Stranger Than Fiction Read online

  “Why didn’t you just call Mrs. Snow and ask?”

  “She doesn’t have a phone.” Tony released her, and then swung the heavy car door shut. His arm accidentally rubbed against Claire, sending a confusing rush of emotion through her.

  Claire averted her glance and stepped stiffly to the porch. “I see. You can’t provide the author, so I get to meet a woman you say is her mother.”

  “Can you just stop being angry for a minute.”

  “Why?”

  Tony’s voice was tight. “I was under the impression that you and Mr. Harrison agreed to meet Patricia Snow in good faith.”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  “I think keeping an open mind is part of good faith, Claire. If I’m mistaken, why don’t you just go back to New York now? Cauldron can start investigating this little stunt when Patricia’s lawsuit is filed.”

  Claire had no doubt he would leave her standing there while he drove off. “I’ll go inside with you. But until I actually talk to Patricia Snow in person, I’ve accomplished nothing.”

  His voice dropped to a whisper. “I need to ask a small favor of you before we go in. I think it best if you don’t mention your reason for wanting to meet Patricia. I wouldn’t want to worry her mother unnecessarily.”

  A chill ran down Claire’s back. She had been ready to suspect Mrs. Snow of playing a part in the hoax, but the concern in Tony’s voice put her off. What if Patricia Snow really was missing? This idea did little to cheer her up. “Of course.”

  Tony rang the doorbell. “Thanks, Claire.”

  Jeanette Snow opened the door on the second ring. Through the screen, Claire saw that the woman was bound to a wheelchair. She lifted a skinny arm to the latch, her small features pinched, accentuated by her wispy dark hair, which was pulled into a tight knot at the back of her head.

  “Professor Nichols? How wonderful to see you again,” she said in a reedy voice.

  “It’s good to see you, too. This is Claire Kennedy, Mrs. Snow. May we come in for a few minutes?”

  “Certainly. This is unexpected, but so nice of you.” She pushed on the screen door and Tony opened it farther so that Claire could enter.

  It took several seconds for Claire’s eyes to get used to the dim light. All the shades and draperies were closed tight. The only illumination was from a small shaded desk lamp in one corner.

  Mrs. Snow wheeled herself into the center of the sparsely furnished room and nodded toward a well-worn sofa off to one side Claire walked over and settled into it, waiting for Tony to join her. He did so, though he chose to sit as far away as possible. She felt her spine stiffen at this odd formality.

  “Would you like some ice tea? Or some coffee? I have both ready.”

  Claire wanted to take some more antacid. The knot in her stomach threatened to explode into a full case of heartburn, her usual reaction when faced with overwhelming stress. Although she’d had enough of the stuff already, she said, “Yes. I’d love some tea, thank you.”

  Mrs. Snow maneuvered herself easily out of the room, humming softly. When she returned with a tray balanced on her lap, Claire gratefully accepted the tea, served with a primly starched linen napkin.

  As Claire sipped the lemony brew, Tony brought up the reason for their visit. “Mrs. Snow, do you have any idea where Patricia’s living now? It’s rather urgent I contact her.”

  “Well, Professor, Patty’s been out of town for some time. She took a job as a researcher several months ago. Saw an ad in the paper and got real excited about it because the job entailed working for a writer.’’

  “A writer?” Claire’s voice was louder than she had intended.

  “Yes. Patty said she was an elderly lady who did not want her to receive mail at her house, so all I have is a post office box to send my letters to. Something of a privacy hound the lady is, according to Patty.”

  Claire kept her voice steady, suppressing a gasp. “What town is the post office box in, Mrs. Snow?”

  “Well, let me get the letter for you.” The wheelchair purred as Mrs. Snow turned away from them and rode off back through a low archway toward the hallway and out of sight.

  Taking another sip of her drink, Claire avoided looking at Tony. Her mind whirred with Mrs. Snow’s words.

  It had to be a coincidence that Patricia Snow worked for a woman with the same penchant for privacy that Sarah Winesong was so famous for. Either that„ or Patricia Snow had intentionally misled her mother, to lend credence to her scheme.

