Dirty Tricks: A Kate Lawrence Mystery Read online

  “Wow, a kindred spirit,” I applauded. “My two kids are grown now, and outside of my husband and my business partners, I keep to myself pretty much, too. The way I look at it, I see more than enough people during my working hours, and I’m quite happy to go home and shut the door on the outside world at the end of the day. My idea of a great evening is a bubble bath and a new novel.”

  “Oh, I so agree. In fact …”

  Whatever Isabelle had been about to say was interrupted by the ringing of her cell phone. “Please excuse me,” she said as she fumbled to pull it from the pocket of her suit jacket. “Normally, I wouldn’t answer it, but I am on the job.” She stood up and began walking back to her office, phone pressed to her ear. I returned to my own chair and closed down the Romantic Nights website. Tonight would be soon enough to research May’s business in the privacy of my own home office.

  Three

  “I don’t understand. If you aren’t making any money, why are you doing this?” Strutter waved her hand at the dozens of framed book covers we were helping May hang along the stairwell wall in her new house before treating ourselves to a dinner out. Our men were bonding over major league baseball and pizza at Margo’s house. “It seems like an awful lot of work. Why not take up something simpler?”

  “Like knittin’, you mean?” Margo stopped rooting around in the open carton at her feet and rolled her eyes at Strutter. “Or maybe she could cultivate an interest in needlepoint, so tasteful and appropriate for a woman of mature years.”

  I smiled around the extra tacks I held between my lips as I banged one into the wall, and May hooted from the top of the stairs.

  “After forty-five years of deferring to at least a dozen different bosses, none of ‘em with a heck of a lot of brain power to spare, I needed something to call my own, where things get done how and when I want just because I say so.” She twitched a frame into alignment and gave it a fond pat. “And because I write the checks, of course.” She winked at me and held out her hand for another cover, which Margo produced from the carton. This one featured a gorgeous, bare-chested blond—and the woman he was embracing wasn’t bad either.

  Strutter looked thoughtful. “I get that,” she said, polishing the glass in another frame with Windex. “In fact, we all get that. It’s the reason the three of us came to be in business together, did you know that? A few years at the low end of the food chain at a big law firm, and it was either start our own shop or start taking potshots at people.”

  Margo and I chuckled with her while inwardly flinching at the memory of the self-important blowhards for whom we had all worked several years previously at a well-known Hartford firm.

  “I did know that, which is why I’m sure you can understand. Runnin’ my little publishing company isn’t really about money, although I’d just love to find myself with a bestseller in my catalog one of these days. I pay myself a stipend of a few hundred dollars a month, but mainly it’s about doin’ something I love to do and do well. Y’all need to read some of my titles. They’re not at all crude, and they’re really well written. In fact, I insist upon it. You wouldn’t believe how many aspiring novelists I reject in the course of a month.”

  She sat down on the top step to take a breather. “Whew! There’s a reason they call movin’ the M-word. Anyway, being a published author myself in the mystery field, I know all about big publishers and greedy agents and rejection slips, and having worked in marketing and sales for many years, I had the computer skills I needed to do everything from the editing to keepin’ the books. I was giving a presentation one night to a group of local business women about how anyone with the right software and some common sense could start up a virtual business these days, and I thought to myself, why am I not doing this? About a month later, Romantic Nights was up and runnin’, and here I am some five years down the road, still at it. The mailin’ address has changed, but other than that, it’s business as usual.”

  She rose and dusted off the seat of her navy sweat pants. On her, even they looked good, a trait she shared with Margo. I suspected her of having them tailored. Well, why not?

  “How about I fix us a little refreshment while you get the last few of these on the wall? I don’t know about you, but I’m parched, and it must be five o’clock somewhere.”

  Half an hour later, we were all enjoying a glass of Pinot Grigio in May’s cozy, but still cluttered, living room. Still, progress on the renovations was evident, and we could see how comfortable the house would be in another week or two.

