The Megalodon Mix-Up

by Amanda M. Lee

  “Sanderson had dealt with enough crazy people that he knew not to push her too far, especially with sharp utensils nearby, so his wife alerted the desk while he pretended to be interested in her spiel,” he continued. “Security eventually came and took her, but not before she stole his napkin and shoved it in her shirt.”

  I was legitimately puzzled. “Why would she want his napkin?”

  “I have no idea. I’m sure it was for a freaky reason.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “Sanderson lived in Connecticut and returned home after that,” Jack said. “He thought things were over, but then Downs started calling him at home. He had no idea how she got his number and she refused to tell law enforcement when questioned. Things got so bad with incessant calling they killed their landline.

  “He never agreed to write a series with her,” he continued. “He was polite during the dinner fiasco and said her idea sounded intriguing. My guess is he said that because he didn’t want to agitate her. She took it a different way and became obsessed.”

  “How long did he put up with her antics before the cabin thing happened in Minnesota?”

  “Two years.”

  “Wow!”

  “Yeah, she’s all kinds of nutty.”

  “Why wasn’t she arrested?”

  “It’s harder to get a restraining order than you think,” Jack replied. “He probably tried but couldn’t find a sympathetic judge. All of that changed when she showed up at the fishing cabin. He called the cops, she was dragged away, and she was forced into a forty-eight-hour psychiatric hold.

  “When the hospital said it couldn’t keep her, Sanderson decided to make her an offer,” he continued. “She voluntarily signed the restraining order — which covered Sanderson and his immediate family — and he agreed to let her write in his world.

  “There were certain stipulations, like no print or audio books, and she couldn’t use his name in the blurb,” he said. “Other than that, she could do whatever she wanted.”

  “Does she make money off the series?”

  “Not much, according to the financial information I’ve been able to pull. She does okay. She probably makes more money than you. Compared to some of the other authors here, she’s at the low end of the spectrum.”

  That was interesting. “Just out of curiosity, what do these other authors make? I mean ... do they make so much I might want to cry?”

  “Actually, the median income appears to be about fifty grand a year,” Jack replied. “There are obviously outliers, those who make more. There are also some who make far less. I can’t see any rhyme or reason in the figures, and I’m not sure that’s ultimately important.”

  “I always thought the most important questions asked when heading up an investigation regarded money. Other than love — or lust, I guess — money is the second-biggest motivating factor.”

  “I don’t argue with that.” Jack rubbed the back of his neck as he studied his screen. “I’m going to dig further on Downs. I find her worrisome enough, especially because Shayne Rivers was reportedly trying to steal her gig. I wouldn’t put it past her to kill a woman and toss her in the Gulf for the sharks.”

  “Not to be the naysayer yet again, but she’s not a very big woman,” I offered. “How would she be able to drag the body all the way down the pier? I know you’re going to say the golf carts, but not everyone knows how to hotwire a golf cart.”

  “Fair enough. Maybe she had help.”

  “Like who?”

  Jack shrugged. “What did you say were the names of the women with her in the spa?”

  “Oh, um ... Abigail James and Priscilla Jennings.”

  It didn’t take Jack long to run both names. “Abigail James is a real name. She’s a married mother of two who lives in New York. She graduated from college, has no priors, and makes a middle-of-the-road income.”

  “So ... not a suspect?”

  “I’m not ruling anyone out, but she’s not high on my list unless we learn something else about her.”

  “Okay. What about Priscilla Jennings?”

  “That is not a real name,” Jack replied after a few keystrokes. “Her real name is Margaret VanBuren. She’s in her sixties, married, no children. She lives in Wyoming.”

  “Who voluntarily lives in Wyoming?”

  “People who like space and hate neighbors.”

  “I see you’ve given it some thought.”

