"Taylor Kensington is a delightful woman," Felicity said. "Very funny, very low-key. One of my best friends in the business. She's a trooper who has helped a lot of aspiring writers. I like her suspects, her settings, her plots, which are so well researched, but…"
"But what?" Jane asked. She'd recently read one of Kensington's novels and hadn't liked the ending.
"She writes heroines who, at the end, stupidly go out in the middle of the night all alone to investigate suspects. In every one of her books, the woman is nearly killed for being suddenly so dumb," Felicity explained.
Jane said, "I've only read one of her books and that's exactly what happened at the end. The character seemed so smart all the way through, and then went out to a deserted construction site at four in the morning to meet a stranger who tried to kill her. I wanted to slap her silly."
"I'll jot her name down to avoid reading, nice as she might be," Shelley said, scribbling a note on her brochure.
"Who is this Miss Mystery?" Jane said, still perusing the most recent mailing. "I'd never heard of her and she's the only one without a picture."
"Oh dear. I didn't know she was coming," Fe-
licity said with slight alarm. "I should have read the last bulletin they sent. She has an Internet site where she critiques women's fiction. She slaughters the work of newbies and e-pubs. She also puts her saber through the guts of the most successful, genuinely bestselling women writers. Struggling mid-list authors are her cup of tea. I should be grateful, I suppose, being among that group. But I'm not. She's a lot like Zac in that she merely skims the book and mostly misses the whole point of the work. I think it's a power thing. I've actually seen a couple of paperback originals who cite her in the blurbs."
"Blurbs?" Shelley queried.
"You know, those 'I love So-and-So's characters. They're so vibrant.' Signed by a well-known author."
"Blurbs. I'll have to remember that. I'm a sucker for them," Shelley admitted. "If someone I recognize and like to read says something nice on the cover, I'll buy the book."
"That's the point of blurbs," Felicity said. "And it's usually a good guide to book shopping. Avoid the book if it's blurbed by Miss Mystery though."
"Why isn't there a picture of her?" Shelley persisted.
"Because she comes to conferences under her own name and chums up with authors to acquire the dirt on other authors. Nobody knows who she really is."
"That's sneaky," Jane said. "So why is she even listed in the brochure?"
"To warn the authors that she's around, I suppose," Felicity replied.
After the waiter had interrupted to give them their bill, Shelley said, "I'd guess somebody recognizes her."
"Why?" Felicity asked.
"Because if I were to tell some stranger some deep secret of Jane's — which I'd never do, needless to say — and later saw her report it on her website, I'd remember who I'd spilled the beans to."
Felicity stared at Shelley with astonishment. "Of course!" She made a head-slapping motion. "You're right. Some people must know who they blabbed to and about. But they don't dare admit
it."
"Rest assured," Jane said, "neither of us is Miss Mystery."
Felicity grinned. "You promise?"
"Girl Scout's honor," Jane said, raising her hand.
Their discussion was suddenly cut short when a couple came through the door of the restaurant. It was the country-western pair Jane and Shelley had seen entering the hotel. The woman looked around and shouted a sort of yodeling greeting of "Yippee! I reckon y'all are the mystery writers," she said, raising her hefty arms as if embracing the whole room. Her turquoise and silver jewelry jangled.
Heads turned with annoyance.
"I'm Vernetta Strausmann, and this is my everlovin' hubby, Gaylord. Pleased to meetcha, y'all."
She glanced around the room and spotted Felicity and screeched, "Omigod! It's Felicity Roane! You're my favorite author!"
Dragging along Gaylord, who looked both proud and embarrassed, she galloped over to their table. She all but jerked the chair out from under Jane.
"Here, honey, let me grab this chair. You set yourself down over in that one. I gotta hug my favorite writing gal."
Jane grabbed the bottom of her chair and held her ground. Felicity had her arms extended, palms out, to stave off the hug. She was blushing at being singled out so outrageously in public.
"I'm sorry, but I'm having a chat with friends. Maybe we could meet later," Felicity said coldly.
"Pretty wimpy friends, it looks like," Vernetta said, her expression turning mean, her eyes going piggy, and her already strident voice becoming even louder.
"They're my friends and you aren't," Felicity said firmly.
"Who'da thought you were such a bitch!" Vernetta screamed, looking around the restaurant to make sure everyone was listening. "You're just jealous of me because I'm gonna make a lot more money than you'll ever see. C'mon, Gaylord."
She stomped out. Gaylord leaned toward thetable and said, "Miss Roane, I'm surely sorry 'bout this. She don't always mean what she says. It's what she says is 'artistic privilege.' "
Felicity was obviously having trouble suppressing tears of rage.
"What a terrible woman," she said in a shaking voice.
Six
Somebody in the restaurant clapped a couple of times, and most of the other patrons joined in. "You go, girl!" one woman said, raising a fist to Felicity and grinning.
Felicity relaxed a little and waved back. "I need another jolt of coffee," she said under her breath.
"Why don't you come up to our room for it," Shelley asked. "There's anything there you'd like to drink."
"Let me take care of the bill first," Felicity said.
"No, you won't. Not after you told us so many interesting things," Jane said. "We'll take care of yours."
"Nope," Felicity insisted. "My cost is tax-deductible."
She hailed a waiter to pick up the bill, and during the slight delay, several of the other diners came over and asked who that awful woman was. Or who Felicity was. Several who weren't even attending the conference had heard of her
and asked if her books were for sale and could they catch her later to have them signed.
As Felicity scrawled her real name on the credit card slip and put the card back in her purse, she said to Jane and Shelley, "Who'd have thought that scene would have paid off so well?"
They strolled through the lobby and looked over the registration booth, which was just opening up for business. They each were given a canvas bag full of goodies, including a complete booklet giving the times and rooms where each session would be held and extensive bios of the speakers; free books by writers who were attending; pens with authors' web sites; bookmarks with lists of the author's books; and even a tiny pink-and-white box of peppermints from one writer. Jane and Shelley studied the booklet. It was much more complete than any of the materials they had received earlier.