Ghost writer, p.19
Ghost Writer, page 19
“Sydney!” Jonathan leaped out of his seat as if he’d been caught naked. Sydney slipped in and closed the door behind her. “What are you doing here?”
She approached him at his desk. “Edie went to the bathroom, so I snuck in. She’s always giving me looks.”
As she stepped into the light streaming through the window, Jonathan could see her eye was blackened. Touching it self-consciously, she looked away and stared curiously at his bookshelves, which, though put back together, weren’t as neat or tidy as before. His picture frames and knickknacks were still out of their obvious places. “I wanted to talk to you.”
Jonathan suddenly felt as if he had an audience of ten thousand. “Listen, Sydney, I think we should—”
Sydney cut him off. “You were right.”
“Right?” Jonathan tried to follow her while also wondering if someone was hearing every word of their conversation.
“About Jeremy,” she said and instinctively began arranging the rest of Jonathan’s bookshelf. “It’s hard to admit. I’ve always been a strong woman. But I have a weakness for him. You understand?” She glanced over her shoulder at him.
“Um, yeah, but I—”
“I’m tired of making excuses about why I’ve got bruises all over my body. You can only be in so many car wrecks. You can only get hit by the softball so many times.” She laughed a little. “You can only lie so long before you get caught.”
The white collar of his dress shirt soaked up the sweat that was beginning to collect around his neck. “True. Listen, why don’t we—”
“Jonathan,” she said, her lips curving into a small, sweet smile, “I’m here to thank you. And to apologize.” Jonathan stood silently as she approached him. “I was rude in the car and it was uncalled for. And because you called me on it, so to speak, I’ve been thinking a little more clearly.”
“That’s . . . that’s good . . .” Jonathan said, taking a couple of steps backward as he pretended to tidy his desk. Sydney was only inches from him, a light floral scent floating in the air around them.
She tucked her short hair behind her ears and sat on the corner of his desk, watching him. “I’ve never been able to open up to anyone about this. I don’t know why you’re so easy to talk to.”
Jonathan laughed nervously, blotting his forehead with the cuff of his shirt and wondering if he’d indeed put on deodorant this morning. “Yes, well—”
“I mean, I have girlfriends that I can’t even talk to about this. You’re special, Jonathan. I knew that when I met you.”
Jonathan unlatched his window and opened it up two feet, the cold air filling his lungs and drying his skin.
Sydney looked at him with curiosity. “It’s certainly cold out there. Like, below freezing . . .”
“Yes, well, I’m just going to let the room air out for a moment. There’s a lot of dust in here. Sort of seems foggy, wouldn’t you say?”
Sydney shrugged and crossed her thin legs. “Anyway, I wanted to thank you. Thanks for being so perceptive. Thanks for having the guts to confront me.” She paused long enough for Jonathan to look up at her from his place at the window. “Thanks for caring.”
The cold air against Jonathan’s back cooled him off enough so he could think a little more clearly. He had so many questions for her, but every one seemed inappropriate if it were typed out on a white page in the form of a story. It would make him look . . . guilty. He searched his mind for words that at the very most seemed ambiguous and at the very least seemed filled with innocent concern. “You’re quite welcome, Sydney,” he began carefully, looking up and noticing his ceiling light. He made a mental note to check it later. “I hope for your sake you will take all this seriously.” He winced at every word.
“Seriously?” she laughed. “Of course I am.”
“I didn’t mean seriously,” he said, crossing his arms across his chest only to discover his armpits were wet with perspiration. “I mean, you will take all that I said into . . . consideration.”
Sydney slid off the desk and adjusted her skirt. “I have. I don’t know exactly what I’m going to do, but just talking about it makes me feel better.”
“You don’t know what you’re going to do?” Jonathan blurted. “Sydney, you must leave him!”
His tone startled both him and Sydney. Suddenly the room was overly chilled. Sydney rubbed her hands up and down her arms, and Jonathan shivered. “It’s harder than you might expect,” Sydney said as she hung her head.
