Ellipsis (8 page)

Inside the ballroom, the caterers were setting out wine bottles and plastic glasses and trays full of finger foods, the Jimbo's boys were setting up folding chairs along the perimeter of the room, and the women from Dunne and Son were unpacking cardboard boxes filled with freshly minted copies of
Shalloon
with a meticulousness more common to archaeology than pop fiction.

I ambled over to Ms. Dunne. “What's the drill?” I asked. “They line up, get a book, have it signed, give you the money, then stay around to party if they want to?”

She nodded. “That's about it, except we make them buy the book first, then take it to Chandelier afterward. We've found if we do it otherwise, there are lots of personally inscribed books lying around after the party's over. Which makes Chandelier furious and costs me money since I can't send them back to the publisher.”

“Sounds like there's some coercion involved in making up the guest list.”

Ms. Dunne chuckled dryly. “I wouldn't call it coercion, at least not to her face, but Chandelier isn't happy when at least two hundred of her closest friends don't show up at her book parties. She lets them know it when they're no-shows, too.”

“Who all gets invited?”

“Chandelier and Lark make telephone calls to a hundred people and we mail four hundred invitations to our customer list. The local chapters of Sisters in Crime and Romance Writers of America both get invited, as well as various reading and writing groups that Chandelier has spoken to over the years. The event is advertised on Chandelier's Web site and ours as well, of course. And in the local papers.”

“Sounds like half the world will be here.”

She laughed. “Not quite. But if fewer than two hundred people show up, Chandelier gets irritated. Since no one likes it when Chandelier gets irritated, we do what we can to fill the room.”

“Do they have to have a written invitation to get in?”

She shook her head. “It's wide-open.”

“Great,” I said sarcastically, then tried to make nice. “How did you meet Chandelier, anyway?”

“We went to summer camp together. Up in the Sierras, near the Feather River. That was years ago, of course, but we were in the same cabin and we both liked to write poetry so we kept in touch.”

“Do you know anyone who has reason to want her harmed?”

She took her time to answer, folding her arms across her chest, looking toward the pile of books that was materializing on the sale table. “Chandelier can be … difficult, at times. She's a proud woman and she doesn't forgive a slight very easily, so there have been several shattered friendships over the years. But none of it is life-and-death, I don't think. Except maybe for Thurston Buckley.”

“The real estate guy?”

Meredith nodded. “He fell pretty hard when Chandelier dumped him. He even tried to get me to intervene at one point, but I know which side of my bread is buttered. And besides, he's a creep.”

“Tell me about the butter and the bread.”

She gestured toward the books piled high on the table. “Chandelier financed my start in the book business back in '92. Cosigned the loan. Took me to see a friend of hers at Wells Fargo. Everything. Things went great for a while, but what with Borders and Barnes and Noble opening stores on every corner, and the on-line services expanding as well, I'd be out of business if Chandelier hadn't been so supportive.”

I looked at her table. “How many books did you bring?”

“Four hundred.”

“Will you sell them all?”

“We've sold that many a time or two before, but anything over two is a bonanza for us. We double the average because Chandelier isn't happy if we run out of books.”

I pointed toward the door. “Some of the fans seem to be bringing books with them.”

“Not the new one they aren't—we're the only source in the city for
Shalloon
at this point. But lots of them bring her backlist to be signed as well. Fans, and collectors, too. But we try to set limits.” She pointed at a small printed sign taped to the end of the book table:
DUE TO TIME CONSTRAINTS, CHANDELIER CAN SIGN A MAXIMUM OF THREE BOOKS PER CUSTOMER AND CANNOT INSCRIBE PERSONAL MESSAGES. THANK YOU FOR UNDERSTANDING
.

I pointed at the pile of papers next to the sign. “What's that?”

“Chandelier's newsletter. One to a customer.”

“Free?”

“Free. It can be downloaded from our Web site, too, of course.”

“Of course,” I said as though I were a dot head myself. I looked at the banner tacked to the wall behind the book table. “Where's your son?”

