A Romantic Way to Die (8 page)

He wondered how many other people in Clearview had read the manuscript, or had heard Henrietta read it at one time or another. He wondered why Mildred Cramer hadn’t mentioned it.

He didn’t think that the manuscript could ever be published, but he wasn’t absolutely certain. It had held his interest, all right, but would it interest a publisher in New York, someone who didn’t know the characters involved? Rhodes wasn’t sure.

And was there a motive for a real-life murder in the book? Rhodes wasn’t sure about that, either, but if Vernell had read it, there certainly might be. The character of Bernell Kidsey, revealed in numerous flashbacks, was entirely reprehensible, without a single redeeming feature. She was a low, scheming liar, who wouldn’t hesitate to destroy lifelong friends if doing so would help her get a book published.

And then there was Jeanne Arnot. Rhodes was pretty sure she hadn’t seen the manuscript, but someone might have told her about it. The agent in the book, Jane Arnold, was even worse than Bernell, if that was possible. She used writers and editors like puppets and cut their strings when she was through with them, either that or left them to dangle helplessly without their puppet master to manipulate them. And she was having a passionate secret affair with Jerry Dan Gosling, a famous male cover model who was using her in his attempt to become the cover boy for every historical romance that was published.

There were several other people who didn’t come off so well, too, including a well-known writer named Corrinna Bayer, who bore a powerful physical resemblance to Serena Thayer, though Rhodes hoped her personal qualities were different. She had quite a temper in the book, and she was sleeping with Jerry Dan Gosling in the hope that he would insist on doing her covers to the exclusion of all others.

Jerry Dan’s motives were no better. He was sleeping with every writer and agent he could, his motive being a not-so-secret desire to appear on the cover of every historical romance novel published, a desire that didn’t sit too well with Corrinna Bayer.

Another character, a fiery redhead named Lorraine Denbow, came off somewhat better. She was pursued by men, but she always fended them off until they married her. She’d been married quite often.

There were some pretty sexy passages, and the book reminded Rhodes vaguely of something he’d read many years ago by someone named Harold Robbins. Lots of intrigue, plenty of sex. Maybe that’s what people wanted in mystery novels these days.

Rhodes went back into the office and put the manuscript back in the box. He wondered what Ruth Grady would make of it. He decided to give it to her and let her read it later that day.

But first he was going back to Obert and have a look in those trees. He was going to let Billy Quentin know he was there, though. He didn’t want to take a chance with that shotgun.

Rhodes stopped for lunch on the way to Obert. There was a Pizza Hut on the road out of town, and Rhodes hadn’t had a pizza in a long time, not unless he counted the vegetarian pizzas that Ivy made with no-fat cheese and no-fat pizza sauce. And Rhodes definitely didn’t count those at all. He was in the mood for some stringy mozzarella and some pepperoni that wasn’t made out of tofu.

But, telling himself that he was doing the virtuous thing, he didn’t order a large pizza, or even a medium. He got the personal-size pan pizza, which he was certain had only a minimal number of calories and fat grams.

He had a Dr Pepper, too, but that didn’t really count because it was served over ice in a paper cup. It didn’t taste so much like a Dr Pepper as it did a glass of fizzy brown water that had been soaking in cardboard for weeks. Rhodes wouldn’t have ordered one at all if he’d thought he could get a Dr Pepper in a plastic bottle, or even a can, but the Pizza Hut didn’t work that way.

After he’d eaten, which didn’t take long, Rhodes drove to Obert. He went past the college campus and straight down the hill to Billy Quentin’s house. Quentin wasn’t at home, so Rhodes left a note on his front door while lovable furry old Grover barked and barked.

Rhodes had no idea what he was looking for, but he stayed in the woods for more than two hours, poring over the ground and hoping to find something that might prove to be a tie-in to the murder, or at least something that might help him identify the woman that Mrs. Appleby and Claude had seen.

He hadn’t found anything of interest and was about to give up when something caught his eye. He walked over to a clump of leaves and stooped down to pick up what appeared to be a piece of cloth, which is exactly what it was. But it was more than that, too. It was a black crew sock.