  Which would mean the girl and Tony had plotted this scam for a long time. But how could they have known about Winesong’s book? Claire hoped none of her suspicions showed on her face.

  Mrs. Snow was rolling back into the room, a pale blue envelope in her hand. “Let’s see, this one was mailed about three months ago from Parsonville. But lately... ” She came to a stop in front of the sofa, and then almost dropped the envelope onto the floor. “The box she had me mail my letters to is in Benton Convent.”

  “Is that near here?” Claire asked.

  “No. It’s in New Jersey, about a four hour drive from Narragansett,” Tony answered.

  Mrs. Snow nodded. “But anyway, with her ill ... problems, she could really use some good news.”

  The woman’s voice trailed off and Claire shot a look at Tony. His eyes seemed full of torment. Maybe he did feel some guilt, she thought. As she rose to leave, Claire took Mrs. Snow’s frail fingers and squeezed them. “It’s no trouble at all. Here’s my business card in case you hear from her.”

  As they walked Co the door, Tony turned back to Mrs. Snow. “Do you happen to have any copies of the manuscript, or correspondence regarding it, that Patricia may have left here, Mrs. Snow? Anything I could take and look through? I’m sure Patricia wouldn’t mind.”

  Claire caught her breath. Mrs. Snow could not be in on a hoax. Was Tony duping her into being a part of it? At any rate, they had no right to look at letters and drafts of the book without Patricia Snow’s permission. Before Claire could discourage Tony’s request, however, Mrs. Snow had wheeled away, leaving them standing by the front door. Her thin voice floated from the back of the house.

  “Professor Nichols, can you come in here and help me with this? I know there’s a box here somewhere.”

  “Tony, I really don’t think we should take anything out of the house until we talk to... ”

  “I do.” He walked away from her. “The sooner we find more proof, the better. Time is running out.”

  “Do you have a phone number where you can reach Patricia, Mrs. Snow?” She was relieved that neither town was where Cauldron Press sent Sarah Winesong’s mail.

  “No, dear, I’m afraid I don’t. I can’t afford a phone on my income. If Patty needs me, she telephones my next-door neighbor and they come get me. But Patty and I write each other about once a month, and that’s the way we keep in touch. Do you want me to write and tell her you want to see her, Professor Nichols?”

  “No. No, I’ll probably be up that way and I’ll look her up. If you’ll just give me the name of the woman she was working for.”

  Mrs. Snow paused, a frown pleating her brow. “A Mrs. Chancon. Mrs. M. Chancon. I don’t have any address except the box number.”

  “Why don’t you give me that?” Tony wrote it down on a small notepad and tucked it away.

  Mrs. Snow studied him. “Professor Nichols, is Patty in some kind of trouble?”

  Claire and Tony exchanged blank looks, neither willing to answer the question truthfully.

  “No, Mrs. Snow, she’s not,” Claire answered. “I’m just eager to talk with her about a book she wrote. I’m an editor, and I’d like to see Patricia’s entire manuscript.” A faint blush warmed her cheeks as she realized Mrs. Snow would think she wanted to buy her daughter’s book.

  “I don’t want to miss this chance of learning something more about Patricia’s book. Unless, of course, you’re worried there’s a letter from Sarah Winesong or Cauldron Press in the other room.
”

  “Don’t pull that baloney with me, Tony. The only reason I’m here is to resolve any legitimate question about who wrote The Poison Pen Pal.”

  Tony turned back to her, and while his dark eyes held a smile, his mouth fixed in a hard line. “I’m really glad to hear you say that. Now, if I can just get it in writing.” He left the room.

  For several moments Claire waited, straining to hear their voices. A plunking noise behind her made her spin around.

  Facing the front door, Claire watched as several envelopes fell through the tarnished mail slot onto the carpet. Without thinking, she reached down and picked up the assortment, then straightened them into a neat pile. As she walked toward the desk to put them down, her eyes widened.

  The bold black scrawl on the top envelope sent a chill of recognition down her spine. It was addressed to Patricia Snow, but it was the return address that horrified Claire.

