"Why would he mention it anyway?" Shelley asked. "Probably half of the people attending this conference have books in their cars if they drove here. You yourself have already stashed some of your own in your new Jeep so you don't have to carry them all out at once, and I've loaded about half mine into the minivan."
Felicity said, "I've already shipped some of mine home through the hotel's office center."
"You're both right again," Jane said. "But still… would you order the shrimp pasta and iced tea for me while I go in the lobby and call Mel? I hate to see people making their phone calls from restaurant tables."
As Jane left, Felicity said, "If she feels so strongly about this, she could be right."
Shelley replied, "It's just writer's imagination." She added with a kind smile, "You have it, too."
Mel was even more skeptical than Shelley. "A page from a book? Yeah, I think I noticed that. I'd forgotten about it. Why are you asking?"
"It could be important. Were there other books in the vehicle?"
"I have no idea. Why do you think it's important?"
"I'm not certain. I simply think it could be significant. Would you ask the detective in charge if he could fax the page to the hotel? I have the number here."
"Jane, get a grip. Why would anyone have bothered keeping the page he had in his hand?"
"You don't mean when a person is attacked all the relevant bits and pieces aren't kept? That doesn't sound like what you said in the 'Scene of the Crime' talk you gave."
"But he wasn't murdered. Just roughed up. Nothing was even stolen," Mel objected. "And in case you want to know, the hospital already released him this afternoon."
"Please, Mel. See if someone has the page. It would mean a lot to me."
Mel sighed deeply. "Jane, I must have some halfway decent reason for asking for this stupid page. I can't just say 'a friend of mine would like to see it.' "
"Why not? If it's still around and nobody thinks it means anything, why wouldn't they let someone see it?"
"Jane, you're the most meddling woman in the world."
"I know that," she said, smiling. He'd caved.
She came back to the table and didn't mention anything else about the page or her conversation
with Mel. And neither of the other women brought it up. They just chatted about the conference and complained once again, halfheartedly, about Vernetta and Gaylord.
"Have you discovered any additional information about who Miss Mystery is?" Jane asked Felicity.
"Not for sure. I hive a theory though. I think it's that woman who eavesdrops everywhere she goes. In fact, she's sitting over there." Felicity pointed with her hand close to the table. "The plump one at the third table to the right with the upswept gray hair and the purple suit. Keep an eye on her. She's sitting next to a bunch of authors and making notes behind her menu so they don't see her doing it."
Shelley said excitedly, "It's the same woman I was guessing. Remember when I pointed her out to you earlier, Jane? Great minds think alike."
Sixteen
As Jane, Shelley, and Felicity left the restaurant, Jane remembered to ask Felicity about Vernetta's epubbed book. "Is it still up on the Internet somewhere?"
"I have no idea. Interesting question though. She probably didn't even know to copyright it, much less remove it from wherever it is."
"Do you know the title of it?" Shelley asked. "Jane says she never wants to read it, but I'm curious."
"Someone told me the title," Felicity responded, "but I'm sorry, I don't remember what it was. Something with a word like 'Quest' in it. Finding someone? Searching?"
Shelley interrupted with another insight. "Isn't it odd that Vernetta and Gaylord don't brag about the book or the story? All that Vernetta seems interested in is bragging about the money she's made or will make."
Jane said, "I'd never realized that, but it's true.
How much of an advance did she receive? Do you know?"
Felicity frowned. "That I do recall vividly. A cool million. Of course, the publisher will spread it out as far as they can and try to make it up by making a movie deal to earn back the money."
"That's interesting," Shelley remarked. "Does Sophie Smith often pay that much for anyone's book? As cranky as she sounds, I assumed she'd be stingy as well."
"She is stingy. When I was with her the first time, it was all promises of bestsellerdom, but my part of the deal was to buckle down and produce the book in four months and take a rock-bottom advance so the publisher's money could all go into promotion. Lots of blah-blah about how it's a good idea to plan your income this way — drawing it out for as long a time as possible to save on bumping yourself into a higher tax rate all in one year and making horribly high social security contributions."
"Doesn't the publisher pay half of your social security like other businesses do?" Shelley asked.
"They most certainly don't. And they don't give you any retirement benefits either. The author has to pay it all. What's more, on my royalty statements they always have more returns from Canada than the number of books they claimed to have shipped."
Now Shelley had the stunned look, too surprised to even speak.
"I presume it didn't make you rich?" Jane asked.
"What do you think? No. I never even earned out the pitiful advance. I was young and stupid then. It was only my second book. I had a wimpy agent who was afraid to tackle someone as powerful as Sophie. Sophie even forgot to put any mention of my book in the sales booklet for the month it was released. And to answer your first question, Shelley, she often pays authors a bundle. But those people are the ones who are already highly successful. Many are merely unhappy with something about the publisher they're with. She lures them away with lots of money, then treats them as badly as she treats everyone else."
She did a little shake like a dog does when it's wet. "I shouldn't complain. I'm now with a good agent and good publisher and make a very comfortable living on my advances and royalties. Even though I have to turn over outrageous amounts of it to the IRS in estimated payments."
"You deserve it," Jane said, changing the subject as quickly as she could. She didn't want Shelley to go off on her own highly inflammatory opinions of the Internal Revenue Service.
As they were drawing apart to go their separate ways, Shelley said, "Oh, Felicity, would you ask around and see if you can find out what the epubbed version of Vernetta's book is called? I'm curious."
"I will. I promise. My payment to you for letting me vent. I think two of the people who claimed to have read it are here at the conference. I'll make a point of hunting them down."
Jane went to the front desk and asked if they'd received a fax for her of the page Zac was clutching in his hand when he was found. They hadn't. She feared that the page had simply been thrown away. She tried to tell herself she was being silly thinking the page meant anything at all. Although she was still convinced that it might have some significance.
She and Shelley went up to the suite to read for a while. The two evening seminars that were going on sounded useless. One was another one about grammar. The other was about costumes. On the way upstairs, Jane had stopped by the room where the costume seminar was to take place and picked up the handout that listed reference books and what periods of time they covered. That was all she wanted to know. She supposed the speaker would simply go through this sheet and explain endlessly what was already on the list.
She and Shelley made another run at the books they'd collected. Jane realized that two of them were by the woman Felicity said was a wonderful friend who, unfortunately, let her character go stupid and put herself in danger at the end of each book. Jane wondered if the bookseller might let her return it in trade for something else she'd like better.
She put the question to Shelley, who replied, "I'd guess the bookseller would if it was still in good shape. You haven't broken the spine yet, have you?"
This was one of the points that Jane and Shelley disagreed about. Shelley felt that books should remain in good condition forever. Jane's feeling was that if she'd paid for it, it was hers to abuse if she chose. Shelley had often come to Jane's house and seen a book squashed open, face down, on a counter or over the arm of a chair. "Buy bookmarks, Jane!" she always said.
"Waste of money. I usually try to use something like a grocery receipt," Jane would counter. "If it's my book, I can do anything I want with it. I could tear pages out to wash windows. Take it into the bathtub and know it might come back out wet. Or put it in the trash if I'm not liking it."
She'd never let Shelley find out that the reference books she'd purchased for working on her book were highlighted in yellow throughout. That would have put Shelley completely over the brink.