Written Off (2 page)

It took another year and a half, but eventually, having learned a little about book promotion online (which is the only way an author can afford to do anything on a paint publicity salary), I saw my first novel sitting proudly on the mystery shelf at BooksBooksBooks, the local independent bookstore in Adamstown. Of course, by then I had written
Little Boy Lost
—which Sol (having taken over for Dwight, who did in fact retire about a month after buying
Olly Olly
) now had for revisions—and was about to begin the first draft of
Misplaced
, the third book in the Duffy series.

Sales on
Olly Olly
were good if not great. The publisher was happy enough, Sol assured me, to go ahead with the other two books (not a huge surprise, as the initial contract was for three) and possibly, if sales on the second book held firm, to do more.

And so it was the fifth in the series, which I was now calling
Alive and Buried
, that I had just backed up on an external hard drive when my “cleaning” was interrupted by the ringing of the phone. The landline. That didn’t happen very often. I figured it was a telemarketer calling, but caller ID showed a cell phone number but no name. I toyed with the idea of letting it go through to voice mail, but I had promoted tomorrow night’s signing at BooksBooksBooks and was concerned that Rita Mendham, the store’s owner, might be calling with a problem. I picked up.

“Hello?” The voice on the other end of the line was male, slightly tentative, but not the just-out-of-high-school or really-in-another-country type of voice that shows up when your caller is trying to sell you insurance or tell you about “your credit card account” despite not knowing which credit card might be in question.

“Yes?” I said. It might be a reader—it’s really not that hard for them to find out your hometown and look up the phone number—so I had to be polite, at least. “What the hell do you want?” would probably have been a little too aggressive.

“Is this Rachel Goldman?” the voice asked.

You can’t be too careful. “Who may I say is calling?” I asked in my best impression of Paula. She provides a great role model. And mentally, I decided that no matter who this person was, I wasn’t spending more than twenty dollars on whatever he was selling.

“Um . . . this is Duffy Madison,” the voice said.

Okay, maybe twenty-five.

Now, it’s not absolutely out of the question to get a phone call from someone claiming to be your books’ protagonist. Authors—even lesser known ones like me—are sort of public figures, and there will always be some nut who wants to connect with you or just wants to play a joke. It happens every once in a great while, although usually via e-mail. There are also probably just a few people in the country whose parents were cruel enough to name them Duffy Madison. I’ve heard from one or two, usually with the flattering comment, “I’ve never heard of you, but my friend says you have a character with my name.”

So I breathed in a little, wondered exactly why I still have a landline that appears in the phone book, and said, “Can I help you?”

“
Is
this Ms. Goldman?” the man asked again. I had not, after all, admitted to being me.

“It is,” I allowed. “What can I do for you, Mr. Madison?”

There was a noticeable hesitation on his part. “I believe . . . that is, I think I might be . . .” His voice trailed off and then came back, with a more authoritative, professional tone to it. The kind of voice I’ve always heard when I write Duffy’s dialogue for him. “I’m consulting with the Bergen County Prosecutor’s Office and have a matter of some importance I’d like to ask you about. Is it possible we could meet?”

Well, that was a new approach. Usually, they just want an autographed bookplate. “That’s very nice,” I said, my tone suggesting some admiration. “But you know, in the books, Duffy consults with the
Morris
County prosecutor.”

“I wouldn’t know,” he said. “I’ve never read any of your novels.”

Huh?

“Duffy” didn’t give me any time to consider that idea. “This matter is of some considerable urgency, Ms. Goldman. Can we meet?”

Paula walked in carrying a bag marked “Cold Cow” with the logo of hoofprints leading to a frosty sundae (hey, it’s a local independent store; give them a break) and saw I was on the phone. Before I could gesture to her that I had a nut on the line, she turned around and headed toward the kitchen, presumably to stash our treats in the freezer until I could ditch the call and get to what was really important.

So I was, at least theoretically, alone with this guy.

“I’m really not at liberty to meet,” I said, not really sure where “at liberty” had come from. This was a problem, as I use words for a living. “In fact, I really should be going now.”
I made a mental note to get the landline deactivated, or at least to change to an unpublished number.

“Ms. Goldman,” the man said, “I’m aware that you write novels in which a character with my name is a consultant on missing persons cases. I’m aware that my calling you must sound incredibly odd. But I assure you, my business truly is terribly important.”

Okay, now I was sure this guy was crazy. Or worse, wily: Sometimes people think they can get an author’s attention by showing their devotion to the author’s work. That’s almost always extremely touching and welcome. Other times, like when the person in question thinks he can pretend to be the author’s character (and do a damned fine imitation—this guy was good!), it’s a sign that either the caller is an aspiring author who thinks (mistakenly) that a published writer can help his career or, worse, the caller really thinks he’s a crimestopper, which borders on the terrifying.

Paula walked back in, noticed the shift in dust and clutter, nodded approvingly, and sat down on an unoccupied few inches of futon. She narrowed her eyes when she looked at me, trying to determine what that odd expression on my face might indicate.

“I’m sorry,
Mr. Madison
,” I said, pointing to the phone for Paula’s benefit. She curled her lip in amusement. I shook my head—this was no laughing matter. “I make it a policy never to meet with fans.”