It took her several seconds to answer. The starkly haunted expression on her face made me wish I hadn't asked the question.

“Jason's dead. Six months after he was born and three months before his father left me behind to grieve all by myself in the emptiest house there ever was. When I finally recovered, I decided this was a good way to remember and honor him and, thanks to Chandelier, his memorial won't be tainted by bankruptcy anytime soon.”

Just then there was a noise outside, a rumble, then a buzz, then a swell of cheers and shouts in the nature of a hallelujah chorus. The queen must have entered the building.

Chapter 8

Surrounded by a retinue of imposing women and followed by a knot of squealing, surging fans, Chandelier Wells swept into Jimbo's ballroom like Isabella returning to court after bidding Columbus bon voyage. She took a quick tour of the room to assess the arrangements, whispered something to the caterer and something else to Lark McLaren, then doffed her camel-colored cashmere coat and took her seat behind a pile of shiny books, chic and businesslike in a bright red dress with a low-cut bodice, ready to greet her public. As if in response to a cosmic prompt, the crowd, barely held in check by one of the Dunne and Son retainers, streamed toward the table cash in hand, clamoring to claim their prize. I heard the woman who was first in line tell Chandelier she had been waiting since 10
A.M.

As predicted, the file of fans snaked out of the building and down the block. Under the guise of a hall monitor on the lookout for cutters and rowdies and people not keeping their hands to themselves, I strolled its length looking for suspicious characters.

There were twenty women for every man, and twenty people over forty for every one under that. On the whole they seemed harmless enough, a cross-section of the city's Anglo-Saxon middle class, a surprisingly substantial number of people to whom Chandelier's prose was in the nature of a benign narcotic—addictive and pleasurable and productive of the self-possession so essential to getting through life in the big city. On the other hand, a few of the women's eyes glowed a little too brightly, and a few hands gripped book bags a little too tightly, and a few jaws were set in a brute determination that seemed far out of proportion to the occasion. For these, the experience was clearly more religious than literary, and those are always the ones you have to watch.

Given the makeup of the crowd, it was tempting to think the phenomenon of Chandelier and her ilk had mostly to do with gender, or educational shortcomings, or inferior self-regard, or debilitating socioeconomics. But my guess was that it was a complex mix of all of those and then some, a syndrome that claimed people of widely various backgrounds and belief systems, which made it far too dense for me to fathom. Whatever its social or psychic origins, the cult of Chandelier had produced a long line of people carrying bags and satchels that probably contained only books but could theoretically contain deadly weapons. Without mounting a body search of each and every fan, I wasn't sure what I could do about it but keep my fingers crossed.

I returned to the ballroom and decided to chat with Lark McLaren for reasons that didn't have much to do with the job. “Nice turnout,” I said.

She shrugged. “About average.”

“Chandelier seems edgy.”

“She's always edgy when she's out in public.”

“Even before the threats?”

She nodded. “Ever since I've known her.”

“Why the nerves? She must do this kind of thing all the time.”

“She's done over two hundred events since her last novel came out.”

“And she's still nervous.”

“She's gotten wary of the percentages, I think.”

“Percentage of what?”

Lark's tone turned grave. “The percentage of serious mental illness afoot in the general populace. And the percentage of that percentage that feels compelled to prey upon celebrities.”

Lark's dark mood was so uncharacteristic it made me wonder at its source. “Did anything happen after I left last night?”

She shook her head. “No. Nothing.”

“You're sure?”

“Of course. If anything had happened, I would know it.”

“Did Chandelier say anything about the security situation here?”

“No, but she's criticized everything but.”

I looked around but failed to find a flaw. “She isn't satisfied with the arrangements?”

“She's
never
satisfied with the arrangements. In this instance, let's see—the wine's too warm, the food's too cold, the table's too rickety, and I forgot to bring her pillow and her footstool. Which I would have remembered if I didn't have to get two hundred boxes of perfume in the mail this morning.”

