, I have sources in New York. Friends in the FBI.”
“It was Myron Warner who called Candace at two in the morning. He forgot about the time difference calling from New York. You knew your business was finished. You were finished. So, you killed her and took her cell phone. What did you do with it? Bury it in the back garden? Sneak to the ocean and toss it in? Doesn’t matter. Myron Warner will testify that he called her and that he had a contract with Candace Branson. It’s over, Irving.”
Irving then did a very stupid thing. He panicked and tried to run. He pushed away from the table and sprinted for the front door. I had no idea how far he thought he’d get, but he obviously hadn’t counted on running right into the arms of the Gardai in Karen’s front garden.
When Sergeant Kelly, who’d been in the garden, had read Irving his rights and escorted him out of the bed and breakfast, there was definitely a sense of anticlimax. It was too late to go to bed and too early to do much of anything else. Karen looked around the table at us and shrugged helplessly.
“Shall I put on some breakfast?”
Weirdly, I was starving. I think a wakeful night of stress and worry were to blame. Giles and Philip looked at each other and said in unison, “Why not?”
Tristan rubbed his very flat stomach. “I haven’t been able to eat properly in days. I could murder a full Irish.”
“You want some help?” I asked. It didn’t seem fair that Karen should be stuck doing the breakfast for all of us, but she shook her head. She looked happier than she had before the murder.
“Quinn, I need the activity. It’ll calm me down. I’ve been utterly stressed for days now. And finally, it’s over. I have my home and my business back.”
She nearly danced back into the direction of the kitchen.
Tristan looked down at the table. “I feel awful that I contributed to her stress.”
“Well, make sure you leave her a nice tip,” I said. It was a hint to everybody around the table. “And an excellent review on Tripadvisor.”
There was enthusiastic nodding. “I shall tell all my friends about this place,” Giles said. “I believe we could put your little town on the map, Quinn. With your charming bookshop and your publishing contacts, Ballydehag could be a veritable Hay-on-Wye.”
“I have no idea what that is,” I said. Hay-on-Wye? It sounded like a farmer’s field going through an identity crisis.
They both chuckled in that superior British manner. “Hay-on-Wye is a small, out-of-the-way town on the border of Wales. For some unknown reason, it’s got some of the best bookshops in the world and runs a world-famous literary festival.”
“Really? I’ll have to check it out.”
“You should. I could see you doing something similar here. Of course, you’ll need more accommodation, but I believe that between us, Philip and I could bring in some first-rate authors for you.”
I was growing quite excited at this idea. Now that I knew that we could put on a great event, especially if Lochlan got involved and, even better, if he opened the castle to gala events, people would come from far and wide.
“Maybe we could even get people who live around here with an extra room or two to offer guest accommodation.” I started to laugh. “We could call it Book and Breakfast.”
�
��I like the way you think. We must definitely begin planning this.”
Then Giles turned to Tristan and looked quite stern. “And as for you, young man.”
Tristan stopped him with his two hands up in the air, as though he were surrendering to somebody who was pointing a gun at him. “I know. I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say. It started innocently enough. I entered a contest. How was I supposed to know it would turn into a famous author’s widow trying to scam him?”
Giles nodded. “Fair point. Do you have a copy of that manuscript you wrote? I managed to catch a peek at it during the gala, but I only snatched a glimpse.”
The author looked miserable. “On my laptop. At home. I could email it to you.”
I was a big believer in the old strike-while-the-iron-is-hot philosophy of life and work. I said, “I have a copy.”
And I reached into my bag and pulled out the now slightly tattered printout. To my amusement, both Giles and Philip reached for the manuscript at the same time.
Giles chuckled. “This is awkward.”
Feeling very much like Solomon pulling babies apart, I handed Giles the first half of the manuscript and Philip the second. When he raised his eyebrows at me, I said, “You’ll get an idea of his writing style. And you two can swap halves afterward.”
“Unorthodox, but all right.” And, reaching into his pocket, he brought out his reading glasses. No doubt when he’d been sneaking into Tristan’s room, he’d been hoping for a peek at that manuscript all along.
Both men began to read quietly. Once Philip said, “Um pum,” and tapped his manicured finger in the middle of the page.
Giles said, “Does anyone have a pen?”
There was one by the guestbook on the buffet, and I reached over and passed it to him. He made a note in the margin.
I glanced at Tristan, who was biting his nails watching the two men with something between fear and hope. When Giles made another note in the manuscript’s margin, Tristan jumped up and said, “I can’t stand this.” He walked to the window and stared out into the garden.
I completely felt for him. My stomach was clenched partly in dread and partly in anticipation. I couldn’t imagine what it was like to be the actual author, watching two giants in publishing read his unpublished manuscript. Poor guy.
Philip said, “Um pum,” one more time, and Tristan moved away from the window.
In a desperate under-voice, he said to me, “I’m going to go help Karen in the kitchen. I’ll have a heart attack if I stand here listening to those two much longer.”
I nodded and whispered back, “I’ll call you if you’re needed.”
I didn’t think either the agent or the editor even noticed the poor author had scampered away like a frightened rabbit. What I noticed was they both kept reading. I was no expert, but I suspected that if the editor was already making notes in the margin and crossing out the odd word to suggest a better one, that that had to be a very good sign.
After about ten minutes, Giles had a small stack of pages beside him and was continuing to read. Philip looked up and said, “Mind if I have a glance at the beginning?”
Giles looked up at him as though he’d forgotten he was there. “What’s that?”
“Can I look at the beginning, please?”
“Oh, yes, help yourself.”
