Strawberry Sunday Read online

  Before I could comment, she shrugged off the circumstance and looked at her watch. “Now you really must excuse me. The Sacramento Bee is calling for an interview at nine, then I’m on-line with AOL for an hour, then I have books to sign for my media people, then I need to review my notes for my talk after the readings. If you need anything at all, Lark is the one to talk to.”

  She pushed back her chair and stood up. When I did the same, I noted she was nearly as tall as I was.

  She came to my side and put her hand on my arm in the only affectionate gesture I would ever see her make. “I find you a satisfactory choice as my guardian angel, Mr. Tanner. If it’s agreeable to you to take on the task of my protection, you should be here at four tomorrow. We go to the launch party, then to dinner afterward with my editor and publicist and agent. It shouldn’t be a long night—we’ve done this, let’s see, twelve times in the past ten years. We’re getting pretty good at it.”

  “What about here at the house?” I asked quickly. “Don’t you need someone on duty while you’re home? If you’d be uncomfortable with me clomping around, I know a woman who would be perfect for—”

  Chandelier shook her head. “This house has the best security system money can buy. Primarily to guard the valuables, of course, but to safeguard my work in progress as well. Also, one member of my staff is a former FBI agent who has been trained in weaponry and counterintelligence. For various reasons he is not amenable to public appearances. You need only report for duty when I’m going out—Lark will provide you with a schedule. Do we have a deal, Mr. Tanner?”

  Prodded primarily by my debt to Millicent Colbert, I stemmed an urge to abstain. “Yes, we do.”

  “Good. I assume you’ve signed Karla’s contract.”

  I nodded.

  “I will sign it this evening as well, and you’ll get a confirmed copy tomorrow. In the meantime, Lark will make arrangements for payment of a small advance, just to get things going.”

  “Thanks.”

  She took two steps toward the door, then turned back. “Have you ever read one of my books, Mr. Tanner?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Do you plan to?”

  “I don’t know. Is it a requirement of the job?”

  “Not at all. But you might enjoy it. They’re not nearly as bad as you’ve heard.”

  Chapter 3

  Lark and I looked at each other, then sighed and smiled simultaneously. The tension in the room had dropped by a factor of five.

  “Quite a woman,” I said.

  “Definitely.”

  “Tough boss?”

  “At times.”

  “Good pay though, probably.”

  She shrugged. “Good enough. For now.”

  “What did you do before this?”

  “Editor.” She blushed. “Well, editorial assistant.”

  “Where?”

  “New York. Madison House. Chandelier’s publisher.”

  “How long have you been on staff with Ms. Wells?”

  She squirmed uncomfortably. “This is beginning to sound like you’re interrogating me. Are you?”

  I grinned. “Sure.”

  “Am I a suspect?”

  “Not yet.”

  “If I wanted to do something to Chandelier, I’d just …”

  “What?”

  Her back straightened and her nerve firmed. “Never mind. I’ve been on Chandelier’s staff almost four years.”

  “You edit her work?”

  She hesitated. “I read it and tell her what she wants to hear.”

  “Which is what?”

  “That it’s her best book ever.”

  “Is that a genuine response?”

  Her smile was thin and resigned, as though it answered a question she’d asked herself too many times. “No comment.”

  “Do you want to be a writer yourself?”

  She chuckled without amusement. “Not anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  “If you hang around here very long, you’ll know.”

  I walked to the couch and took a seat beside her. “Okay, Ms. McLaren. Let’s get down to brass tacks. Why am I here?”

  “That’s easy.”

  She stood up, walked to the bookcase nearest the desk, swung open a hinged panel disguised as a matched set of Thackeray, opened the wall safe that was secreted behind the panel, extracted a manila folder, and brought it to me. I opened the folder and looked at the contents. Six sheets of white bond paper were inside, each sheet protected by a transparent plastic sleeve and each containing a message, handwritten in black block print with a Magic Marker or a Sharpie. All six messages were essentially the same as the one on top: IF YOU DON’T STOP, YOU WILL DIE!

  I put the sheets back in the folder and looked at Lark. “I don’t suppose it’s as simple as she’s poached the property of an irate wife. Or husband, for that matter.”

  She shook her head. “Nothing like that, I’m sure. Chandelier dates quite a lot when she’s not writing, but she doesn’t date married men.” She grinned. “Or women. Chandelier is relentlessly heterosexual, if it makes any difference.”

  “It usually doesn’t.” I gestured toward the notes. “I take it you provided the plastic.”

  “Yes.”

  “Have the sheets been dusted for prints?”

  “Yes.”

  “So the cops are in on this?”