  Jack’s smile was back and he looked from the screen long enough to wink at me. “You’d be surprised how many things I’ve given serious thought to. As for Priscilla, she doesn’t have a record either. She had a dispute over taxes at one point, but nothing major. She’s fairly quiet. She writes sports romances.”

  “Like the quarterback gets a touchdown and everyone gets naked?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “I don’t think that’s my genre.”

  “You and me both.”

  “What about the guy with the prostitute?” I asked, my mind traveling to Clark Savage’s antics on the beach. “What can you find about him?”

  “Um ... .” Jack pursed his lips as he studied his screen. “Well, Savage isn’t his last name, but Clark is his first name.”

  “What’s his real last name?”

  “Lickenfelt.”

  I pressed my lips together, momentarily embarrassed that my first reaction had been to laugh out loud. That was a high school reaction. I couldn’t stop myself from giggling. “Seriously?”

  “Yup.”

  “I see why he changed his name.”

  “Right? He’s got a heavy online presence, proudly owns more than seventy guns, which I have no problem with in theory, unless he’s a complete nutball – which is starting to look possible. He runs a weekly podcast on how to survive the end of the world, and is eagerly awaiting the Rapture because he’s convinced only the righteous will be left behind.”

  “I thought those left behind in the Rapture were supposed to be the bad people?”

  “Apparently not in his world.”

  “What about Shayne Rivers?” I asked. “Did he have anything to do with her?”

  “I’m not sure. It appears he’s gotten into it with numerous different writers on the internet. It’s a small community and there are a lot of fights. Since Rivers was prominent on the internet and liked to draw attention to herself, and Savage is the same way, it’s entirely possible they butted heads.”

  “An internet fight isn’t usually enough to kill someone over.”

  “No, but we don’t know if Rivers pushed his buttons another way. We’ll have to tap into the gossip vein if we want to know the answer to that question. I don’t suppose one of your new friends would be able to help us?”

  “What new friends?”

  “That cozy mystery writer you like and the pimento cheese chick would be my top choices. They seem the most normal ones here.”

  “You think the pimento cheese chick is normal?”

  “More normal than some of the others we’ve met.”

  I heaved out a sigh. “Fine. We can ask them. If that pimento cheese question is code for something I don’t recognize, though, I expect you to step in and save my virtue.”

  “I can manage that.”

  I could only hope that was true.

  Sixteen

  Sarah Hilton was easy to find. I left Jack to continue digging on the other authors — something he seemed leery about because he said I was a trouble magnet when unsupervised — and found her at the coffee bar. That seemed to be her favorite hangout. She probably didn’t need the extra caffeine, but it wasn’t my business to say.

  She was sitting at a table with Lily Harper Hart. Both of my information sources together. I couldn’t get much luckier.

  “There she is.” Lily beamed and leaned back in her chair as I approached. “It’s our intrepid investigator. How are things going on your end?”

  “I have a few questions.” I felt uncomfortable asking but it was part of the job,
so I sucked it up. “I’m going to grab something to drink. I’ll be right back.”

  “We’ll be waiting,” Sarah sang out.

  She was odd. I happened to like odd. If she’d stop offering me pimento cheese she would be practically perfect.

  By the time I rejoined them, they were deep in conversation. They seemed to be talking publishing business strategy, and both knew what they were talking about.

  “I prefer trilogies, but I get what you’re saying about longer series in mysteries,” Sarah offered. “In fantasy, trilogies are the preferred method of reading. Mystery readers like long series, though. I think it’s a smart plan.”

  I felt out of place as I sat with them, clutching my green tea and glancing between faces. They appeared friendly and relaxed. I was the one worked up.

  “You look as if you’re about to pop a vein in your forehead,” Lily noted, her lips curving. She always seemed to be in a good mood ... unless she was about to blow up at someone. Then she lost her temper for a few minutes and was right back to being in a good mood. It was an interesting phenomenon. “Just tell us what you want to know. We’ll either answer or we won’t.”

  “I’ll probably answer no matter what,” Sarah admitted. “I have a big mouth.”