“Perfume?”

“She's sending bottles of perfume to two hundred bookstores and media people to promote
Shalloon
. It's supposed to smell just like Contradiction at a fraction of the cost. That's the latest rage, in case you don't keep track.”

“I don't.”

“No wife? No girlfriend?”

“No wife; maybe a girlfriend. But we haven't gotten to the perfume stage.”

“That's what you think.”

I laughed.

“Shit,” Lark said abruptly.

“What?”

“They don't have any bottled water. Chandelier insists we offer bottled water to the women who don't take alcohol.”

Her agitation was such that I was moved to calm her down. “In the greater scheme of things, the water and the wine seem like minor irritants. I don't see any unhappy faces.”

Lark's laugh was crimped and humorless. “In my job, the greater scheme of things doesn't extend beyond Chandelier's state of mind. And to Chandelier, there
are
no minor irritants, only flagrant errors committed by incompetent idiots.” As Lark looked around the room, she wrinkled her nose as if the entire atmosphere reeked with imperfection. “As far as Chandelier's concerned, you're either a winner or a loser. Losers let things slide, don't sweat the details, leave their fate in the hands of others. Winners take charge of every aspect of their lives and make sure everything is always perfect.”

“Your job isn't in danger because the canapés are cold, is it?”

“No, but Red Riding Hood may be left out in the woods at the next launch party. Jesus. What on earth is that?”

I looked where Lark was looking. The former orderly line had bunched into a cluster of women who had formed a circle around something on the floor. As I was on the way over, the cluster parted long enough for me to see that the disturbance had occurred because one of the women had fallen. Meredith Dunne was bending over her, fanning the air with her hand as though that were a proven form of ventilation. A second later, more professional relief arrived, in the person of Ruthie Spring, the former combat nurse.

As Ruthie issued instructions and began taking a pulse, I joined the crowd around the fallen fan. She was small and frail and as pale as my handkerchief, unremarkable in every aspect except her swoon. There was no blood or trauma in evidence, only a rather ragged outfit that suggested she had saved the money to buy a first edition of
Shalloon
by forgoing food for a week.

I was about to help Ruthie revive her when it occurred to me that the little drama could be in the nature of a diversion. I glanced toward the table where Chandelier had been signing books. Activity had come to a standstill and the featured players were locked in a frozen tableau of apprehension and uncertainty. Chandelier seemed to be hiding behind three two-foot stacks of books, and Lark McLaren seemed ready to throw herself between Chandelier and her assailant if that's what it took to save her. The confusion was such that I briefly envisioned the Marx Brothers, with me in the role of Groucho.

I walked to Chandelier's side and sat in a vacant chair. “What the hell's happened?” she demanded breathily. “What's that woman
doing
down there?”

“She's fainting, as far as I can tell. It's probably nothing to worry about. She was overwhelmed by the moment.”

“What moment are you talking about?”

“You.”

Chandelier blushed and adjusted her bodice. “Oh. Well. You're sure that's all it was?”

“Pretty sure.”

After a last glance at the stricken fan, Chandelier looked at me the way she would look at a dog that had just soiled the rug. “I've been less than impressed with your competence, Mr. Tanner. As a matter of fact, that woman in cowboy boots looks more in charge of things than
you
are.”

I decided not to tell her that Ruthie was working for me. “Lighten up, Ms. Wells. If someone takes a shot at you, it isn't going to happen in front of two hundred hysterical women.”

“Three hundred at least. And not all of them are hysterical.”

“They would be if someone pulled a gun.”

Her scowl loomed large. “That's quite sexist of you, Mr. Tanner. I'm not sure I want someone with those attitudes on my payroll.”

“Actually, it was more nasty than sexist. I tend to get that way when someone implies I'm not doing my job.”

She lifted a blackened brow. “Well? Are you?”

“You're still breathing,” I said, just to prove I was still nasty. Then I stood up. “Let me know if you're taking me off the clock. In the meantime, I'll be on the job.” I started to walk away.