Stranger Than Fiction Read online

  Before Claire could think of an answer to Damien’s surprising question, a man stepping out of the elevator grabbed her. “Miss Kennedy, I need to speak to you. Now.”

  Claire stared at the large hand aggressively clasping her arm. Silently cursing the nametag displayed so prominently on her sweater, she said, “I’m sorry Mr...?”

  She scanned his soft corduroy jacket and faded plaid shirt for some identification, then spotted the card pinned to his lapel. “Mr. Poe?”

  Ripping off the nametag and balling it up with his free hand, he continued to grip Claire’s arm. “My name is Nichols. Tony Nichols.”

  “Really, Mr. Nichols, this is most rude.” Damien’s voice rose as he took a cautious step closer to Claire.

  Tony’s frown deepened. “Do we do this here, Miss Kennedy, or shall we talk in private?”

  Claire decided the man must be a writer, and forced herself to feel a little sympathy. She knew that writers often waited for weeks, months even, while their manuscripts circulated through a publishing house. He had probably sent in a novel to Cauldron and decided to cheek on it in person.

  “Mr. Nichols, if you’d like an appointment to speak to me, please call my office and make one. Now if you’ll excuse us, Mr. Laurent and I were having a private conversation.”

  “I can’t wait until next week.”

  Her impatience rising, Claire met Tony’s dark, unsmiling eyes. Her bags were packed for a trip, and she was not going to let this man ruin the first vacation she’d had in two years. It would be just her luck if she had already rejected his book and he wanted to argue about it. “I’m afraid you’ll have to.”

  But Tony Nichols would not budge. His voice took on a sharper edge. “The only thing I’ll have to do is send a summons for you to appear in court, Miss Kennedy. I suggest you finish your private conversation with Mr. Laurent and have one with me.”

  Damien glared at Tony. “Mr. Nichols, please take your hands off Miss Kennedy.”

  Claire was horrified by the vision of Damien being punched to bits by the muscular and obviously furious Mr. Nichols. “It’s okay, Damien, I can handle this. Go on down to the lobby. I’ll call you later to set up dinner.” Claire leaned over and grazed the critic’s pale cheek with a kiss and then pushed him into the waiting elevator.

  Turning, she stared pointedly at Tony Nichols’s hand. “You have five minutes, Mr. Nichols. And please, take your hand off me. You’re cutting off the circulation.”

  Tony stepped back. He was finding this much harder than he had expected. For one thing, Claire Kennedy was fabulous looking. From the mass of wavy blond hair to the bold cashmere jacket, she was a picture of loveliness. Her brown eyes sparkled with energy, and her manner was brisk yet completely feminine.

  He nodded toward an alcove away from the elevator, deep in shadow. “Shall we?”

  Following him across the plush carpet, Claire had the odd feeling that she would suddenly become a character in one of the hundreds of mysteries she read each year.

  Heroine accosted by stranger. Handsome black haired stranger. With a secret.

  Well, he had the right looks for the hero. Or the demonic bad guy, she thought with a chill as she settled into the couch. Her heart beat uncomfortably fast when he sat down and leaned toward her.

  Claire inhaled, hoping she would be able to remember something about the manuscript she was sure he must want to talk about. “Well, Mr. Nichols, what exactly is this all about?”

  His olive complexion was smooth under the well-defined stubble of a day’s growth of beard. “You’ll never get away with it,” he said in a low voice.

  Claire’s face reddened. “With what, Mr. Nichols? Have we lost your book? Taken longer than you liked getting back to you on a proposal you’ve submitted. I’m sorry if you’re upset, but we receive over a hundred unsolicited manuscripts a month from people.”

  “How many of that hundred did you steal this month?”

  Claire recoiled. “We’d never steal anyone’s work. We’re overjoyed to find publishable material, and more than happy to pay for it. Now, if you’ll just tell me what’s happened to confuse you?”

  Her voice trailed off as she was distracted by the fragrance that emanated from him. The mixture of sandalwood soap and tobacco was so strong it seemed to be coming off her own clothes.

