A Literary Scandal Page 4

  “Were those other books written under your name?” I asked, determined to go seek them out. I thought that first Fanged Darkness book was amazing, so I was sure these other books would knock my socks off.

  “Yes.” She typed on her phone, clearly distracted. “Broken Wolf Series and Witches Gone Wild. The publisher didn’t want to pick up anything after book two, but I insisted. And since Infernal Awakenings and Fanged Darkness regularly hit the New York Times list, they capitulated. Didn’t mean they put the slightest bit of marketing behind them. Do you know they only authorized a five thousand book print run? I was outraged.”

  “Well…that’s terrible.” I wasn’t sure what to say. Five thousand sounded like a lot to me, but what did I know? Obviously, it was far less than what the other series got, but if they weren’t selling, then the publisher obviously wouldn’t want to risk the money on a huge print run. But whose fault was that? If the publisher never got behind the books with adequate marketing, no wonder they flopped. It seemed like a bit of a chicken-or-egg scenario.

  Luanne Trainor didn’t respond, and we spent the rest of the trip in silence, the only sound the occasional tap-tap of her fingers on the phone. When we entered Milford, I pointed out a few of the interesting local sites, and she ignored me, not even grunting in acknowledgement. So much for my attempts to play the tour guide.

  We pulled up in front of the B&B, and although I was tempted to leave Ms. Trainor at the curb, I owed it to Nancy to do my best to make this guest feel welcome. Putting the car in park, I opened the back door for our guest, then headed to the rear of the car to wrestle her luggage out of the trunk. Then I led the way to the front door, struggling a bit with the suitcase over the brick walkway and up the porch stairs. Looking back, I saw Luanne was struggling even more than I was, her pointy-heeled, lofty shoes wobbling around as if they were on the verge of causing the woman to break an ankle.

  After she managed to make her way up the steps, I went for the door, holding it open as she clacked her way over the threshold. Gene Billingsly greeted us just inside the foyer, welcoming us with a beaming smile. I signed the paperwork and turned Luanne Trainor over to him, telling her that I’d see her tomorrow morning for the reader’s brunch, and to let me know if there was anything she needed.

  I hoped she didn’t need anything else. I’d expected she’d want to rest after the flight and prepare for the full day tomorrow, but her weird request to drive to Bayforest threw me. For all I knew, she’d want me to stay at the inn all night and haul her around town like a chauffeur.

  “You have my dietary requirements?” Luanne ignored me and glared at the innkeeper.

  Gene’s smile never faltered. “Of course! Ms. Zinovi made sure to send us a copy. I can assure you that we have a special breakfast prepared just for you, and we’ve also arranged for several local restaurants to deliver meals in accordance with your specifications. Don’t worry, Ms. Trainor. Everything has been taken care of.”

  Gene Billingsly was a saint. As was his wife, Paula, whom I’m sure had slaved over whatever dietary requirements Luanne had in an effort to make the woman’s stay perfect. That was the sort of people they were, and one of the reasons Nancy liked to use their adorable inn for speakers at the theater.

  I thanked Gene and turned to leave, grinning a bit as I heard him tell Luanne how much his wife, Paula, had loved the series, and that she hoped the rumors of a film deal were true. Hopefully neither of them would ask about Barton Wells. Or expect Luanne to carry her own luggage.

  Chapter 4

  It was two in the afternoon by the time I made it back to my house. I’d never been so exhausted before. Driving Luanne Trainor had been a most unpleasant experience. My only hope was that this facet of her personality was a temporary funk and she’d be able to shake it off before the brunch tomorrow morning. If not, this was going to be a very long weekend.

  Taco did his usual race for the door when I entered, skidding to a halt and glaring at me as I quickly shut it behind my back. I’d missed lunch, so I made myself a ham and swiss sandwich and fed him a few bits of ham as a consolation for having to stay in the house. He’d sulked in his enclosed pen this morning while Daisy and I were doing our yoga and had given me the stink-eye until I’d fed him breakfast. I didn’t want to take a chance on letting him out mid-afternoon like this, especially on a Friday when early commuter traffic was liable to send more cars than usual down our normally quiet roads. Later I’d put him in the cat run, although I was beginning to think that solution wasn’t any better in Taco’s eyes than being cooped up inside.