Jonathan sighed, loosened his tie, and shut the window. “I’m sorry. You’re a grown-up. You can handle this.”
She touched her black eye. “Apparently not very well.” She rubbed her hands together and then turned to walk to the door. “Anyway, thanks.”
Jonathan followed her, and as she started to open the door he put his hand over her head to keep it shut. “Sydney,” he said, barely whispering. “Have you told anyone about . . . about us?”
Sydney stared into his eyes and frowned. “Us?”
Jonathan swallowed. His perspiration turned cold from the chill, causing him to become abnormally rigid. “I mean . . . that we talk. Have you told anyone about our conversations?”
Sydney backed up a little against the door, and Jonathan sensed he should step back to give her breathing room. “No.”
Jonathan loosened his tie further. “No one? Not even a friend?”
Sydney’s hand found the doorknob behind her. “What are you talking about?”
Jonathan’s teeth ground against each other. He had to know if Sydney was talking, even if it meant upsetting her. “Maybe a friend at a bar one night? You talked about me? About us?”
She turned the doorknob slightly. “No. I’ve never mentioned you to anyone. Why are you acting like this?”
Jonathan tried to smile to soothe her nerves and his. “Listen, Sydney, I just want to make sure. This office is full of gossip and people think they see things. You know what I mean? People might . . . misunderstand.”
Sydney’s head cocked upward with mustered confidence. “Misunderstand what, exactly? You invited me to go have lunch with Naomi Yates. I’m just a fellow editor, low-ranking as I may be. I bring you manuscripts. We talk business. That’s it.” She eyed him carefully. “Is that what you want me to say?” she asked snidely. “Just in case someone asks?”
“Sydney, please don’t be upset. This isn’t what you think—”
“Look,” she said, holding her hands up as Jonathan took a step forward. “I get it. Okay? I’m smart. I’ll leave you alone.”
She opened the door and quietly excused herself, closing it softly. Jonathan leaned against it, his head hitting the wood with a thud. Everything in his life was so complicated. If he could just get two minutes without anything to think about, maybe he could think straight, figure out all this mess, and get on with his life. He turned around and leaned his back against the door, glancing up at the wall clock, which read 10:34. He wondered if, literally, for two minutes his life would stop and he could do absolutely nothing. He started counting and just as he was hitting fifteen seconds, his door unexpectedly opened, knocking him to the ground.
“Jonathan?”
Jonathan rolled over and looked up to behold none other than Zippy. “Oh, dear God . . .”
Zippy stood over him, enjoying the dominance. “One shouldn’t take the Lord’s name in vain, my friend. And I seriously doubt you were getting ready to pray, though in the Bible men did pray prostrate.”
Jonathan rolled his eyes and managed to peel himself off the carpet. “Don’t you knock?”
“Well, I just saw a lovely young lady exit, so I figured it was a free-for-all.” He smiled and sniffed. “Why all the dust?” He received Jonathan’s quizzical expression with, “I have sensitive nasal passages. My sinuses can pick up any sort of disturbance in the atmosphere. If I sneeze twice in two minutes it means it’s going to storm. If I sneeze less than once during the day, there’s a ninety-percent chance it will snow tomorrow.”
Jonathan tore off his tie and fell into his chair. “What can I do for you, Francis?”
“Well, I’m not here to discuss my meteorological genius, Jonathan. Have you read my proposal?”
Jonathan had read it and, though he wouldn’t completely admit it to Zippy, was extremely impressed with not only his writing style, but the story line and even his dialogue—which was incomprehensible, since Jonathan had never had a normal adult conversation with Zippy once in his life. Nevertheless, this could be his sure shot at the next editorial meeting.
“Not bad, not bad,” Jonathan said smoothly. “With a great editor like myself, it certainly has potential.”
Zippy whipped himself into a chair. “Am I correct in understanding it met your editorial approval?”