  “I admit to being fascinated by your work, May,” I picked up where we’d left off as the wine was being poured. “I got so caught up in exploring the Romantic Nights website Friday afternoon at Vista View, the new business manager was standing right in front of me before I noticed her.”

  “Isabelle Marchand? What did you think of her?” Strutter wanted to know. She helped herself to a corn chip and some of May’s excellent guacamole.

  “Pretty cool customer, isn’t she?” Margo said around a mouthful of the same.

  “I kind of liked her,” I said. “We didn’t get to talk very long, but I actually thought we might have some things in common. And she’s not really the business manager like Ginny was.” I summarized what Isabelle had told me about the redefinition of roles at Vista View. “So it’s mainly number crunching and other paperwork,” I finished up.

  “Sounds pretty boring, if you ask me,” May commented. “What does she do with her spare time for fun?”

  “We didn’t get that far, but I plan to pick up the conversation next week. You should try to get to know her a little,” I advised my partners, whose faces radiated skepticism.

  “So what’s it like working with authors from all over the country?” I said, returning to our earlier theme. “They must be a fascinating group.”

  May’s snort was so much like Margo’s, when amused, that I couldn’t help but smile.

  “Fascinating, to be sure, but not always in a good way. Most of the good ones are lively, creative and, just as important, realistic about their gifts. Unfortunately, there are a few whose self-esteem is wildly disproportionate to their talents.”

  Strutter looked over. “Forgive me, but aren’t you an author, too?”

  May grinned. “That’s why I can tell you the truth, because I’m one of them. I have a healthy ego, too, but I’m able to assess my talents realistically and rein it in a bit.” Her expression turned thoughtful. “I’ll tell you a little story. There’s a gal back in Georgia who tried unsuccessfully for years to get a publisher before decidin’ to self-publish her own stuff. It’s easy enough to do these days on Amazon and Google and what have you. Then she sent a manuscript to me, and I initially agreed to publish it because a mutual friend asked me to look kindly on it; but it was so full of mistakes and sloppy grammar, I wound up spending more than forty hours getting it into passable shape.”

  “No good deed goes unpunished,” I murmured.

  “Exactly. So while I was already regrettin’ my decision, I sent her a very rough cover concept done by my designer, thinking she would be able to visualize the final version. But this woman turned into a snake, condemned everything from my intelligence to the cover designer’s abilities. Mind you, she’d been a handful to deal with from the get-go, see-sawing between neediness and arrogance, but now she was showin’ her true colors, and they weren’t pretty. So I decided I’d had enough. I terminated her contract before publication, as was my legal prerogative, and returned all rights to her. Want to guess what happened next?”

  “She tried to sue you?” Strutter opined, and Margo and I nodded agreement.

  “Good guess, but a lawsuit would simply have been dismissed. No, she started e-mailing and calling and whining, beggin’ me please, please to reconsider blah blah blah. She left two messages on my home phone, called my lawyer’s office, drove to my house and left a pleading letter in my mailbox. She even got her husband to e-mail me, implying that his wife was going to have a nervous breakd
own if I did this dreadful thing to her.”

  “Oh, my god, that’s so weird and scary, and she lived close to you. Then what happened?” I asked.

  “I sent her one last e-mail, tellin’ her if she didn’t stop her nonsense, I’d have no choice but to involve the police. She promptly sent another hysterical message, so I printed out every e-mail we’d ever exchanged and called the cops. A nice young officer came to my home and read them. Then he listened to the voice messages on my answering machine and read the letter that had been left in my mailbox and concluded this woman was officially harassing me. He paid her a little visit and told her to knock it off.” May took a deep swallow of her wine. “But that’s not the end of the story.”

  “Good grief, what else could there be?” Strutter wanted to know.

  “As I said before, she did the only thing she could do, since no agent or publisher would touch her, and self-published the book. Her work background was in public relations, so she knew how to manipulate the truth. She actually managed to attract a small following and made the rounds of the libraries and other local venues, billin’ herself as, get this, a Pulitzer Prize nominee.”