  “What’s happened to confuse me, Miss Kennedy? ‘Confuse’ is the wrong word. When a book is attributed to one person even though it was written by another, I don’t get confused. I get enraged. Because that is stealing. And I’m here to tell you I won’t let it happen with this book.”

  “What book? I appreciate your anger, but I’m not following you. No one here has stolen any book.”

  His laugh ambushed her senses. It was rich, low and deep, enveloping her like warm fog. “You’re really cool, Miss Kennedy, I’ll give you that. What is this? A trick? Have you signaled the house detective? Are you planning on accusing me of taking advantage of you so I’ll get locked up and you can duck out and warn your cronies?”

  Claire got to her feet. She had tried to discuss his issue calmly, but now he was being abusive. She had to do all she could to muster her professionalism. “Call me if you’re ever ready to talk reasonably, Mr. Nichols. I will try to help you then.”

  He made no effort to move his feet, which were blocking hers. “You know what book.”

  “No. I don’t.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Look, if you’ll be more specific, I’ll try to find out what happened to your manuscript. But you really are going too far.”

  “Okay, Miss Kennedy. We’ll play it your way. The book in question is titled Letters in the Attic. Moreover, it’s not my book. It was written by a student of mine, Patricia Snow.” He waited for her response.

  “Not your book? Then I’ll have to speak to this, er, Miss Snow about this matter.”

  “Patricia asked me to inquire about it for her.”

  “Oh? Are you her agent?”

  “No. I’m her friend.”

  Claire frowned. “I don’t recall reading a manuscript with that title, Mr. Nichols. What was it about?”

  “It’s about deceit, and a lost love affair, and a girl’s murder. But justice prevailed, Miss Kennedy, just like it will in real life.”

  Though a warning bell sounded in a distant corner of Claire’s mind, she dismissed it. The guy had to be a lunatic. A handsome, compelling lunatic, but a lunatic nonetheless. “I’m late now, Mr. Nichols. And I really have no more time for this, so if you’ll excuse me.” She stepped around his feet, but his hand once again grasped her arm. She winced slightly as he pressed on the exact spot he had earlier.

  “How about The Poison Pen Pal, Miss Kennedy? Do you have time to discuss that title?”

  Suddenly queasy, as if she were on an airplane that had dropped a hundred feet, Claire stared at this outrageous stranger. “What interest do you have in Sarah Winesong’s new book? How do you even know the title?”

  “Getting nervous? Feeling guilty maybe?”

  “This is a ridiculous game you’re playing. If you want to discuss Sarah Winesong’s new book... ”

  “Ah, but that’s the point, Miss Kennedy. The Poison Pen Pal isn’t Sarah Winesong’s book. She stole it, or someone stole it for her. From Patricia Snow.”

  Go slow, Claire. Go slow. Find out where the strength is. Then make your play.

  Her dad’s advice, spoken to her years ago while he taught her to play penny ante poker, whispered inside her brain. She took a deep calming gulp of air. But before she could speak, a voice behind her almost shattered her last shred of control.

  “Claire. Aren’t you going to introduce me? Or are you hiding this man from the rest of us?” Roz’s voice was deadly. And full of curiosity.

  Turning slowly, Claire wondered how long the other woman had been standing there. She let her breath out slowly. “No, Roz, I’m not going to introduce you. This gentleman and I have private business. So, if yo
u’ll excuse us?”

  Roz’s white teeth glimmered in the shadowy light. She looked a little unsteady. Her black velvet bow had slipped over her right ear, and her eyelids were half-closed. She had obviously entertained her guests to the limit at lunch.

  “Certainly. Nice to not meet you. If you get tired of your present company, give me a call.” Roz winked at Tony Nichols, and then walked away as gracefully as she could manage.

  Claire knew she would have to pay for the snub, but she could not handle what this character might say in front of her rival.

  “Nice job. But I wouldn’t mind speaking to someone from Usherwood Publications.”

  Obviously, Nichols had made a mental note of Roz’s nametag, Claire thought. “Why would you do that?”

