"How about the book room? Give me about ten minutes."
"This is so mysterious," Ms. Jones said when Jane snagged her and introduced herself. "What do you need to know and why?"
"Let's sit down somewhere quiet," Jane said, indicating a sofa in the corner of the room that was currently not in use by other readers. She handed the copies of the front and back of the page to LaLane Jones.
"I'm hoping you'll recognize these two pages. I'll keep as quiet as a mouse while you read them. And then I'll tell you why I need to learn who wrote it."
Jane sat, as she promised, silently. She didn't look at LaLane for fear of making her nervous. Instead she studied the other shoppers. They were all fully engaged in looking for new or old books and handling them gently and respectfully. Jane wondered if some of them were like her, and once having purchased a book they felt they could treat it as their own. Breaking the spine so they could spread it and read while eating, holding the page open with a knife with a touch of mayonnaise on it.
"I have a very vague memory of reading this," LaLane finally said. It's good that it's page 25 and 26. I think that's about as far as I read. It bored me senseless."
"Me, too," Jane said. "Do you know who wrote it?"
"I might. It was a man, of course. That was back in the days when only men wrote science fiction. Or at least sold it. I've always suspected that some of the writers were women pretending to be men. Now it's different. Some women are at the top of the heap. I keep a book list that's always with me. I may have a record."
"For a book you didn't even want to read clear through?" Jane asked.
LaLane smiled. "Those are sometimes the most important ones to jot down, so you don't pick up another one by the same writer. Come up to my room and let's see if I can figure it out."
As LaLane opened the small case containing the records of her reading, Jane realized how truly obsessive the woman was.
"I think I read this when I'd broken my right wrist and couldn't write very well." She picked up the relevant notebook and started flipping pages. "Yes, here we are. I can hardly read my own handwriting. It was titled something like Martin's or Marvin's Quest. By James Cuttler, I think. I gave it an F minus."
"Do you know who James Cuttler is?"
"I could make a guess, I suppose. It must have been one of about six or seven who kept changing names. There were a lot of hack writers back then turning books out under a great many pseudonyms."
"Could it have been Zac Zebra?" Jane asked.
"Without the copyright page, I wouldn't know. But I know he once wrote under a number of names. Only three books, as I recall. Each of them more dreadful than the last and with a different publisher. Now it's time for you to explain why you're asking."
"Fair enough. I guess you know Zac was attacked yesterday."
"I heard that, but it must not have been all that violent. I understand he's already back here somewhere."
"When he was found in the parking lot, this page was in his hand."
"How strange," LaLane Jones said. "I wonder why that was."
"I have a theory. It's from a very old book and the glue must have been fragile. Maybe he was going through the book after the page fell out to put it back where it belonged."
"Possibly. I can't imagine anyone but the author himself being interested in reading this. What an interesting mystery this has turned out to be. Why don't you ask Zac yourself? And be sure to let me know what he says."
"That's the very next thing I'd planned to do. I'll report back to you, I promise."
Jane went back up to the suite. Shelley was reading the copy of the page. "I have an idea," she said. She'd underlined one sentence.
"What is it?"
Shelley still wouldn't say. "I may be wrong, and if so, I won't ever tell you what it was. Let's have a good dinner and not talk about this anymore tonight."
They took their programs down to the restaurant to study them and plan the next day. "I don't see much of anything that hasn't already been covered," Jane said. "Someone might have another view of some topic that we've already heard though. Frankly, I think this conference is at least one day too long. I'd like to go home."
"No, you won't. We've paid for the whole thing and we're going to stick it out," Shelley insisted. "We want to squeeze out our money's worth."
After dinner they went back to the suite and both sat around reading some of the books that they hadn't already taken to their cars. Jane went to bed early and had the weirdest dream. It was so vivid that she woke up in the middle of night sweating.
It was a version of a jungle movie she'd once watched partway through. It was a violent and awful movie, but there was a special effect that really impressed her. The bad guy, who was some sort of monster, wasn't pictured in the normal
way. He was made of panes of clear glass. When he stood still, you couldn't even see him. But when he moved around, the glass panes showed his shape and movement as the panes moved. In her dream, it wasn't a jungle. It was set in this hotel. She watched helplessly as the glass monster followed Corwin into Sophie's suite. And came out a few minutes later holding a book in its see-through hand.
Then the scene shifted to the parking lot, where the monster stood absolutely still and invisible against the far wall, until Zac pulled in and parked. The monster waited until no one else was present, then waveringly moved to the van, jerked open the door, and threw Zac to the ground. It then crawled into the van. That's when Jane woke up. Her heart was thumping, her face felt hot and sweaty. She staggered to the bathroom and washed her face in cold water. It took her a full hour to go back to sleep. She wished she'd never seen that movie.
Eighteen
jane dutifully went to the first session Sunday morning, hoping to learn another aspect of viewpoint. The panelists were different writers this time. Both men. And they said almost exactly what the earlier speakers had said before. Shelley hadn't wanted to come along, so afterward Jane went by herself to a bagel place at the food court in the shopping area, bought a bagel and a glass of green iced tea, and sat there reading a book until ten. Then she went to the house phone. "Could you put me in touch with guest Zac Zebra?"
After a long pause the clerk said, "We don't have anyone registered under that name."
"Oh, I failed to call him by his real name. Harold Spotswood."
"I'll connect you."
In that instant Jane realized she should have rehearsed what to say. She'd have to wing it tactfully. Naturally, he didn't know who in the world she was and probably didn't care. When a man answered, she asked if he was Zac Zebra.
"Yes. Who is this?" He sounded surly. No wonder. He probably still had a headache.
Jane used her nicest voice. "I'm Jane Jeffry I'm attending this conference and a friend of mine was the first police officer on the scene of your accident."
"Yeah? I'm supposed to thank him?"
"No." Stay sweet, she reminded herself. "He told me that you had a page of a book in your hand. I'm concerned that you and Ms. Sophie Smith might still be in danger. Would you have a moment to speak to me privately and see if you can tell me who wrote the page you were holding?"
"I have no idea what the hell you're talking about."
"I think you might when you see it. It might be important to you."
"I don't recognize your name. You aren't a mystery writer, are you? I don't remember reviewing books by a Jane Jeffry."
"I hope you will, when and if I become published," she said to placate him. He could vent his spleen on her much later perhaps. "Please just give me five minutes of your valuable time. I know you probably don't feel well. Could we meet by the elevator lobby on your floor?" Jane felt strongly that she didn't want to go into this man's room on her own. Neither did she wish to drag him clear down to the ground floor.
"Oh, okay, okay," he groaned. "It's the top floor."
"I'll be up in a moment."
Zac wasn't himself. He looked more like she imagined Harold Spotswood would. He wasn't in one of his black-and-white outfits. He wore faded, baggy jeans and an old faded yellow sweatshirt, and was leaning against the far wall, with his hand over his eyes. When he glanced up, his face was so pale she was afraid he was about to faint.