  Lily snickered. “I believe that’s an ailment I suffer from, too. Foot-in-Mouth Disease. Untreatable and sometimes deadly.”

  I laughed. They were good at putting me at ease. “I need information about some of your fellow authors.”

  “You mean gossip.”

  “Well ... kind of.”

  “You’re in luck,” Lily said. “I love gossip. Who do you want dirt on?”

  “Well, for starters, what can you tell me about Leslie Downs and her relationship with Shayne Rivers?”

  “It was ugly,” Sarah answered without hesitation. “If there was a national hair-pulling contest, they would’ve both medaled.”

  “Did they actually pull each other’s hair?”

  “Not that I know of. You would lose your hand in that nest of snakes Leslie has going,” Lily said. “Someone needs to tell her the eighties are over and that much hairspray is never a good idea.”

  “It’s also a fire hazard,” Sarah offered sagely.

  “I know a little about her relationship with James Sanderson,” I started. “I know about what happened at the restaurant ... and the fishing cabin. What I’m interested in is how Shayne’s partnership with James would’ve affected her.”

  Lily shrugged, noncommittal. “It’s hard to say,” she said. “Um ... it’s a difficult situation. I’ve never understood the appeal of writing in someone else’s world. I prefer making up my own characters. Other people have trouble plotting and creating, so they jump at the chance.”

  That didn’t make much sense. “Writers have trouble plotting?”

  She chuckled. “You’d be surprised how many authors hire someone else to do their plotting. Like Jezebel Walters over there.” She pointed to a woman who looked of Indian descent, pretty skin offset by glossy black hair that made me envious. She sat at a table by herself, a look of fury on her face as she scanned the lobby.

  “What’s her problem?” I asked. “She doesn’t look happy. Also ... Jezebel isn’t her real name, right? No one would name their kid that.”

  “I’m sure there’s some idiot out there who thought it was a good idea, but her real name is Jessica Walton,” Sarah replied. “She writes urban fantasy, like me.”

  “Are you friends?”

  “There are times I wish I had a truck so I could run her over, back up, run her over, back up, run her over ... .”

  Lily held up a hand to still Sarah. “We get it. Jezebel is the Devil. Think about pimento cheese and not running over people. It’s better for your blood pressure.”

  Sarah grinned. “I’m always thinking about pimento cheese.”

  “I’ve noticed.” Lily cleared her throat and shifted her eyes to me. “Jezebel is ... a unique individual.”

  “Is that code for something?”

  Sarah bobbed her head. “It’s code for being the Devil.”

  Lily snickered. “She’s a solid writer. Not spectacular, but solid. When she first burst on the scene everyone was impressed because she was selling a lot right out of the gate. She managed to find readers through Shayne’s newsletter services, and they were positioning themselves as a power publishing couple. But it all fell apart.”

  I was hooked. “How did it fall apart?”

  “Well, for starters, it turns out that Jezebel can’t plot. Not at all. A Dick and Jane book is too difficult for her to plot. She paid Shayne to plot for her.”

  I shook my head. “I’m not going to pretend to get the publishing world,” I said after a beat. “That seems counterintuitive to doing this for a living.”

  “I’d agree, but that’s not how Jezebel sees it,” Lily explained. “She makes decent money, but she spends a lot, too. She’s a heavy advertiser, and that cuts into her bottom line. When she had her falling out with Shayne she also lost her most popular series.”

  “I need more information than that.”

  Lily happily launched into her tale. “So, Jezebel and Shayne were tight for years, both coming up in the publishing world at the same time and writing similar books,” she started. “They were a fearsome twosome, and Jezebel was knee-deep in a lot of the gaslighting Shayne was doing. She was simply smarter about it than Shayne and publicly kept her hands clean.”

  “She was kind of behind the scenes,” I mused. “That means she was probably even more manipulative.”

