Ghost writer, p.16
Ghost Writer, page 16
Carl chuckled out of nervousness. “Yeah, I know. That’s why I’m here. I mean, I’m sure you’re just in a dry spell. It happens to the best of us.”
Jonathan twisted his paper clip into a triangle, trying to follow the conversation without revealing too much information. “Dry spell?” He and Kathy had been having problems, but was it known these days as a . . . dry spell? He thought that was kind of crude.
“Look, it’s nothing to be embarrassed about. I remember back in 1986, I had five bombs right in a row. It was a nightmare. I thought I’d lost it.” Jonathan blinked as Carl stood and put a hand on his shoulder. “I just thought you should know what’s being said. Just so you can prepare for it.”
Jonathan nodded, though completely lost in the conversation. Carl let go of his shoulder and scratched his head, the way one does right before saying something uncomfortable. “Okay, look, I’m just going to come right out and say it, okay?”
“Please,” Jonathan urged.
“All right. I heard Nellie on the phone a couple of days ago. Who knows who she was talking to? Could’ve been her husband. Could’ve been her dog. Could’ve been—”
“The point, Carl?” Jonathan said, impatience escaping in the form of a nervous foot tapping against the carpet. Nellie Benson, the editorial director of the fiction department and his boss since he’d been with Bromahn & Hutch, was one of the best in the business, mainly because she never hesitated to fire anyone who wasn’t performing to her rather high expectations. Fortunately, Jonathan had always been a favorite.
“Yeah . . . well, she was telling whomever that she was concerned about you. I mean, Jonathan, the fact of the matter is that the last six books you’ve pushed through have, well, you know . . .”
Jonathan fell into his chair, poking an end of the paper clip deep into his finger. “What? What’s that supposed to mean? I’ve had how many successes, Carl? And the last six is what everyone is looking at?”
Carl held up his hands. “Don’t shoot the messenger, okay?”
Jonathan’s eyes narrowed. “You were sent.”
Carl looked away, glanced back at Jonathan, looked away again, then nodded slightly. Jonathan growled in anger, and Carl quickly tried to put out the fire. “Look, Nellie’s concerned. I mean, no offense, but you haven’t exactly been yourself lately. And with Shining Dusk getting all these horrible reviews—”
Jonathan slammed his hands down on his desk. “Since when have we listened to reviews? Huh? The critics hated Clyde, but the readers loved him.”
Carl nodded but said, “I know, I know. But Clyde’s books were bestsellers. Shining Dusk has only sold forty thousand copies, Jonathan. We’ve lost money . . . again.” Carl shuffled his feet. “And, well, there’s talk that you’re a one-author editor. I mean, yeah, Clyde’s been big for you, but he’s retired now. He’s not going to be ‘it’ for you forever.”
“I know that,” Jonathan snapped. He threw the paper clip aside. “Nellie cannot fairly say that my last six books have failed. Red Wings took off like a rocket.”
Carl cocked his head to the side, curiously looking at Jonathan. “Sure, but . . . um, haven’t you seen the latest figures?” Carl paused. “It’s not doing well at all. It sold fifty-eight thousand copies the first two weeks because Hattie Emerson wrote it. Three months later we’re only at sixty-five thousand.” Carl didn’t wait for Jonathan to explode again. Instead he continued in a soothing tone. “You used to always follow the sales. It shocks me you don’t know this.”
Jonathan glared at Carl, but his anger was distributed to many more people and things than just Carl. “So suddenly I’m incompetent!” Jonathan exploded, though in the back of his mind he scolded himself for not being on top of this. It was true. He had always followed his books closely, almost to a fault. He knew the market so well that it made it easy to accept and reject manuscripts. He could almost do it in his sleep. A few years ago he had turned away Elton Megan, one of the top mystery writers ever. Nellie had almost had a heart attack, but Jonathan stood in her office and said, “Trust me.” A few months later, after a rival publishing company, Stubach House, had signed a five-book contract with him, Nellie came into his office and told him she would never question him again. Elton’s first three books were such bombs that Stubach House was considering just paying him off for the rest of his contract and letting him go.
