“Either of them know about your car?”
The silverware fell to the floor.
“No!” I said. “As Louise would say, no, no, no!” I huffed and puffed, and we bent down to gather what I had dropped.
“No, they didn’t know about your car?” Wilson stood up. “Or, no, you refuse to consider the possibility?”
I folded my arms and glared.
“Well?” he asked and dropped the silverware back into the soapy water.
“Of course they knew about my car.” I grabbed a handful of cooking utensils. “I specifically told Louise I couldn’t meet with Roslynn because I had no car. And so Roslynn volunteered to come to my place. Remember she was at the condo when you called on Sunday?”
“Either Louise or Roslynn have it in for you?”
“Of course not! You know Louise, yourself! She may be excitable, but she’s an absolute sweetheart, and she adores me. The same goes for Roslynn. They want nothing but the best for me.”
He waited.
“Oh, come on!” I stamped my foot and the floorboards squeaked. “Neither of these women would want to harm my career, or me. Louise gets paid on commission from my royalties, for Lord’s sake. And the better my books do, the better Roslynn’s do. We write for the same publisher.”
“How about the opposite? How have your sales been this week?”
I stared aghast as his logic dawned on me. Louise and Roslynn were both very interested in boosting my sales. And like it or not, negative publicity is quite effective in doing just that. I blinked twice and silently lamented all those phone messages I had deleted so haphazardly the day before.
“Ludicrous,” I said and starting hanging the utensils onto the little pegboard next to the stove. “Louise may be crazy-interested in my bestseller status, but she’s not that crazy. Geez!” I reminded Wilson that I have known Louise for over two decades, and that she lives and works way up in Manhattan. “She did not fly down here to commit a murder.”
“Well then, how about Roslynn?”
What about Roslynn?
I tried to ignore it, for some reason her words rushed back to me. What had she called the murder that morning at my condo? Inconsequential nonsense? Or maybe she was referring to Jimmy Beak?
Even so, Roslynn was certainly enjoying the fruits of Jimmy’s attention. Her behavior was a bit—I scowled at the spatulas—a bit what? Inconsistent? Confusing?
“She’s devious,” Wilson interrupted my thoughts. “She lied to me during the Stanley Sweetzer investigation.”
“But that was only to protect Billy Joe Dent.”
Wilson handed me a wet frying pan. “My point, exactly.”
I pursed my lips and considered a few more disconcerting facts about my friend and colleague. Once upon a time Roslynn Mayweather had been involved with Billy Joe Dent, a married man. And yes, she had lied about it during a murder investigation. So yes, perhaps her character was a few shades shy of stellar.
“She’s ambitious,” Wilson kept going. “And you just admitted her sales figures reflect your sales figures. And why’d she start that counter-demonstration? Did you see her with her Romance Rockettes on the news last night?”
I confessed I had missed that particular piece of fun. “But I didn’t need to watch her on TV. I saw her for myself—live, out on Sullivan Street.”
“She read from
Debutante’s Delight
for Jimmy.”
“
The Debutante’s Destiny
,” I corrected. “But this is ludicrous. Roslynn Mayweather is not a murderer.”
“You never know.” Wilson pulled the old-fashioned stopper out of the drain, and the water made a very loud gushing noise as it entered the realm of the Septosauri. “Sometimes people surprise you.” He kept his eyes on the drain. “Not always in a good way.”
I put down the frying pan. “You’re referring to Dianne Calloway?”
He took a deep breath, and when he looked up, he was back to his normal cop-like demeanor.
“You’re going to investigate Roslynn, aren’t you?” I asked.
“And Louise.”
I sighed dramatically. “I have to work with these people, Wilson. And they’re my friends. Please don’t harass them.”
“I don’t harass people. I talk to people.” He turned on the baby blues. “And I can be charming.”
I folded my arms and glared with full force. “The baby blues don’t work over the phone, Captain Rye. And exactly how often do you call Louise Urko? Like, never? She’s not an idiot. She’ll put two and two together and realize why you’re calling. I can’t take that, Wilson. My career is in enough jeopardy right now.”
“Okay, so I won’t call Louise,” he said. “But I will look into Ms. Mayweather.”
“You and me both,” I said.
“Jessie! Think, will you? We’re talking about a murder suspect here. Murder. You’ve got to be more careful.”
“Wilson!” I shot back. “Think, will you? I’ll talk to Roslynn out on Sullivan Street. No one’s going to attack me in the middle of that three-ring circus.”
