Roll with the Punches (10 page)

"We could use our vacation allowance to hire someone to help me at home," Mom said, perking up.

Bertha's eyes looked like Clint Eastwood’s in
Dirty Harry,
and we all shrank back from her. Mom sniffed. Dad sniffed. Arlene frowned at me, the traitor. Footsteps approached from the nurse's station.

Mom squeezed Dad's hand. "Okay. Rhonda, find him a companion while I finish out my sentence here. But he's fine. He doesn't really need to see the doc—"

"Doctor's medical supply store," I said quickly, waving a paper at Dad. "You need new cane tips there tomorrow. Let's go."

After I got Dad two Hungry Man dinners at home, I called a bunch of ladies with housekeeping ads in the paper. None of the affordable ones spoke English, and the others either needed transportation or said no when I mentioned how big my father was.

So I called ten or twelve senior living places, none of which had vacancies. Ralston House must have gotten to them first. Then I searched the house and found a nearly empty bottle of Seagram's in the linen closet, along with quite a selection of tools, underwear and socks which hadn't been there last month. Too tired to reorganize, I left it all except the booze.

Finally, I called several local critique groups to ask about Yvette, but only one or two had ever heard of her. She'd visited these briefly as a guest writer, not an editor. They had loved her sweet, polite manner. But when I asked about book theft in their groups, they got defensive. No, what kind of group did I think they were? Though no such thing had ever happened, they could take no responsibility for the safety of their writers' chapters, and if I was that worried about it, I shouldn't join their group or any other critique group.

At nine o’clock, I was heading to bed with a book when Harley showed up at the door, saying, "Let's go, Rhonda.”

She was even taller than me, and five pounds heavier, which she only owned up to so I wouldn't beat her up. Her long brassy hair had hints of wild red, and her big brown eyes were always looking for some angle, some prank, some adventure. Her nose was long and Patrician compared to my peasant wide one and her jaw brooked no opposition. I'd been led into many a crazy situation by that jaw and had often needed my improbable sense of fiction to get us out. Now she wore a black T-shirt, black jeans and army boots.

"Lookin’ good," I said.

"No time for flattery," she said impatiently. "We’re out of here.

"No, I'm wiped. Up at 3:00 a.m. with Dad, remember? And he’s still awake, pacing and singing."

"You need a drink." She whistled with two fingers and a teenage boy came running. "My nephew. He's got his Gameboy and a cell phone, right, Drew?"

The fifteen-year-old pimply faced kid nodded, eyes hidden under a dense mass of hair, and I was sure there was undone homework somewhere in his life.

She said, "He's your dad’s babysitter.”

*
      
*
      
*

In the car, driving fifty in a forty-mile-per-hour zone, she put her hair in a ponytail. "So who in your writing group's suddenly rich?"

I had to grab the wheel to avoid us sideswiping a car. "What? Nobody."

She put her foot on the brake, hurling me forward.

Forehead to the dashboard, I said, "Wait, wait. Marian has a new red Corvette, and she's started wearing designer silk. And George had a pinky ring this week that about blinded me. Other than that, I don't know. I mean Jackie's wardrobe never changes."

More fast braking, right in traffic.

"Stop!” I said. “Okay, Jackie did do a huge renovation on her house and bought all new dining room furniture and Faberge china at thirteen hundred dollars per place setting. Shoot. They're all frigging loaded all of a sudden."

"Okay. We're off to Jackie's house.”

"Aren't we going drinking?"

"Drinking? When you're in such trouble? Hon, keep up. We're researching your writers' group members here. They're your prime suspects. They had access to the book in all its stages, right?" She pulled the car into oncoming lanes to avoid men working in the street. My heart stopped and I covered my eyes. Harley was not the best driver, but she always got me there.

"But Jackie's so nice to me," I said, peeking between my fingers as we wove in and out of cars on the freeway. "Except at that last meeting, needling me about guys. Do you think she was trying to divert my attention from all the gorgeous stuff she's bought with the proceeds from selling my book?"

"Maybe." Harley made an illegal left turn and gunned it toward Orange.

