Ellipsis (7 page)

“—then you know they have the most bizarre love-hate relationship with the public you can possibly imagine. In fact, I'm sure you
can't
imagine how totally and pathetically some people attach themselves to the rich and famous. And how many truly disturbed people are walking around out there.” Amber's wave encompassed the city and the entire world beyond it.

“That last part I've had some experience with,” I said.

Sally Rinehart squeaked like a mouse. “One woman sent Chandelier a Tampax. Used. She wanted Chandelier to drink her menstrual blood.”

Everyone but Sally shuddered. I began to see her more as a ghoul than a sprite.

“Then there're the critics,” Lark piped up. “Some of them are so insulted by Chandelier's success they seem to become literally unhinged. One of them said there should be a federal law prohibiting her from writing any more books.”

“Are you seriously suggesting that one of them might be a suspect?”

Lark hesitated. “Allen Goodhew, maybe. Allen's local—he writes the book column for an alternative weekly, the
Riff
. Allen seems to feel personally betrayed by Chandelier's work. It's as if he feels she's become some sort of Antichrist.”

“I'll talk to him. Anyone else?”

“Only her entourage,” Amber said with a sneer.

“What kind of entourage do you mean?”

“Copy editors, book designers, cover artists, publicists, store owners, talk show producers, various and sundry gofers and assistants. Everyone she comes in contact with, basically.”

“You're saying she's difficult to deal with.”

Amber laughed the way a hyena barks. “Has Cher had plastic surgery? All I'm saying is if you spend any time in her orbit, sooner or later Chandelier will accuse you of incompetence, treason, stupidity, or all of them, and not necessarily in that order. And the list of her victims includes all three of us.”

I thought Amber might be exaggerating, or even have some personal vendetta she was pursuing, but when I looked at the other two women, they nodded. “Then why do you keep on?” I asked.

“Money,” Amber Adams said gruffly. “Ten percent of a ten-million-dollar advance is hard to turn down.”

“It's more than that, Amber,” Lark insisted. “Chandelier is gigantic. She's one of the most successful women in the world. You just keep hoping that someday she will focus her energy and ambition on something larger than herself. Because when that happens, she'll do major things with her life.”

“When pigs fly is when Chandelier will think of someone other than herself,” Amber Adams muttered in the echo of Lark's encomium. Her bile was so obvious I decided to ask Lark about it the next time we were alone.

“She's not that bad,” Lark protested. “She gives tons of money to charity.”

“Tax dodge,” Amber countered.

“She buys hundreds of books for the libraries.”

“
Her
books, mostly. Which has the fully anticipated result of pushing her higher on the bestseller list.”

“She's a good mom.”

“When she's home.”

“She's a good speller,” Sally said, blushing.

I laughed. “I've known serial killers with fewer enemies.”

“We're pretty sure the guy who wrote the notes is here in San Francisco,” Lark McLaren said. “Aren't we?”

“Why?”

“The notes were hand-delivered, for one thing.”

“If you can hire people to commit murder, you can certainly pay them to deliver an envelope.”

“But this is where she lives. This is where most of her …”

“Victims live?” I offered.

“I suppose so.”

“Besides,” Sally interrupted, “I thought we were sure it's the ex-husband.”

Lark shook her head. “I can't see Mickey going that far. I mean, if Chandelier died, what would he do for money?”

“What would any of us?” Amber added morosely.

I sighed and finished my beer. “That covers the bases, I guess. I'll see you all at the big party.”

“That reminds me,” Lark said. “Chandelier wants to make sure you scout out the place beforehand.”

“Scout for what?”

“Bombs. Booby traps. Assassins. You'd know better than I would, I'm sure.”

“Do you really think this is that serious?” I asked.

“Chandelier does,” they said in unison.

I shrugged. “Okay. I'll take a look. Where is it again?”

“Jimbo's. She's had all her launch parties there for the past twelve years.”

“How many people do you expect to show up?”

“Three to four hundred. And they'll be lining up by three at the latest, so you'd better get there early.”