“No one is saying that you’re incompetent.” Carl stepped forward and braced himself with his hands on top of Jonathan’s desk. “Nellie’s just concerned. I am, too. You haven’t been yourself. At last week’s editorial meeting, it was like you weren’t even there.”
Jonathan calmed himself so he could think straight. He rolled up his sleeves in an attempt to seem at ease. “Carl, listen . . . I’m sorry I got upset. I’m okay. Kathy and I are having some . . . some issues at home that are distracting me a bit. But it’s nothing that anyone should be concerned about.”
“Are you divorcing?” Carl asked with wide eyes.
Jonathan shook his head and quickly said, “No, no, nothing like that. Just a twenty-year itch, you know? I mean, I’ve been putting in a few thousand hours here. Kathy’s probably going through a mid-life crisis. That sort of thing. A distraction at the most.” Jonathan punctuated all this with a firm smile.
Carl, in barely a whisper, said, “Man, get her on some hormone pills, Jonathan. I’m not kidding. Susan went through that and I thought death couldn’t come too soon. Crying like a baby. Barking like a dog. I couldn’t win. It was a nightmare. I swear I—”
“I get the point,” Jonathan interrupted, trying to sound as polite as he could. “We’re fine.”
Carl nodded and an uncomfortable silence suffocated them both. They exchanged a few cordial smiles, then Jonathan said, “Look, Carl, I’ll go talk to Nellie. I’ve got a few aces up my sleeve.”
“I knew you would.” Carl moved to the door and opened it. “Don’t be too hard on Nellie. She was just concerned. She didn’t want to upset you by coming herself.”
“She should have. Sending you was low. No offense.”
Carl quietly shut the door behind him. Jonathan glanced down at Clyde’s manuscript and thumped it a couple of times with his fingers. He had no doubt in the power of this ace.
chapter 14
Jonathan had hoped to find Nellie after his discussion with Carl, but she had left for the day. He spent two more needless hours at the office working, just to prove to himself that he hadn’t “lost it.”
He reviewed Zippy’s proposal and sample chapters, and to his astonishment, it was quite good. The story revolved around a pharmaceutical company being paid off to destroy a cure for cancer because cancer care was such a big money-maker. He would talk to Zippy tomorrow.
After writing a few rejection letters and emailing three house authors, he decided to head home. When he turned into the driveway, Clyde’s old truck was parked there, blocking him from pulling his vehicle into the garage.
Jonathan opened the front door of his house, and Clyde and Kathy, sitting at the dining room table, both stood to greet him.
“Clyde, what are you doing here?”
Kathy piped in. “I invited him for dinner. You’re just in time. The lasagna is nearly done.” Kathy paused, as if she were going to say something more, then excused herself to the kitchen.
“Been a long time since I had a home-cooked meal,” Clyde said, sitting back down at the table. He sipped his iced tea as Jonathan took off his jacket and set his briefcase in the corner.
“So Kathy just called you out of the blue to come over for dinner?” Jonathan said, not covering up his suspicious tone in any way.
Clyde looked him the eye. “I called to check on you. The both of you. To see what you found out ’bout that story.”
Jonathan sat down at the table. “Where are the girls?”
Kathy appeared from nowhere with a large pan of lasagna. “Meg’s at Alexandra’s. Leesol is next door at the Chamberlains’. Sophie’s in bed.” She set the pan in the middle of the table. “Let me get the bread.”
Jonathan unfolded his napkin and set it in his lap. Clyde, distracted by the lasagna, finally looked up at Jonathan, only to be met with a relentless stare. “Still your star suspect, Jonny?” he asked casually.
“Why not?” Jonathan replied, pouring himself a glass of water. “Everyone is.”
Kathy set the bread down and joined them at the table. “We were discussing the manuscript, Jonathan. Clyde is very worried.” She cut the lasagna and served each of them. “Are you?”
Jonathan took a piece of bread and passed the basket. “I haven’t received more pages. So I guess I’m not worried,” he lied. He took a large bite of lasagna and washed it down with his water.
Kathy lightly touched his hand and said, “Shall we bless it?”