  Above the words Usherwood Publications, New York City, Roz Abramowitz’s name stared up at Claire like a cobra daring her to make the slightest move.

  * * *

  Claire rolled onto her stomach, shutting her eyes against the light filtering in through the west window of the hotel room. Tony had dropped her off at the Woodbury Inn, a quaint old place on the water.

  He was headed for his office at the university to make a few more calls. He thought he might be able to locate Patricia. Claire had agreed to be ready in two hours to go out again with him.

  Finding no copies of Patricia’s manuscript in the things Mrs. Snow had let him go through, Tony had ushered Claire quickly out of the house. Too quickly, she thought now, for if he had given her a little more time, she might have put the letter back on the desk.

  Instead, she had stolen it. She had slipped it into her jacket pocket before Tony and Mrs. Snow had come back into the room. Now her guilt ate away at her, even as she told herself she had been driven to take it out of fear it contained more bad news for Cauldron Press.

  Besides, if Tony Nichols saw a letter from Roz for Patricia Snow, Claire thought now, this mess would surely become even more complicated.

  A tiny, inner voice interrupted and seemed to sum up her action. Now he’s right. You are a thief.

  Claire bolted off the white chenille bedspread and grabbed her jacket. Well, if I am a thief, I better at least see what I’ve stolen. She had always heard that people under pressure did abnormal things. Claire had always managed to stay in. control. Until now.

  Pulling the crumpled envelope from the side pocket of her jacket, she tore it open. Unfolding the single sheet, she read:

  Dear Miss Snow:

  Thank you very much for the recent submission of your novel, Letters in the Attic.

  We are very pleased to tell you that we’re interested in purchasing this manuscript. However, we do need to talk with you about several possible revisions first.

  Would you please contact me at the number below at your earliest convenience?

  Very truly yours, Roz Abramowitz

  Usherwood Publications

  Nausea built up in Claire’s stomach. She tossed aside the letter and hurried into the bathroom. Running the icy stream of water on her hands helped, as did dabbing the cool washcloth across her face. She returned to the bedroom and sat down at the desk.

  Of all people. Patricia Snow had sent her Sarah Winesong lookalike manuscript to Roz Abramowitz, the one person Claire knew would take great joy in making any similarity between her book and Sarah Winesong’s a national scandal.

  Tony must not have known anything about this submission to Usherwood, Claire decided. Unless they had done it hoping it would increase the pressure on Cauldron by involving another publishing house.

  But he did not know Roz. He had not acted at all odd when Roz accosted them at the banquet. As her stomach lurched even more, Claire tried to deflate the fear that grew with each new conclusion.

  There was a Patricia Snow. And she had written a book, and sent it off to Roz Abramowitz. A book that resembled, more than resembled, duplicated, Sarah Winesong’s.

  With a sinking feeling, Claire dialed a number. She sat back and asked for Vincent Harrison without enthusiasm, knowing how hard he would take her news.

  “This is Vincent Harrison. Are you there, Claire? What have you come up with?”

  Briefly, she related the news.

  “How did you find out about this? Did you hear from Roz?”

  Recounting how she had stolen the letter was an uncomfortable experience for Claire. It was made worse somehow by the fact her boss did not seem to notice she had committed a crime.

  “They must be thinking that if Usherwood is involved, we’ll be more eager to bargain with them.”

  “I thought that, too. However, the timing bothers me. Roz must have received the query and manuscript from Patricia Snow at least six weeks ago. No one gets back to a new author quicker than that, even if the book is brilliant. How did they get Sarah’s book that long ago?”

  “It makes your fears about a leak much more credible, doesn’t it?”

  “If someone stole one of our author’s manuscripts,” Claire almost yelled, “it’s a great deal more serious than a leak.”

  “I still can’t believe someone on our staff would be capable of that kind of crime.”

  “I think it’s time we considered going right to Sarah Winesong, Mr. Harrison.”