  “Wow, that’s impressive!” I said. “Isn’t it unusual for somebody who’s self-published to be nominated for such a prestigious award?”

  This time May’s laugh was full-throated. “See, you did the same thing everybody else does, pick up on the Pulitzer Prize part and skip over the qualifying words. She was never really a nominee, just an entrant. Do you know how to enter a book in the Pulitzer competition?”

  My partners and I looked at each other, mystified. “Do tell,” Margo prompted.

  “You send four copies of your book, along with an application form and fifty dollars, to the nominating committee, and presto! You’re a Pulitzer Prize entrant. Notice the word ‘entrant.’ You’re not a nominee until the prize committee nominates you, but since the general public doesn’t understand that distinction, the wanna-be gets away with calling herself a nominee. Thousands of writers pull that stunt by entering themselves every year. That’s how the prize money is accumulated. They don’t have a shot in hell of winning, of course, and never achieve the status of nominees. It’s easy enough to check on the Pulitzer website, but hardly anyone ever bothers to do that.”

  “Unbelievable,” Strutter summed up our thoughts. “Is it working? Are her books best sellers?”

  May looked amused. “The short answer is no, and it’s simple to figure that out if you ask yourself a few questions.”

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “Like how come, if she’s such a fantastic writer, she’s still self-publishin’? Wouldn’t she have an agent by now? Wouldn’t Random House be beggin’ her to sign with them? Wouldn’t Hollywood want to option a title or two? All you have to do is go on the review sites and see that only a handful of reviews have been posted for each of her titles—all five-star, by the way, which is a dead giveaway they’ve been written by her relatives and close friends. The poor thing has become a joke among those in the know. It’s really pretty sad, or at least it would be if it weren’t so irritatin.”

  “Good lord, why do you want to engage with such people?” Strutter asked in amazement.

  May smiled with perfect good humor. “There are always a few bad apples in any profession. Fortunately, I work with mostly excellent, ethical writers who are simply a delight. We’re not all loony tunes with delusions of grandeur. Most of us are happy knowing we’re gifted enough to tell a decent story that our readers seem to enjoy, period. Why, some of us can even spell.” She plunked her wineglass on the coffee table and patted her tummy. “Thus endeth today’s sermon on the darker side of publishin’. So are we goin’ out for dinner, or are we ordering in?”

  Four

  Monday was Margo’s day at Vista View, so Strutter and I planned to keep things covered at Mack Realty. I’d become so accustomed to having fresh coffee waiting when I walked into the Law Barn every morning, it was disappointing to find the office dark and no appetizing aroma wafting from the copier room after we let ourselves in. The place seemed particularly empty without my daughter Emma clattering around on the second floor and running up and down the stairs, now that she and her real estate lawyers had grown their business and left for bigger quarters in Glastonbury.

  “That’s funny,” Strutter reported as she turned on the table lamp in the lobby and went to stick her head into May’s temporary office. “Wonder where she is? Do you think we should give her a call in case she had car trouble or something?”

  I checked my watch, which confirmed that it wasn’t quite nine o’clock yet. “Let’s wait a bit. Maybe the contractor’s crew is taking the day off, and she’s sleeping in for once. I’d hate to be the one to spoil that after the past few weeks she’s suffered through.”

  “Since when is bunking in with us temporarily such a hardship?” Strutter teased. “Seems to me she could have done worse.” She filled a pitcher and poured water into the pot while I measured out the coffee and added it to the basket. “She could be sitting all by herself at Starbucks, nursing a latte while she rides on their WIFI.”

  “I actually did that during the freaky October snowstorm a few years back that knocked out our power for four days,” I remembered with a shudder.

  “I remember it in my nightmares, same as everyone else who had small children at that time,” Strutter agreed. Her daughter Olivia had been barely two when the storm had devastated Connecticut. “Thank God it wasn’t January, is all I have to say about that.”

  “Amen, sister. Anything special on your agenda today?”

