Jane Goes Batty

waistcoat, pocket watch, and a perfectly knotted tie in a lovely lavender and black pattern that complemented his alert blue eyes. His gray hair was neatly combed, and the faint scent of bay rum surrounded him. He looked as if he was on his way to a garden party instead of sitting in a greasy spoon. And yet at the same time he seemed to fit in perfectly.

“What are you doing here?” Jane asked him.

“I might ask you the same question,” said Sherman.

A waitress approached the table before Jane could answer. “Morning, Sherm,” she said. “The usual?”

“Thank you, Rhonda,” said Sherman. “That would be lovely. And how did little Britney’s recital go last week?”

The waitress beamed. “Great,” she said. “I’ve got some pictures if you want to see them.”

“I would be delighted,” Sherman assured her.

As Rhonda walked away Jane said, “Little Britney’s recital?”

“Rhonda’s daughter,” Sherman explained. “She’s five. Her ballet class had a recital. If I’m not mistaken, Britney played the role of a daffodil.”

Jane took a sip of coffee. “How do you know all this?” she asked.

Sherman’s eyes twinkled. “My dear, when you’re the editor of the town’s second-largest newspaper, it’s your job to know everything. Why do you think I’m here?”

“I believe I already asked that question,” Jane reminded him.

Sherman nodded. “So you did,” he said. “I’ll tell you why. The people in this room know more about what happens in this town than the mayor, the council, and the police department combined. If you want to know what a place is really like, talk to the people who keep it running.”

Rhonda reappeared with a plate of scrambled eggs and two pieces of bacon, which she set in front of Sherman. “There you are, hon.” She fished several photographs out of her apron pocket and handed them to him. “Isn’t she a doll?” she said.

Sherman looked at the photos, murmuring his approval. “A doll she is,” he told Rhonda. “Tell her I’m sorry I couldn’t make it.”

“Danny got it all on video,” said Rhonda. “I can make you a copy if you want.”

“Please do,” Sherman said brightly. “That’s very kind.”

Rhonda left to attend to another customer, and Sherman turned his attention back to Jane. “I was wrong,” he said as he sprinkled pepper on his eggs. “She was not a daffodil, she was a daisy.”

Jane laughed. “They really like you, don’t they?” she said.

Sherman set the pepper shaker down. “Who does?” he asked.

“Them,” said Jane, nodding at the people around them. “Everybody, really.”

Sherman picked up a piece of bacon, bit the end neatly off, and chewed. “I listen to them,” he said once he’d swallowed. “It’s amazing how much people like you when you listen. It’s also amazing the things they’ll tell you.”

“Now we’re getting to the reason you’re here,” said Jane.

Sherman took a bite of eggs, leaving Jane waiting until he’d eaten it. “I understand that Hollywood has invaded our little corner of the world.”

Jane sighed. “It would appear so,” she said.

“And am I right in guessing that the reason you’re here instead of at home or at your wonderful bookshop is because you’ve already tired of fame?” Sherman asked.

“You have no idea,” Jane told him. “I can’t get away from these people. They film everything. Well, one of them does. The girl—his sister—I quite like.”

“Shelby,” said Sherman. “Yes.”

“Is there anything you don’t know?” Jane asked.

“Oh, all sorts of things,” said Sherman, wiping his fingertips on a napkin. “Brian George’s real identity, for instance.”

Jane, who was about to take another sip of coffee, paused with the cup just short of her lips. “Real identity?” she said, trying to sound casual.

“Yes,” Sherman replied. “It’s the oddest thing. For some time now I’ve wanted to do a series of profiles on Brakeston personalities. Of course you are on my list, but I know how busy you are at the moment, so I thought I would begin with Mr. George.”

“How thoughtful of you,” said Jane.

“I know about his books, of course,” Sherman said.

“Book,” Jane said, correcting him. “There’s just the one.”

Sherman smiled. “Of course,” he agreed. “Under that name. But then there are the Penelope Wentz novels, which I understand are quite successful.”

“They are,” said Jane.

“Yet supposedly the writer of those books is a man named Tavish Osborn,” Sherman continued.

He opened a briefcase that had heretofore gone unnoticed by Jane and removed from it a magazine, which he opened and placed on the table. Looking at it, Jane saw a photograph taken at the previous year’s Romance Writers’ Guild conference. In it a beaming Byron stood between novelist Chiara Carrington and Rebecca Little, the editor of Romance magazine. A tiny bit of Jane’s left arm was visible to Rebecca’s right, but the rest of her had been cropped out.

“Brian George is Tavish Osborn,” Jane explained. “Rather, Tavish Osborn is Brian George. Tavish—Mr. Osborn—adopted the name Brian George when he wrote Winter Comes Slowly, as he didn’t think a work of serious poetry would be well received by someone known for writing romances.”

“But he wasn’t known,” Sherman said. “That’s the point. Nobody knew Penelope Wentz was a man, so Tavish Osborn could have gone right on hiding in plain sight. So why the nom de plume de plume, so to speak?”

“I don’t know, really,” said Jane. “Why don’t you ask him?”

“I will,” Sherman said, putting the magazine away. “Sometimes, however, it’s better not to go to the source first.”

“What made you think I might know anything?” Jane asked.

Sherman poked at the remaining eggs with his fork. “It’s no secret that you’re friends,” he said. “I thought that perhaps you might be able to shed some light on the subject.” He hesitated. “I just find it peculiar that trying to find out anything about either Brian George or Tavish Osborn leads to nothing but dead ends.”

“Dead ends?” Jane repeated.

Sherman nodded. “It’s as if neither of them existed prior to the publication of Mr. George’s novel.”

Jane felt that she might be sick. What was Sherman suggesting? She’d never known him to be anything but amiable. Now, though, she almost felt as if she—or at any rate Byron—were being threatened in some manner.

“Well, as I said, I know very little about his past,” she said, trying to sound nonchalant. “But I hardly think there’s anything sinister hidden there.” She drank some coffee and laughed, managing to choke instead.

“Oh, I don’t suspect there is,” said Sherman, handing her a napkin. “The old newshound in me can’t help but wonder, though. People keep the strangest secrets. You weren’t living here then, so you wouldn’t know, but in ’83 a fellow by the name of Clyde Dibble dropped dead from a heart attack while shoveling his driveway. A real nice guy, Clyde was. Ran a little grocery store, coached Little League for a bunch of years, was a deacon at the Presbyterian church. When his kids came to clean out the house they found a locked trunk in the attic. When they got it open they found it was full of pictures of a whole lot of the lady neighbors in their underpants. Turns out Clyde liked to roam around at night looking in windows and taking snapshots of what he saw.”

“Oh my,” Jane said. “Not very neighborly of him, was it?”

“Not very, no,” said Sherman. “Anyway, you can see what I mean about never knowing what people are really like. I guess it’s become an occupational hazard with me.”

“And just what secrets are in your attic?” Jane asked, leaning forward.

Sherman grinned. “Oh, terrible things,” he said. “Just terrible.”