by Frankie Bow
Felicity scanned the silent room.
“And speaking of villains, I understand that some of you may have heard that I am one.”
A nervous chuckle rippled through the audience.
“I would like to address the metaphorical elephant in the room,” Felicity’s bright coral lips were set in a firm line. “The claim that I copied the work of another author. There is no truth at all to these accusations. We are working on clearing up this whole nasty business. I was once a fledgling writer myself, and I am a big supporter of those of you who are trying to make your way. I would never—”
“You’re a liar, Felicity Vigneau!”
Ida Belle was on her feet beside me. Felicity blanched, a bright circle of rouge glowing on each cheek.
“You’re a liar and a thief and a backstabbing snake—a backstabber!”
“Why I’m sure I…” Felicity stammered. Danny, Felicity’s assistant, stood up, but looked unsure about what to do next. I stood too, equally uncertain about my course of action. I hoped this session of the American Romance and Erotica Authors’ Conference wasn’t about to degenerate into a chair-smashing brawl.
“And don’t pretend you don’t remember who I am,” Ida Belle shouted. Outside the open door, people walked by, oblivious to the drama. They probably thought we were doing some kind of character role play.
“I understand emotions are running high,” the other moderator interrupted. “But if we could get back on track—”
“Miss Lebeau’s class. Junior year.” Ida Belle planted her hands on her hips.
“Ida Belle!” Felicity mouthed, as if she were seeing a ghost.
“My reputation was ruint cause a you, you thieving—”
“Let’s go.” I locked my arm through Ida Belle’s and three ladies had to stand up to allow us to exit the row. “Gertie, you can stay here. Ida Belle and I are going out for some air.”
I hustled Ida Belle out the door as she fired off a stream of curses in both regular and spicy Cajun flavors.
I finally released my grip on Ida Belle’s arm when we were safely inside the elevator and headed back up to the room.
“What happened?” I asked. “She copied your English paper in ninth grade or something?”
“Eleventh grade. All I did was let her look at it, and only cause she said she was having trouble coming up with ideas and wanted to see what I’d done.”
“And this was worth busting up Gertie’s conference session?”
“Fortune, you don’t understand. We hand our papers in, and next thing I know Miss Lebeau asks me to stay after class. I expected her to tell me what a great job I did, and instead she accused me of cheating. She gave my paper a zero.”
“It should’ve been easy to prove that you were the original author.”
Ida Belle sighed.
“Yeah, I shoulda done that. Pushed back. But...I didn't want to contradict Miss Lebeau. And with that zero I still got a B-plus in the class. But Felicity? She woulda flunked. And then got the beating of her life when her parents saw her report card.”
“So let it go then. You broke the rules for a friend. Ida Belle, that was decades ago.”
“After that, though, Miss Lebeau never forgave me. Not to her dying day. I went from teacher’s pet to…she wouldn't even look me in the eye. Not even after I graduated, and I'd run into her in the General Store. Miss Lebeau had always been so proud of me. Until that happened. It was like I'd betrayed her. She took it personally.”
“And she died before you could redeem yourself in her eyes. I'm guessing.”
Ida Belle glanced at me.
“I guess you know what that’s like.”
I nodded. My father had been gone for years, but the subject was still painful.
“Old story, I guess,” she said.
“Here’s our floor.”
I slid the card key in a couple of times before the indicator light on the lock went from red to green.
“Gertie's gonna come back up here and chew me out for embarrassing her.” Ida Belle flung herself onto her bed, track suit, tennis shoes and all, and stared up at the ceiling. “I can hear it now. ‘You and your temper, Ida Belle, it's the Darlac Hotel all over again, blah blah blah.' I shoulda stayed here in the room.”
“I don’t think it was a total waste,” I said. “That was a pretty good backstory you gave me on Felicity Valentine”
“Felicity Vigneau.”
“Whatever. I think I understand her actions a little better now. Of course it wasn't right for her to copy your paper, but I can see why she did it. People do stupid things when they get desperate.”