Before he could argue the point, I tossed him the dishtowel and pointed to the clock. “On that happy note, let’s watch Jimmy Beak harass my mother.”
Chapter 23
The cats came inside for the show, and the five of us settled on the couch to watch anchorwoman Belinda Bing go through her usual gyrations about the exciting and shocking stories that were all “Coming up!”
Needless to say, Ms. Bing emphasized the morning’s top story—Jimmy Beak’s exciting and shocking interview with my mother.
“Russell is going to check on Jimmy today?” I asked as Channel 15 cut to commercial.
“Yep, but he’ll be discrete.”
I reached out and put the TV on mute. “Just like you’ll be discrete when talking to Roslynn?”
Wilson reminded me he knew how to do his job. “Everyone, other than you, me, and Densmore, will still think this was about Miriam Jilton.” He gave me a meaningful look. “That okay with you, Ms. Hewitt?”
I ignored the sarcasm. “What should I be working on?” I asked.
“How about your own job? Concentrate on
Singular Sensation
and the Septosauruses.”
“
Seduction
,” I corrected. “And the Septosauri are one of the few problems Willow doesn’t have to worry about. I don’t write science fiction.”
Wilson shushed me and clicked the sound back on as Jimmy Beak’s face illuminated the TV screen.
“Jimmy Beak, here!” he said. “Reporting from The Live Oaks Center for Retirement Living in Columbia, South Carolina!”
I recognized the door to my mother’s assisted living apartment—number 204—and groaned accordingly.
“Let’s see what Jessica Hewitt’s mother has to say about her daughter’s nefarious career.”
“Jimmy knows what nefarious means?” I asked.
But before Wilson or the cats could consider my question, Jimmy knocked, and my mother answered.
“Is that you, Vivian?” she called out. And there she was, on Wilson’s TV screen, blinking at Jimmy Beak. “Oh, but you’re not Vivian,” she stated the obvious.
Jimmy didn’t even bother asking about her best friend. Instead, he took advantage of Mother’s surprise, age, and size, and was inside her apartment in a flash.
“May I help you,” she asked as the camera got a close up of her beautiful old face. “My heavens!” she exclaimed. “Am I being filmed?”
With what had to be his sneeriest of sneers, Jimmy told her she was on camera.
I spat a four-letter word, and Wilson and the cats scattered to the outermost edges of the couch.
But bless her elderly heart, Mother took Jimmy and his stupid cameraman in her stride. First of all, Tessie Hewitt possesses far more gracious southern hospitality than her daughter. And second of all, she’s a ham. Dare I say, she seemed rather flattered by the attention?
“She looks good,” Wilson said as Jimmy explained his purpose.
He spoke in ominous and threatening tones, but Mother didn’t get it.
“You mean, you want to interview me?” she asked. “About Jessie? For your news show up in Clarence?” She clapped in glee. “I’ve never been on TV before! Hello-o, Honeybunch!” She waved at the lens. “It’s me, your mother.” More fluttering of arthritic fingers. “Mr. Beak is going to interview me! About you!”
She winked as if only I could see her and turned back to Jimmy. “Is this about Jessie—I mean, Adelé Nightingale’s—induction into the Romance Writers Hall of Fame? I bet she’s the talk of the town, isn’t she? Especially since the
Clarence Courier
did such a nice feature about her! Look here. It’s two whole pages!”
Mother patted Jimmy’s astonished arm and invited him and the cameraman farther into her apartment. While he, and one assumes the cameraman, stared aghast, Mother bent over her coffee table and came up holding one of the five copies of the
Courier
I had sent her. Needless to say, she was displaying the “Living” section with a large color photograph of yours truly adorning much of the page.
“It’s Jessie! I mean Adelé Nightingale!” She jiggled the newspaper and peeked around the edge to smile for the camera. “Isn’t it marvelous?”
Wilson laughed out loud, and I do believe the cats joined him. But I myself tried concentrating on Jimmy as he informed Tessie of the book-banning campaign. I shushed my couch-mates as Mother spoke again.
“Book-banning is such a silly notion, isn’t it?” she asked, but she didn’t wait for an answer. Instead she again held my photograph for the camera. “This is Adelé Nightingale, the bestselling author of the best romance fiction ever. So all you people out there in TV Land should go right out and buy her books. That’s Adelé Nightingale. A-D-E—”
“Stop!” Jimmy shouted, but I barely heard him since Wilson was busy chanting something like, “Go, Tessie, go! Go, Tessie, go!”
