Chapter 9
“This is insane,” I said as I paced, clutching my pumpkin pecan latte in both hands.
The day was still bright and clear, but it was colder now, and the breeze stung the tips of my ears. The canvas awnings of the farmers market stalls stretched and rustled, and the familiar scents of Indira’s baking—cinnamon and cardamom and roasted apple—were, for once, no comfort at all.
“And you’re sure you didn’t sign up for a one-on-one?” Fox asked. “I’m not saying you would have picked Vivienne, but maybe it was a simple copy-and-paste error. Perhaps the master list—”
“I already tried that,” I snapped.
In a more conciliatory tone, Bobby added, “Graeme said we couldn’t see it without a warrant. Something about privacy.”
“It’s impossible,” I said. “I didn’t want a one-on-one. My God, can you imagine talking to me one-on-one?”
Fox opened their mouth, but Indira gave a little shake of her head, and Fox shut it again.
“It’s simple, then,” Indira said. “Someone else registered in your name.”
“The important thing,” Bobby said, “is that this was a mistake.”
“It doesn’t matter if it’s a mistake—”
“Dash,” Bobby said, “the killer made a mistake. Whoever did this, they left a trail—whether it’s a fake account, or they somehow got access to Graeme’s files, or however they did it. It’s a lead. And it’s something the sheriff can follow up on.”
I took a moment, trying to let that sink in.
“Okay,” I said.
“Okay,” Bobby said gently.
“Okay,” Fox said—with an air. “Now that that’s settled, I’d like to point out that your bus is leaving.”
The thought of spending the ride back with the ducklings telling me about their ongoing investigation and Spenser trying to pin me down on a release date for the next book was enough to make me shudder.
“Drink your coffee,” Indira said, patting my arm. “We’ll drop you off; we’re almost done.”
“And you can help carry things,” Fox said. “Bobby, it’s time to put those muscles to good use. Dash, you can be in charge of the trash.”
So, yeah. That’s how that went.
When Indira had offered us a ride, I hadn’t considered the fact that we’d be riding in Fox’s van—which was literally a Toyota Van (the best name ever).
It was approximately forty years old. It was buff-colored, or taupe, or fawn—it was light brown, okay?
Inside, it was full of cereal boxes (I was pretty sure Wheaties had been discontinued, like, twenty years ago), and garbage bags full of bottle caps, and a three-foot-tall statue of an extremely gay horse.
I ended up sitting on a nest of pool noodles in the back.
Bobby, poor soul, took one for the team and wedged himself in among the bottle caps.
(To round out the experience, Fox’s van also smelled like clothing that had been kept in someone’s attic; a certain, um, adult substance that Fox was careful never to use around Indira; and an air freshener hanging from their rearview mirror that said either DRAGON MUSK or DRAGON MUST.) Today’s soundtrack was The Pointer Sisters. On 8-track.
“What are you going to do now?” Indira asked.
“Let the sheriff know,” Bobby said—presumably, literally in that moment, since he was composing a message on his phone.
“I want to talk to Vivienne’s former agent,” I said. “If she hates Vivienne as much as Graeme says she does, then I at least need to get a look at her.”
“Margaux?” Fox said.
“Oh God,” Indira said. “Margaux.”
“Wait, you know her?” I asked.
“That might be putting it generously,” Fox said.
“She visited Vivienne a number of times. Once, Vivienne invited me to join them for dinner. I was standing there in the hall, ready to say hello. Margaux handed me her coat and her keys and asked me to make sure to park the car somewhere it wouldn’t get rained on. ”
“Yikes,” Bobby said under his breath.
“She said my risotto ‘needed work,’” Indira said.
Nobody said anything for about five seconds.
See, Indira is lovely and charming and sophisticated.
She’s a world-class chef. She’s an accomplished business owner.
And she also has this lock of white hair, and sometimes there’s a seriously witchy vibe.
A part of me wondered if, post-risotto, Margaux had come down with a case of the, um, piles.
“So,” Fox said, “tell her hello for us.”
They dropped us in front of the conference center, and Bobby and I took a few minutes to locate Margaux.
Fortunately, she was listed on the conference program at several events, one of which was starting in a few minutes—Agent Office Hours, it was called on the program, which managed to sound both pretentious and informal at the same time.
We made our way to the ballroom, which had high ceilings, numerous chandeliers, and truly hideous carpet: olive with yellow paisley.
