Chapter Twenty-Seven
Twenty-seven
Spike was one of the fastest and most reckless drivers I knew, yet he’d never gotten a ticket. I asked him about that as we crossed the Connecticut border and I noticed that he was doing seventy in a thirty-five-mile-per-hour zone.
“What can I tell you?” Spike said. “I know how to sweet-talk a man in uniform.”
“Me, too,” said Melanie Joan. “And for what it’s worth, Spike, I think you’re a virtuoso behind the wheel.”
I glanced in the rearview mirror. Melanie Joan was wearing her enormous sunglasses, so I couldn’t read her face.
But her jaw was tight, and she was clutching the armrest with both hands.
Still, she refused to complain—or to say anything to Spike that wasn’t excruciatingly complimentary.
She’d been kissing his ass ever since he started talking to her again, which made the ride to Union more annoying than I’d anticipated.
Spike blew through a red light.
Melanie Joan let out a small yelp.
“Try not to get us killed, virtuoso,” I said.
“What? It was yellow.”
“Sure it was,” I said.
“I believe it was yellow, Sunny,” said Melanie Joan.
I sighed. “Whatever.”
“Just so you know, I’ve never been in an accident, either,” Spike said. “And I’ve been driving since I was fourteen.”
I wanted to tell him that there was a first time for everything, but I kept quiet.
I’d been the one to ask Spike to drive. I’d done it because I needed to reread Blake’s profile of Book Babe on the ride and focus on my thoughts—which were basically How can I get a hostile stranger to help me save Melanie Joan’s career?
I didn’t see it as an impossible task. Like a lot of cops, ex and otherwise, I knew how to manipulate people.
But that had been a lot easier in the interview room, where I’d known exactly whom I was dealing with.
All I had on Book Babe was a bunch of words that she’d chosen to put out there, about books written by other people.
I went back to Blake’s profile. Based on his observations, I’d constructed a mental image of Melanie Joan’s nemesis—a young mother who lived in a modest home with her three-year-old child, books everywhere, a pot of tea brewing, Turner Classic Movies playing on the TV.
She loved Hollywood memoirs and romances, and so I figured she was something of a romantic herself—a dreamer who, in her childhood, had practiced Oscar acceptance speeches in front of the mirror.
But she also had a practical side. She read a lot of self-help books, which meant that when she looked in the mirror today, she saw room for improvement.
As diverse as her reading may have been, though, Blake had pointed out that the genres she liked all had something in common: lots of engagement on ReadAnon. He’d also cited the words she frequently chose to describe her favorite movie-star memoirs: brave, revelatory, and aspirational.
I searched ReadAnon for those three words, Blake had written. The memoir reviews that included any combination of them got A LOT of likes and comments. I believe Book Babe used those words on purpose, to get eyes on her content.
Blake knew what he was talking about. Back in the day, he explained, he used popular hashtags like #blessed and #Friyay to attract followers, and it had worked.
Just because Book Babe hasn’t shown her face, it doesn’t mean she doesn’t want to get noticed.
The only difference between her and me (the old me) is that she wants attention for her opinions, and I wanted it for my hot workout pix. JMHO!!!
By that logic, the viciousness of her Stronger Alone review made a new kind of sense. “Melanie Joan,” I said, “do you know what a dis track is?”
“That’s patronizing,” she said. “And ageist.”
“Well, do you?” Spike said.
She cleared her throat. “No.”
“It’s a rap song that one artist releases, trashing a rival,” I said.
“The rival usually comes out with a dis track in response. And then maybe the instigator comes out with an even nastier one and back and forth until the feud has its own hashtag and people are picking sides and all the late-night comedians are joking about it.”
“So…what’s the point?” Melanie Joan said.
“Schadenfreude,” Spike said. “And record sales.”
“No,” Melanie Joan said. “What’s the point of telling me this?”
“Because I think Book Babe’s review of Stronger Alone was her version of a dis track,” I said.
“Meaning?”
“I think she did it to up her profile. Gain more followers. Not because she necessarily hated your book.”
“Oh,” Melanie Joan said.
“And when you posted that comment, you played right into it.”
“Which reminds me, I’ve stopped taking that water pill. I’ve told my doctor to prescribe an alternative.”
