"I'm so excited for you," Shelley said, spreading raspberry jam onto a hot Wolferman's muffin.
"Don't become too excited. It's not a slam dunk," Jane said.
"I know that. But I have a good feeling about it. Shall we go to the first presentation this morning? It's at eight-thirty"
"I might as well sit in for a few minutes, since we've paid for it," Jane said.
Thirteen
Jane had awakened
that morning
excited about the
meeting with the editor. She was well prepared. She knew now that she'd finished the book as a mystery. She hadn't started it, though, with anything mysterious. It was a matter of making clear there was something that was troubling Priscilla from the first chapter, and at intervals along the way. She'd even marked on her outline where these intervals were.
But in the back of her mind, rattling around, was the vague thought that she should have asked Mel something else about Zac. She closed her eyes, remembering what he'd said at dinner, but it was no help. It was a query that had flitted across her mind and vaporized instantly while he was describing the scene of the crime.
From experience she knew, or at least hoped, it would come to her when she least expected it. Halfway through a ham sandwich. Or when she was brushing her teeth or peeling potatoes. She'd
often had lost memories pop up at that kind of boring time.
Once, when someone had asked her who was the artist who did the sculptures and pictures of horses, Jane had had the name on the tip of her tongue for days. When she was loading the dishwasher, thinking about what she'd have for lunch, she had found herself shouting "Frederic Remington" out of the blue.
That time she'd nearly dropped the glass she was putting on the top shelf. And she'd scared Max and Meow half to death as they were weaving around her feet in hopes of her dropping food.
She wouldn't try to force whatever was puzzling her about Zac right now.
"Are you ready?" Shelley called out from the enormous parlor.
"I am. What are the choices at the eighty-thirty session?"
"I don't remember," Shelley said as she was making sure the door to the suite had caught and locked. "Do you have that booklet they gave us with the schedule?"
Jane looked in her book bag. "Nope. I must have left it on the bedside table."
"Then we'll do our sit-where-we-can-escape deal."
The eight-thirty session turned out to be a combination of two things — neither one to their taste.
The first was the speech that the allegedly boring speaker was supposed to give the day before except that Sophie Smith had usurped all his time. The other was another hit at grammar.
Jane and Shelley slipped out.
They went to the restaurant in the hotel and had coffee and luscious croissants with real butter and raspberry jam. "I'm glad I brought along my water pick," Jane said. "I don't want to go to this interview with seeds stuck in my teeth."
Shelley glanced at her watch. "Only forty-five minutes from now. You're ready, of course."
Jane just rolled her eyes and took another croissant and slathered it generously with butter and raspberry jam.
When she went to Melody Johnson's room, she discovered that it was a small suite. Melody had Jane's outline spread out on the dining table. Jane pulled her copy of the outline out of her book bag and they sat down, Melody sitting at the side of the table and Jane at the head. It turned out, fortunately, that much of what they had each marked on the outline tallied almost exactly. They were both pleased.
"Phew," Melody said. "I was afraid you were unaware that the mystery didn't really start until three-quarters through the book. We've both moved pretty much the same bits of the plot further forward in the manuscript. I gave you my
card earlier, didn't I? Please send this to me as soon as you finish the revisions."
"I'm glad you didn't see the whole thing. I forgot bathrooms in the description of the house and then researched it to death and put in far too many details about bathrooms at the time the book is set," Jane said. "That's one of the most valuable bits of advice I've learned here. To do a lot of research and then use only the unusual parts that most people wouldn't know about. All I'm keeping is the part about the cisterns on the roofs that were used to collect the water for flushing."
"Really? That is interesting."
They both gathered up their papers and shook hands. Melody said, "You do realize I'm not promising anything. The marketing people sometimes take a great dislike to something an editor likes enormously, and they have more clout than editors do."
"That's another thing I've learned here," Jane said. "I'm so glad I came to this conference and glad, too, to have met you."
Jane had spent quite a long time with Melody Johnson, and when she went in search of Shelley, Shelley reminded her that Chester Griffith's ten-thirty talk started in only five minutes. This was one seminar Jane had really wanted to hear. He was the bookseller that Felicity had told them about who knew virtually everything about
women mystery writers and liked their work better than hard-boiled men's books.
"You can tell me all about your interview with Ms. Johnson after the talk. I want to hear it, too," Shelley said.
They hurried to find good seats close to the front. The speech was, indeed, fascinating. Chester not only could quote from almost every book he'd ever read, but he'd also learned what Jane had learned: Do your research and don't bore listeners and readers by telling them what they already know.
Jane and Shelley both took copious notes. He mentioned several authors he highly recommended that neither woman had read. It would mean one more trip to the booksellers' room, specifically to Mr. Griffith's booth before it was out of those books.
Jane whispered to Shelley, "The account of my interview will have to wait while we buy some of these books he's talked about."
"You're sure that's okay with you? I don't want you to forget to repeat every word Ms. Johnson told you," Shelley whispered back.
"I haven't forgotten anything. I probably won't put it in the right order though."
When the talk was over, they nearly ran to the booksellers' room. Mr. Griffith did have a few old copies of the out-of-print books as well as new ones he'd talked about, and they snatched them and held on to them until he could return to sell them.
"I vaguely remember reading and liking Dorothy Simpson's and Gwendoline Butler's books with the British detectives long ago. But I need to catch up on their later work. I just forget, somehow, to look under B and S in the bookstores, I guess. I'm so glad he mentioned them."
"I want to try out Deborah Crombie. I liked what he said about her work. I don't think I've ever read one of hers," Shelley came back.