Jonathan looked around with embarrassment. “Of course. Clyde, why don’t you?”
They bowed their heads and Clyde said a short prayer. Clyde then continued. “Jonathan, what more do you know?”
Jonathan stared at his plate. He pondered whether or not he should go into detail with Clyde, not to mention Kathy. However, both were staring and wondering, and he figured at this stage in the game, he didn’t have much to lose. Besides, there wasn’t much to report.
“I don’t know, I don’t know,” he said as he dug his fork into his lasagna. He looked up at Kathy, whose gentle eyes watched him with concern. “Whoever it is, they’re going to make a mistake. I’ll be there when it happens.”
Clyde had already gulped down half of his lasagna. “Jonathan, maybe instead of lookin’ at the actual manuscript, you should concentrate on why someone would be doin’ this.”
Jonathan watched as Kathy looked at him for a reply. He was nervous. He didn’t want to say anything that would upset Kathy, and she was already starting to look worried. “I have no idea who would want to do this.”
Clyde kept shoveling food in while he thought out loud. “I mean, why would someone want you to read about your own life? What harm or good could come from that?”
Jonathan set his utensils down. Kathy gulped her water. “Perhaps to scare me. Make me think they know everything about me.”
Clyde emphasized his point by holding his fork up in the air. “Yes, but why? I mean, what point would someone want to make by tellin’ you everything you already know about your own life?”
Kathy had set her utensils down, too, apparently concentrating very hard on the conversation. Jonathan tried to ease the tension a little. “I don’t know. To let me know what a moron I’ve been all these years?” He laughed, but Kathy and Clyde didn’t.
Kathy poured herself another glass of water. “Maybe . . . maybe like a reflection. Maybe this person wants you to review your life.”
Clyde buttered a piece of bread. “Good point. But again, we have to ask why.” Clyde wiped his mouth after taking a bite of bread. “It’s like when I create my characters. For instance, Bart Callahan. My audience was first introduced to him when he was twenty-nine. But I knew him long before that. I had to write down his past so I could create his present character.” Clyde heavily salted his piece of lasagna. “Maybe that’s what’s going on here. Maybe someone wants you to look back at yourself for some reason.”
Jonathan pushed his plate away. He’d lost his appetite. “Fine. So maybe someone does, Clyde. Why? Why would someone care what is in my past?”
“Well,” Clyde continued, “maybe it somehow links you to something they’re going to do in the future. I don’t know. It’s a wacky thing, but it sure seems to have a purpose. And they sure seem to know a lot about you.”
Kathy had also seemed to lose her appetite. Her plate was still full of food.
Jonathan took her hand. “We’re fine, Kathy. I don’t want you to worry. I don’t think whoever is doing this is going to be a danger to us.” Jonathan glanced away, hoping that statement was true. “But Clyde’s right. Someone definitely wants to make some sort of statement.”
Kathy began clearing the table. “I guess what Clyde’s saying, then, is instead of looking at what’s in the manuscript, we should be trying to figure out why it exists at all.”
“Just a thought,” Clyde said as he scraped the last bit of lasagna off his plate and handed it to Kathy. “Wonderful cookin’, Kathy.”
“Thank you,” she said and patted him on the back. “You should come over more often.”
Kathy went to the kitchen and Jonathan leaned back in his chair. “I swear, Clyde, if you’re doing this, I’m going to kill you.”
Clyde chuckled a little. “Well, maybe I’m writin’ in my sleep, but I don’t think it’s me. I got my hands full with my own story right now. By the way, what do you think of it so far?”
Jonathan twirled his fork from finger to finger. “I’m very pleased. A real work . . . so far.”
Clyde winked at him. “Well, I’m workin’ hard. I should have some more chapters to you next week.”
“I plan on presenting it to committee. I’d like to have as much as possible when I do.”
“Sure, sure. But I don’t want to tell you the endin’. Not yet. I want it to be a surprise.”
Jonathan laughed and felt good inside. It felt like old times with Clyde. He threw his napkin on the table and said, “Yeah, fine. But I need a complete proposal when I present it.” He looked up at Clyde. “In your case, an outline. I know you don’t do synopses.”
