“Good morning, Andrew.”
“Morning, Luv. Guess who my new favorite author of all time is?”
“Better not be me, because I was your favorite author of all time yesterday.”
“Your reviews are hitting the newspapers. Seems everyone loves Chyna Blaze’s newest release. Even snippy old Taylor over at The Times gave you kudos. That old curmudgeon thought Gone With the Wind wasn’t worthy of printing on toilet paper.” I heard him swallow the coffee and imagined his smile as he savored the simple morning pleasure.
I wiggled my feet out from under the covers and swung around to sit on my bed. More professional, I guess. “Have you by chance talked to Stone?”
“Uh-oh. He got to you too, huh?”
“Barged in on my book signing. The man doesn’t own me, you know?”
“Of course he doesn’t, Chyna. We’ll work something out. I’m sure you can boost up your manuscript output from home, and we’ll have to figure something else out for marketing. Maybe you’ll lead the way into making book signings passé.” I heard the distinct thud as an empty mug hit the wooden surface of his desk. “You’ll be a mommy this year. It’s going to happen for you.”
A playboy, Andrew couldn’t comprehend why I wanted to screw up my single’s lifestyle by adopting a baby, but he never questioned my decision. And it was a firm decision. I had found my little boy.
Call-waiting interrupted our conversation and this time I checked it. My critique partner. “Gotta run, Andrew. It’s Kim.”
“Now her I have a problem with. Tell her to get those revisions into me by Monday.” He laughed; full-well knowing Kim Jacksi did deadlines like rabbits did coyotes.
I clicked over to her call. “You’re up early.” It was a fair statement considering Kim rarely dragged herself out of bed before ten.
“Shit. Forgot about the time change. I’m at a conference in Chicago. It’s nine here.”
I stood up from the luxury of Austin Horn linens, falling back to sleep no longer an option. “I’m impressed. Still way too early for you. What’s up?”
“The hotel is all aflutter with the morning news. Looks like our queen will fail to show up for her keynote address after the luncheon. They put me in charge of checking with the airlines. She didn’t make her flight last night and no one’s heard a peep out of her.”
A decent writer, Kim Jacksi failed to get the attention her work deserved. We both pushed the envelope when it came to writing tidbits of erotica that raised a few eyebrows from certain editors. Kim could have made a brilliant career as a porno screenplay writer but I think she relished shocking the romance world. She proved to be a fantastic critique partner, reviewing my manuscripts with a keen eye and brutal honesty. She was also a jealous snitch and wicked gossipmonger. The queen she referred to was Elisabeth Dow-Mays, last year’s winner of our national Romance Author of the Year award we called ‘The Ray’.
I rolled up my blinds to find a thick marine layer obscuring any view of the Pacific Ocean. “That doesn’t sound like Elisabeth.” I shuddered as my fingers traced the cool dew clinging to the glass panes. “She wouldn’t miss a local library reading. Something’s wrong.”
“Someone’s calling her sister there in L.A. I’m sure they’ll find her legs spread eagle in a big brass bed with one of her cover models. But crapsies. In the meantime we’re scrambling to get a speaker. Guess you couldn’t jump on a Lear and be here in time?” Her pouting voice resonated half-serious.
“You’d have just as much luck getting Norman-the-Lear.”
Kim brayed, and I could imagine the rolls of her belly jiggling in sync with her multiple chins. She hung up before I could remind her of Andrew’s deadline.
THE EARTHY AROMA of Marissa’s morning coffee beckoned me. She jumped for the pot the moment she spied me crawling down the stairs, still zipping up my 501’s.
“Good morning, Ms. Blaze.”
“Good morning, Marissa. You have the coffee ready?”
“I heard telephone.” My maid tightened the crisp apron around her plump waist. She’d been with me long before I could afford her and even in the early days at budget-wages, she always insisted on wearing a black and white. “Your paper and juice are out on terrace.” She stuffed a feather duster inside her apron pocket, preparatory to pouring the Sumatra blend.
I layered a light alpaca sweater over the cotton shirt and wandered outside. Marissa knew that in spite of the absence of a view and the damp chilly morning air, I was an al-fresco girl. She followed behind with the cup of steaming coffee and a thermal pot.
I slid into the wicker chair, dropping the paper to my lap and watching as Marissa clutched her big belly. She said a quieting, “Oh,” then “Hush.”
“Is she kicking?”
“You know we don’t know if it’s a boy or girl,” she said.
I frowned in mock horror and she muffled a giggle.
“Yes, baby is kicking.”
“May I feel her?”
Her eyes swept to the floor, but not before betraying their sadness. “Ms. Blaze. I don’t think that’s such a good idea. You’re too—”
Desperate. “I might have my baby sleeping in the upstairs nursery before you feel your first contraction,” I teased.
Marissa scolded me with scrunched lips, then lifted her apron to the side. She took my hand and splayed the fingers across her abdomen, smiling as she watched my response to the movement. Instantly I felt suspended in the magic, my hand still pressed flat against her belly, when the phone rang. Marissa swished her apron back down and returned to a dutiful attendant status.
“Mr. Andrew for you.” She’d long ago given up trying to pronounce Chandonnet.
I took the phone. “Two times on a Saturday. I suppose you demand a higher commission for all the extra attention?”
“Damn it, Chyna. No sass. I want you to tell me what you wore at that book signing yesterday.”
“What I wore? Seriously? It wasn’t anything too sexy, if that’s what has your temples pounding. My image is still pure.” I walked a fine line with how I sexed up my stories and how my fans reacted to me, and Andrew always encouraged me to err on the side of prudence.
“What color, Chyna?”
The question was stupid. The answer, even more idiotic. Back when I sold my first manuscript I became scared to death when my editor presented me with the schedule of mandatory book signings. Not that I was into these things, but I had this metaphysical chart drawn up. The psychic lady told me she could identify lucky colors for me in my lucky cities. More so, safe colors for me. New York was regal purple. Chicago and Seattle both belonged to white. Denver was green, and Phoenix, yellow. New Orleans and Miami—blue. She’d told me to wear only pink in Boston, but I didn’t like pink on a redhead so I always wore red. Boston and L.A. were red cities.
Andrew cleared his throat. “The thing is, Chyna, sometime in the middle of the night a woman was found dead behind the book store you signed at. Purse, jewelry—all intact. And she was a gorgeous redhead, same hairstyle as you, and the damndest thing of all; she was wearing a red cocktail suit. She was a dead ringer for you.”
Coming 2014
Bye Bye Bones
About the Author
Lala is a desert rat, living in the Sonoran Desert with her husband of 25 happy years. She has three grown sons and four little muses. The felines include a Ragdoll named Bibelot, and Charlotte—an American Curl. Finnigan & Phoebe, Teacup Yorkies, weigh in at 9 pounds. Together.
You can contact the author at [email protected]
Facebook: Lala Corriere Author Page
Twitter: Lala Corriere
Or by mail:
PO Box 69194
Tucson, AZ 85737
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Evil Cries Page 25