  “I might have to go to her for some expert advice.”

  “I don’t know what your game is,” Claire countered. “But I’m not going to play. If you have some legitimate complaint, or information about Cauldron Press, or one of our books, call my office and make an appointment to discuss it with us. If you don’t, I suggest you drop whatever game you’re playing.”

  Tony balled his hands into fists. He was finding Claire’s honest tone disconcerting. It rang out like a bell every time she spoke. She must be a hell of a liar, he thought, or he had misunderstood the implications of what little information Patricia had provided concerning the theft of her manuscript.

  Tony reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, noting Claire’s tiny blink of fright. What does she think? That I’ve got a gun? The thought appalled him, but he did nothing to allay her fears.

  He withdrew the heavy parchment envelope and handed it to her. “Read this. I’ll be in touch. And by the way, I have no plans to drop this matter.”

  Outwardly registering none of the fear beginning to fill her, Claire did not reply. She watched Tony saunter to the elevator doors.

  He had lost a little of his bravado, but she saw from the set of his jaw that he had lost none of his conviction. The envelope felt too heavy to hold.

  She pulled out the contents and hurriedly scanned them.

  I was right, she thought, her heart sinking. This is not a day to celebrate.

  Chapter Two

  The elderly woman walked up the porch steps, looking around for her charge. Patricia Snow was nowhere to be seen outside, which meant the young woman was probably still sleeping off last night’s bout of drinking.

  The visitor leaned heavily on her cane and unlocked the front door. As she slid the key back into her dress pocket, the clasp of her Medic Alert ID bracelet got caught, and the copper chain fell to the ground with a dull tinkle. The woman stooped to retrieve it.

  She walked through the door and down the dusty hallway, fiddling with the worn out fastener. “Patricia? Are you still asleep? Patricia?”

  The only response to her call was the creak of the boards beneath her feet. She stopped at the bedroom and opened the door.

  Patricia Snow, looking twenty years older than her twenty-three years, was sprawled on her bed, dressed in yesterday’s baggy shirt and jeans. All the outfits she had worn the past week were heaped around the room. A pink bathrobe lay across a grease stained pizza box. The shades were drawn tight, but several tiny holes let in baleful shafts of late afternoon light.

  The girl looked up. “Go away.”

  Her guest crossed the room and began sorting the clothes into piles. “Come on. Get up, Patricia. Come outside and do some gardening with me.” Her shoe brushed against a bottle lying under the edge of the bedspread, and she leaned down to retrieve it.

  The smell of cheap bourbon hung in the room like exhaust, stinging the elderly woman’s eyes behind her glasses.

  “Leave that bottle,” said Patricia. “There’s still some in it.”

  The woman eyed Patricia, and then placed the bottle carefully on the cluttered bureau. “How is your writing corning? Have you put anything down on paper yet that I can take a look at?”

  “No.”

  “It’s been a couple of months since you’ve worked on anything, Patricia. Want to talk about it?”

  “No. Just drop it.” Patricia felt her head clearing, and she remembered what she had to do. She deliberately altered the harsh tone of her voice. “I’ll finish typing up that latest bunch of research tonight. Can you bring me some gas so I can drive into town tomorrow?”

  “You were just in town yesterday. Two trips in three days. What’s going on with you?”

  “If you’d give me more money I wouldn’t have to bother you every time I have to run an errand.”

  The woman shook her head in gentle rebuke. “No more money until you write another few pages. That’s a directive straight to you from Claire Kennedy. You don’t want to irritate your prospective editor.”

  “I think it’s time I spoke to her myself. I don’t need your help anymore.”

  “You know what happened last time you tried to negotiate for yourself, Patricia.” The old woman reached out her dry hand and patted the girl’s fleshy arm. “I don’t mind doing this for you. It makes me feel part of things.”

  Patricia shrugged off the woman’s hand. “I want to call and check on my mother. I’ve been worried about her,” she lied. Aware that her guest was watching her closely, she looked away. It was not that she was scared of her go-between, but her call to Tony Nichols yesterday might unnecessarily irritate the older woman. No telling what might happen then.

