ILL-TIMED ENTANGLEMENTS (The Kate Huntington mystery series #2)
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Authors: Kassandra Lamb
A Kate Huntington Mystery
by
Kassandra Lamb
author of
Multiple Motives
The Kate Huntington Mystery Series
Copyright © 2012 by Kassandra Lamb
Ill-Timed Entanglements
is a work of fiction. Names, characters and events are ALL products of the author’s imagination (as is The Villages retirement center). Any resemblance to actual events, places or people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Real places in this novel may be used fictitiously. No part of this book may be used, transmitted, stored, or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the writer’s written permission.
All Rights Reserved.
E-book design by 52novels.
Cover art by Rebecca Swift Artwork.
This book is dedicated to the men entangled in my life:
To my brother who has been there from the beginning,
and who advises me on guns and guy things;
To my husband who puts up with me, which is no small feat,
and who proofreads my manuscripts,
(also no small feat);
To my wonderful writer son who is often my most
critical and therefore most helpful reader,
and who came up with the title for Multiple Motives;
And to the most precious little man of all,
my grandson.
The Kate Huntington Mystery Series
Multiple Motives
Ill-Timed Entanglements
Family Fallacies
(to be released Spring, 2012)
Celebrity Status
(to be released Fall, 2012)
ONE
B
etty Franklin’s phone rang at eight o’clock in the morning. She had been up since six-thirty, but nonetheless no civilized person, in her opinion, should be calling before nine.
Still in her bedroom slippers and bathrobe, Betty shuffled over to the phone on the wall of her kitchen and picked up the receiver. A cheerful voice said, “How’s my favorite author this morning?”
“I’m fine, dear. How are you?”
“I am absolutely wonderful! I just got off the phone with Jodi at Blue Speck Publishing. They love your latest book!”
“That is good news, my dear.”
“Wait, there’s more. Are you sitting down?”
“Yes,” Betty lied, as she shuffled to the stove to retrieve the tea kettle. She liked her new agent, but the young woman’s exuberant personality could be a bit over the top sometimes.
“This book fulfills your current contract.
But
they’re offering you another two-book contract. Aaannd…”
“That’s wonderful,” Betty said. Not the least bit surprised by this news–after all, she was a best-selling author–she started to fill the kettle with water.
“Wait, I haven’t told you the best part yet,” her agent’s voice bubbled through the phone line. “The advance is a hundred thousand dollars, fifty per book!”
Betty almost dropped the kettle into the sink.
Maybe not so over the top this time. That was almost twice the size of her last advance. “Well… that truly is great news, dear,” she managed to say into the phone in a reasonably steady voice.
“Thought that would make your day. I’ll send along the contract for your signature as soon as I get it.”
Betty paused. For some reason, she could never keep this girl’s name straight. Was it Sally or Sarah? “Thank you, dear,” she finally said, but her agent had already disconnected.
Even though she could hardly wait to tell her friends in the writers’ club the good news, Betty did not rush through her morning routine. Her face and figure still retained vestiges of the beauty she had once been, and she did not consider advanced age an excuse to let oneself go. She dressed carefully, put on her make-up, then combed and patted her short wavy white hair into place.
Finally ready, she closed her apartment door and started down the hallway. There was a slight skip in her step as she headed for the recreation center of her retirement community, where the writers’ club meeting was about to convene.
Betty had always loved to write. Anything that called for a bit of creative prose and she was happy. During her thirty-year career as a high school English teacher in Philadelphia, she had even enjoyed writing questions for tests. In her forties, she had started a novel, but the demands of her career, raising a teenaged son and dealing with a temperamental husband had left little time for writing. The half-finished manuscript had languished on a shelf for two decades.
Twenty years later, the son was grown and living in Seattle, the husband had succumbed to a massive heart attack, and Betty had retired from teaching. She’d discovered that her own pension, combined with the survivor benefits from her husband’s, gave her just barely enough income to afford a rather upscale retirement community.
She had moved into The Villages retirement center in her hometown of Lancaster, Pennsylvania, and, to supplement that income, she had started writing for a travel magazine aimed at retirees. One day the editor of
Senior Travels
had made an off-hand comment in a telephone conversation about her latest article. “Your writing is fabulous, Betty. If anyone should write the Great American Novel, it’s you.”
That was all the encouragement she had needed. Dusting off the old manuscript, she’d set to work, and six months later she was calling her editor for advice about where to send her finished novel.
And the rest, as they say, is history. Now she had three best sellers under her belt, was about to publish her fifth novel, and had a lucrative contract for two more books. Betty was grinning from ear to ear as she stepped through the conference room door.
• • •
A half hour into the writers’ club meeting, Betty Franklin’s mood was as low as it had been high earlier that morning.