  “A whole lot of paperwork and maybe a walk down Old Main Street at lunchtime to enjoy the leaves. It’s so beautiful right now, and the last of the Scarecrows Along Main Street exhibits are still up. How about joining me?”

  I shook my head regretfully. “Love to, but with Margo out, I guess one of us should stay in the office. I’ll walk down to the corner after you get back, maybe get an ice cream cone for my lunch.” The hand-scooped cones at Main Street Creamery were among my favorite things about Old Wethersfield and would only be enhanced by the gorgeous autumn weather we were enjoying.

  As we headed toward the half-staircase leading down to Mack Realty’s office, we were startled by the sound of the Law Barn’s big front door swinging open to admit May. Judging from the look on her face, the fall sunshine wasn’t doing it for her today.

  “Hi, ladies,” she greeted us. “Sorry to be late, but you would not believe the morning I’ve had. Is there coffee?” She looked toward the copier room anxiously.

  “We had a little trouble remembering how to make it, since you’ve been spoiling us rotten for the last week, but we managed to throw together a pot,” said Strutter.

  May’s forehead smoothed out fractionally. “Thanks,” was all she said as she made a beeline for her temporary office. She tossed her laptop bag and purse on the desk and pulled out her cell phone. Strutter and I took the hint and continued on our way down the stairs. Whatever had May frowning apparently required a little space.

  By eleven o’clock we had slogged through the weekend backlog of phone messages and begun to fill in the few blank spots on the office calendar with appointments and showings. Having our calendars on Outlook made it possible for whoever was doing the booking to check everyone’s schedules at the same time, if that was necessary. It was a great help, when it worked, but not so great during a power outage.

  Strutter left shortly after noon for her Main Street promenade. Promising my grumbling stomach an ice cream cone a bit later, I wandered up to the lobby level in search of a cup of instant broth to tide me over. As I passed May’s door on the way back, she peered over the top of her computer spectacles and waved a greeting.

  “Come on in and say howdy, if you’ve got a minute. Sorry I was such a grump earlier, but I had quite a night.”

  “Oh, how so?” I asked, not wanting to appear too curious, although I was. I took my usual perch on t
he window sill and sipped cautiously at my chicken broth. The instant hot water function on our coffee maker dispensed searing liquid guaranteed to remove the skin from the roof of one’s mouth and at least one lip, as each of us had learned the hard way.

  “I was up most of the night dealing with wildlife,” May retorted, “and not the good lookin’ masculine variety you’re probably thinking. What do you know about bats? Please don’t go all girlie on me and start shrieking.” She dropped her glasses on the desk and rubbed her eyes wearily. Despite her perfect grooming, she was showing a few more of her years today than usual.

  “I wouldn’t do that,” I assured her. “As a matter of fact, I know quite a bit about bats, at least the kinds that live in this part of Connecticut. The house where I raised my kids had a pretty good stretch of woods behind it and across the street, where the railroad tracks came through, so bats were a common sight, especially at dusk.” I smiled, remembering. “I loved that they were voracious mosquito-eaters, because we were plagued with the things, but I became even fonder of the ugly little beasts after one decided to have her baby on my daughter’s bedroom windowsill. It was quite a biology lesson for my kids, who were shocked to discover that bats are mammals just like us.”

  “Hmmm, very good, I’m impressed. So with all of those bats around, did you ever have one get into your house?”

  “Oh, sure, a couple of times.”

  “How did you get them out, by chasing them with a tennis racket or a broom and trying to club them to death?” she jeered.

  I frowned at the assumption. “Of course not. Bats won’t harm you unless they’re rabid, and rabies in the bat population around here hasn’t increased more than a single percentage point in years and years. I read somewhere that more people die of bee stings than bat bites. All those idiotic movie scenes that show people covering their heads and screaming and flailing away with brooms and whatnot are just stupid. Bats are echolocators. All you have to do is close any doors leading out of the room the bat’s in and then open a window. It will soon sense the opening and be very happy to get the heck out. Why do you ask? What happened, May?”