Manuscript for Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  “Who are we talking about?”

  “Lane Barfield, our publisher—who else?”

  “Barfield’s stealing our royalties personally?”

  “Head of the snake.” He nodded. “I can explain it all to you, tell your accountant what to look for. I’m going to sue him for everything he’s worth. I’m going to sue the whole damn company. I’m going to get the rights back to every single book they’ve let lapse and publish them myself and make a killing. Then I’m going to write new books that sell even better.”

  I didn’t know what to say. What can you say to someone who’s clearly delusional, his judgment clouded by failure and temperament spoiled by booze?

  “I heard things didn’t work out for your latest book—”

  “Good thing, since there’ll be less for Barfield to steal, the jackass.”

  “You didn’t let me finish, Thomas,” I said, putting an edge in my voice. “I was going to say maybe I can help find you a replacement publisher. I’ve got contacts around town from all the endorsements I get asked to give. It’ll be nice to finally call in one of those favors. How about breakfast tomorrow?”

  Rudd rocked backward. “You think I’m a charity case?”

  “I think you need a publisher.”

  Before Rudd could respond, Mort stood up, slowly and menacingly, his torso angled forward to make himself appear closer to Thomas Rudd. Within range, whatever that meant. Mort might have left his hardened days as a vice detective with the New York Police Department behind when he settled in Cabot Cove as sheriff, but he could still bring it when he wanted to.

  “I think you should leave,” he said to Thomas Rudd in a tone that left no room for doubt. “You can take the rolls to go.”

  Whoa, I’d never heard Mort talk like that, couldn’t recall a time when he’d stood up for me so demonstratively. Sure, Thomas Rudd was an easy target, but I was still impressed by Mort’s boldness and I could tell Dr. Seth Hazlitt was, too, based on his expression.

  Rudd looked up at Mort, trying to appear tough while pretending to know who he was. “You’re the police chief.”

  “Not here, I’m not.”

  “This isn’t any of your business.”

  “Maybe not. But it’s my table—mine, Jessica’s, and Dr. Hazlitt’s here. Notice I left you out.”

  Rudd stumbled out of his chair and fixed his gaze as best he could on me. “Tomorrow morning, nine o’clock right here?”

  “That sounds fine, Thomas.”

  “I’ve got the proof. I’ll bring it with me.”

  I nodded.

  “And don’t say anything to Lane Barfield. He has no idea I figured his little scam out, getting rich on our backs. You’re not going to believe it, Jessica. I can still barely believe it myself.”

  “Mr. Rudd?” Mort said, leaving it there.

  Rudd started to back away from the table. “I’ve said what I came here to say. And if you’re smart, you’ll listen.”

  “Tomorrow morning, Thomas,” I told him. “I’ll meet you here at nine o’clock.”

  He nodded and finally turned around, retracing his faltering steps to the door as if the floor were slick with ice.

  Chapter Two

  Thomas Rudd didn’t show by nine o’clock the following morning and still was nowhere to be seen a half hour later. I’d just started working on my third hot tea at Le Pain Quotidien when I figured he wasn’t showing at all. Not that I was surprised. I’ve done plenty of research into alcoholism to properly cast some of the side characters in my books, enough to know that Rudd had all the unfortunate traits of a full-fledged alcoholic. His poor hygiene and complete disregard for any semblance of etiquette were the most prevailing characteristics, closely followed by paranoia.

  He’s a crook, Jessica. You may think he’s your friend, but he’s not. . . . I can explain it all to you, tell your accountant what to look for. I’m going to sue him for everything he’s worth. I’m going to sue the whole damn company.

  Rudd had to blame his failed career, and subsequent lack of income, on something or someone. So why not on Lane Barfield, our mutual longtime publisher, being a crook? Rudd’s paperback originals were no longer selling through no fault of his own, meaning he had to cast responsibility in a way that at the very least allowed him to tolerate himself. I’d suggested we meet this morning not only to get rid of him the previous day but also because I held him and his work in genuine regard. Still, I had to admit I was glad when he didn’t show, as I wouldn’t have felt nearly as confident in his presence without Seth and Mort there to back me up if Rudd flew off the handle again.

  I felt guilty almost as soon as I formed that thought, thinking how lucky I was to have a career that had withstood all the changes in the publishing industry. My hardcovers continued to sell and the transition to a digital world had served my books surprisingly well. Sure, my paperback sales were down like everyone else’s, and my royalties had suffered to some extent, though nothing like Thomas Rudd’s. So upon exiting Le Pain Quotidien, I walked the six blocks through the cool spring air to his rent-controlled apartment in Tribeca. I recalled the address because of the cab we’d shared following a Christmas party at the Mysterious Book Shop a few years before.

  I smelled the smoke a good two blocks from his building, and a block later a coarse wave of it wafted through the air, well ahead of the dark cloud rising behind a cordoned-off police and fire line. I knew it was Thomas Rudd’s building before I drew close enough to possibly be sure. Once the building came within view, it was clear from the blown-out windows that the fire had started on the old building’s fourth floor, spreading up as well as down.

  Rudd lived on the fourth floor, I thought, as I continued to approach.

