"Good Lord. It overlooks the top of the mall. All those ugly refrigeration devices and air vents all over the roof," Jane said.
"The view from all the windows is awful all the way around," Shelley admitted. "But then, you never really need to look outside."
"I do. I can see my car from here. I'll have to park it in the same place when we come back."
"Admit it, Jane. You'd forgotten about your car for a few minutes."
"Not entirely."
Shelley sat back comfortably on the sofa and said, "You'll be meeting a lot of people at the conference. Feel free to bring anyone you like up here."
"Should I? I don't think so."
"Why not?" Shelley asked.
"Because they'd think I'm a rich dilettante just trying to write as a silly hobby."
"Just tell them your roommate is the rich dilet-
tante who doesn't aspire to write anything but shopping lists. I'll even pretend it's true if it's necessary. The writing part, in fact, is true."
"Okay," Jane agreed. "As fabulous as this suite is, I need to go home. I want to take a copy of my manuscript to the conference, just in case somebody is willing to look at it."
"You've really finished it?"
"I think I have. Having a real deadline to meet helped. There are a few little dinky things I've marked to fix. And I was educated so long ago that I'm not certain about commas in series."
"The rules don't change," Shelley said.
"But they do, Shelley. Grammar isn't static. And most of what I learned in the many schools I attended as a kid in Europe involved British grammar and spelling. They do things differently."
"Like how?"
"For one thing, they use a single quote for dialogue, and a double one inside it for a word that's emphasized. Americans do it the opposite way."
"You know the weirdest things," Shelley mused. She rose and gathered up her purse. "Have you got everything you brought along? You don't really need to keep those car keys in your hand so tightly that your knuckles are white."
"I've got to hang on to them until I can put the duplicates away somewhere safe," Jane said,going once more to look out the window to enjoy a bird's-eye view of the new car.
As they descended in the elegant elevator, Jane said, "I think I'm going to need to tie something gaudy to the luggage rack on top. I don't think I'd have recognized it in a parking lot if it hadn't been sitting way off by itself."
Four
The conference registration was to begin at one-thirty Thursday afternoon. It had been Shelley's advice that Jane call the hotel at ten in the morning and ask if the suite was ready.
"You need to be the first one there. Meeting and greeting, you know," Shelley said. "There are always people who come early. People who have family in town to visit, or business to conduct privately, maybe shopping and such."
Having been assured that the suite was available, Jane gathered up her manuscript and took one long last look at it for errors. She found only two and ran out new pages. She packed it in a box and put it in a canvas bag. She also had a copy of the first three chapters and the outline of the rest of the book in case she came across an agent or editor who was interested. She'd read somewhere that this was a necessity at a writers' conference.
She'd even shopped a bit in the interval between seeing the suite earlier and returning to it. Three casual skirts, four blouses with coordinated
lightweight sweaters. She also had black trousers and a sparkly black top for the banquet night. She'd even dug out a few pieces of jewelry that she seldom wore. A sapphire and diamond ring her parents had given her for her twenty-first birthday. A cheap but good-looking silver linked necklace that made her neck itch if she wore it for too long.
It was more than she needed, but she didn't want to miss a moment running home if she spilled coffee on herself.
Jane arrived at the hotel at ten and went to the suite. She'd thought about hauling the manuscript to the lobby and studying it one more time. But that would look too needy.
Instead, she took along a copy of the latest Felicity Roane book with her. She positioned herself close to the front desk, so she could glance up from time to time and see if she recognized any of her favorite mystery authors. There had been photographs of them in the last brochure she'd received.
She saw a man who had to be Zac Zebra arrive wearing black trousers and a black sweater thrown over a shiny white shirt, open at the neck too far. He had black-and-white-striped hair. She knew he was one of the speakers. Did they have their rooms paid for? she wondered. He took out a credit card, but that meant nothing. Even when you had a free room, as she did, hotels wanted a credit card for incidentals like food, drinks, and dry cleaning.
She went back to reading her book, glancing up from time to time.
A woman who might be Felicity Roane herself checked in about ten minutes later. Jane glanced at the formal photo on the back of the book. If this was Ms. Roane, she was a lot more casual than the picture. Her hair wasn't up. She had a windblown ponytail with a scarf around it. She was in jeans and a baggy lightweight gray sweater.
Jane hoped this was the author she liked so much, and liked, too, that she seemed less daunting than the photo. It was all Jane could manage to stay seated. She wanted to run over to the front desk, book in hand for autographing. But Ms. Roane might have had a long trip and wouldn't want to be fawned over while waiting for her room assignment.
She went on reading, so caught up in the story, in spite of the fact that she'd already read it when it had come out in hardback, that she probably missed several other famous attendees. When she finally looked up the next time, Shelley was checking in. Jane put a bookmark in the book, stuffed it in her purse, and approached her just as the bellhop was taking up her suitcases.
Fishing in her pocket, Shelley pulled out a five-dollar bill and tipped him before turning to Jane. "Have you spotted anyone yet?"
"Zac Zebra," Jane said. "Nobody could mistake him. And a woman I think was Felicity Roane. But I'm not positive it was she."
"Where are you sitting?" Shelley asked.
"Right over here. Don't you want to go up and unpack?"
"I'd rather gawk with you for a while."
While they watched the front desk, chatting about what fun the conference was going to be, a rather heavy, terribly overdressed young woman came in. She and the man with her were wearing cowboy hats and flashy western clothing and lots of turquoise jewelry.
"Probably country-western singers performing somewhere in Chicago, don't you think?" Shelley asked. "Nobody dresses that way for no reason."
"Maybe. Or maybe they're just rubes come to the Big City for the first time."
"I'm going to ask who they are," Shelley said. "Watch my purse," she added as she strode off.
"Excuse me," a voice said from in back of Jane.
Jane, startled, stood up and turned. "You're Ms. Felicity Roane, aren't you? I was hoping to meet you."
"I noticed you as I came into the hotel," Ms. Roane said, sitting down in the third chair in the grouping. "I'm always looking at people on planes reading, hoping to see them reading one of my books. The only time I did, I made a fool of myself. The woman was right across the aisle and I said it was so nice to see her reading that book. She just looked at me blankly and said that it was the only one in the airport with a nice cover. She clearly didn't recognize me," she said with alaugh. "I told her I wrote the book she was reading and she said, 'Of course you did.' I didn't know if she meant it or thought I was crazy.
"But I spotted you reading my most recent paperback," she went on, "and thought I'd give it another try. Would you like it autographed?"
"Oh, yes please, Ms. Roane," Jane said while she fished the book back out of her purse.