Alexis put a hand on my arm as if to keep me from leaving. “I don’t know what the others have told you about Gregorio, but he was really a very nice guy.”
Liz’s eyes brightened. “What do you think they would have said about him?”
And, just like that, we were asking her questions.
Alexis said, “Well, a lot of people had a beef with Gregorio. For example, Garrett and Bonnie thought he was cheating them. I know we didn’t have a normal agent/author relationship, but it was a profitable one for me. I couldn’t complain.”
Liz said, “I don’t even know what a normal relationship is.”
“Normally, an agent takes fifteen percent, sometimes more on foreign sales, but if they’re good, they negotiate a higher advance and percentage, so they more than pay for their fifteen percent.”
“Was Mr. Calabria a good agent?” Liz couldn’t resist asking.
“Very good. He was much more involved than most.” Alexis stopped as if she just remembered something. “Oh, listen. I don’t know if Martha told you, but she talked with all of us about the rooms not being paid for, and I’ll pay for my own room and meals. All of us are going to. So don’t worry about that.”
Just like that. Martha took care of it. I would have to thank her the next time I saw her. And the other authors, too, beginning with Alexis. “Thank you. That’s very generous of you.”
Alexis smiled. “I know how hard it is to get started in a business. Those second mortgages can be a killer.”
How on earth would my guest know that? “How did you know I have a second mortgage?”
“Martha said you did. Didn’t you tell her?”
“Vicki, honey, don’t ever talk about your financial problems with anyone. Especially guests,” Liz said as we left the room.
“I didn’t.”
“Then how did they know?”
I shrugged. “I’m wondering that myself.”
* * *
The door to the upper stairs opened and down came Bonnie, who smiled widely when she saw us. “Oh, please. Let me guess.”
Liz grinned. “May I present my split personality.”
“And may I present,” I pointed back to Liz, “my evil twin.”
“Don’t give me any clues.” Bonnie studied us. She met Liz last night, but people had a hard time telling us apart. Finally, she pointed to Liz. “Liz?” She sounded far from certain.
“Very good,” Liz said. “Usually, only our mother and DeWayne can tell.”
“Well, and your husbands, I would imagine.”
I laughed. “Gene has put his arm around me before and called me honey.”
“Well,” Bonnie said with a shrug, “perhaps he was joking.”
“Oh, you don’t know my husband,” Liz said. “He doesn’t have a sense of humor.”
I nodded. “Sad, but true.”
“You’re like the Bobbsey Twins, all grown up.” She pointed to my arms. “You’re bringing towels. Great. I need some. I splashed over in the tub and had to use them mopping up.”
“I’ll go down and get the royal blue towels for your room.”
“Cream is fine.” She turned to go back upstairs.
I followed her. Somewhere on the enclosed stairway, I lost Liz, as only Bonnie and I came out onto the third floor.
The Kinsey Millhone room atmosphere began with the door, and its porthole-shaped window. I added frosted, non-transparent glass for privacy.
“This room is great,” Bonnie raved. “Absolutely wonderful.”
“Well, Sue Grafton gave me the entire description.”
“G Is For Gumshoe, right?”
I set down the towels while I made the bed. “Very good.”
“What can I say? I’m a writer, which means I’m also a voracious reader.” Bonnie pointed to the shiny teak shelves and cubbyholes along the oak walls. “I feel like I’m on a boat.”
“Just don’t get seasick.” I smiled as I carried the towels into the small bathroom with its sunken tub and plant-lined, wooden window sill, royal blue, cotton shag carpeting, round, brass sink, and blue soap in a white china dish, all described and detailed by Grafton.
From the bedroom, Bonnie laughed. I found myself liking her. A lot. As I came back in, she said, “I did get seasick once, on a cruise Gregorio took us on a few years back. Amazing, isn’t it? Just like that, he’s gone. I mean, not everyone was happy with the contract, but murder? That’s why I write romances, because I like happy endings, especially in books.” She sighed. “I have to warn you, if you don’t jump on it first, I’ll be back to write those polygamy mysteries. You could even submit them to Martha to represent you. She’s very good.”