“That still doesn't give her an excuse for plagiarizing that other writer.”
“No, that's true. She didn't learn her lesson. Or maybe she learned the wrong lesson. That she could steal other peoples' work and get away with it. Anyway, wasn’t that the point of the exercise? To get a sympathetic angle on a villain? I think we aced it.”
“You know, I think we did.” Ida Belle swung her sneakered feet onto the floor and started rummaging through the nightstand drawer. What do you say we drink to being the quickest studies in the class?”
Chapter 11
“Creative Yoga for Creative People”
Galerie 6
Those of us who love reading and writing spend a lot of time in front of the computer or curled up in our favorite chair. Are you feeling stiff from all that sitting? Are you already getting healthy and want to stay motivated while at the A.R.E.A. Conference? Then join Creative Yoga for Creative People. When the regular sessions are over, we'll gather to limber up and cool down. All ages and fitness levels welcome! And just to keep you motivated, we'll have two of our gorgeous cover model hunks helping out!
I'd been hoping to escape to the hotel workout room to run on the treadmill, but as the day wore on, my motivation dwindled. By five in the afternoon, the Creative Yoga session was about all I could face. I'd gotten up before dawn to make the two-hour drive from Sinful to New Orleans, and I'd consumed more alcohol in the last few hours than I normally did in a week.
On the way down to Galerie 6, Ida Belle and I passed a knot of pumped-up cover models hanging around the coffee stand. For some reason (probably breathing in all that testosterone) I found myself thinking about Carter LeBlanc. That reminded me of Carter's uncle Walter, who owned the General Store, and that reminded me to call Walter and check on catnip toys for Merlin.
“I’m going to call Walter,” I said, which got me a strange look from Ida Belle. To her, it probably sounded like that came out of nowhere, rather than being the result of a completely logical train of thought.
“You're calling Walter right now?”
“Ally told me that Merlin needs a new catnip toy.”
Ida Belle shrugged and I pulled out my phone.
Walter picked up on the second ring.
“Hi Walter, it’s Fortune.”
“Heya. How're things out there in the big city?”
“Great. We got early check-in, nice room, and Ida Belle and I are heading down to a yoga class right now.”
“Did you say a yoga class? Is Ida Belle wearing those yoga pants?”
Ida Belle was wearing her shapeless turquoise track suit, but I couldn’t resist brightening Walter’s day a little.
“She sure is. How’d you know? Listen, Walter, Ally told me that Merlin's going through those catnip toys like they were candy. She might stop by to get some more. Do you have any?”
“Hang on. I’ll check…just two left. Should I reorder?”
“Yeah, I think that’d be a good idea. I'll take a dozen, if you can get them.”
“You got that little guy hooked, Fortune.”
“I know. I’m such an enabler. Oh by the way, Ally tells me she hasn’t seen Carter around lately.”
“That so?”
“Do you know if he's okay? The doctor didn’t put him back on bedrest or anything, did he?”
“Well now, I thought you'd know where
he was.”
“No, it's been a few days since we spoke.”
And what a conversation that had been.
It had dawned on Carter that I might not be exactly who I claimed to be. There was something unusual, he'd finally realized, about a retired beauty queen who could rescue a gunshot victim from a sinking boat, disarm a hitman, and completely trash the only toilet in the sheriff’s station. (Actually I can’t credit my CIA training for that last one).
He'd confronted me, and was upset when I didn’t have a good explanation for him. What could I say? “I admit that getting involved with you while I was undercover was a breach of procedure and a huge mistake. Sorry about that.”
The ladies at the Bad Romance session were right. Carter was being a big baby about the whole thing. Why was I even worrying about him? I should just cut my losses and move on.
“He told me he was taking a few days' leave,” Walter said. “Didn't say where, and I didn't pry. I figured you knew.”
“Okay.” I tried to sound casual. “Thanks Walter. Let me know when the catnip toys come in. I’ll stop by and stock up.”
