“Can one get a contract on a book that is not even written?”
“How would I know?” I remembered that I had the names of Corinne Blakely’s agent and editor. “But I know how we can find out.” I ran downstairs to retrieve the phone numbers from my dresser. I didn’t realize Tav had followed me until I turned and saw him standing in the doorway, surveying the rumpled pink sheets-I wasn’t much of one for making my bed-the litter of jewelry and cosmetics on the dresser, and a periwinkle bra draped over the chair. Something in his eyes made me sure the thought uppermost in his mind didn’t have to do with my untidiness.
Blushing slightly, I brushed past him, too aware of his warm male scent, saying a bit breathlessly, “Here’s the number.”
I thought for a moment he was going to reach for me, but then he stepped aside with a quiet, “Pardon,” and followed me to the kitchen-much safer territory-where I picked up the phone and dialed a New York City number, holding the phone out a little so Tav could hear. I had to wade through two layers of assistants before the agent picked up the phone. “Angela Rush,” she said with a brisk New York accent.
When I asked my question, she laughed. “We sell nonfiction books all the time off no more than a chapter outline and a marketing plan. It’s all about the
“Platform?”
“The author’s credentials. Her fame, or notoriety as the case may be. How hot is her topic? How likely is media attention? And, darling, Corinne Blakely was hot. What with the popularity of
And a tragedy for Angela Rush’s pocketbook, I suspected. “So you don’t even have an outline?”
“Oh, I have one of those.” Ms. Rush’s voice turned cagey.
“You do? Can you fax it to me?”
“I’m afraid not.” She didn’t sound remotely sorry. “We’re still going forward with the project, and I don’t want any details leaking before publication. This book is going to be an
Excuse me? How could she go forward with a memoir when the memoirist was dead? “How-”
“We’ve been in contact with someone we’re sure can do justice to the book,” Ms. Rush said coyly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a meeting at FSG.”
Tav and I stared at each other for a moment after Ms. Rush rang off. “Well, that raised more questions than it answered,” I finally said.
“Indeed.”
Conscious that Tav was still standing close enough to listen in, close enough to make my skin flush with a desire I had no intention of giving in to, I moved toward the sink and poured myself a glass of water, adding a couple ice cubes for good measure.
“Perhaps if you shared this information with the authorities…” Tav suggested.
“Detective Lissy could chisel the outline out of Ms. Rush. My thought exactly. Great minds think alike.” I smiled.
Tav’s answering smile suggested that our two great minds were thinking alike on an entirely different topic. “Stacy-”
The doorbell rang. I started, jolting cold water onto my shirt. “Coming!” I headed toward the front door and opened it to see Maurice.
“Maurice!” I hugged him hard. After a startled moment, he returned the hug. “You’re free.”
“For the time being,” he said. He looked as immaculate as ever in a crisply ironed button-down shirt and tan slacks, and smelled like he’d just stepped out of the shower. I remembered spending a half hour in the shower after being hauled down to the police station for an interview. It must be a thousand times worse to actually spend the night in jail.
“That very competent young lady you sent got me released on bail first thing this morning. Then she and her father-he seems like a force to be reckoned with-grilled me more intensely than the police.” A faint smile showed he appreciated their thoroughness. “I’m meeting with them again Friday evening, after they’ve had a chance to check on a few things. Will you come with me?”
“Of course,” I said, dragging him into the hall. “Have you had breakfast?”
“Food would be appreciated,” he said.
Tav walked in from the kitchen and Maurice’s white brows soared as he looked from me to Tav. “We just called Corinne Blakely’s literary agent,” I said.
Tav shook hands with Maurice. “I am glad the police released you,” he said. “I would like to talk more, but I have an appointment I cannot miss. Please be assured that I will do whatever I can to help prove your innocence. Although Stacy has a head start on that task.” With a grin, he left, saying he’d catch up with us later in the day, and reminding me about the bridal fair that started tomorrow.
Dragging Maurice into the kitchen, I started putting together some French toast while I told him about looking for the manuscript, talking to Mrs. Laughlin, avoiding Marco Ingelido, and tracking down Angela Rush. As the egg- soaked bread sizzled on the griddle, Maurice poured himself a cup of coffee and sat at the kitchen table. “You’re amazing, Anastasia,” he said. “I can’t believe you searched Rinny’s house last night alone.”
I shrugged. “What are friends for? I’m only sorry I didn’t get anything useful.”
“Maybe you did,” he said. “Didn’t you say she had an electric typewriter?”
“Yes, a Smith Corona. So?”
“So, you wouldn’t realize this, probably never having operated anything as antiquated as a typewriter, but those typewriters had cartridges that snapped into the machine to provide ink. The keys struck the tape and transferred letters to the paper.”
My interest in typewriter mechanics was limited at best. I put a plate of French toast in front of Maurice and set a syrup bottle beside him. “So?”
“So, the keys leave an impression on the ribbon. The last… I don’t know-twenty? fifty?-pages Corinne wrote will be on the cartridge.”
“We could reconstruct her most recent outlines,” I said, finally catching on. “But how do we get the typewriter? Turner’s probably back from his stag party by now.”
“I’ll think of something,” Maurice said. He ate breakfast with appreciative murmurs and looked at his watch. “Don’t you have the Ballroom Aerobics class to teach?”
My gaze flew to the clock over the stove. Ten to eleven. “See you later,” I said, racing toward the stairs and taking them two at a time up to the studio.
Chapter 10
Students were already starting to trickle in, and I greeted them as they lined up in the ballroom. The hour flew by and I felt invigorated by the exercise. The tension of the last couple days drained out of me as I led the class.
Vitaly came in as the students left and immediately asked about Maurice. “Has he breaked out of the jails?”
“They let him go, yes.”
“Vitaly is glad. I will helping prove his innocence.” He thrust his chin up, looking like a gladiator about to enter the arena.
“I’m sure he’ll appreciate that, Vitaly,” I said. “Tav said he’d help, too, so between us we ought to be able to come up with
Vitaly wrinkled his nose and sniffed. “Ingelido is asking me if I want to own a Taking the Lead with Ingelido studio. I laugh in his face.”
“Tactful.”