  “Bingo. Anyway, things got rough when the writing community turned on Shayne. Jezebel — and you’re right, the more I say it, the more I realize it’s a stupid name — started feeling blowback. People didn’t want to associate with her because of her partnership with Shayne. She was almost as hated in the writing community, which is saying something, because we never agree on anything.”

  I rubbed my hand over my knee, considering. “I’m guessing Shayne didn’t take that well.”

  “Not even a little. She’s prone to meltdowns on the internet and she had a big one, although she didn’t name names. She learned a lesson when she got dragged into multiple lawsuits with other authors and stopped publicly shaming, instead resorting to vague postings.”

  “I think someone else mentioned those lawsuits. It seems Shayne had multiple fights going with a lot of different groups.”

  “Oh, you have no idea,” Sarah intoned. “The only people who stood by her were those who were new and couldn’t understand what was going on. That forced her to turn more manipulative, which made people angry because she was trying to paint herself as a victim.”

  “Go back to Jezebel,” I prodded. “What happened with her and Shayne?”

  “Eventually Jezebel tried to end their working relationship,” Lily replied. “She’d been warned multiple times but didn’t care. Without Shayne to outline her series, she was forced to end it because she can’t plot.”

  “I don’t even know what to make of that.”

  “The series made a lot of money,” Sarah said. “Like ... a lot. She spent a lot of money to promote it. Without new books, it basically withered and died on the vine. Jezebel wouldn’t admit that she needed someone else to plot her books, so she lied to her readers and said she wanted to end it.

  “Then she partnered with several other authors to write series, but basically she was relying on them to plot,” she continued. “Her bitterness about the series she had to end grew. There was a conference in San Antonio a few months ago that ended with them screaming at each other in front of other people.”

  “Yes, that was lovely,” Lily drawled, her smile mischievous. “I love a good public meltdown when I’m not in the middle of it.”

  Sarah snickered. “Your meltdowns are always entertaining. The one in San Antonio was just sad. They tossed accusations at one another, Shayne faked tears and pretended to be a victim of bullying. That was always her go-
to excuse, by the way. Bullying. Everyone was jealous and she was the most bullied writer in the world.”

  “Meanwhile, she was gathering her followers to attack other authors with fake one-stars,” Lily said. “Those one-stars ended a few pen names before the authors even had a chance to get a foothold. I know a few authors quit because of it. Others went undercover to protect themselves and started new pen names.”

  “And one-stars are?” I prodded.

  “Reviews,” Sarah replied. “I know it sounds ridiculous, but the reviews are important. It’s not just for ego. You need them for advertising.”

  “Okay, but there’s no way bad reviews would be enough to kill over.”

  “Probably not,” Sarah agreed. “Losing your livelihood might be, though. I know Jezebel, for example, is making a third of what she was when she was working with Shayne. That’s probably still okay money, but she bought an expensive house and her husband doesn’t work. Money is a great motivator for hate.”

  This whole thing kept getting more and more convoluted. “So why is Jezebel here? And why is she sitting alone?”

  “Oh, that’s both sad and funny,” Sarah replied. “She posted a notice on a community message board that she would be in the lobby and available for questions from new authors for an hour. She expected to be inundated and told authors to hurry before she was swarmed. This is that hour ... and no one cared enough to show up.”

  Sarah and Lily looked amused at the turn of events.

  “You think it’s funny because you don’t like her,” I surmised.

  “We think it’s hilarious,” Lily conceded. “She’s unpleasant ... and I can’t tell you how tired I am of being referred to as jealous. I have no patience for grown women who use that word as a weapon. I’m too old to be jealous.”

  I waited because I was certain she wasn’t finished.

  “I’m not too old to laugh at that idiot believing people worship her, though,” she added, causing me to smile.

  “What about Leslie Downs?” I prodded. “Could Shayne’s potential deal with James Sanderson have hurt her enough that she might’ve wanted to kill her?”