  “I agree she might have the answers we’re searching for, but you’re going to have to interview that Snow girl first. We need to know what her story is, and then I’ll arrange the meeting for you.”

  “So far I haven’t even been able to find Patricia Snow.”

  “You will. Keep me posted. I have to be out of the office the rest of the day, but my secretary will patch your call through to my car phone. Don’t worry about Roz. I’ll call Usherwood myself and explain the situation once we’ve dealt with all this. Roz will appreciate our keeping her from being involved with Nichols.”

  Remembering the hungry gleam in Roz’s eyes when she had seen Tony at the Waldorf, Claire doubted that. “Okay.”

  “They’re going to back down. You’ll see, Claire. Be sure and let me know the instant they mention a blackmail figure.” This willingness on Vincent Harrison’s part to listen to a plan for a payoff chafed at Claire. It might be necessary to avoid dragging the whole mess through court and the newspapers, however. She knew of several cases where publishing houses had settled plagiarism suits that way to get their book in the stores immediately.

  Hanging up the phone, Claire paced the room for a few minutes. As soon as Tony arrived, they would head up to Benton Convent. Time was slipping away, and along with it her confidence in quickly resolving this mystery.

  * * *

  Parking the Volvo behind the Humanities building, Tony turned off the car and sat for a moment.

  Claire Kennedy puzzled him. He did not know if it was her insistence that Cauldron was innocent or her antagonism toward him that bothered him most. Oh, hell, he thought, admit it. It’s Claire’s fabulous legs, that shining hair. Her soft mouth that looks like it would bruise if kissed properly.

  Which is what I’ve wanted to do for about twenty-four hours now.

  Angry with himself, he yanked the keys out of the ignition. He could not let himself be attracted to Claire. Even if she was personally innocent, which probably was not the case, she was dedicated to shielding whoever at Cauldron Press was trying to take advantage of Patricia.

  Patricia Snow. The troubled young woman who had haunted his classes the past two years. A student with real talent and, sadly, a self-destructive urge.

  He had been supportive of her when she revealed to him that she was writing a novel. And he had encouraged her thoroughly the previous year to finish it. She took his advice and more until he recommended she polish it more to get it in shape for a New York publisher.

  Despite her laziness, Tony stuck by her like a big brother, trying to persuade her to get help for her drinking problem.
He coaxed and pleaded, telling her he knew she could do it. Tony knew firsthand how cutting the professional publishing world would be to her if she had not given her book her best effort. The pros in the business always worked sixteen-hour days and still took work home to read. Last night he had seen Claire’s valise full of manuscripts. All the editors he had known were ethical and caring.

  It still shocked him senseless to think Cauldron Press was going to publish Patricia Snow’s book under another author’s name. The minute he had started to read the galley copy he had been sent to review, he had known it was her book.

  At first, he had been elated. He thought maybe Cauldron Press had bought the book from Patricia and released it under the pen name Sarah Winesong. Many houses owned author’s names, and used several writers to turn out work under one identity.

  But when he had verified that Sarah Winesong was the author of the book, his sense of justice was enraged. He knew Winesong had not been published for the past five years. It looked like the classic rip-off; all he was lacking were the particulars of how Winesong had obtained Patricia’s work.

  Patricia’s phone call two mornings ago had galvanized him into action. As he sat staring out of the Volvo, he went over their conversation for the umpteenth time.

  He had answered curtly. “Yes?”

  “Professor Nichols? I understand you’re looking for me.”

  The woman’s voice was familiar, but too indistinct to identify. “Who is this, please? Speak up.”

  She had spoken a fraction louder, her voice slurred. “I’m afraid of being overheard. This is Patty. Patricia Snow. Someone told me you’ve been trying to find me. Why?”

  “Patricia! I have been looking for you. I need to see you as soon as possible. It’s about your book. Where are you calling from?”

  “My book? What do you know about my book?” The girl’s voice had become frightened, anxious.

  Tony realized she had been whispering before, because she had screamed the last question at him. “I’ve just seen your book with another author’s name on it. I want to know how this happened, Patricia. Did you sell the manuscript to Cauldron Press?”