  I pictured him going to bed drunk with a cigarette dangling from his lips. One that must have ultimately slipped to the sheets and ignited the inferno that had likely consumed him long before the fire department could arrive. They were still here in force, hosing down the building to guard against the chance of flare-ups and probably inspecting the building’s integrity to see if it was still habitable. I saw a pair of red SUVs that likely belonged to the city fire marshal and a member of the arson squad. Then I turned my gaze upward, curious as to the fourth-floor windows that were gone and the windows on the third and fifth, which had all shattered.

  Before I could contemplate that further, I caught a glimpse of my old friend NYPD lieutenant Artie Gelber inside the police line, and waved to get his attention. When that effort failed, I ducked under the waist-high length of tape strung across the street and made my way toward him without any of the uniformed cops making a move to stop me.

  “Please tell me this is for research,” he said, coming over as soon as he spotted me.

  “I wish it were,” I said, casting my gaze up toward the fourth floor and the fire’s origins. “But I had a friend—well, an acquaintance—who lived here. We were supposed to meet for breakfast.”

  “Hopefully not the tenant in 4-A.”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Artie checked his memo pad, which was a twin of the one Mort Metzger carried, making me wonder if they were standard-issue for cops. “Thomas Rudd?”

  I nodded, gazing upward again.

  “You don’t look surprised, Jessica.”

  “We ran into each other yesterday,” I told Artie, not really wanting to go into detail. “He seemed to be in a very bad way.”

  That grabbed Artie’s attention. “How’s that?”

  “He’d fallen on hard times, both financially and creatively,” I told him, leaving it there.

  “Suicidal?”

  “Is that what your preliminary report suggests?”

  “You tell me, Jessica.”

  I didn’t have to regard the blown-out windows on the fourth floor again, because I’d snapped a mental picture. “I’d say the fire wa
s caused by an explosion. That would explain the shattering of the windows on the adjacent floors, as well as the scoring on the exterior of the brick. I recognize the pattern.”

  Artie nodded. “I remember that book of yours. One of my favorites.”

  “It was one of my early ones. Thomas Rudd gave me a blurb for it. That’s how we first met.”

  “I’m sorry, Jessica,” Artie said, squeezing my arm tenderly.

  “Was it a gas explosion?”

  He nodded again. “What was left of him was found in the kitchen, where the gas stove was open and on. Initial assessment is he set off the explosion while trying to light the pilot. My guess is his blood alcohol level will be over point-three-oh.”

  “Was anyone else hurt?”

  “Minor injuries, some rattled eardrums, and lots of property damage, but nothing lasting.”

  I looked again at the smoldering building. “Unless you count a whole bunch of people losing their homes.”

  “There is that.” Artie frowned. “So you would agree with our preliminary assessment?”

  “Based on what I saw yesterday I would agree he was angry.”

  Artie’s eyes flashed like a cop’s, not a friend’s. “What was he angry about?”

  “His next book had been canceled and his career seemed to be over, or at a crossroads at the very least,” I said, not wanting to lend credence to Rudd’s claims or cast aspersions on my publisher.

  Artie was making notes on his pad, which, like Mort’s, seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of pages. This time it was he who turned his gaze back on the charred building ahead of me.

  “Not a good way to check out, is it?” he said matter-of-factly.

  “Is there any, Artie?”

  * * *

  • • •

  My publisher’s offices were located closer to the East Side in an iconic building on Fifth Avenue. Lane Barfield had started the company as little more than a one-man operation, but it had sprouted into a boutique legend in publishing’s heyday. It was still a boutique imprint, though now owned by a massive corporate interest, one of what was known in the industry as the Big Five: the five companies that had pretty much gobbled up all the smaller and medium-sized houses in a massive consolidation. Our industry was hardly unique there, but it seemed to hurt more as men like Lane Barfield lost more and more control. Lane, though, had managed to retain complete management of his company even after it had been swallowed.

  The imprint was squeezed onto a single cluttered floor space in the twenty-one-story Manhattan icon. But Lane’s corner office, looking out toward the Empire State Building, offered an amazing view of the city.

  I didn’t have an appointment but Lane saw me right away, which was a good thing since the imprint’s limited space no longer allowed for even a modest seating area. Where a single couch had long resided, a cubicle had been erected.

  “I’d like to say, What a nice surprise,” he said, greeting me at the door to his office, “but the look on your face suggests otherwise.”

  “Thomas Rudd is dead.”

  He didn’t look sad; he didn’t look shocked; he didn’t look, well, anything. “How?”

  “A fire in his building.”

  “Suicide?”

  “What makes you ask that?”

  Lane cast me a frown I’d seen a thousand times in our nearly thirty-year relationship. He was as dapper as ever, tall and lean and wearing one of his customary three-piece suits. If not for the thinning hair and a face that drooped a bit instead of hugging his skull, he might’ve been the same man I’d first met a lifetime ago.

  “Had you seen him lately?”

  “Yesterday,” I said, nodding, “at the Mysterious Book Shop.”

  “Yes,” he said, taking my arm lightly and steering me toward a couch set against a wall-length bookcase crammed with volumes wherever the slightest space allowed. “I’m so sorry I missed that.”