"I was joking." I clung to the dashboard as we swerved around a biker. "They're my friends! Except Yvette, who had a Reynard Jackson business card in her purse."

Raised eyebrow. "Her purse? Whoa, nice work, Sherlock. But she just joined the group, right?"

"She just showed up. She will not join while there’s breath in my body."

"So forget her."

"I can't. She keeps showing up."

"Oh, Rhonda. Wake up. This couldn't have been her fault. It had to have been done months ago. The book is already out."

"Look. I finished writing it in late July. That's only three months ago. How could anyone get it published in that short time frame? Publishers have long queues."

"The group's been reading it for almost a year," she sang. "Could the published version be copied from a first draft?"

I sighed. "I don't know. I need to see my manuscript and the published work together."

"Okay, let's go to Yvette's and check out her copy."

"Damn. I didn't memorize her address."

She eyed me. "What did you memorize? All her ID numbers?"

I paused, just long enough for her to laugh. "Duh. And she's a geezer. Thirty-seven." I saw a bookstore. "Stop here. I'll buy the damned book."

She pulled up and we walked down the well-lit strip mall.

"Rhonda, look. The other group members have had months to study your book and buff it up. They're all published and could write well enough to pull it off.”

I headed for the donut shop first.

Raised eyebrows. "Diet?" Harley said.

"I just need a whiff," I whined.

She pushed open the shop doors.

"And James isn't published. The rest are, but that doesn't—"

"How long have you known them all, Rhonda? Not even a year.”

I sucked in the sweet, greasy, yeasty air. Home. Sweet. Home. "But I know them. They wouldn't take my work. It has to be someone else with publishing connections."

"Or your cleaning lady. Doesn't Marinella clean for a bunch of fancy Newport Beach folks? Some of them might be in publishing." She ordered crullers and bear claws.

"Not Marinella.
Manuela.
And she quit working for Shiny Zone months ago.”

"Did they send someone else to clean for you after she quit?"

"She only cleaned occasionally for me. She was Mom’s cleaner originally. Mom replaced her, but I couldn't afford it then." I ordered only coffee. "Or now. You're paying.”

"When did she quit?"

"Summer. Look—" I inhaled the fragrance of glazed donuts in the bag. No, I would
not
have one.

"She could have had access to your finished the book?"

"Honestly … my cleaning lady?"

Harley paid for the donuts and we went out to the sidewalk and headed for the bookstore. My feet dragged. My stomach dreaded finding the truth in Jackson's awful book.

"Rhonda, just imagine. You're a writer—a fresh New York Times Bestselling author and you've done a few too many book signings and slept with a few too many groupies and drunk a few too many mai tais and your creative well has gone Sahara and you have a week to write three hundred pages before your next deadline.”

My mouth fell open. She was good.

She bit into a cruller, her eyes following a passing hunk of manhood in ripped jeans.

I said, "But the most I've ever written in a week is fifty pages? That's it. So I need a quick book to fulfill a contract and keep my name on those shelves.”

"And you've already asked for extensions before, and your editor is in a trough of manic-depression." Her donut disappeared fast.

"So I can't ask for another extension. This is great. But I'm a household word. Whatever I write will sell, even if it's garbage. So I figure I could just lift somebody else's idea and expand a little on it.”

The hunk followed us into the bookstore. Hubba hubba.

"But then your mother gets sick or something and you don't even have time for that." She scanned the displays, winked at the hunk.

"Yeah. My editor's calling me every day from the top of the George Washington Bridge, threatening to jump."

Eye roll from Harley.

I said, "Okay, from his rehab bed with a razor. So I just decide to copy something, polish it up a little. Just this once. No one will know. My God. That could really happen."

"Where would the work come from?" Her forehead wrinkled as she scanned the romance section and picked up two books.

"I don't—I guess someone who could write."

"Who's naïve, can’t get a publisher," she said. "Or has a cleaning lady."

"Oh, please. That is so unlikely."

"Well, then, you troll a—a—a writers’ conference for half-assed manuscripts. Or a writers' group. See?" She beamed. The bestseller tables in the front of the store yielded no Reynard Jackson books. "Where are these idiot books, anyway?"