Chapter 7

I went home to change clothes for the party, which meant switching from corduroy slacks to twills and replacing the old tweed jacket with the one that still had all the buttons. As I fixed a cup of coffee to help me stay awake through the festivities, I got an idea.

“Hey, Ruthie,” I said when she answered the phone.

“Hey, yourself, Sugar Bear. How's life in the fast lane?”

“I'm still looking for the on-ramp and you know it.”

Ruthie's laugh was a wheezy growl that a grizzly would envy. “Still loving up that assistant DA?”

“Whenever I get the chance.”

“Time you tied the knot, is what I think, baby doll.”

“I'll keep that in mind in case the issue comes up for a vote.”

“This one's the one; I can feel it.”

“Could be,” I said, wondering how much Ruthie's judgment could be relied on. And if it would help to have someone to blame if I made the plunge, then things fell apart.

“What can I do you for, Sugar Bear?” Ruthie was asking as I was estimating eventualities.

“What're you doing at four o'clock?”

“Today?”

“Yeah.”

She thought it over. “Same as usual, I guess—inching toward the liquor cabinet and trying to keep Conrad off me till nightfall.”

I laughed because it was the truth and because I could picture it as vividly as if I were in the room.

Ruthie Spring was an old friend. Her first husband, Harry, had been my mentor in the investigations trade until he was murdered in a valley town named Oxtail more than twenty years ago. Her second husband, Conrad, is rich beyond calculus and spends his money on whatever Ruthie wants him to, which is usually one or another of Ruthie's favorite causes. She's a former army nurse and sheriff's deputy and is currently a private investigator carrying on for her fallen husband. She works when she wants to and doesn't when she doesn't, a state of nirvana I aspire to myself, although it's beginning to look as if I'll never get there unless I win the lottery, which is problematic since I don't play.

“What's happening at four o'clock?” Ruthie asked as I was scanning our recent history.

“Ever hear of Chandelier Wells?”

“The writer?”

“The very same.”

“Sure. She's huge.”

“Read any of her books?”

“I have to admit that when Conrad goes off on one of his quail shoots, she gets my juices flowing a night or two. Gets me wet as a sweat sock sometimes.”

I was glad Ruthie couldn't see my blush.

“The lady writes a nice slice of erotica,” she went on. “Not too gamy; not too tame. A sort of ‘I think I'll try that myself next time' kind of thing. Why does it matter?”

“She's having a party celebrating her new book at Jimbo's at four. Thought you might want to go.”

“You going to be there?”

“Yep.”

She chuckled with a ribald nudge. “Big fan of bodice rippers, are you, Marsh?”

“I'll be working, actually,” I said quickly. Not that there's anything wrong with bodice rippers. “And I could use some help.”

“Doing what?”

“Keeping an eye out for anyone who might have something in mind other than literature.”

“Something illegal, you mean.”

“Yep.”

“Even violent.”

“Yep.”

She paused. “Count me in, Sugar Bear. Might be a hoot, hobnobbing with the hoi polloi. What do I have to do?”

“Just keep your eyes open.”

“We going together or separately?”

“I've got to be there early, so come on your own about four. And don't let on that we know each other, unless you need help shutting something down.”

“Do I pack my piece?”

“I think so.”

“No problem. I'll be the one in the lizard-skin boots,” she added unnecessarily, then told me to be good and if I couldn't be good, to send her a copy of the videotape.

I got to Jimbo's a little after three. True to Lark McLaren's prediction, the devoted had already begun to assemble, most of them women, many of them lugging bulging canvas book bags and sporting sweatshirts emblazoned with one of Chandelier's book jackets, all of them surprisingly cheerful given the chill in the afternoon air and the length of the idolatrous line. I tried to remember if I'd ever gotten a book signed by its author and could only come up with the night I went to a reading by Mailer but didn't have the nerve to ask for an autograph even though I bought his book.

When I got inside the building, Lark was standing in the lobby with another woman at her side. “Long time, no see,” I said. “And thanks for lunch, by the way.”