“Will you be signing with her again?” I wondered aloud.
Bonnie nodded. “Sure. At this point in my career, I don’t need an agent, but she got me my start and I’ll never forget that. Plus, she’ll only charge the standard fifteen percent. Gregorio became too greedy. He took fifty.”
That was interesting. Alexis didn’t mention fifty percent. Unless she said fifty and I heard fifteen.
“But we did receive extensive writing and marketing training out of it, so I guess it was worth it in the long run. I’d rather earn fifty percent of a big-dollar contract than eighty-five percent of nothing, which was where I was before I met Martha.”
Martha mentioned they didn’t have a normal agent/author relationship. I guessed that was an understatement.
Remembering what BJ said earlier, I asked. “Did the other authors mind paying fifty percent?”
Bonnie made a dismissive sound. “Oh, you bet. And some minded that he cheated with so many women. Others wanted to write different types of books, but he wouldn’t submit to those markets. Gregorio was somewhat of a dictator.”
“Couldn’t you just get out of the contract?”
“Oh, no. Let me explain. Usually, you write something and send it to an agent, who signs you up and submits your work to editors and negotiates a deal for you. End of story. If you want out, you just provide written notice. But Gregorio did things differently, right from the start. We were trained for two years to develop our writing skills. He arranged for marketing blitzes, ten-city tours, the works. And that’s why he took more of the profit. Garrett was talking with attorneys about getting out of it, and not having much luck.”
“So that’s what caused some of the hostility between Garrett and Gregorio.” I shifted the towels in my arms.
“Yes. Technically, Gregorio only took fifteen percent as his agent’s fee, but the rest came out in training fees. And I can’t believe I’m making you stand here with wet towels in your arms! Please set them on the table.”
“I’m tempted, but I really must get this done soon, so I can start lunch.” Or get Grandma in the kitchen.
“Ah, lunch. I won’t detain you any longer as I am looking forward to another delicious meal. How do you do everything around here? Don’t you have help?”
“I do, but they’re snowed out at the moment.”
I circled the third floor and dropped the damp towels down the laundry chute I’d had installed next to the elevators. The towels would fall directly into the basement laundry room.
I rode the elevator to the main floor to grab more towels. Back on the second floor, I came out of the elevator next to the unoccupied Mike Hammer room and headed around the stairs toward Dr. Ray’s Hercule Poirot room.
But as I walked past the bank of windows, something caught my eye. The table and two chairs, usually arranged symmetrically under the window, had been shifted. And directly under the end window, closest to the Chief Inspector Clouseau room, the carpet showed a dark circle. Setting the clean towels on the table, I knelt and touched the circle. It was wet. With a knot in my gut, I realized there was a leak.
I’d just paid a fortune to have everything renovated. This particular carpet was original, and I hoped it wasn’t damaged beyond repair. And how about the padding? Sheetrock? Wood? I glanced at the ceiling for dripping water,
but could see no sign of it. Perhaps it came from the window, I hoped, since it might be localized.
I checked along the windows, and ran my fingers around all the edges. I couldn’t tell if there was a leak, but the two sides and bottom were definitely wet. And the window wasn’t locked. Now that was bizarre.
Had the moisture come in through the open window? Had someone— some maniac! — been climbing around on the outside staircase in this blizzard? Surely not! Perhaps someone wanted fresh air and thought opening the window was a good way to get it.
I wiped a circle clear on the glass and peered out. The snow had been disturbed on the staircase. I couldn’t believe it.
A chill ran up my spine. Did that mean the murderer really was still in my house? Or was Kevin climbing up to get inside to talk with his wife?
I didn’t have time to panic, as my cell phone rang and sent me into adrenaline heaven. I pulled it from my pocket with shaking hands.