  I was gathering my ingredients for my special contribution to the food at the meet-and-greet when Nancy called and launched straight into a stress-filled narrative.

  “The agent arrived and I’m trying to work with the lighting and sound guy for the extra mics and there’s an extra thirty tickets we managed to squeeze out by opening up the balcony seating a bit. Oh, and can you swing by and pick up the programs at the printer on your way in to the brunch tomorrow?”

  “Hi, Nancy. How nice to hear from you,” I teased. “Our author has been transported safely to Billingsly’s and into Gene and Paula’s hands. And of course I’ll pick up the programs for you. Is there anything else I can do to help?”

  “Just make sure Luanne Trainor is on time for the brunch. These people paid a lot for that event. I want to make sure they feel they’re getting their money’s worth. Paula’s going to put on an amazing spread, and I’ve got flowers arriving for the table, and little giveaways for the attendees with a signed book and some little freebie things like bookmarks, magnets, and tote bags that the agent brought from the publisher.” Nancy paused and took a -much-needed breath. “Oh, Kay, I’m so scared something is going to go wrong. We don’t get big name speakers like this around here. I can’t believe Luanne Trainor actually agreed to come to our little town like this. What if something goes wrong?”

  “Nothing is going to go wrong,” I soothed her. Then I remembered our guest of honor. “Have you…do you know anything about Luanne Trainor personally? Does she do a lot of these sorts of things?”

  “No. She usually refuses to do anything besides brief appearances at large, national conferences. These small venue things aren’t normally her thing, which is why I was so shocked when she agreed to come. Why?” Nancy’s voice hitched. “Did something happen on the ride from the airport?”

  “No. It’s just…” I hesitated, not wanting to add to Nancy’s stress, but also not wanting her to be blindsided tomorrow at the brunch if her author guest wasn’t exactly what she’d expected. “Luanne Trainor doesn’t seem to have very good social skills from my brief experience in driving her from the airport. Maybe she’s just not good one-on-one. Maybe she’s fine in larger groups, or she’ll treat it as a performance or something. She just…she wasn’t very nice.”

  I had a lot of stronger words I wanted to use to describe Luanne Trainor but didn’t feel they were either ladylike or appropriate to say over the phone to Nancy.

  “Oh, no.” Nancy’s voice squeaked. “Is she going to cause a scene? Insult someone? We can’t cancel the brunch at this late date.”

  “I’m sure it will be fine,” I told her. “Maybe the agent will help steer the conversation and keep Luanne in check. There’s nothing either of us can do about the woman’s personality. We’ll just hope for the best and go on with it. I shouldn’t have said anything, but I wanted you to know that she’s kind of…prickly.”

  Nancy muttered something about spiking the author’s coffee if that would help, then voiced her appreciation for my assistance before hanging up. I shook my head and sat my phone on the counter, feeling sorry for my friend. Two days. Two days and Luanne Trainor would be gone, and Nancy would be basking in the glow of having managed to bring a big name to the theater’s speaker series—a series that usually only attracted the occasional college professor or local historian. I think the closest thing we’d had to a bestselling author in the last decade had
been that environmentalist out of Richmond who’d written a book about the changes in saltwater marshes over the last century.

  It would all be fine. That agent woman would help keep Luanne from offending anyone, and I’d do my best as well. Two days.

  But in the meantime, I had an icebox cake to prepare.

  A dozen eggs. A pound of softened butter. Powdered sugar, cocoa, baking chocolate, and real vanilla. I’d bought ladyfingers earlier in the week, knowing that I wouldn’t have time to make them myself. Looking around to make sure Taco wasn’t lurking nearby, ready to leap on the counter and grab either the ladyfingers or a stick of butter, I got started separating the eggs.