“My point is, you upped Book Babe’s engagement. Her next reviews will get even more eyes on them, and she might be able to monetize it. I mean, even more than she already has. I’ve noticed ads on her posts, and I’m sure she gets a nice cut.”
We were in Union now. According to the sign, the population was 785.
Everything about it was tiny. Spike zoomed past a one-story Town Hall, a two-pump gas station, a small church, a village green that was half the size of my parents’ front lawn.
It seemed like a place you’d go to hide rather than to be seen.
But that didn’t necessarily negate Blake’s profile. In a way, it supported it.
“I’m sorry,” Melanie Joan was saying, “but I still don’t understand what difference any of this makes.”
“Sunny’s looking for an angle,” Spike said. We were already beyond the center of town. He was tackling the third in a series of sharp turns, as directed by the GPS. “She wants to understand what makes Book Babe tick, so you guys can get on her good side.”
I gave Spike a smile. “That’s right,” I said.
We moved through a residential area—ranch houses, mostly. Before long, those houses began to get fewer and farther between. We hit some woods, and the GPS led us through them. “I’m keeping my eyes peeled for a gingerbread house,” Melanie Joan said.
Spike snickered. The next turn landed us on an unpaved road called Robin’s Way. I remembered the name from the map Swinging Dick had provided. “This is her road,” I said.
“I’m a little nervous,” Melanie Joan said.
“I am, too.”
The road took us past a creek and up, winding around a mountain. My ears popped. Out of the passenger-side window, I could see the tops of trees.
“Nice view,” Spike said.
“Your destination is on the left,” the GPS said.
“It is?” I said.
“How trustworthy is this source of yours?” Melanie Joan said.
Spike drove another hundred feet or so. “GPS isn’t as accurate in rural areas,” he said. He drove a little bit longer until finally we saw a driveway, a mailbox out front with the same street number Swinging Dick had written. He turned in.
A two-story farmhouse with peeling yellow paint was perched at the edge of what might be politely called an English garden.
Untrimmed hedges, a lawn out front that was more dandelions than grass, scraggly trees, wildflowers everywhere.
A blooming wisteria was devouring a pergola that buckled under its weight.
The place almost looked abandoned, save for the sleek black Porsche convertible parked on the grass beside the garage, its top down.
It was as though Book Babe had completely neglected her home for the sake of this one pampered pet of a car.
I could practically smell the oiled leather seats without having to open my window.
Spike pulled up behind the garage and cut the engine. I watched the house. In one of the top-floor windows, I could see a curtain moving. “Looks like she’s home,” I said to Melanie Joan. “You ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
We left the car. Spike stayed behind the wheel. We walked up to the door and Melanie Joan rang the bell. I heard footsteps, a female voice calling out, “Who is it?”
“My name is Sunny Randall.”
“Who?”
“I’m a private investigator,” I said. “I’m here with Melanie Joan Hall. We just want to talk to you. And apologize. Right, Melanie Joan?”
She didn’t say anything. I nudged her.
“I do want to apologize,” Melanie Joan said. It didn’t sound like her heart was in it, but I gave her a thumbs-up anyway. I motioned for her to take off her sunglasses. She did.
The footsteps grew nearer, then stopped. There was a drawn-out silence. It was so warm out here, the air around us heavy with the pasty smell of wild lilies. The hum of locusts was like static in my ears. “Hello?” I said. “Are you there?”
“Wait a minute,” said the voice.
We waited. And waited. Until finally, the door opened.
“Fuck,” Melanie Joan said.
I had a whole speech in my head that I’d prepared in the car on the way over.
It had to do with women supporting one another and how, if they agreed to publicly bury the hatchet, both Book Babe and Melanie Joan could benefit from the publicity.
I was going to tell her how genuinely sorry Melanie Joan was for posting that comment—as evidenced by how quickly she took it down—and how she wanted to make it up to Book Babe by helping her add thousands of new followers.
I’d planned on saying all of this by way of introducing Melanie Joan, who had promised me in the car that, should she have a chance to speak to Book Babe, she would be contrite, cordial, and, above all, humble.
But all of that evaporated when the door opened and we found ourselves face-to-face with the homeowner—a woman in baggy shorts and a T-shirt that said I Think, Therefore I Read.
That woman was Leila Donnelly.