  She shook her head. “The testing was done privately by an independent forensics lab in Sacramento. At this point, the authorities have not been consulted about anything. I’m sure Chandelier wants to keep it that way.”

  “Why?”

  Lark took a deep breath. “For years, Chandelier was both unhappy and unpublished. Her marriage was a mess, her first book didn’t sell, she weighed well over two hundred pounds, she couldn’t have children, and she couldn’t afford to do what you have to do to make a splash in the business, such as hire a publicity person, mail out expensive promotional materials, and travel to stores and book conventions all over the country. But she saved her pennies and made a plan and slowly but surely it worked. She got where she is by taking total control of her life, both professionally and personally. As much as is humanly possible, nothing happens in Chandelier’s world unless she wants it to. Among other things, she has created a marvelously potent image of herself. She feels if the police are brought in, if she’s seen as incapable of responding to and resolving a crisis in her life, she’ll risk undermining that image to a degree. At this point, she’s not willing to take that chance.”

  I’d heard Baptist sermons less fervent. Clearly Lark looked on Ms. Wells as something more than a boss. “If these notes are serious and someone takes a pop at her,” I said easily, “she’ll wish she hadn’t been so worried about image.”

  “At that point, if it comes, I’m sure she’ll do the sensible thing and inform the police. In the meantime, we’re hoping you can put the matter to rest unofficially.”

  I didn’t bother to temper her tribute to my expertise. “When did the first note show up?”

  “Three weeks ago.”

  “How?”

  “In the mailbox. In an envelope. But not postmarked so not mailed.”

  “The writer wants her to stop something. Stop what?”

  “Writing, I assume.”

  “Why would her writing put someone on edge?”

  “I’m not sure, but she sets all of her books in a realistic context. Shalloon is about fraud in the cosmetics industry—substituting cheap imitations for the real thing. Shalloon is the name of the fictitious perfume in the book. The novel she’s just finished is called Ship Shape. It takes place on a luxury cruise where the sponsors prey on customers both physically and financially.”

  “These books are based on actual practices in those industries?”

  “By some companies. Yes.”

  “Have there been any repercussions from outraged corporate flacks or their counsel?”

  “Not that I know of.”<
br />
  “What’s she working on next?”

  Lark shook her head. “I don’t know. She probably doesn’t either. I never know till she’s finished the first draft. No one does.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “Yes.”

  “So presumably not many people know what Ship Shape’s about either.”

  “Not for another week, when it will hit New York City. And then it will only be Madison House and book club and chain-store people till the bound galleys are ready. Of course TV and the film studios often share the same corporate parent as the major publishing houses, or they have moles inside the smaller publishers to alert them to hot properties, so confidentiality is never assured.”

  “Ms. Wells doesn’t have some sort of critique group of other writers who read her stuff as she goes along?”

  Lark shook her head. “Chandelier doesn’t feel anyone knows nearly as much about what she’s trying to do in her fiction as she does herself.”

  “Sounds a little egotistic.”

  Lark made a face. “In my experience, writers are all egotistic. How else would they keep going?”

  I laughed because I guessed she was right and because at one point in my life, I’d wanted to write a novel, which made me an egotist myself. “Are her agent and editor both in New York?”

  “Their offices are there, but at the moment they’re here in San Francisco. Ever since Chandelier became a bestseller, they always come out for the launch party.”

  “I’d like to meet them before this show goes on the road.”

  Lark nodded. “I thought we could do that tomorrow. Chandelier’s hairdresser and personal shopper are coming to the house at noon to get her ready for the party. I won’t be needed, and Sally and Amber are free as well. I thought we could all meet for lunch.”

  “Sure.”

  “Where?”

  “Wherever.”

  “You’re near North Beach, right?”

  “Yep.”

  “How about the Black Cat? Or Tavolino?”

  “They’re a little steep for my budget.”

  She looked away to avoid augmenting my embarrassment. “We’d be paying the tab, of course.”

  “Still.”

  She frowned in thought. “Enrico’s?”

  “Fine.”

  “One o’clock?”

  “One it is.”

  I handed back the manila folder. “You won’t need it?” Lark asked.

  “Not until I have a suspect. Speaking of which, Ms. Wells suggested that she’d given you some ideas along that line.”

  The shift in focus seemed to discomfit her. “Oh. Yes. Well, I wouldn’t go so far as to call them suspects.”

  “Then what would you call them?”

  “Possibilities, is all.”

  I got out my notebook. “Give me a rundown.”

  Lark leaned back on the couch. Although she put up a good front, at bottom she seemed exhausted, or bored, or exasperated, but something definitely less than chipper. I had a feeling that a day tending Chandelier Wells could do that to a person. After four years of it, well, I’d be surprised if Lark remained unmedicated.