  Icebox cake was one of my favorite desserts, but it was a gazillion calories of rich, decadent goodness. Basically, thick layers of alternating vanilla and chocolate buttercream icing separated with ladyfingers and chilled, it was often requested at holiday parties and special occasions. This was a special occasion. Nancy had caterers who would be providing all the other food for the meet-and-greet, but she’d asked for me to make this. I knew it was her favorite. The poor woman was so stressed she deserved a dessert made with a pound of butter. I’d have to make sure I set aside some for her before the rest of the attendees devoured it all.

  Once I’d finished the icebox cake, I whipped up some mini meatloaves and stuck them in the oven for dinner, then eyed the clock. The judge should be home in another hour or two. My plan was to ply him with meatloaf and au gratin potatoes, then make up some excuse why he had to go up to his room at nightfall and not come out for a few hours. Olive was due over then, and I didn’t really want the judge discovering that we had a ghost problem in the house, and that I was able to see them. Although Holt had been fairly quiet today. There’d been no additional poltergeist activity since happy hour on the porch last night. Maybe he’d decided to behave himself. Maybe he’d decided to go haunt his mother instead, and Olive, the judge, and I could all just sit around the table and eat pie or something.

  I heard the clatter of a wooden spoon hitting the floor and took a breath, turning around to scold the ghost I’d hoped had vanished forever, only to see Taco up on the countertop, happily licking the bowl I’d used to stir up the meatloaf.

  “I just fed you,” I scolded, scooping him up and depositing him on the floor. With an angry meow, he hopped right back up on the counter, squeezing between my arms to shove half his body into the bowl and nearly falling into the sink in the process. With a sigh, I let him have the bowl, bending down to pick up the spoon and drop it in the sink. He was fat in spite of my attempts to limit his food and treats, and this sort of thing was the reason why. A licked bowl here, a dropped potato chip there, and adoring children who were constantly slipping him little bits of their food. No wonder he was pudgy. And I suspected that Judge Beck was doing the same in spite of his protests to the contrary.

  Leaving Taco to his pre-wash efforts, I headed into the parlor and opened up my laptop. Luanne Trainor’s novels were easy to find on the e-book distributor, but row after row were filled with Infernal Awakenings and Fanged Darkness—e-books, paperbacks, hardbacks, used books from various sellers, audio editions, a gazillion different licensed merchandise items from Trelanie and Roman salt and pepper shakers to a naughty accessories kit, no doubt to reenact those spicy scenes from the book.

  Ten pages back I finally found book one of the Broken Wolf series. I downloaded it, then searched another four pages of products before I found book one of Witches Gone Wild. I curled up on the couch with a blanket and the laptop. Done with his bowl-licking, Taco trotted in to join me, exhaling his ground-beef breath in my face as I opened the first in the Broken Wolf series and tucked in for an hour of reading enjoyment.

  Ten pages in and I was on the internet, searching to see if there wasn’t some other author named Luanne Trainor who’d published this book. Then I went back to the sales page just to make sure this was her book and not some imposter. Then I checked the date, wondering if she’d written this very early in her career.

  Yeah. It was that bad. The characters were wooden stereotypes, the dialogue stilted. The plot was unrealistic, even for a fantasy series with werewolves, and the descriptions went on and on until I felt like throwing my computer against the wall. It was nothing like her more popular series. Nothing. I couldn’t believe the same person wrote these books, but according to the distribution site and the publisher’s information, Luanne Trainor was the author of all four series. Clearly she’d had some sort of talent epiphany about ten years ago.

  I stroked Taco’s head, pushing his big furry body a bit to the side and opened up Witches Gone Wild, thinking that this series might show the link, the progression in writing skill between Broken Wolf and Fanged Darkness. It was equally horrible. In all honesty, it probably wasn’t horrible. It was okay. It was average. It wasn’t any different than the million other fantasy novels out there. It was when I compared it to the incredible book I’d read last night that these two novels seemed horrible. Pushing Taco off my lap, I set my laptop on the coffee table and headed upstairs to bring down the Fanged Darkness book I’d been reading. Within seconds, I was lost in the world of Trelanie and Roman, trapped in that dungeon with her, using the sharp edge of the stone to pry open the links of her chains and wrench her bloodied wrists free. By the time I heard Judge Beck’s key in the lock, I was glued to the page, holding my breath as Trelanie battled ghouls and blood-crazed vampires with the chain that had once held her wrists, screaming vengeance like a Valkyrie. Judge Beck called a hello and I held up a finger, unable to pay any attention to him until Trelanie had managed to escape the dungeon into the brilliant sunlight where no creature of darkness dared follow.