“I’m
not
a fan,” “Duffy” replied. “As I said, I haven’t ever read any of your novels. I’m sorry if that is a slight; I don’t intend it to be. But I do need to see you.”

That was the tell: “I need to
see
you” rather than “I need to
talk to
you.” I reminded myself that I was a professional and he was a consumer (even if he insisted he was not one of my readers). Getting snarky would be unproductive. “If you have a warrant, feel free to drop by,” I told him. “Can you give me the name of your contact at the Bergen County Prosecutor’s Office?”

The fictional imposter on my phone didn’t answer for a long moment. “I work with Chief Investigator William Petrosky,” he said.

“Nice try,” I answered, forgetting my pledge of four seconds ago not to be snarky. “But Duffy always works with Lieutenant Isabel Antonio.”

“That’s a
novel
,” the man said. You could hear his teeth clench. “This is
real life
.”

“Mr. . . . whoever you are,” I began.

“Madison. Duffy Madison. And a woman’s life is in danger. Please!”

I hung up on him and turned to Paula. “Call Verizon and get them to disconnect the landline,” I said.

She pulled a pen from behind her ear and wrote a note on the scrap of paper closest to her.

The phone rang. “Wait,” I told Paula. I reached over and unplugged the line coming in. The ringing stopped immediately. “Now, let’s have some ice cream.”

“I love Duffy Madison!” The woman standing in front of me looked positively enthralled. Usually, that’s good; this was a little unsettling.

One day after Paula and I had polished off a good deal of ice cream, BooksBooksBooks was looking its best and the evening sun was just about giving up the ghost, but I was having some trouble concentrating on the event. Normally there are few things as nourishing for an author as a book signing—when people show up. I’ve been at both kinds, and people showing up is definitely the better option. Because the people who show up are those who have read and (almost always) liked your book, and that can put a glow into an author that, under the right circumstances, can last for a week. I love going to book signings these days.

When
Olly Olly Oxen Free
was first being published, I knew nothing about signings, so I called Rita Mendham at BooksBooksBooks and asked her if I could come to the store a few weeks before the publication and at least let people know
that I had a novel on its way. Rita, who is among the best people on the planet (I adore booksellers!), said to wait until the publication date, when she would have copies in stock, and we could have a “launch party.” Who knew there was such a thing?

Rita did, luckily, and she turned BooksBooksBooks into a one-title store for the night. She had banners and posters made—something I’d never imagined—and invited her most loyal customers for weeks in advance. I invited pretty much everyone I’d ever known (my parents had each sent regrets), since having your first book published is not exactly a small milestone in a life.

With something Rita called “hand selling,” which means that she told customers whom she thought would be interested all about
Olly Olly
, she sold more copies out of her little independent store than a lot of the large chain stores and maybe some online retailers, although I’m really not sure about that. Authors don’t know nearly as much about our book sales as people think we do (and we’re not responsible for the covers, either).

Tonight, Rita had ordered bagel sandwiches and soft drinks from the Adamstown Deli (I’d paid) and had store staff members, of whom there were two, dressed in semiformal attire to hand them out from trays. The food and drink were excellent, of course, and while the store didn’t have lines out the door and around the block, there was a nice turnout of about twenty-five people. (Okay, so there were twenty-seven. I counted. And yes, I always do.)

I read a portion of the latest published Duffy book,
How to Vanish Without a Trace
, after a lovely introduction from Rita. I don’t care for reading from my books, but only because I think I don’t do a very good job. I get nervous and read too fast, eventually mumbling into my own chest. Then it gets bad.

So I had kept tonight’s reading brief, gave a short talk on how this particular episode had occurred, and answered a few questions from the group, who luckily had been offered some wine from Rita’s private stock in addition to the soft drinks. That loosens up people who might be nervous about speaking and helps open a few wallets when Rita says I’ll be signing only books people purchase at her store that night. This is, I’m quick to point out, Rita’s rule and not mine. On my own, I’ll pretty much sign the back of your dry cleaning receipt if you show the least bit of interest in my books.

“I’m so glad you enjoy the character,” I said to the enthusiastic fan. There wasn’t a huge line left (to be honest, there had never been a
huge
line, but it had been representative for sure). “It’s always fun to meet people who get him.”

“No, I mean I
really love him
,” the woman, who was wearing a wedding ring, said. I noticed a man standing near the new fiction stack, out of the line, glancing nervously in the direction of the table where I was signing. Maybe her husband. No wonder he was nervous; she was declaring her love for another man—admittedly one who didn’t exist, depending on who you talked to.

Duffy’s readers are most often women, and some of them have a really interesting relationship with the character. I’ve
received marriage proposals in e-mails . . . for Duffy. There was one woman who was, let’s say, explicit in her special interest in him. On occasion, they’ll send photographs of themselves, presumably for the fictional character to peruse. I try not to whenever I can avoid it. But sometimes Paula can’t resist showing me.

“Well, I hope you’ll keep reading. How would you like the book signed?” I asked Duffy’s enthusiastic fan. The man in the back—the only male left in the store besides my pal Brian Coltrane, who was helping Rita clean up after the party—glanced over again, saw me looking at him, and looked away. Her husband, for sure.