Rhodes got a stick off the ground and picked up the sock with it. Then he tried to figure out what it meant.

A naked woman in black crew socks? Rhodes didn’t think so. Besides, how could the sock have come off her foot?

And did black crew socks go with red bikini panties? Rhodes didn’t have much fashion sense, but crew socks and bikini panties seemed an odd combination.

The sock hadn’t been there long, however. It had been right on top of the ground, and it was fairly clean, with only a leaf clinging to it.

Rhodes looked around for signs that someone had been there, and he found them: crushed leaves, a broken twig. But no clearly defined footprints, and no other clues.

Rhodes had brought a couple of paper bags in his back pocket. He got one out and dropped the sock in it. He didn’t know what value it might have, but he was pretty sure it was somehow connected to everything that had happened. He’d take it back to the jail and put it in the evidence locker until he figured it out.

If he ever did.

Billy Quentin still wasn’t at home, so Rhodes couldn’t ask him if he’d lost any socks. Claude and Clyde were at work, but Mrs. Appleby was sitting in her living room watching Sally Jessie Raphael’s audience taunt a young man who had apparently been sleeping with his much older stepmother.

“The world is full of trash,” Mrs. Applebly observed, shaking her head.

Rhodes didn’t comment. He just asked if either Claude or Clyde might be missing a sock.

“A sock?”

“A black one,” Rhodes said. “Thick cotton.”

“They don’t like thick socks,” Mrs. Appleby said. “They like those thin ones that have a lot of elastic in them and stay up good. They don’t even own any thick ones. Why?”

“Somebody lost one back in the trees,” Rhodes said.

“You think it was that naked woman?”

Rhodes said that he doubted it.

Mrs. Appleby did, too. “She wasn’t wearing any socks that I could see. Just those panties.”

Rhodes thanked her for her help and left.

There was a session in progress when Rhodes stopped at the college, so he sat out on the porch of the main building and talked to Chatterton.

“What are they talking about?” Rhodes asked.

“How to write a synopsis,” Chatterton said. “It’s very important to be able to write a good synopsis, they tell me. They even have contests to see who can write the best one. They charge a fee to enter and get some writer to be the judge. That’s how they help pay for conferences like this one.”

Rhodes didn’t quite understand why anyone would want to write a synopsis.

“Why not just write the whole book?” he asked.

Chatterton explained that professionals never wrote a book unless they were certain that it would sell. Only beginners wrote the whole book.

“You seem to know a lot about it,” Rhodes said. “Why aren’t you attending any of the sessions?”

“Because I don’t want to write a book. I might be the only person here who doesn’t, though.”

“What about Terry Don Coslin?”

“Oh, he’s going to all the sessions. I believe he has a contract to write a historical romance. It’s supposed to be a very lucrative deal.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Oh, no. It was in all the papers. ‘Model Turns Author.’ That sort of thing.”

“He’s actually going to write a book?”

Chatterton laughed. “Of course not. You don’t really believe that celebrities write their own books, do you?”

Rhodes said that he’d never thought about it.

“Well, they don’t. Or maybe some of them do, but most of them don’t. They don’t have time. They’re too busy being celebrities. So someone else writes the book, and the celebrity’s name goes on the cover. It’s supposed to help sales. And some celebrities like to keep up the illusion that they’re the real authors. Mr. Coslin’s doing that by attending the sessions.”

“Does the big name on the cover help sales?”

“I have no idea. And in this case, it should be especially interesting. Women who read romance novels don’t generally buy books written by men.”

“Why not?”

“I suppose they think men don’t know anything about romance.”

Rhodes decided it was time to change the subject.

“How’s Terry Don as a roommate?” he asked.

“Very quiet,” Chatterton said. “I hardly heard a peep out of him all night.”

“Did you know he went wandering around down the hill?”

“He said something about that at breakfast this morning. A very amusing story, except for the part about the gunshots.”

“Maybe he can use it in his novel,” Rhodes said.

11

V
ERNELL LINDSEY DIDN’T WANT TO TALK TO RHODES IN THE least. She told him that there was one more session, and she was going to attend it.

“It’s about writing a screenplay,” she told Rhodes. “I can’t miss it.”

