Chapter 2
I stared at Vivienne.
“This is impossible,” I said.
“Unlikely,” she said. “But, as it turns out, not quite impossible.”
She looked exactly the way I remembered her: hair a tasteful blond, medium length and layered and curled until it was practically a helmet; good skin; piercing blue eyes.
She wore buff-colored trousers and a red silk blouse.
I remembered, vaguely, reading in an interview that she wore red when she wanted to “pop” on TV.
Vivienne Carver, the Matron of Murder.
“Shall we sit?” she said and gestured toward a pair of chairs set against the far wall. When I didn’t say anything, she laughed and took my arm. I flinched, but her touch was light, almost nothing through the sleeve of my jacket. She led me across the gallery.
The phrase like a lamb to the slaughter came to mind.
“I gave a lecture here once,” Vivienne said.
“It was just an event the college put on, but back in those days, any event I did drew looky-loos. I believe I talked about the role of good and evil in mystery fiction. I suppose that’s ironic in hindsight, but let enough time pass, and almost everything is ironic or meaningless or simply tired.
I solved a murder, too. There was a creative writing professor.
The department secretary was in love with him.
He was having an affair with another faculty member.
The secretary killed her. If I remember correctly, the final piece of the puzzle had something to do with credit cards, although I have to admit, it’s been a long time. ”
“What are you doing here?” And then, because I couldn’t stop the words, “You can’t be here.”
“I’m doing the neighborly thing, Dashiell. Dash. I’m saying hello.”
“You’re saying hello?” A laugh worked its way out of me—a little too high-pitched to be normal. “What is going on? What is this? Is this a nightmare? Am I having a fever dream?”
Vivienne watched me with those bright blue eyes.
“Are you here to kill me? Are you here for your revenge?” I glanced around, but for some reason, Bobby hadn’t miraculously appeared. “If you’re thinking about some sort of comeuppance—”
“Nothing of the sort!” Her voice had a kind of teasing outrage, like we were friends, and she couldn’t believe what I’d said—and wasn’t I being such a silly goose?
“Dashiell—Dash—nothing could be further from the truth. I know that in the past we’ve found ourselves at odds.
But what you did for my brother—that was a great kindness. ”
It hadn’t felt like a kindness, though. Not to me.
“Let’s put the rest of it behind us, shall we?” Vivienne asked.
That laugh—so high it was almost a whinny—escaped me again. “Sure. Sounds great. Why aren’t you in prison?”
“A pardon,” she said with a small smile. “There’s something to be said for playing both sides of the aisle. Generous donations. A word in the right ear. That kind of thing.”
There was actually, literally, no way for me to wrap my mind around that. A pardon? For a woman who had killed—God, how many people had she killed? How many lives had she ruined?
“Do you know Graeme?” She nodded across the gallery at a man with thinning blond hair, glasses, and a red-cheeked stoutness that didn’t quite make him jolly.
She waited until I said, “No.”
“You should, dear. He’s a very useful person to know.”
“Vivienne—”
“He organizes Northern Noir.”
“Vivienne, I don’t care—”
“Very accommodating when I asked to attend after registration had closed.”
“Gee,” I said. “I wonder why.”
“He does some editing—it wouldn’t hurt you to have another proofreader. Used to have a small press, Doorstopper—niche crime fiction, that kind of thing. And if you wanted someone to help you with your story structure—”
“I don’t,” I bit out. “I’m good, thanks.”
Vivienne’s smile could have meant anything.
“Belated congratulations on the success of your novel, by the way. It’s wonderful.
A playful engagement with the past, like your previous work.
But a good story, too. A great story. And that, of course, is what people want to read.
I knew you had talent. And self-published!
That wasn’t an option when I was getting started, but it hasn’t done you any harm.
Although I would be wary of that young man who works in television.
That’s a different game, and they play by different rules—Hollywood is even worse.
I’d suggest not continuing that conversation unless you have your agent with you. ”
“I don’t have an agent,” I said. “That’s why I self-published. And what is happening right now?”
“I’m trying to help you avoid an expensive mistake.” She patted my knee. “I’ll give you some names. Trust me: once they know you’ve got an offer on the table, the feeding frenzy will begin.”