“I wish I'd had what you had,” she said.

“Hungry already?”

“Famished.” She lowered her voice. “I took a quick look around and didn't see anything suspicious.”

Just for fun, I lowered mine as well. “Good.”

She made sure I wasn't mocking her, then placed her hand on the other woman's arm. “This is Meredith Dunne; she owns Dunne and Son Books on Upper Market. She and Chandelier are old friends—Meredith supplies all the books for these parties and there will be two of her staff here as well, sitting behind the table beneath the store banner.”

Mrs. Dunne and I greeted each other minimally. She was big-boned and big-haired, compact and self-possessed, with a searching gaze that roamed my face so thoroughly it suggested she was writing my unauthorized biography. She was dressed in a chocolate brown pantsuit and toted a purse the size of a carpetbag that I bet contained everything she would need for the rest of the month because that's how far she planned ahead.

“I wanted Meredith to meet you,” Lark was saying, “because she's been to all twelve of these launch parties, and if there's anything out of the ordinary going on, she might be able to spot it.”

“Good,” I said again, and turned my attention to Meredith. “If you see anything remotely suspicious, or even just odd, come find me right away. Don't try to do anything yourself.”

“Fine. I guess.” The words fluttered with worry before she brought them under control. “What do you think is likely to—”

“Nothing,” I interrupted with false confidence. “I don't think anything at all unusual is going to happen this afternoon.”

“Why not?”

“There are too many people around, for one. Plus the male of the species will stand out like a Republican at a union rally and this note business seems like a guy thing to me. So relax. Drink lots of wine; sell lots of books.”

“Easy for you to say,” Meredith said, and strolled off toward the table where her assistants were hanging her banner.

I turned my attention back to Lark McLaren. She had changed to a blue-striped blouse beneath a tailored gray business suit above blockish high heels that added two inches to her height and gave her thighs a provocative curve. She was calm, compelling, and comely. For just a moment, until thoughts of Jill made me shape up, I wished I were twenty years younger.

“What other outside elements will be here today?” I asked her. “Other than the fans.”

“Well, there are Jimbo's people. A couple of guys to handle the heat and lights and chairs. They're easy to spot—they're wearing black satin shirts with
Jimbo's
in script on the breast. Makes me want to go bowling for some reason.”

“I felt the same way at
The Big Lebowski
. Who else?”

She giggled. “I
loved
that film. The rug that tied the room together.”

“I've got one of those myself, as it happens.”

She looked at me. “I'll bet you do at that.”

We exchanged smiles of confederacy. “Who else is here?” I asked.

“The food people. Red Riding Hood is the caterer we use. In keeping with the literary theme, don't you know.”

“Are you implying your boss's books are for children?”

“I most certainly am not.”

I couldn't tell if her anger was real or feigned. “You've dealt with Red Riding Hood before this?” I asked.

“Let's see.” She counted fingers. “Four times. They're very reliable.”

“Their employees must change pretty often, though.”

She nodded. “I don't think serving cheese puffs and cheap Chablis has lots of upside potential.”

I chuckled once again. “You're an amusing woman, Ms. McLaren.”

“Thank you for noticing. Most men don't.”

“How about your boss? Does she go in for witty repartee?”

“Not with me,” Lark said, suddenly somber, then looked at her watch. “She'll be here in twenty minutes. I've got things to do.”

As Lark hurried off toward the main room, I decided to check out the basement. The stairs were wide and plushly carpeted, but the rooms below street level were dark and dank and uninviting. Most of them seemed to be rarely used offices or overstocked storage areas full of stuff that had been stacked away for years. I looked in as many as I could get into, flipping on lights, poking and probing in likely spots and not very likely ones, too, then moving on. My search wasn't exhaustive nor could it be, given the timetable, but I had a feeling that when and if this guy made his move, it was going to be out in the open, a face-to-face showdown with Chandelier Wells, the settling of some long-festering grudge. Nonetheless, after I checked the rest rooms and boiler room and broom closet, I went back upstairs substantially less than confident that there was nothing dangerous down below.