“Hi, Vicki. This is Brother Unger.” As in my home teacher, Walter Unger. A touch of reality in a newly murder-tinged world. “We came up early for our grandbaby’s blessing. You remember Amanda? She just had her fourth. They named the poor girl Taelor, of all things. T-A-E-L-O-R.” He clucked as if he couldn’t believe it. “Since we’re here, we’d like to drop by tomorrow. About three?”
In the background, I could hear his wife’s voice— hers I did recognize— urging someone to “eat; you need your strength.” They must have had their grandkids with them, which didn’t surprise me. Phyllis was a mother hen and had her grandkids over often.
Tomorrow was Sunday. Since I sure as heck wouldn’t be able to make it to church today, it might have been nice for a touch of spirituality— and normalcy— to come visit me. “If the roads are clear.” Surely, I could take thirty minutes off from tending to my guests.
“All right,” he answered. “Hope you’re doing well.”
As I replaced the phone in my pocket, I stared at the wet carpet under the window. Oh, yeah. I was doing well, all right.
Chapter Sixteen
I searched for Grandma for fifteen minutes before hearing her voice in the foyer. I leaned over the banister. “Grandma!”
She looked up, smiled, and waved.
“Will you start lunch for me? Please?”
She agreed and Dr. Ray immediately offered to help.
“Thanks,” I called down. Turning away, my smile faded. This whole weekend held more than a touch of unreality. Grandma on the make. Liz avoiding her husband’s phone calls. Everyone snowed in. And murder at the Who-Dun-Him Inn.
I placed clean towels in Dr. Ray’s room. When I knocked on the door of the Max McKnight, Clark Harmon yelled out, “Come in.”
I stepped into the futuristic bedroom, but he must have been in the bathroom. I called out, “I’ll come back.”
“I’ll be right out,” he said through the bathroom door. “Nearly dressed after my shower. Make yourself at home.”
So I did. I set the towels on the hovering nightstand, next to the hovering bed. Those were two of the most impressive bits of handiwork in my new Who-Dun-Him Inn. I admired them again.
The colorful silky bedspread with its distinctive night sky pattern was messed so I straightened it. An open laptop sat on the bed, and I moved it to the table and made the bed quickly. Then I couldn’t resist getting a sneak peek at his next book. I knew I shouldn’t have, but he was my favorite author. I leaned over until the words swam into focus on the monitor.
Eagerly I read, expecting Max McKnight in 2100 A.D.
“Dirk followed Spencer to the remote cabin. He couldn’t believe the man was so careless. He didn’t even look behind him. Didn’t know he was there. Couldn’t sense either the knife in his pocket or the revenge in his heart.”
My gosh, what was this? One paragraph told me it was not a Max McKnight novel. It almost sounded like a… murder! Was Clark rewriting the murder? Was he just curious, as a writer? Or could this be incriminating evidence?
A hand touched my shoulder and I realized I was being as careless as Dirk. I jumped and turned guiltily.
Clark stood there, hair freshly combed and still damp.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I was just so excited to see what Max McKnight was doing next. I should never have read it.”
Clark didn’t seem upset at all, but flattered, his smile sincere. “I’ll switch to the next McKnight book and you can read a few pages. I work on several at the same time.”
“Do you always work on vacation?” I asked.
“I have a deadline so I have to work every single day. I can make hare-like sprints when necessary, but I find the tortoise approach much more productive. I write one scene a day, six days a week. I’ve written three books a year for the past fifteen.”
“But there aren’t that many Max McKnight books. And I’ve read them all.”
He laughed happily. “Ah, but I write other types of books using pseudonyms. The best romance novels south of the Mason-Dixon line are written by Georgiana Morris.”
I smiled. “Romance novels.”
He shrugged. “Ladies don’t necessarily want to read a man’s idea of romance. But so far, my books seem quite popular. I just received a Reader’s Choice Award for the last one, Heaven’s Angel.”
“Do you write anything else?” I was thinking, of course, of the paragraph I read on his laptop.
“Oh, yes.” His drawl was faint. “You read from the Dirk Hogan action adventure series. The romances are quite relaxing and fun after the intricacies of the McKnight and Hogan series. I guess I’m a romantic at heart.”