“Sign it, ‘To Liddy, who I dream about at night, Duffy Madison,’” she sighed. I stifled an impulse to look around for Paula, then remembered this was not a night she was working. I’d have to do crowd control on my own. Unless I could get Brian to walk over and look threatening.

“Well, I’m not Duffy Madison,” I said with what I hoped was a reassuring smile.

“I know,” she said, not without a touch of sorrow.

What the hell; she’d paid for the book. I wrote the inscription as she’d asked, obstinately signed my name under Duffy’s, and handed it back to her.

“Oh,
thank
you,” she gushed. She clutched the book to her chest and headed hastily for the door.

On her way, she passed the man who’d been watching us and never gave him so much as a glance. Lucky guy; he’d dodged a bullet not being her spouse. Imagine having to compete with someone who wasn’t real!

I signed four more books, bringing the total to sixteen (I count those, too) before the last person in line was satisfied. Fortunately, I’d been able to sign all the other copies with my own name. It saves a lot of mental energy when you don’t have to remember to be someone other than you.

I stood up, shaking the hand of the last woman in the line, who grinned and nodded again and again, and watched her go to the door. Rita came over as I stretched my arms straight up. Signing really doesn’t take all that much out of you physically, but there’s always a certain level of tension, so when the event is over, I release it by stretching out my shoulders and legs.

“Not a bad night,” Rita said, smiling. “I think we did better than with the last book.”

“Nope,” I corrected her. “With the last book, we sold seventeen copies. We’re one short this time.”

She pointed to the remaining copies of
How to Vanish
on the signing table. “You can sign those five for stock,” she said. “I’ll sell them by Friday.”

“You’re the best,” I told Rita, and it was true. I sat down to sign the five books for her. Next week, I’d be sure to drop by again; Rita would have more copies, and I would sign them for her. Then she’d sell those and order more. Rita could, I sincerely believe, sell
me
a copy of my own book.

Rita headed for the back room to make sure there weren’t copies of my previous novels she wanted signed, and I was on book number three of the ones on the table when I noticed a shadow fall over the page I was autographing. I looked up.

The man who had been loitering at the back of the signing line was standing over me. His face, thin but with character, had almost no expression. He didn’t say anything.

In my best author-here-to-please-you voice (which is actually pretty natural, since I really
do
want to please my readers), I asked, “Would you like your book signed or inscribed?” I reached for one of the unsigned copies left on the table.

“I don’t want a book,” the man said. The voice was almost familiar. “I would like to talk to you, Ms. Goldman.”

The guy from the phone call
.

I decided to play it without showing that I really wanted Brian to come back and offer me protection. “You called yesterday,” I said in a nonthreatening tone.

“Yes. I am Duffy Madison.” There was no hesitation, and yet the eyes betrayed no madness. He wasn’t a raving lunatic; he was just a lunatic. I supposed that was a positive, of sorts.

Maybe I could reason with him. “You realize that’s not possible,” I said.

He let out an audible breath and closed his eyes briefly. “And yet, here I am,” he answered.

“Can you explain it?” It might be possible to lead him to the realization that he was indeed not a fictional character and instead someone else entirely. The upside would be that he was real; that was something to aspire to, no doubt.

“I can’t,” the man said. “But you must believe me that I am not pretending, Ms. Goldman. I
am
Duffy Madison, I
do
missing persons consultations for the Bergen County Prosecutor’s Office, and I
am
asking for your help in the
disappearance of a woman from Upper Saddle River. Will you please take the time to help me?”

“Look, Mr. . . .”

“Madison. Duffy . . .”

“Yeah, I get that. You seem like a pretty rational guy. You must know what it sounds like for an author to be approached by someone who says he has the same name as her lead character. I’m sort of used to that, but you also have the same job, and you’re asking me to act like that isn’t odd.”

I saw Rita coming from the back room carrying an armful of books and breathed an inward sigh of relief. Then she headed for the cash register at the front, no doubt thinking “Duffy” was going to buy a book and would need assistance, and my inward sigh almost turned into an outward groan.

“I’m not happy about it,” the man said. “Believe me, before yesterday, I had no idea you existed. But having done some research, I must tell you that it’s not as simple as it seems.”

It didn’t seem simple at all, so that was very little comfort. “It’s not?” I asked. I’m not sure why. That’s not really a question. But there was a gap in the conversation and I filled it.

The man shook his head a little. “I am not someone with the same name and profession as your fictional character,” he said. He looked a bit sad, and I thought that was odd. A person shouldn’t be saddened simply because he was making no sense at all.

“But you just said you were,” I pointed out. Rationality, although it was clearly not working here, still seemed to be my best course of action. Mostly because I couldn’t think of
any other course of action short of running for the door, and in order to get there, I’d have to get past the crazy man in front of me.

“No,” he said. “
You
suggested that I claim to have his name and his job. I’m saying that’s not a coincidence and it’s not a pretense. I really am Duffy Madison, and after gathering all the facts about your work that I could find, I believe that, somehow, you created me.”