Jonathan smiled and nodded, eager to see a side of Zippy he wasn’t sure existed . . . a bright side. “Yes. It was quite good. I’ll be wanting to see more.”
Zippy leaned forward, his face tight with excitement. “Jonathan, don’t lie to me. Are you taking this to committee?”
Jonathan wondered for a moment if he should tell Zippy or not, but then decided there wasn’t much to lose. He’d have to tell him eventually. Plus, Jonathan wanted to talk to him about using a pen name anyway. “Yes.”
Zippy leaped up from his chair and shouted, “Praise God!”
Praise God? Jonathan watched as Zippy danced around excitedly. “Glad you’re happy, Francis.”
Zippy rushed over to his desk, placed both hands on it, leaned in close to Jonathan, and placed a finger at his tear duct. “I’m tearing up. And this time it’s not allergies.”
Jonathan laughed nervously. “Yes, well, before I take it to committee, Francis, I would like to talk to you about your name.”
Zippy calmed down enough to sit back down, though he did blot his eyes with a handkerchief. “My name?”
“Yes, we’ll need to think of a good pen name.”
“A pen name? What are you talking about? I’m a ghostwriter. I don’t have a pen name. I’ll be using my real name.”
Jonathan frowned, not sure Zippy was following him. “What I mean is, we need to find a more appropriate name.”
“A more appropriate name for what?”
Jonathan blinked twice. “For . . . for your book.”
Zippy started tying his handkerchief into knots.
Jonathan’s heart sank. Francis didn’t get it. He didn’t get the fact that he didn’t have a good writer’s name. Not only was it not good, but it sounded feminine. Only one other time in his career did Jonathan have to talk to a writer about changing his name. The writer’s last name had sixteen letters. The typesetter couldn’t even figure out how to fit it on the front cover of the book without making the font size too small. The writer was so offended that he left the house after the book was released. To this day, he’s never seen the writer’s name anywhere.
“Francis, this isn’t a big deal. Writers do it all the time. It protects your identity, for one thing,” he offered.
Zippy threw his handkerchief to the ground. “Jonathan! Do you think I’ve worked all this time as a ghostwriter to finally make it into fiction and then have to change my name so no one will know who I am? Absolutely not! I want the whole world to know who I am! I’m tired of writing things only to have someone else’s name on the cover!”
Jonathan bit his thumbnail. “I understand, Francis. I really do. But I think we need to look at the fact that the name Francis can be male or female, and then add the last name Flowers and you’re likely to be mistaken for a woman.” Jonathan laughed lightly and added, “You wouldn’t want that . . . would you?”
Zippy paced the floor behind his chair. “I don’t care. If people think I’m a woman, then fine. I’m not changing my name!”
Jonathan stood, afraid that Zippy might be getting too agitated. “Listen, I think we just want a good, strong name, that’s all. This is an excellent book, and I want the author’s name to stand out. How about changing your name to Frank? Hmm? A version of Francis? A little more masculine sounding?”
Zippy stopped and pushed his glasses up his nose, his face red with fury. “I come from a long line of Francis Flowerses. Do you understand? I’m the thirteenth in my family to be named Francis Flowers, and not once . . . not once, do you hear me . . . has anyone gone by the name Frank! Don’t insult me!”
Jonathan’s sweaty hands found their way into his pockets. “All right . . . maybe we can keep Francis and change your last name. From Flowers to . . . say . . . Mann, with two ns? Francis Mann. That has a ring to it.”
“You think this is funny?” Zippy said with disdain. He scooped his handkerchief up and proceeded to tie it into more knots. “I can’t believe this! I work all this time to come out of the ghostwriting closet to be met with the idea that I need to change my name!” Zippy’s nose was twitching.
Jonathan kept a safe distance. “Francis, look, please don’t be insulted. It’s not that you don’t have a good name. Your name is fine. But it just doesn’t work with the type of book you’re writing. Francis Flowers seems like it might belong to, say, a romance novelist.”