After the group had applauded her announcement, someone had asked how she had woven one of the subplots into the main plot at the end of the book. It was something she had mentioned at previous meetings as she’d struggled with how to tie up those particular loose ends.
As soon as she had started explaining her solution to the knotty problem, Doris Blackwell had jumped up and accused her of plagiarism. She had claimed the subplot was suspiciously like an idea for a book that she had described to Betty two months ago.
Other members of the group tried to calm Doris while Betty just sat there, too flabbergasted to speak up in her own defense. The last words Doris threw over her shoulder as she left the room were, “I’m calling my lawyer. I’m going to sue you.”
Back in her apartment, Betty dialed her agent’s phone number, her lips pressed into a grim line. Once again the girl’s name was rattling around in the back of her brain just beyond the reach of conscious awareness. Why was it she could remember the phone number by heart but couldn’t come up with the damn name?
Betty muttered, “Forgive me, Lord,” under her breath as the phone rang in her ear. She never even thought in curse words, much less used them out loud. It was a sign of how upset she was.
“Hello, dear,” she said to the young lady who answered the phone. She didn’t even
try
to remember the receptionist’s name. “This is Betty Franklin. I have a bit of an emergency. Is she in?”
The
girl
who picked up a moment later was Sara Burnett, an up-and-coming literary agent in New York City. “Hey, Betty. What’s up?” she asked cheerfully.
Betty filled the agent in on Doris’s accusations.
“Are you sure this woman isn’t just blowing hot air?” Sara asked.
“I doubt it. Doris Blackwell is a very litigious person,” Betty said. “She’s usually involved in one or two lawsuits a year.”
“How hard would it be to take that subplot out?”
“Very. It would require a major re-write because it’s entwined with the main story in several places. And I’d have to totally rethink the ending…” Betty’s voice trailed off. She did not want to re-write the book. Her mind had already moved on to the next one.
But Sara had jumped to another possibility. “When did you develop that subplot, before or after this woman talked about her idea with you?”
“I don’t know for sure, but I think it was before. I’d have to look back through the earlier drafts in my computer. I don’t think it was in the original outline.”
“You save all the old drafts?”
“Yes. I’m always afraid I’ll have second thoughts about something I took out or changed drastically, and I’ll want to go back to the earlier version.”
“Okay, put them on a flash drive and hop on a plane. Your contract requires your publisher to back you up in the event of a plagiarism claim, if there’s reason to believe the claim is unfounded. I’ll get the publisher’s lawyers on the phone and get a meeting set up for late this afternoon or first thing tomorrow.”
“Honey, I’m eighty-five. I don’t just hop on planes anymore. Never did like to fly anyway because I get airsick.”
“So how’d you end up writing all those travel articles?”
“I flew when I had to, but I was a lot younger then, in my sixties. Mostly I got there by tour bus or cruise ship.”
Thirty-six-year-old Sara only spared a brief moment to contemplate how being in one’s sixties could be considered a lot
younger
. “Okay, so when can you get here?”
Betty thought for a moment. “I’d have to get someone to drive me to Philadelphia or New Jersey to catch a train, and probably by the time I get there I’ll be incoherent with fatigue. I’d say day after tomorrow.”
“Okay, I’ll see if I can set something up for Friday morning. And don’t forget to bring those earlier drafts.”
“I’ll gather them up right now. Soon as I call around for a ride for tomorrow morning. Uh, just one other question, dear.”
“Shoot.”
“What’s a flash drive?”
• • •
Kate Huntington’s stomach growled as she sat in a booth at Mac’s Place, waiting for her best friend to join her for lunch. She blew a dark curl out of her blue eyes and said a silent prayer of thanksgiving for a good metabolism. She’d had to increase her exercise a bit, but she had recovered her figure fairly readily after the baby was born.
All things considered, I don’t look bad–for a thirty-nine-year-old woman,
she thought.
Her mind turned once again to her guilt-ridden ruminations about returning to work part-time in a few weeks. One third of her guilt was about leaving Edie with her nanny three days a week, and two thirds of it was because she was actually looking forward to it!
For the umpteenth time, Kate told herself,
I’m no different from any other middle-class professional who also happens to be a mother. I love my child. I love my job.
But in reality, there was a difference. Kate did not have to work to sustain her middle-class lifestyle. Thanks to the foresight of her late husband, who had taken out a sizeable life insurance policy several years before he was killed, Kate was financially comfortable, as long as she didn’t get too extravagant.
Bottom line, she was not cut out to be a stay-at-home mom. Spending all day every day in the company of a seven-month-old was starting to make her stir-crazy. And she loved her work. Being a psychotherapist felt more like a calling than a career to her.
Besides, she was leaving Edie in good hands. Two months ago, the cousin of her friend, Rose, had immigrated from Guatemala. It was perfect timing. Maria Hernandez, the oldest of seven siblings, needed a job. Kate needed a trustworthy nanny.