(Presumably to hide mustard stains?) Tables were set up around the perimeter of the room.
Each table had one or two people sitting at it.
I’d only met a few agents in the wild, but a quick glance showed me they didn’t clean up much better than most writers—one agent’s “professional” dress consisted of a red T-shirt that said I READ BOOKS.
WHAT’S YOUR JOB? In front of each table—in front of every table—stretched a long line of people clutching MacBooks, notebooks, book-books, and (almost always) tote bags.
The room smelled like desperation and the ghost of brown gravy.
Bobby consulted a hand-drawn map posted near the door. Margaux had a table in the corner, so I turned to look for her.
And there she was: the petite woman Vivienne had argued with the night before.
Her dark hair was in a bun again, and she was dressed in a way that suggested both money and taste: black slacks, a cream-colored top, and stacks of jewelry.
The line in front of her table was shorter than some of the others, but it wasn’t the shortest in the room.
It was hard to tell if that might have been because Graeme was right, and she was having some sort of business trouble, or if there were other agents who were more attractive for some other reason, or simply fate.
“God,” I said. “This is going to take forever.”
“Want to try to catch her later?” Bobby asked.
I shook my head. “We’re here. Let’s do this.”
“Okay.”
“I guess we’ll get in line and wait—uh, Bobby?”
Bobby apparently chose not to wait. Bobby simply walked past everyone.
Murmurs popped up in my wake. Someone shouted, “Hey!” And if looks could kill, I would have gotten a dagger in the back.
“It’s okay,” I said through throat-clenching flutters of, you know, being the center of a lot of angry attention. “Writerly emergency. We’ll be quick!”
I caught up with Bobby as he reached Margaux’s table. She was staring at him, and she had her hands pressed to the tabletop, perfect red nails tensed against the plastic.
“Excuse me,” she said. “There’s a line—”
“This won’t take long,” Bobby said. “It’s about Vivienne Carver’s murder and any possible connection you might have to it.”
Here’s the thing: in novels (especially poorly written ones), people are always gasping. There’s so much gasping sometimes that you’d think it was an epidemic.
But the woman in line behind me gasped.
“What’d he say?” asked a weedy man behind her.
She turned and started whispering frantically.
Margaux must have noticed too because her expression darkened. “I don’t know anything about—”
“Let me stop you right there,” I said. “I saw you with Vivienne. You were the last person to talk to her before she died.”
Margaux stayed perfectly still, nails still pressed against the tabletop.
And then she said, “Yes, but I believe you were the last person to see her alive. Yes, I know who you are. And no, I’m not interested in being part of your snooping.
This is an opportunity for aspiring writers to consult with an agent, so unless you have a work-related question, or you have a book idea to pitch, I’m afraid we have nothing to discuss.
” She arched an eyebrow. “Do you have a book to pitch? Because I thought A Work in Progress was brilliant, and I’d love to hear what you’re working on next. ”
What I was working on next was a masterpiece called The Case of the Returning Writer’s Block.
The silence dragged out long enough that Margaux said, “Shame. In that case, I think we’re done.”
Here’s a less than admirable fact about police interviews: the police are allowed to lie.
About, well, pretty much everything. (The gray area, of course, is coercion—when a confession is no longer voluntary—so there are some limits.) And the reason police lie is that lots of people won’t talk unless the police have some sort of leverage, a way of forcing them to talk—usually by making them afraid, but sometimes, by making them think they have something to gain.
As I said, not the most admirable part of policework. But, the cynical part of me admitted, a necessary one.
“You want a book pitch?” I avoided Bobby’s gaze. “I’m looking for an agent. For the true crime book I’m working on. About the first time I solved Vivienne’s murder.”
Margaux drummed her nails against the tabletop. “God,” she said to herself. “That could be bigger than The Nightingale Murders.”
“That’s right. It’s not something I want to self-publish. This needs real distribution. This is the kind of thing that’s on a table in the middle of Barnes and Noble. But first, I need an agent.”
“And you’re offering me, what? A deal? If I tell you what happened with Vivienne, you’ll cut me in on it?”
“I’m looking into her death—I’ve got a personal interest in making sure I know what happened, which I’m sure you can understand.” I smiled at her. “Let’s say it’s book two.”
Margaux said a few words that would have made Miss Marple swoon, and then she said, “She surprised me by sitting down at my table. I wanted her to go away. She refused. That’s all.”
“Why did she sit down at your table?”