  “Was it because you were afraid you might run into Rudd?”

  Lane sat back and sighed. “I had no choice, Jessica. His books just aren’t selling. We can’t get the distributor to even stock him anymore, and the arms we’ve been able to twist have resulted in massive returns. I had no choice,” he repeated, perhaps a bit guiltily.

  After all, Lane had discovered Thomas Rudd, just as he’d discovered me. There but the grace of God, right?

  “The answer’s no, by the way,” Lane said abruptly.

  “What was the question?”

  “Did I avoid Otto’s event for your release because I was afraid Rudd would be there? Something came up—something, well, incredibly exciting.”

  “What?”

  He curled a single knee atop the couch and leaned a bit closer. “I’ve been in this business my entire working life, started out on the loading docks and came up through sales.”

  “I’m familiar with the company bio, Lane.”

  “Then I’ll skip ahead. A manuscript has come in that’s one of the best I’ve ever read.”

  “Better than mine?” I joked.

  He grinned. “I passed on The Da Vinci Code, you know.”

  “Actually, I didn’t.”

  “The books that were the basis of Game of Thrones, too. Just couldn’t afford to bid on them when they were auctioned. But this one—this one I own outright. No auction, no rival bidders. The next big thing, huge thing, has fallen into my lap.”

  “Definitely not mine.” I nodded. “So, what is it?”

  Lane rose, moved to his desk, and slid open one of his cavernous bottom drawers, which I’d always taken for some magical closet that contained every manuscript he’d ever published. But he produced only one, a voluminous ream of pages held together by crisscrossing rubber bands. He brought it to the couch and laid it between us.

  “It’s the best political thriller I’ve ever read,” he pronounced. “I don’t even know what to compare it to. I offered the absolute most I could for it and am so far out on a limb, I’m holding on for dear life.”

  I ran a finger across the title page, noticing the book was called The Affair, written by someone I’d never heard of.

  “Benjamin Tally,” I said, reading his name out loud. “A first novel?”

  Lane nodded. “Very first. And I wasn’t going to let this one slip away.”

  “Congratulations.”

  His expression turned reflective, maybe even a little sad. “I remember how I felt reading your first manuscript.”

  “Clearly not this excited.”

  “I remember reading the first thing Thomas Rudd ever wrote as well,” Lane told me. “The pages came in curled because they’d gotten wet on the way over here, and there was a coffee stain on the title page. But I remember realizing his brilliance from the first page, the first paragraph really. I knew he was going to be a star.”

  “Stars fall sometimes, Lane, through nobody’s fault at all.”

  “He refused to change his style, refused to write longer books, refused to make even the slightest attempt to expand his audience. They were tough books, Jessica, but that didn’t matter so long as there were enough male fans to buy them. Can I confide something to you?”

  “Of course.”

  Lane lowered his voice, as if afraid somebody else might be listening. “I think Thomas had issues with the women in his life. He married three times and believed they took all his money. I think he blamed them for his failures even more than he blamed me.”

  “So the two of you talked about that,” I said, my interest piquing again.

  “He showed up a few days ago without an appointment.”

  “Like I just did, you mean.”

  “Except you didn’t drag a whole barroom in with you.”

  “Oh.”

  “He was drunk when you saw him yesterday, too, wasn’t he?”

  I n
odded.

  “He barged in here ranting and raving,” Lane continued. “It was all I could do not to call security. I’d actually picked up the phone, and then I remembered our history and that first manuscript of his I’d read, the star he almost became.” Lane shook his head, his eyes moistening. “I lied to him, Jessica.”

  “What’d you say?”

  “That I had a project for him, one of those ‘Written with’ series we publish.”

  “A ghostwriting job.”

  He shook his head. “No, I lied and said I wanted to team him with a bestselling author to start a fresh series that was right in his wheelhouse. I told him I couldn’t tell him which one because the deal wasn’t final yet. But I asked him if he was interested.”

  “What did he say?”

  “That he’d think about it.” Lane shook his head again, as much angry as sad. “Here I am offering him a lifeline and he didn’t even say yes.”

  “It was a lie.”

  “But he didn’t know that. The head of sales popped in with a report I needed to initial, and that’s when he must’ve done it.”

  “Done what?”

  “There was a thumb drive on top of my desk. It was there when Thomas came into my office and it was gone when he stormed out.”

  “You think he stole it,” I said, reconciling that with Rudd’s claims that Lane was cheating him out of money, the possibility that he was desperate enough to clip something he thought might contain some evidence.

  “The man was utterly unhinged, Jessica. In retrospect, you’re right: I never should’ve lied, never should’ve looked at him and made myself see the raw talent I’d discovered over thirty years ago but is long, long gone. I should’ve made that call to security and had him tossed.”

  “I’m not sure about that, Lane.”

  He dabbed his eyes with a sleeve. “What would you have done, Jessica?”

  “I’ve never run a publishing house.”

  “We’re not a house anymore, just a small imprint nobody recognizes and plenty think went out of business years ago.”

  “Well, I’m living proof that’s not true.”