Rhodes said he thought she could.

“It’s about murder,” he said.

“I don’t care if it is. I have to be at that session. It could be important to my career.”

“Your career doesn’t matter right now,” Rhodes said. “Henrietta does.”

“Henrietta’s dead.”

They were standing in the big hallway of the main building, where most of the people attending the conference were loitering, waiting for the next session. Vernell’s voice was shrill, and people turned to look at them.

“That’s why she matters,” Rhodes said. “Let’s go outside where we can talk without everyone looking over our shoulders.”

Vernell seemed to realize for the first time that Rhodes meant what he said and that he wasn’t going away.

“Oh, all right,” she said sulkily.

They went out onto the porch. Chatterton took a look at Rhodes’s face and stood up.

“I think I’ll go check the dormitory,” he said, and left.

“Let’s get it over with,” Vernell said. “What do you want?”

Rhodes wanted a lot of things, but he didn’t think Vernell would be much help with most of them. He said, “I want to ask you about a book.”

“A book? Are you joking?”

“I wish I was,” Rhodes said. “It’s not a published book. It’s a manuscript called
A Romantic Way to Die
.”

“Never heard of it,” Vernell said, not very convincingly.

“I think you have,” Rhodes said. “You might as well tell the truth because I’m going to be asking a lot of other people about it.”

Vernell thought about that for a full minute. Then she said, “All right. I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never seen it. For all I know, it doesn’t even exist.”

“It exists all right,” Rhodes told her. “Where’d you hear about it?”

“From Henrietta,” Vernell said. “She took great pleasure in telling me all about it. She said that before long, everybody in Clearview and the whole world was going to know what kind of bitch I am.”

“What did she mean by that?”

“I assume she thought the book would be published. She always did have a high opinion of her own writing. Much too high an opinion, I might add. She couldn’t write a publishable page, much less a publishable book.”

“It’s not
that
bad.”

“You’ve read it?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you’re not the only one. I heard about it from other people, too.”

“Who?”

“Lorene Winslow, for one. She was practically Henrietta’s only friend. She’d read it. She thought it was funny.”

Rhodes hadn’t thought so, but he could see how Lorene might get that impression.

“Has Jeanne Arnot read it?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

“I just wondered. If Henrietta was planning to sell it, she’d need an agent.”

“Not Jeanne. She turned down three of Henrietta’s manuscripts. Henrietta hated her.”

Somehow that didn’t come as much of a surprise to Rhodes.

“What did Henrietta have against Terry Don?” he asked.

“You mean you don’t know?”

“If I knew, I wouldn’t ask.”

“You don’t have to get huffy. I guess I just took it for granted that the sheriff knew everything that went on in the county.”

“Not this sheriff,” Rhodes said.

“There’s no real reason why you should have known,” Vernell said. “It was all a long time ago. Henrietta and Terry Don dated in high school. And she got the idea that he was going to marry her when they graduated. It was sort of like her idea that she was going to be a writer, I guess, something that was mostly in her head.”

All that was news to Rhodes, and it slightly changed the way he’d been looking at things.

“Serena Thayer’s in the book, too,” he said.

“Oh, my God. What does it say?”

Rhodes told her.

“I hope Serena hasn’t heard that. She’d kill Henrietta.”

Rhodes started to remind Vernell that someone already had, but Vernell thought of it for herself.

“Oh, my God,” she said again. “Serena has a terrible temper. Everyone knows about it, but nobody ever talks about it.”

Rhodes remembered a few incidents from the book. One episode described Serena’s attack on a hotel maid with a high-heeled shoe. The maid’s crime had been her failure to put a chocolate mint on Serena’s pillow.

“Henrietta talked about it,” Rhodes said. “What did she have against Serena?”

“Terry Don,” Vernell said. “Everyone knows—” She stopped and looked at Rhodes. “Well, not everyone. But it was an open secret that Serena had a thing for Terry Don. Of course Terry Don is used to that sort of thing. I mean, look at him.”

Rhodes said he’d rather not, and he didn’t mention the other things that Henrietta had said about Terry Don. Probably everybody knew, anyway.