God, there was an image.
“And you’ll want to be careful to retain some say in the production.
I had to fight to keep control of Matron of Murder—they wanted to make her thirty years younger and give her a detective boyfriend who drove a Camaro.
” She feigned a shudder. “That’s the kind of thing that makes people fall out of love with the work.
And in the end, Dash, all we have is the work. ”
I was speechless. Again. I was beyond shocked. I was gobstopped. Or gobsmacked. Or whatever the expression is. Finally, my voice sharp with what was, undoubtedly, the edge of hysteria, I said, “What are you doing here? What do you want?”
Vivienne’s carefully sculpted blond eyebrows went up. “To get it back, Dashiell.”
“To get what back? The house. Not going to happen.”
“Not the house. All of it. I’m Vivienne Carver. And I will be Vivienne Carver again.” She breathed out slowly. Smiled again. “And, my precocious young friend, I think we can help each other.”
I laughed—a real one this time, raw and shaky, but definitely me. “You have got to be kidding me.”
“Why not? We’re two of a kind, Dash.”
“Oh God, I hope not.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. We write, Dash. That’s who we are. And we find the truth. In our words. In the world. We help the innocent and punish the guilty—”
“Like Matrika?”
Vivienne sat back. Some of the neighbor-next-door cheer evaporated, and her jaw tightened. “Well, well, well. Kitty does have claws.”
“I guess so,” I said. “And if you don’t leave this kitty alone, I’m going to put you back in the litter box.”
(I regretted it as soon as I said it. Like, tremendously. Why hadn’t I said something smarter? Why hadn’t I said, I’m not a kitty? Why hadn’t I said, Keep messing around and you’ll get scratched? Why hadn’t I said literally anything else?)
But Vivienne either hadn’t heard me or didn’t care, because the cold mask of her expression didn’t change.
I opened my mouth to say something—quite possibly, an apology for that super weird comment I’d made—and then I stopped.
Because a woman was staring at us.
She was White, tall for a woman, with an upturned nose. And from the expression on her face, she knew who we were—or at least who one of us was.
Vivienne followed the direction of my gaze, and when she saw the woman, the expression on her face grew—if anything—icier. She held herself stiffly. And then, in what could only be interpreted as a complete dismissal of the woman, she turned her attention back to me.
Rage thickened the woman’s expression, and for a moment, she tensed as though she were going to do something—scream, charge us, something. But then she gathered herself and stalked away.
“I’m offering you the chance of a lifetime,” Vivienne said.
“You think people are excited about your book? Now, what would it be like with a major publisher behind it, pushing it into bookstores, getting it on shelves? You think people are excited about your story? How will they feel when they learn that we’re working together, Dash?
Who else can do what we can do? Not just the writing. All of it.”
In a weird way, it was actually tempting.
Who else did know what this life was like—stumbling over bodies, solving murders, having friends and family get caught up in dangerous webs?
There were so many questions I wanted to ask Vivienne.
Like, Why does this keep happening? Or Does it ever stop?
Or What happens when you go on vacation?
And Vivienne was right about my book; sure, it was selling well for a self-published book in a small category, but that wasn’t anything close to the big leagues.
I shook my head. “I appreciate the offer. And I know this is strange to say, Vivienne—maybe especially to you—but I want you to know how grateful I am that you hired me as your assistant. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you.
But I’m not interested in working with you.
And for both our sakes, I’d like you to stay away from me. ”
She considered me. And then she took out a piece of paper, scribbled something on it, and held it out to me. “Think about it, Dashiell.”
“Just Dash,” I said quietly.
The paper floated there between us until I took it. It was the conference program, and at the bottom, she’d written her phone number. “The offer does stand, though,” she said. “I hope you’ll reconsider.”
I nodded. But I couldn’t help asking, “What are you going to do?”
“Without you?” She laughed—pleasant and amused, as if all the ugliness had never happened. “Don’t worry about me. I’m going to be fine. I know exactly how to get back on top.”
“Uh, is that supposed to sound ominous?”
But Vivienne didn’t hear me. Shouldering her bag, she stood, and she gave me the same smile I’d seen dozens of times on the dustjackets of her books. “I’m going to solve a murder.”