Philip reached for the pages, and once more they both settled into reading. It didn’t take Philip long to get through those five pages, since he wasn’t making notes. After he’d finished them, he sat back, regarding the pages in front of him with a pensive look on his face. What did that mean? Did he not want to read anymore because he was bored? Because he’d already decided that Tristan Holt was just one of a million aspiring authors? Giles read on for another page or two and then glanced up to find Philip staring at him. He gave a small, slightly superior smile. “What do you think?”
I felt almost embarrassed to be there, like they were discussing their bank balances or something and had forgotten I was present. But I was dying to know what they had to say, so I kept quiet and still and tried to act like a piece of furniture.
Philip said, “I rather think I may have found myself a new client.”
Giles nodded and looked pleased. “And I’d be very happy to take a look at anything you might care to submit on his behalf.”
Then they looked around and seemed surprised to find Tristan’s chair empty. I said, “You should call him in. The poor guy was having a heart attack watching you guys read his work.”
They both chuckled as though handling nervous authors was a daily occurrence. Giles began to rise, and Philip said, “No. I’ll go.”
He went off in the direction of the kitchen and very soon returned with a beaming Tristan. Tristan looked at me and said, “I can’t believe it. Philip Hazeltine wants to represent me.”
I was almost as excited as he was. “That’s great. And the next time you launch a book, I hope you’ll consider The Blarney Tome.”
He laughed delightedly. “I wouldn’t have my Irish launch anywhere else.”
Giles rose, not to be left out of this little scene. He went forward and offered his hand to shake. “And, pending me giving your entire manuscript a proper read, I believe I can welcome you to my publishing house. I take on very few new authors, but I’d be prepared to make an exception in your case.”
Tristan grabbed for his hand rather in the manner of a seal jumping in the air for a fish. Philip said, “Let’s not be hasty, Tristan. I believe your manuscript will garner quite a bit of interest in publishing circles. The very reason you have an agent is to make sure you don’t take the first offer. Besides, in order to put the Bartholomew Branson name onto a new novel, we’d need the permission of the heir to Mr. Branson’s literary estate.”
Giles’s gaze sharpened. “Do you know who that is, now that Candace is gone?”
Philip’s smile was very superior, but he addressed his words to Tristan Holt rather than to Giles. “The estate passes to a niece, I understand. One of the benefits of signing with me is you’ll find I’m very thorough. I have already sent a letter to the niece expressing my condolences and offering to explain the terms of the will and how best to handle the very lucrative inheritance.”
Giles looked quite offended. “With you remaining on as the agent of record, of course. Now come on, old man. You and I have worked on Bartholomew Branson’s manuscripts for his entire career. Once you have the legalities worked out, naturally we want to continue publishing any books that continue the series.”
Philip said, “And I’m sure my client and I would be happy to consider your publishing house. But we’ll expect a generous advance.”
Giles’ mouth opened and closed a few times. “But he can’t expect the same advance Bartholomew Branson was getting. That would be preposterous.”
“Money isn’t the only factor. I’m going to counsel my client that he should have his name on any future Barthomew Branson book as co-author.”
Giles gave it some thought and then nodded. “I think that’s a very good idea. Especially if you’ve got more novels in you. Have you, Mr. Holt?”
I was impressed that Tristan had moved up in the world from “young man” to “Mr. Holt.” Philip was already starting to earn his commission.
“I can write as many books in the style of Bartholomew Branson as you can publish. But I’d also like to talk to you about my own work.”
Chapter 21
When Karen Tate came in with a heaping tray of food, the three men were deeply engaged in planning out Tristan Holt’s budding career.
As I helped Karen set the plates of food out and bring in more coffee, she said, “Is it going well for Tristan, then?”
“I think so. And I believe we’ve just found you a whole load of extra business. What if we had a yearly book festival here? And you were in charge of accommodations?”
I told her my idea about getting people in the village to offer extra rooms. She got quite excited at the idea and agree
d that she would head any committee we set up for the purpose.
Breakfast was a much happier affair than I could have imagined. Tristan was about to see his wildest dreams come true, and Philip and Giles were obviously expecting a profitable partnership with a new author.
Over his second cup of coffee, Giles said, “I mean no disrespect to the dead, but Tristan has a better command of prose than poor Bartholomew ever did.”
“Agreed,” Philip said. “But the books still need to be true to the brand. It was Bartholomew’s preposterous plots that people loved so much.”
I was having an idea. I said, “I’m kind of an expert on Bartholomew Branson myself. Tristan, if you want, I could take a look at your manuscripts too and offer suggestions. If it would be helpful.”
Agent and editor looked at me slightly askance, but Tristan looked beyond thrilled at the idea. “I know. You’re a total expert. I remember the way you quizzed me on the books. It would be great to have the feedback of a genuine fan.”
“Great,” I said brightly. “Why don’t I take this manuscript back again, and you can email these two clean copies.”
I could tell that neither Philip nor Giles wanted to let that manuscript out of their sights, but it was Tristan’s manuscript, after all. They begrudgingly agreed to give it up to me when Tristan had promised them he’d email them a fresh copy. I could have told them I already had a full manuscript at my cottage, but that would involve explaining that I’d ended up with Candace’s. In all the excitement of murder and mayhem, no one had questioned where Candace’s manuscript had gone. I was happy to leave it that way.
Besides, I was beginning to see how important it was to tantalize these two. If they had to wait a day or two for Tristan to email them his book, I was certain they’d survive.
I went home full to bursting from Karen’s amazing breakfast, the manuscript safely in my possession. I asked Dierdre to open the shop for me because all I could think about was getting into my bed and sleeping for several hours. I texted Lochlan to let him know how everything had gone and suggested a vampire book club meeting that night so I could tell everybody the good news.
