Chapter 1 #3
She’d parked herself in her mother’s office near her heater that afternoon and finished what she’d started, and that finishing had somehow turned into a cascade of events that had left her where she was at present: sitting in her cousin’s car, luggage safely stowed in the trunk, preparing to get on a plane and do something she never would have even thought to do half a year ago.
She considered all the things she could say to her cousin, then chucked them all mentally into that well-used verge and jumped into the deep end in with both feet.
“I’m going to a writer’s conference.”
Mac almost plowed them into the back of a garbage truck. “You’re what?”
“You heard me.”
“I did,” Mac said faintly, glancing at her with wide eyes. “I’m just trying to wrap my mind around that. Where?”
“Well, England, actually,” Harriet said. “It’s right up the street from Mom and Dad’s cottage, which I thought was … convenient.”
Mac glanced at her again in astonishment, then swore briefly as she merged onto a road with actual markings on it. “That’s one way to put it. So, give me details. What sort of conference?”
“One for mystery writers.”
Mac shook her head. “I don’t dare look at you or I’ll rear-end somebody for sure. Any ideas about who’ll be there?”
“A few people we’ve heard of but not read.”
“Anyone we do know?”
Harriet had to breathe for a moment or two in hopes that butterflies would stop giving her so much trouble, but obviously the fluttering wasn’t going away. There was, after all, a single reason she had taken a good chunk of her savings and plunked it down on a conference in a foreign land.
“You’re not going to believe this,” she said carefully, “but yes.”
“Don’t keep me in suspense, then,” Mac said. “Who’s going to be there?”
“TD Piaget.”
Mac blew her bangs out of her eyes and swore.
That swearing most likely came from merging onto the freeway and not because Mac had, while claiming to loathe mysteries, been the one to buy all the books in TD Piaget’s series once they’d both finished the first one.
Then again, Mac liked to know how things ended so she probably hadn’t been able to help herself.
“Are you okay?” Harriet ventured.
“Fine,” Mac said with a bit of a laugh. She checked her mirrors, glanced at Harriet, then shook her head and kept her eyes on the road. “Makes you wonder how anyone got Mr. Recluse to leave his hidden lair and go out in public, doesn’t it?”
“I hope he doesn’t spend the whole time hiding behind a plant where I won’t get to see him.”
“I think it’s weird that he doesn’t like the limelight,” Mac said, checking over her shoulder before moving to a different lane. “If I were him, I’d be in front of a camera every day.”
“Maybe he’s so gorgeous that he’s afraid people won’t take his work seriously if they see what he looks like.”
“Or maybe he’s every day of eighty, draped in vintage love beads, and scowling as he threatens to chuck his Selectric at the kids stomping across his literary lawn.” Mac glanced at her briefly. “Though considering what he writes, he probably flings quills and pots of ink.”
“He could also be a regular, middle-aged guy who needs to lose thirty pounds and doesn’t want his picture taken.”
“Boring,” Mac said with a smile, “but also possible. You’ll have to let me know what the truth is when you find out.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me sooner.”
“I didn’t dare tell anyone what I’m really doing.” She paused. “Just in case things didn’t work out.”
Mac reached over and patted her hand. “Harriet, no one needs to know your business but you. Besides, you’re already going to be in England. If you go for a walk and happen to wind up in a room full of mystery writers, who’s going to question it? Stranger things have happened.”
“They have,” Harriet said, feeling her breath return a bit. “Haven’t they?”
“Absolutely. And if you want my opinion, all this cloak and dagger stuff you’re doing is great practice for developing mystery plots. Who knows what sort of drama you’ll find in the local village?”
Harriet shivered. “I’m not sure I want to find any. I really don’t like blood and gore.”
“Then write suits you. TD Piaget certainly seems to.”
That was very true, so why couldn’t she do the same?
She had a very lengthy list of things she didn’t want to become more acquainted with including but not limited to things that went bump in the night, wild-eyed gardeners with shovels, and people with mistaken identities.
Twins, especially, made her want to take a permanent marker and write their initials on their foreheads so she could tell them apart at a distance.
On the other hand, she loved cozy chairs and stacks of books and antique shops full of all kinds of history. Maybe that would be interesting enough.
She took a deep breath and looked at her cousin again. “Am I crazy?”
“For wanting to check out a guy who probably braids his ear hair so it stays out of the way of his Victorian ear trumpet? Of course not. He’ll be a dreamboat.”
Harriet smiled and suspected that might not be the case, but perhaps it didn’t matter. She would venture to within shouting distance of him and see if she couldn’t figure out how to take what he did and translate it into what she wanted to do.
After all, it wasn’t as if she had much riding on the next week. She was taking a little trip across a large, blue ocean to a land boasting castles full of ghosts and quaint villages full of possibly murderous doings.
And if she’d decimated her savings account to pay for the very final slot in a writer’s conference where she might observe from a very safe distance the man whose work had lit a fire in her soul, well, how could she have said no?
Besides, it was England and her parents were going to be there to rescue her in a few days.
How much trouble could she possibly get into before then?
She woke from her thoughts to find that not only had Mac gotten them to the airport in one piece, she’d pulled up to the curb and was watching her knowingly.
“What?” Harriet said uneasily.
“How long is the conference?” Mac asked. “I was too distracted by the thought of flying quills and ink-stained fingers to pay any attention to that part.”
“A week, then apparently there’s a different sort of retreat that lasts for another week after that.” She paused because she had to catch her breath. “Sort of a hands-on writing boot camp headed by one of the authors coming to the conference.”
“And did you sign up for that as well?”
Harriet refused to pay attention to the renewed fluttering in her midsection.
“There were only a couple of places left for that. The author doing the retreat is going to read the first three pages of all the submissions he gets, then pluck a fortunate writer or two out of obscurity to sit at his feet and get personalized attention.”
“That seems fair.” She glanced at Harriet. “Who’s the author?”
“Who do you think?” Harriet managed.
Mac smiled briefly. “Now I’m absolutely sure this is Fate.”
“It’s definitely something,” Harriet agreed.
She watched her cousin reach into the back seat, then hand her something wrapped in a paper grocery sack.
“Tools of the trade,” Mac said gravely. “Maybe they’ll be useful as you organize your plots.”
Harriet accepted what she could feel was a notebook and a pen and wasn’t sure if she should laugh or cry. She settled for giving her cousin a hug and not begging her to come with her.
Mac smiled. “Go get him.”
“Again, he’ll probably spend the whole time hiding behind greenery.”
“Then he’ll be easier to catch and interrogate. Besides, he’s probably old as Methuselah so even if he scampers off, you’ll be able to keep up with him. I’ll expect regular reports about your successes.”
Harriet nodded, climbed out of the car, fetched her suitcase and backpack from the trunk, then waved to Mac as she drove off.
She took a deep breath and faced the airport.
She couldn’t say she had any idea what truly lay before her in the land of Hercule Poirot, butlers with candlesticks, and sharp-eyed monks with daggers in pockets, but what she was sure of was that if anyone could tell her how to have a rags to riches sort of career while staying firmly in the shadowy wings of the stage, it was TD Piaget, a man who had virtually no media presence in spite of being on every bestseller list in existence.
He was, as it happened, a mystery.
But that was a mystery she fully intended to solve.
She put her shoulders back, took a deep breath, and walked into her future.