Zippy’s eyes lit up with anger. “Well that’s not my problem. Sounds like a problem for marketing to me, Jonathan. I am not changing my name!” With that, and two small sneezes, Zippy turned and stomped out the door.
Jonathan sighed, wondering when Zippy was ever going to get a life and not be so picky and sensitive about things. He decided it was time he left to go meet Kathy for coffee. He grabbed his briefcase and on his way out, his phone rang. He thought twice about answering it, but then decided to go ahead.
“Hello?”
The reception was fuzzy. “Jonathan? It’s Kathy. Can you hear me?”
“Barely. We need to get new batteries for your car phone, I think.”
“Yeah, well, I’m running a little late. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Okay. I’ll see you then.”
Jonathan hung up the phone and stopped at Edie’s desk for messages.
“Early lunch?” she inquired, sporting a cunningly curious expression.
“Yes.”
One haughty eyebrow rose. “When should I expect you back? Around five?”
Jonathan growled, “I’m going to meet my wife. I’ll be back at noon.” He straightened his collar. “Anyone important call?”
Edie handed him a few messages. “Nothing too important, except Clyde said he would like to talk with you.” She smiled and, mimicking his accent, said, “ ‘Tell that Jonny to give me a holler.’ It did sound urgent.”
Jonathan shuffled through his messages as he headed for the elevator. “I wish he wouldn’t call me that. It’s so annoying. When is he going to learn my name is Jonathan and that’s what I like to be called?”
------
Jonathan arrived fifteen minutes early at the Coffee Bean and was delighted that a small table near the fireplace was open. Since Kathy said she was running a few minutes late, he decided he might read a few more pages of Clyde’s manuscript while waiting. He took the pages out of his briefcase and set the briefcase in the chair across from him to save it for Kathy.
“How’s your family about this?” I asked Pierce outside Esther’s office. He’d been in there twenty minutes, presumably telling his story.
He looked me deeply in the eyes, as he had never done before, and without hesitation he said, “They’re fine. Charlie gave me”—he choked up—“gave me a hug and told me he was . . . proud of me.”
“I’m proud of you, too.” I peeked in Esther’s office to make sure she hadn’t sneaked out a back door and then said to Pierce, “You two got everything squared away in there?”
“I just told her everything I know and told her I’d make myself available whenever she needs me.” He zipped his jacket up and said, “Well, I’d better get going.”
“Where are you going?”
“Going to see Stewart—give him my resignation.” He nodded at his decision. “It’s the best thing.”
“Well, don’t be a stranger.”
He nodded again, smiled pleasantly at the secretary, who’d decided she didn’t like me too much, and then headed out of the office. I didn’t waste any time getting into Esther’s office. I shut the door behind me.
“So?” I asked anxiously. Esther didn’t respond. Instead she continued looking through a file on her desk. “Come on, Esther. Don’t leave me hanging here. Did you get what you need?”
She looked very serious, and for a moment I thought maybe Pierce hadn’t convinced her. But after a few dreadful seconds, she finally looked up at me. “Brave thing that man did today.”
I approached her desk. “Yes. Now, are you going to be able to use it? Are we going to get Mitchner off?”
Esther was obviously choosing her words carefully, as she began to speak several times and then stopped herself. Finally, she said, “There is no DNA evidence for this case. All the evidence was destroyed . . . for obvious reasons,” she said with a sharp lift of her dark brows.
I loosened my cheap tie. “Come on, Esther. What more do you need? Pierce just confirmed what Donomar said. Donomar is the killer! All the pieces to the puzzle fit!”
Esther straightened her tailored suit. “Keaton, I’m not the district attorney of this town because I believed every story every person told over the years. People lie.”
My stomach flip-flopped and I felt angry. “Why would Pierce make up a story like that? His career is ruined! He’ll probably lose all his benefits at the bureau. His life as he knows it is over. Why would he lie?”