I felt a twinge of unease. What if something happened to Carter? Then I felt annoyed at Carter for making me worry about him when he couldn’t even be bothered to call me. I snapped my phone shut and followed Ida Belle into the yoga class.
Chapter 12
Galerie 6 was packed with romance writers ready to engage, lengthen, spiral, and stretch. They were standing, bending, or sitting cross-legged. The chairs had been stacked off to the side, the tables folded flat and leaning against the wall.
Up at the front of the room, a wiry brunette fiddled with a boom box, switching between different soothing new-age soundtracks. On either side of her, two shirtless and flawless “Cover Model Hunks” preened and flexed in preparation for the class.
Frantic waving in the back corner led us to Gertie and Larry. Gertie was dressed in a magenta and yellow aerobics getup that she must have had since the 80s. Larry wore tight black bicycle shorts and a Mall of America t-shirt (“America’s Biggest and Best Mall”) that strained over his round belly.
“You two smell like cough syrup!” Gertie exclaimed.
“Cough syrup?” Larry put his hands up. “Whoa, better keep my distance. Don’t want to get sick.”
“Yer darn tootin’ you don't.” Ida Belle took her place next to Gertie.
“Where’ve you two been, anyway?” Gertie demanded.
“Resting,” I said. “Anything interesting happen?”
“Well there’s a new development on the plagiarism scandal,” Larry said. “Destiny Davis tweeted that she doesn’t mind Felicity Valentine ‘borrowing’ her plots. She says it’s a compliment.”
“Supposedly tweeted,” Gertie corrected him.
“Why supposedly?” I asked.
“Some people think it’s a fan of Felicity’s impersonating Destiny Davis,” Larry said.
A woman in front of us, encased in a bright red leotard and shiny black tights, turned around. I recognized her from the Bad Romance session as the feather boa lady.
“I’d take it as a compliment if Felicity Valentine copied something of mine. I bet Destiny Davis is getting a ton of exposure out of this, plus lots of sympathy besides. She's got nothing to complain about. Sounds to me like she hit the jackpot.”
“I agree.” Gertie’s voice came from the floor, where she was trying out some improbable stretching exercises. “Talk about discoverability! Everyone in the world knows who Destiny Davis is now.”
“Except no one really does know who she is,” Larry was still standing, balancing on one stocky leg while he pulled a foot up behind him with one hand.
“It happened to me,” said a pessimistic voice behind us. “Felicity stole my idea.”
The woman’s wiry gray hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail. Heavy sweatshirt and oversized sweatpants hung on her scrawny frame.
“Now Hanny,” chided Feather Boa, “you don’t know that for sure.”
“She wrote to thank me for my email,” Hanny sulked, “so I know she got it.”
“I don’t think she answers her own mail,” Feather Boa said. “I bet her assistant, that cute boy Danny? He does all that.”
Someone cranked up the volume on the serene yoga music, drowning out all conversation and signaling the start of class. The instructor and the Cover Model Hunks took their positions at the front of the room.
By the time class let out, I was exhausted and ready for bed. Ida Belle, Gertie, and Larry wanted to go out to dinner in the French Quarter. I said my good-nights, bought a muffuletta from the lobby sandwich shop, and headed back up to the room.
It felt nice to crawl into bed and nestle between cool sheets, even if the foldout couch was kind of lumpy. I tucked my hands behind my head (making sure not to get my fingers tangled up in my hair extensions) and stared up at the ceiling. I wondered whether my hair was grown out enough that I could get the extensions chopped off and still pass for a retired beauty queen. My fake nails were a mess, too. Maybe I could get them filed down at the hotel beauty salon.
I almost laughed out loud when I realized how trivial my worries were—hair and nails! This trip out of town had been a good idea. For the first time since that Greyhound bus had deposited me (and my hideous pink luggage) in Sinful, I could relax. Ahmad was on the run. Sinful, with all its weirdness, was a two-hour drive away. No hurricane threatened; no strange creatures prowled outside my door. My house and my cat were in Ally’s capable hands, and Carter LeBlanc and his big fat ego were no longer my responsibility.