  Professor Nichols was so gallant and concerned. The news he had about Letters in the Attic’s being published under Sarah Winesong’s name and a different title had come as no surprise. Even though Cauldron Press’s editor, Claire Kennedy, had supposedly rejected the manuscript months ago as “too rough,” Patricia had a hunch all along she has not been told the whole truth.

  She would show them all, Patricia thought to herself. Once she heard from the other publisher, it would be Sarah Winesong’s turn to be pitied.

  “What are you thinking, Patricia? You look quite fierce.”

  The girl met her visitor’s eyes. “I’m thinking about what a fun and rewarding life writing has proved to be.”

  “Success will come in time. We all believe in you, Patricia, so cheer up. I’ll take you into town tomorrow for your errands, and then we’ll have supper at the Benton Convent Grill.”

  “Fine.” Patricia forced a smile. She could not remember what time she had promised to call Professor Nichols, but the afternoon seemed good. “You’ll come for me around three?”

  “I’ll be here. Now you try and write a little.” Patricia’s visitor turned and walked back down the hall, the metal tip of her cane tapping lightly in the dusky quiet. She stopped at a cabinet in the foyer and took out a full bottle of bourbon. After loosening the top, she left it sitting there.

  Patricia would find it. She always did.

  The woman closed the door behind her and walked carefully down the porch steps. As soon as she got back to town, she would stop and call New York.

  Patricia Snow had been acting strange. Very strange.

  With The Poison Pen Pal publication date so near, they could not be too careful.

  * * *

  Claire slapped fifty creased pages down onto the desk of her boss, Vincent Harrison. “It’s our book. Not word for word. The characters have different names. And it lacks polish. But it’s the exact story Sarah Winesong sent us.”

  Walking to the window, Claire shook her head in frustration and stared out at the Manhattan evening. All energy had faded from her husky voice, mirroring the last cool shards of sun as they melted into the April sky.

  “What do you think is going on? Is he a crook? A madman? Or do we genuinely have something to worry about?” It was Vincent’s first question since Claire had entered his office a half hour before. He spoke with little inflection, as if he were reading from cue cards.

  “I don’t know exactly what he is. But if Tony Nichols repeats his accusations to anyone, The Poison Pen Pal will have to be with
drawn until all the legal battles are fought.”

  “And won.”

  “Or lost.” Claire turned to meet Mr. Harrison’s eyes. They were glassy with what looked like shock. “We’ll have to ask Sarah Winesong to come in and discuss this. Immediately.”

  “Good God.”

  “I know she has a phobia about the city and about people in general. We’ve never pushed her about it, Mr. Harrison, but this is so potentially damaging that we must insist.”

  “That’s enough,” he interrupted. “I’m sorry to be so abrupt with you, Claire. But, please, let’s slow down a little.” Harrison’s austere features were pinched. The crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes drew into tight lines of anxiety. “I know you feel I’m too indulgent with Miss Winesong, but I’ve dealt with her much longer than you have. I remember how horrible it was for her when we turned her work down, and how she suffered through writer’s block and every other self-doubt that artists are prone to. Until we know more about this Tony Nichols person, I’m against confronting her.”

  Claire crossed her arms. She seldom argued with Mr. Harrison, but when she was convinced she was right, she stood her ground. “Look, we planned on my meeting with her soon, even before this happened. I can handle this tactfully. I won’t make a big deal of it. Or you can go see her. Or we’ll send your Aunt.”

  “No, not Tillie.” His eyes issued a challenge, then he shook his head and backed off a bit. “Claire, we need to be very careful with her. What could we possibly ask? If she’s stolen an idea, or more, from some unknown writer and sent it to us as her own? We’d lose The Poison Pen Pal and all future books she might write.”

  Claire pointed to the offending pages lying on the desk. “That has to be explained somehow.”

  “It will be. In time. For now, let’s put our heads together and work this thing through. Did Tony Nichols tell you how he got a copy of Winesong’s book to compare it to his student’s manuscript? What’s her name?”