  “I take it that’s not Great Expectations,” the judge drawled, gesturing toward the cover of my paperback which featured a naked male torso, his head and nether regions unfairly cut off by the size limits of the cover.

  “Fanged Darkness,” I told him. “Research, you know. It’s important for me to have some familiarity with Luanne Trainor’s novels if I’m going to be the speaker’s liaison.”

  A slow grin creased his face, his blue eyes dancing. “Ah. Excellent excuse, Kay. I’d totally believe it if I hadn’t seen all those romance novels on the bookshelf downstairs.”

  I laughed. “Okay, you’ve got me. I’m not the literary snob you probably initially took me for. I’ve always been a fan of romance novels, although I’ll admit that these vampire/demon/werewolf ones are a new guilty pleasure. There’s a lot more going on than just the romance. Trelanie is battling an ancient family curse and trying to live up to her legacy as the holder of the Whip of Destiny.”

  “Whip of Destiny.” Judge Beck snorted.

  “It’s a dual-purpose whip,” I told him, struggling to keep a straight expression on my face. “Beats down the bad guys, but when the lights go down…”

  “Boom-chicka-wow-wow?” he repeated Daisy’s term.

  “Yes, there’s a whole lot of boom-chicka-wow-wow, both with and without the Whip of Destiny.”

  There was a split second of silence, then the pair of us burst into laughter.

  “I’ve got meatloaf in the oven,” I told him, wiping my eyes. “And potatoes au gratin. We can throw together a salad as well, if you like.”

  “I’ll get the salad and check on the food,” he told me. “You stay here and finish your chapter. I don’t want you to leave your girl Trelanie in...in the middle of things.”

  He gave me a saucy wink and headed into the kitchen, whistling to himself.

  It was nice to sit back and read while someone else took care of dinner. Judge Beck popped his head in to let me know when it was all ready and I set my book aside and went to find the dining room set with my nice china, the food in elegant serving dishes and the salad in crystal.

  “Are we celebrating?” I laughed.

  “It’s Friday. You’ve got a busy weekend with your author guest in town. The kids are gone for another week.” The judge nodde
d. “I figured we both needed a fancy dinner tonight.”

  He pulled a chair out for me, and we ate meatloaf in style, drinking water in wine glasses, with cloth napkins draped across our laps. The judge told me about his day, about his plans for golf tomorrow, and talked excitedly about what he wanted to do for Madison’s belated birthday celebration. I told him all about Luanne Trainor and we laughed about the woman’s absurd footwear. After dinner, we carried in the dishes, and I got to work on rinsing and stacking while Judge Beck put the leftovers away. It was a wonderful evening. But then again, all the evenings I’d had with the judge and his family had been wonderful.

  “So, ice cream and a movie?” he asked, peering into the freezer to survey our options. “It’s Friday night. Let’s not spend it with our work spread across the dining room table. Let’s get fat and lazy and binge watch an entire season of Law and Order or something.”

  I grimaced, feeling a bit guilty for what I was about to say. “Umm, maybe late tonight? Or Sunday? Olive is coming over around ten for an hour or two. She’s got some…some girl stuff she wants to talk to me about.”

  “Oh.” Judge Beck shut the freezer door. “So I need to be out of your hair then, I guess. Are you guys going to be downstairs, or up here? I’m assuming this is ‘girl stuff’ that’s not meant for my ears.”

  I was both grateful that he caught on quickly and bummed that I was turning him down for ice-cream-and-movie-binge activities. “We’re probably going to be in the dining room.”

  He smiled. “So, am I confined to my bedroom, or am I safe to go downstairs and watch TV? How long is the ‘girl stuff’ conversation going to last? Will I be able to emerge from my cave sometime around midnight, or do you foresee this private conversation going on all night?”

  He was teasing. It made me feel better about all this that he seemed okay with being shooed away from half of the house he was paying money to live in.