The only thing ruffling anyone’s feathers was that sparky little redhead, Felicity. If our biggest problem on this trip was Ida Belle's decades-old grudge over an English paper, then I'd say things were going pretty smoothly. I smiled into the dark, closed my eyes, and sank into a dreamless sleep.
Chapter 13
The next thing I knew, Ida Belle was shaking me awake. She was dressed in a bright red track suit, her white hair in big rollers.
“Get up, sleepyhead. We gotta get our run in before the plenary talk”
“Why do you care so much about the plenary talk? And where’s Gertie?”
“A) Free continental breakfast. B) Never came in last night.”
I sat up, instantly awake.
“Did something happen to Gertie?”
“If it didn’t, she’s gonna be awful disappointed. Her and Larry disappeared halfway through the Achey Breaky Heart lesson.”
“The what?”
“We all went to the country dance party after the cocktail hour.”
“I rubbed my eyes. Cocktail hour?”
“The meet-the-agents cocktail hour. We got all the industry scuttlebutt. Alphas like tycoons and ranchers remain as popular as ever, but heroes who are musicians or actors are gaining more acceptance.”
“What?”
“And historical's on the rebound, but it's gotta be Regency, Victorian, or Highland. No one's buying stories set in France.”
“So Gertie never came home. I could’ve slept in her bed instead of on this thing. I feel like I spent the night lying on a metal bar.”
Ida Belle patted a spot on the mattress.
“You were lying on a metal bar. That's the problem with foldout couches. They're never as good as a real bed.”
“When’s the session?”
“Nine.”
“What time is it now?”
“Six fifty.”
I flopped back down onto my pillow.
“Fine. We can go out at eight.”
“Fortune, this is summer in New Orleans. You do not want to be outside after eight in the morning, trust me. Come on. Get the lead out. Let’s burn off that muffuletta.”
“What muffuletta?”
“Nice try. You left the wrapper in the trash can and the bathroom reeks of olives.”
“Since when are you so interested in exercise, Ida Belle?”
“Since these pants started gettin
g tight. Oh, Fortune, those desserts at K-Paul’s last night...”
“Just wear something with an elastic waist.”
“These have an elastic waist.”
I dragged myself out of bed, splashed off my face, tied back my fakey blonde hair extensions, and pulled on a pair of sweats. We exited the lobby through the sliding glass doors to the crowded sidewalk outside.
“I guess running’s out of the question,” I said.
“Why?”
“Why? Because it’s hot, humid, and jam-packed with pedestrians.”
“Let’s walk then. It’s better’n nothing. Good thing I got us started early. In another hour it’s gonna be downright hellish.”
“I don’t think we need to wait an hour for that.” I felt like I was breathing a blend of 10% air and 90% hot bus exhaust. “Let’s get this over with and get back into the air conditioning.”
Ida Belle and I dodged through the crowd. A few stores and diners were already open, forcing us to sidle around the clumps of people loitering at the shop entrances. We took a quick detour into a dark little shop called Jazz City. The air conditioning inside the store was a relief, but the shelves held nothing but tourist junk. Disappointed, we continued along Canal Street, then turned right into a narrow side street crammed with hole-in-the-wall restaurants, seedy apartments, and rickety fire escapes.
“Good thing you have me here with you,” Ida Belle said. “New Orleans is the murder capital of the United States, you know.”
“Not anymore. I think Detroit and Flint are ahead of New Orleans.”
“Are you kidding me? We dropped to third place?”
We made another right, and passed the un-glamorous back of the hotel, with its vast ground floor bay devoted to food delivery and laundry.
The next right turn led to a one-way alley lined with dumpsters, air conditioning units, and featureless doors painted beige to match the buildings. We stopped and stared. Police cruisers with flashing lights blocked both ends of the narrow street, and a knot of police officers and emergency responders obscured our view of whatever was going on.