We kept moving. "But I didn't give out any full manuscripts at conferences after I finished writing this thing. And writing groups are small, intimate. Won't the author figure out who stole her work?"

"Okay, an online group. Remember the anonymity of the web. Hackers can do amazing things."

I said, "Maybe. But why would anyone hack me? I’m nobody. Oh, look."

We found the Jackson shelf in mysteries. No
Memory
Wars
. We headed to the cashier for information.

"Or what if the thief says he'll read your work, then never returns it? Says he lost it."

"Could work. People do that a lot," I said. Like every friend I had. We got in line.

"Like who? Group members?" she said.

"Not usually. Groups are supportive." Why were we whispering as we approached the sales people? This wasn't a library.

"Did you submit work online? Are there crooked agents or editors who would take your work and sell it?"

"Maybe. Hell, maybe the whole world is a bunch of evil hackers who want nothing more than to copy my Word docs. But why
Memory Serves
? It’s had no hype." I breathed. "I just keep coming back to Yvette, who has Jackson's business card. Damn, I wish I'd kept it. It had that same stupid Jokerman font as his book covers." I gestured toward his display.

"The same colors?" She knew about my color thing.

"Yeah. Damn cutesy stuff. And all wrong. Yellow
A
's? A blue
Y
? A green
R
? Sacrilege.”

She rolled her eyes.

"Do you think Yvette could have stolen my book from one of my group members, before we even met her?"

"Jackie said they didn't know her."

"
She
didn't. Someone else might have." The line was moving slowly.

"Then why would she come to the group and point it out to you?" Logical Harley.

"Good point. Maybe she's just mean." I picked up a book of quotes. "Or mentally ill."

Harley said, "But how does Jackson commit plagiarism on this scale without the real author noticing until the book comes out and it's too late? Oh, wait. That was you! Have any Men in Black altered your memory lately?" She smiled angelically.

I poked her. "Maybe he figured I'm just too dumb to notice. Damnation."

We were in line behind a lady with kids, who all turned their heads at this.

"Hey, maybe he asked some nasty agent or editor to slam your book at a conference appointment so you'd forget about it. Did that happen?"

I frowned. "Nah. Nobody listens to the agents at conferences anyway. Authors are tough as toenails. When panned, we just keep querying.”

"Or maybe he only takes old, unsold manuscripts from people's closets. Rejects."

"
Memory Serves
is no reject!" I hissed. "It's selling big! Just not in my name!"

"Can I help you?" We were finally at the checkstand. The female clerk had boxy glasses and an unflappable expression.

"I'm looking for …" I had to swallow the sudden rush of bile in my throat. "
Memory Wars
."

"Sorry. We sold out yesterday. All the stores in Southern California did." She leaned in, misreading my slack jaw. "I know. I want to read it, too. It's set here in the Southland, and rumor is there are big clues to Reynard Jackson's real identity in it. There's an Internet contest offering $100,000 to the person who can guess his real name by November 15
^th
, so everybody wants to read it. Can I order one for you?"

I stood there, my head imploding, my heart playing ping pong with my stomach. People in line were staring, but I couldn't move. Tears threatened to form, then started to spill. Then my legs took over and propelled me out of the store.

*
      
*
      
*

"Agghh! My life is a terrible B-rated movie! Film noir!" I beat my head on Harley’s dashboard. I think I left dents.

"More like film puce," Harley corrected.

We were back in the car after I'd run down the entire block looking like an Edvard Munch painting. "Take me home right now! I'm a negative energy vortex. If I stay in this car, we'll likely explode."

"Tough as toenails, huh?" Harley said.

I fumed until we pulled past Jackie's house. The lights were on. "Shoot. She's home. Let's try Marian's.”

I was in too black a mood to resist.

Harley dug a vitamin pill out of her pocket. "Have some 5-HTP and relax." She held up a slim hardback. "You should read this book I bought by Farah Moan, that Oregon skater.
How to Release Your Inner Roller Queen -- On and Off the Rink
. Be brave, spontaneous, in the moment. Cool." She looked at me. "Or in your case, just try to unclench your fists."