Pam Fender was Diana’s longtime agent.
“Who hates the book?” Brandon asked. “And what book are we talking about?”
“Everyone hates the book,” Diana said bleakly. “ Do Not Go Softly, the manuscript I just turned in. Cameron hates it and so does Edward. They’re turning it down.”
Cameron Crowell was Diana’s longtime editor in New York. Edward Renthal was her publisher and Cameron’s boss.
“They can’t turn it down,” Brandon objected. “They bought it. They paid for it.”
“They paid an advance on delivery and acceptance,” Diana corrected. “If they don’t accept the book, they may want their money back.”
Brandon had been thunderstruck. “How could that be?” he had asked. “And why?”
“They say it’s not up to my usual standard.”
Over the years, Brandon and Diana had developed a system that called for Brandon to read the manuscripts only when they were finished. That way, Diana had a pair of fresh eyes looking for typos in the material before sending it off to her agent and to her editor. Brandon had read Do Not Go Softly. He hadn’t liked it much, but he figured that was just one man’s opinion.
“Can’t you fix it, rewrite it or something? What does Pam say about all this?”
“She’s asking them to hire someone else to do the rewrite.”
“You mean like a ghostwriter?”
“That way they’ll still be able to use my name on the book, and we’ll be able to keep part of the advance. She’s hoping to get them to take the remaining advance from upcoming royalty checks.”
Shadow of Death, the book Diana had written about her experience with a serial killer named Andrew Carlisle, had won her her first Pulitzer. Considered a classic now, right up there with In Cold Blood, the book was still in print and still earning royalties.
“How do you feel about that?” he had asked.
Diana shrugged. “It means I’m over,” she said. “Washed up. Finished. I’m going to go down to Pima College and sign up for a pottery class.”
Brandon got it. He and Diana had lived their married lives in a world that was half Anglo and half Indian. Rita Antone, Diana’s housekeeper and nanny, had brought the Tohono O’odham people, traditions, and belief systems into their home right along with her beautifully crafted baskets. Some of those beliefs had to do with aging. Among the Desert People there came a time when old women were only good for making pots or baskets, and weaving baskets had never been Diana’s long suit.
For the past several days, while Brandon had been grappling with the financial fallout from all this, Diana had gone into Tucson and signed up for a pottery-making class at Pima Community College.
The idea that she would simply turn her back on the problem had jolted him. It wasn’t like her just to give up like that. That was a wake-up call for him, that things had progressed further than he’d been willing to admit.
Financially they’d be fine. Their house was fully paid for. Thank God, their kids were both through school. Yes, the economic downturn had hurt them, but much of the money they had set aside over the years was still there. Pam was still hoping to find an acceptable ghostwriter who might allow them to finagle the deal to keep a portion of the advance and of the royalties. That idea, however, was contingent on Diana’s being willing to go out on the road to promote the book as though it were her own.
At first hearing that idea had sounded like a good deal, but Brandon wondered if it would work. By the time the pub date rolled around, would Diana be in any condition to deal with the rigors of a national tour or go out and do signings and interviews? Especially interviews.
Geet’s eyes blinked open. He looked around in dismay for a moment, then focused on Brandon.
“Hey there,” he said. “I must have dozed off. How long have you been here?”
“Not long,” Brandon replied. “Just a couple of minutes.”
In actual fact, it had been over an hour. One silent set of auto-racing laps had morphed into another, but Brandon had been too preoccupied to pay any attention to the muted announcer’s narrative, which scrolled across the bottom of the screen.
“Where’s Sue?” Geet’s voice was whispery and hoarse, as though he needed to clear his throat but couldn’t. His breath came in short, tortured gasps.
“She went out to run some errands.”
“Good. She hardly ever gets out these days,” Geet said. “This is real hard on her.”
It’s hard on you, too, Brandon thought. “Can I get you anything?” he asked. “Water? A soda?”
Geet shook his head. “Did Sue give you the box?”
Brandon patted it. “It’s right here.” He made as if to take the cover off, but Geet stopped him.
“Don’t look at the contents now,” Geet said. “You can do that later.” He spoke in short sentences, as though anything longer was too much effort. “Right now we need to talk.”
He punched a button that raised the head of the bed. Then he opened a drawer in the bedside table and took out a stack of envelopes. From the looks of them, most appeared to be greeting card envelopes. One was not. That was the one Geet handed to Brandon. There was no return address in the upper left-hand corner.
“I’ve been working Ursula Brinker’s murder all my adult life,” he said. “She was a kid when she got murdered. I had just signed on to my first law enforcement job. I was a campus cop at ASU. Ursula died in California -on a beach in San Diego during spring break. ASU was a real community in those days-a smaller community. She was a cute girl-an outstanding student-and everybody took it hard.”
Brandon nodded. He knew it was true. He also knew much of this history, but he let Geet tell the story his own way.
“When Ursula’s mother won that huge Mega Millions jackpot of lottery money and wanted to start The Last Chance, she came looking for me. Hedda Brinker wanted to help others, but bottom line, she wanted to help herself.”
Geet paused for a spasm of coughing. Brandon waited until it passed. Geet took a sip of water before he continued.
“So I’ve been working Ursula’s murder all along,” he said.
“Any leads?” Brandon asked.
“When it came to ‘alternate lifestyles’ in 1959, you could just as well have been from another planet.”
“What are you saying?” Brandon asked. “That Ursula was a lesbian?”
“I don’t know that for sure. I’ve heard hints about it here and there, but nothing definitive. I’ve spoken to all the girls who went to San Diego on that spring-break trip, all but one, her best friend, June Lennox. Holmes is her married name. I’ve known where she lived for a long time, but she would never agree to speak to me before this.”
That caused another spasm of coughing.
Brandon understood the issue. As a TLC operative without being a sworn police officer, Geet would have had no way of compelling a reluctant witness to cooperate.
“And you couldn’t force the issue,” Brandon said.
Geet nodded. “The letter came two months ago, just as I was going in for another round of surgery.”
“You want me to read it?”
“Please.”
The note on a single sheet of paper was brief:
Dear Mr. Farrell,
It’s time we talked. Please give me a call so we can arrange to meet.
Sincerely,
June Lennox Holmes
The 520 prefix on the phone number listed below her name meant that it was located somewhere in southern Arizona -or that it was a cell phone that had been purchased in southern Arizona.
“Did you talk to her?” Brandon asked as he folded the note and returned it to the envelope.
Geet shook his head. “I’ve been too sick,” he said. “I thought that eventually I’d bounce back and be well enough to follow up myself. At least I hoped I would be, but that’s not going to happen. This time there doesn’t seem to be any bounce, and I need some answers, Brandon. I couldn’t find them for Hedda, but maybe you can find them for me.”