When Mr. Griffith returned to his booth, they both thanked him for his suggestions, then took another heavy hit on their credit cards.
"Let's take these up to the suite and then have lunch so you can tell me about your interview. We have time before Mel's presentation," Shelley suggested. "Then we can go back to dipping into our new stash of books."
Fourteen
Jane
didn't really expect
Mel
to
tell the audience
much more than he had already told her about his work. She was attending in a supportive role, providing him with a friend and lover in the audience. She was surprised, however, at how much she learned about investigation of the scene of the crime. This was a genuinely enlightening talk and drew a great many more attendees than she'd seen in the other room. People were standing at the sides of the room and sitting in the middle of the center aisle.
All of them, including Jane, were taking notes. It was a good thing she and Shelley had come early and found seats in the front row. Jane was so proud of him she couldn't stop grinning. It was a new impression of him — as a public speaker who was so skilled.
However, he did go on for just a bit too long about how it was all too easy these days to acquire thin latex gloves to conceal fingerprints.
Every hardware store, beauty supply shop, and paint store provided them.
Then he admitted that the occasional really stupid criminal sometimes disposed of them near the scene after committing the crime. When that happened, the gloves could be carefully turned inside out to reveal the prints.
"But it doesn't happen often enough," he added with a dazzling smile, then went right into a discussion of fiber matches.
After he was done with the speech, at least twenty attendees, mostly older women, lined up to ask him specific questions. Jane and Shelley stayed in their seats until he'd answered all of them.
"You were great!" Jane said when everyone had left, and she gave him a big hug. "I had no idea what a good speaker you are, and how good you look at a podium."
"It's all part of my job," he said modestly.
"No. Lots of people in law enforcement know what you know. Not many of them can present it as well," Jane insisted.
"Thanks," he said, looking slightly embarrassed at this sudden gush of praise.
"What are you doing for the rest of the day?" Shelley asked him. "Are you going to attend any of the other sessions?"
"Nope. Fictional crime isn't really my interest," he admitted. "The few novels I've read have glaring mistakes that drive me crazy.
That's why we send officers out to explain to the public how sophisticated and technical the process really is these days. Besides, I'm giving the talk about forensics I was supposed to do in the first place."
"Have you heard anything else about Zac?" Jane asked.
"Just that he's conscious. No apparent brain damage."
"That's good," Jane replied. "But does he know what happened to him?"
"Not a clue, if you'll forgive the phrase. I'm told he remembers that he needed to do something at his home, which is apparently fairly close. Nothing after that."
"Will he remember later, do you think?" Shelley asked.
"I'm not qualified to answer that, as you both know. Sometimes a blow to the head only creates temporary amnesia. Sometimes it's permanent. I'm not a doctor and don't play one on TV."
"Wait just one more minute, Mel," Jane said, closing her eyes, hoping she could remember the fleeting, and now missing, question she wanted to ask Mel about Zac. She still couldn't pull it from the back of her brain. She knew it was there somewhere, if only she could dredge it up.
"Never mind. I've lost the thought again," Jane said.
Mel was obviously becoming impatient, if not downright cranky, about being held up to discuss
116 Jill Churchill
an attack that he'd already said several times wasn't his case.
Jane said too cheerfully, "You could collect a bunch more accolades if you'd hang out in the lobby for a while."
"What was that about?" Shelley asked when Mel had gone.
"What?"
"You acted as if you had a question to ask him."
"I thought I did. But I couldn't remember what the question was. I felt for a second there that it was about to bubble up when Mel finished. It passed fleetingly through my mind yesterday, but I can't seem to be able to bring it back. I think it might have been important."
"Any way I can help?" Shelley asked.
"No. It's a Frederic Remington thing."
"What on earth does that mean?"
"You know. When you're trying desperately to remember someone's name? And when you give up, it comes to you out of the blue a couple of days later and just springs out at you."
"This happens to you often?" Shelley said with a worried look.
"It happens to everybody, I thought. I've seen you suddenly come out with a word you'd been searching your mind for. Last time it happened, it was 'ontology,' whatever that is. Remember saying it to yourself in the middle of a conversation about petunias?"
Shelley had the grace to admit it. "I guess I see what you mean. Sort of. And it was dahlias, not petunias."
"What are we doing the rest of the day?" Jane asked.
"Shopping until Mel's next session?"
Jane replied, "I'm shopped out and you know how surly I can become when I reach that point. There's a mystery trivia contest in the next session. Want to sit in on it with me?"
"No, thanks. I haven't read half the mysteries you have. I don't go places where I'm bound to feel stupid," Shelley said. "Isn't there some sort of awards party tonight? And a dinner we paid for in our fees?"
"If I'm remembering right, it's just a snack-anddrink thing. I wish one of us had brought along the schedule. The registration booth is closed temporarily, and the only way to get one is to steal someone else's. Why don't you go up to the suite and find one and make our plans for the rest of the conference? We're both free now to do whatever we want. Although I'd really rather leave and go home and work on my book after Mel's second talk."
"Jane, don't say that. Not only have you paid for the whole conference, there might still be things you can learn that will be useful."
"Maybe you're right," Jane admitted. "I'll stick it out." She added wistfully, "I just wish I could remember…"
"Stop working at remembering whatever it was. Your subconscious won't be forced to disgorge it until it's ready. Think about something else. Like dahlias."
The mystery trivia contest was fun and clever. It was run by Chester Griffith, the bookseller who knew so much about virtually every book he'd ever read. Jane had so much enjoyed his earlier presentation and was looking forward to this one.