“Stop!” Jimmy repeated, and one could see him in the background trying fruitlessly to get the camera to turn its lens away from Tessie.
But evidently the cameraman was enthralled by my mother. I mean, who wouldn’t be?
“She looks wonderful, doesn’t she?” I asked.
“Peachy.” Wilson stopped chanting to reply.
“That’s a nice color on her,” I agreed. “I gave her that blouse for her birthday.”
Mother had listened to Jimmy, by the way. She settled down after the final E in Nightingale and put the newspaper back on her coffee table. “Where are my manners?” she asked her guests. “Would you care for some tea, Mr. Beak? Or how about you?” She turned toward the cameraman. “I’m sorry, young man, I don’t believe I know your name.”
“Joe,” the cameraman spoke from off camera. “Do you have green tea, Mrs. Hewitt.”
“Green, black, herbal. Whatever you heart desires, Joe!”
Oh, but there was Jimmy again. Snarling again. “Don’t you dare try to bribe us, Ms. Tessie Hewitt. Everyone knows your daughter is a pornographer!”
“It’s just tea,” Joe the cameraman could be heard saying.
Mother pretended not to get Jimmy’s drift. She tilted her head and did some more demure smiling. “What can I tell you about my daughter, the world-famous author, Mr. Beak?”
Jimmy let out a string of unflattering adjectives to describe yours truly and tried in vain to prompt Tessie to call my work pornography, or smut, or at least to attest to its X-rated tendencies.
Mother listened politely. In fact, I do believe she was purposely utilizing her most serene, pleasant, and angelic smile.
Jimmy finally begged. “Don’t you have anything to say in response, Ms. Hewitt?”
Mother continued smiling, but something in her gaze must have changed, and I am happy to report Jimmy Beak squirmed.
“Those are some ugly words,” she said in a tone that used to make my big brother and me run for cover. “People call Jessie those ugly names because they’re jealous.”
“Huh?”
“Of Jessie. Of Adelé Nightingale!” Tessie gained momentum. “My daughter is not a pornographer,” she continued loud and clear. “She writes romance fiction. She can’t help it,” Wilson and I finished her favorite saying with her, “—if she’s just better at it than everyone else.”
While Wilson and I dissolved into cathartic fits of laughter, Jimmy tried desperately to gain control of the situation.
“Ms. Hewitt!” he snapped. “Your daughter is the Queen of Smut! What do you to say to that!?”
“The Queen of Smut?” Mother giggled. “Oh, but that tickles me.”
***
“Remind me why I was worried?” I asked as Channel 15 cut to a commercial.
“Because Jimmy isn’t done.” Wilson pointed the remote at the TV, and my smile disappeared. “No way would they have shown that segment unless there’s more to come.”
He reached over and held my hand as the commercial break came to an end, and we were once again subjected to Jimmy Beak. He now stood in front of the camera all by himself.
“That’s the front entrance to The Live Oaks,” I explained as Jimmy launched into his diatribe.
“There you have it, Belinda!” Jimmy said. “Our Channel 15 viewers heard it for themselves. The Queen of Smut’s mother has as little modesty as the Queen of Smut herself! Tessie Hewitt is proud—proud!—of what her daughter does for a living!”
Jimmy tut-tutted with relish. “I am frankly shocked at the old lady’s audacity! The good citizens of Clarence must stand united against the mother-daughter duo of destruction! Women like this are out to destroy the moral fabric of society! The public has a right to know!”
I squinted at the TV. “Did he just call Mother and me a duo of destruction?” I asked, but Wilson didn’t have time to respond before Jimmy raised his voice a full decibel level.
“And this is not just a local issue!” Jimmy shouted into his mike. “I’ve been working with a special source to get this vital information out to the entire nation!” He pointed a jagged index finger at the camera. “Be sure to tune in to our national affiliate for tonight’s evening news. National anchorwoman Dee Dee Larkin can’t wait to sink her teeth into this top story!”
“Say what?” Wilson asked.
“You heard me!” Jimmy answered and thumped his chest proudly. “Stay tuned tonight, when this reporter and Dee Dee Larkin take book-banning to the national level!”
National this. National that. “National, my foot.” Wilson clicked off the TV. “Beak really thinks the entire nation will get behind him and Pritt over your stupid books?” He caught himself. “I didn’t mean stupid.”