Was that the same heart that carried revenge? I didn’t know whether to believe him or not. Was he telling the truth? Or just an incredibly smooth liar?
“By the way, I wanted to tell you, now that I’m wide awake, how very much I love this room. Thanks for including my character in your illustrious lineup of detectives.”
“I love your Max McKnight books.” Of course, he was saying that now, when my heart
was still pounding, so it lost some of the good feeling it might have otherwise created.
He pushed a button on the computer. “Well, then, read this scene from my next Max McKnight book.”
I did, but was still a little shaken. I raved over the scene, doing one of those women-fake-it things, and left Clark’s room very disturbed, wondering if he really was writing a simple suspense series— or something infinitely more sinister.
* * *
I had fifteen minutes to make sure lunch was on the table. Luckily, Grandma had it covered. In the dining room, a buffet luncheon was all set up. How did she find time to bake hot rolls? She also set out deli-style lunchmeats and cheeses, spinach salad with strawberry slices and vinaigrette, cut vegetables and dill dip.
Not quite according to my scheduled menu, but a smile curved my lips. Thank you, Grandma. And Dr. Ray, I added, as I remembered the regal gentleman also helped.
I went into the kitchen to thank her personally, but the room was empty. I decided to see if she was downstairs again, and while I was there check on Zach. I hadn’t seen him for an hour or so and was beginning to feel antsy. I preferred to think Kevin had killed Calabria and was now long gone, but, in case Paul was right, I planned to err on the side of safety, even if I were being slightly overprotective.
As I unlocked the door at the top of the stairway, Liz’s voice came from behind. “Hey, Vicki. Wait up.”
I folded my arms. “Well, your helping me with the towels certainly didn’t last long, did it?”
“I don’t see why you can’t just leave these towels in a nice, neat, little stack on the counter, and let the guests pick them up as they need them. Their arms aren’t broken.” She waved her hand. “Besides, I didn’t want to interrupt you and Bonnie.”
“How thoughtful of you,” I said, trotting down the stairs.
Liz followed me, locking the door behind us. “You’re welcome. Any time I can help by not actually helping is when I’m ha
ppiest.”
Downstairs, Zach was playing his video game. Normally, I would have scooted him off the game and out to play with friends or do something else. Something useful. But where could I scoot him to today? At least down here, there were no killers.
Just killer crosswords, which Grandma was working, sitting in the Lazy-Boy. Robert’s Lazy-Boy. From out of nowhere, a pang of grief hit me. I wished he were here right now. I blinked back hot tears. I was not going to cry. I would not. Instead, I thanked Grandma for setting out such a delicious luncheon.
She set down her paper in concern. “Victoria, you look dead dog tired.”
“She has bags under her eyes packed for a week-long trip,” Liz said with a slight question in her voice, as if she sensed my raw feelings.
I leaned over and kissed Zach. The grief hadn’t been this overwhelming in a long time. I learned if I just kept breathing, the pain would lessen, eventually. But I didn’t want anyone to see my pain, as after eleven months, others could be quite unsympathetic. How many times did I hear a variation of, “It’s time to get over Robert and get on with your life, Vicki”? Like I could replace Robert as if he were nothing more than a family dog.
“Hi, Mom,” Zach said without missing a karate kick on the screen. Just looking at him, a miniature of Robert, and inhaling the little boy smell of him, helped steady me.
“Are you hungry, honey?” I asked him.
“Nope. Grandma already fed us.”
Now able to face the others, I stood in time to see Liz dart a questioning glance at me before pulling a bottle of nail polish from her purse. Painting your nails seemed a strange response to murder, but perhaps no stranger than I, keeping busy with meaningless tasks.
Grandma glanced at the bottle. “Why do you want to wear a harlot color, Elizabeth?”
Liz winked at me. “Because I’m a harlot, Grandma.”
Grandma frowned. “Hand it to me.”
Liz opened her eyes wide in surprise. “What?”
“You heard me. I think Nicholas would like that color.”
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