Clyde winked and called to Kathy, “You got any cobbler in there, honey?”
Kathy returned with a dish full of peach cobbler. “I’m trying my new recipe out on you, Clyde. It’s my turn to do dessert at Thanksgiving this year, and I want it to be good.”
Clyde watched with delight as Kathy cut him a big piece and placed it on the dessert plate she’d brought in. Clyde took a big bite and grinned widely. “Darlin’, it’ll be a hit.”
Kathy glowed with pride and served Jonathan a smaller piece. “That reminds me, Jonathan. Your aunt Eleanor called and wanted to know when we were planning on coming. She hoped a few days before Thanksgiving. She and Earl want to see the girls so badly.”
Eleanor was his mother’s oldest sister, still alive and doing well. Her husband, Earl, a retired naval officer, was the girls’ favorite uncle. “Is it going to be a big gathering?” Jonathan said in pretend disgust.
Kathy waited for him to take a bite of cobbler. He did and indicated it was the best he’d ever had with a big thumbs-up. She continued. “I think just our family.”
Clyde and Jonathan raced to see who could finish their cobbler first, but unfortunately, Jonathan had to skip a bite to respond to Kathy. “I’ll let you know in a couple of weeks. I should know more then what my work schedule will be.”
Kathy raised her eyebrows. “Jonathan . . . Thanksgiving is next Thursday.”
Clyde paused as Jonathan shook his head in amazement. “Good grief. You’re right. I’m sorry, honey. I’ve really lost track of time, haven’t I?” He gently grabbed her hand. “I will let you know after work tomorrow.”
She smiled, stood, and said, “I have fresh coffee. We can light a fire and move to the living room.”
Clyde took his finger, swiped the side of his dessert plate, licked it, and then held up his hands. “Thank ya, but I need to be gettin’ home. I have trouble drivin’ at night and it takes me a while ’cause I drive so darn slow.” He lifted his large body out of the chair, folded his napkin neatly, and placed it on his plate. He then gave Kathy a hug. “Sweet of you to invite me.”
Kathy kissed him on the cheek. “Our home is always open to you.”
Clyde moved to the front door and Jonathan followed him, opening it up for him. Clyde slid his old coat on and buttoned it tightly. “I love the cold weather. I remember cuddling up next to my wife, wrapping the large blankets around us, and listening to some Louis Armstrong and Miles Davis on the record player.” He patted Jonathan on the shoulder. “I miss those nights. Don’t take your life for granted.” He walked down the front steps of their home. “And, Jonny, don’t waste your time investigatin’ me for all this weird stuff goin’ on. It ain’t me.”
Jonathan’s body chilled quickly and he stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. He heard Clyde’s muffler backfire and his loud engine become softer as it backed out of the drive. He went to the kitchen, where Kathy was pouring them both large cups of coffee.
“Should I go get Meg?”
“She’s spending the night. So is Leesol.”
Jonathan took the mug from Kathy. “Do we know the Chamberlains that well? I mean, I don’t think I’ve even talked to Mr. Chamberlain.”
“Joel. He’s away on business a lot. Leesol and their daughter are only a year apart. And you know how Leesol has trouble making friends as it is. She really seems to like it over there.”
“Did you have the talk with them? Did you tell Meg not to go with anyone other than us? Anywhere? For any reason whatso—”
“Yes, yes.” Kathy stirred her coffee. “Meg and Leesol both asked questions. I played it off pretty well, I think. I told them there had been a kidnapping in the next town over and I just wanted to be sure they remembered the rules.” She looked up at Jonathan. “Honey, one minute you say everything is fine and not to worry. The next you’re checking all the locks twice and worried the girls are going to get kidnapped. Which is it?”
Jonathan didn’t know, truthfully. He suspected his family wasn’t in danger, but how could he really know? With each new page he read from this manuscript, the more mysterious and startling it became. “Honey, I’m just taking precautions. I mean, we need to regularly review these types of things with our girls anyway. There are plenty of other wackos if this writer isn’t one.” He smiled and sipped his coffee, all the while trying to remember if he’d locked the dead bolt on the front door.