  She held up her index finger. “First and foremost, there’s the ex-husband.”

  “Name?”

  “Mickey Strunt.”

  “Address?”

  She consulted a Rolodex beside the phone and read off a number on Judah Street.

  “Where’s that? Out near the ocean?”

  She nodded. “A block away, I believe. Mickey used to be a surfer.”

  “Other than the obvious, why does Mickey lead the list?”

  “They’ve been divorced for twelve years but he still comes around and asks for money and threatens to make trouble if he doesn’t get it, which he does, usually, though in smaller amounts than he claims to need.”

  “What kind of money are we talking about?”

  “Last year, twenty-four thousand dollars. Two thousand a month.”

  “That’s a lot.”

  “Not to Chandelier.”

  “And now he wants more?”

  “He always wants more. And lots of it.”

  “How much?”

  “Half. Of her assets.”

  I blinked. “On what basis?”

  “That back in the early days he worked like a dog to give Chandelier the time and the inspiration to write. That she would still be nothing if he hadn’t urged her to write that first book. That she took the basic character sketches from him and ran with them.”

  “Is any of that true?”

  “Not according to Chandelier. She started to write so she could afford to leave him, basically.”

  “What’s Mickey do for a living?”

  She laughed. “Nothing discernible.”

  “Is he violent?”

  “Not so far.”

  “A drunk? A doper? A nut?”

  “According to Chandelier, he’s been all of those at one time or another. Plus a surf bum.”

  “Police record?”

  “I think so, but nothing major. Public intoxication. That kind of thing.”

  “I’ll check him out. Who else makes the list?”

  Again, Lark seemed uncomfortable with casting a net of suspicion. Which made me like her even more than I did already, which was a lot.

  “Well, there’s Viveca Dane, I suppose,” she said grudgingly.

  “The name’s familiar.”

  “She’s a writer, too. Or was. Queen of the field, until Chandelier came along.”

  “Why’s she a suspect?”

  “Thanks to Chandelier’s success, Viveca’s career has been pretty much obliterated. She’s not happy about it, understandably.”

  “She’s said so?”

  Lark nodded. “Often and in print. At her most vehement, she accuses Chandelier of plagiarism. If she wasn’t so pathetic, Chandelier would probably sue her.”

  “Where can I find her?”

  She consulted her list and read off an address on Francisco Street.

  “Nice neighborhood.”

  “Viveca made lots of money in her heyday. I guess she managed to hang on to most of it.”

  “If she’s rich, why the ire?”

  Lark met my look. “They don’t do it for the money, Mr. Tanner.”

  I was about to ask Lark what they did do it for when the phone beside her buzzed. She picked it up and listened, then quickly replaced the receiver. “Sorry. I have to go.”

  “Home?”

  She pointed at the ceiling. “She needs me to take some dictation.”

  “You live here in the house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any private life at all?”

  She grinned. “Thursdays, if I’m lucky.”

  “What do you do on Thursdays?”

  “I go to the library to get good books and go to the museums and see good art.”

  “What sort of books?”

  She shrugged. “It varies. Currently I’m quite enamored of William Trevor and Francine Prose.”

  She stood up and I did, too. “That’s it for suspects?” I asked quickly.

  She closed her eyes to think. “There’s also Thurston Buckley.”

  “The real estate guy? He owns half the city. If you believe what Herb Caen used to say about him, he could have any woman he wanted just by snapping his fingers.”

  “Well, he couldn’t have Chandelier Wells and that seemed to upset him.”

  “How bad did he want her?”

  “A lot. He gave her a diamond as big as the Ritz-Carlton.”

  “They were engaged?”

  “He thought he was; she knew she wasn’t.”

  Lark took two steps toward the door. “One more thing,” I said to stop her.

  “What?”

  “Be honest with me.”

  She blinked. “Of course.”

  “It’s occurred to me that this whole thing could be phony. A fake death threat that leaks to the press and becomes a public
ity ploy to sell the new book. Plucky author under siege and all that. Any chance of that being the case, Ms. McLaren?”

  Her arm swept the room as her eyes chastened mine. “Does it look like she needs more publicity, Mr. Tanner? Or more of anything, for that matter?”

  I had to admit that it didn’t. On the other hand, if her life were truly without need, Chandelier Wells would be the first person in my experience of whom that was true.

  Buy Ellipsis Now!

  About the Author

  Stephen Greenleaf (b. 1942), a former lawyer and an alumnus of the prestigious Iowa Writer’s Workshop, is a mystery and thriller writer best known for his series of novels starring PI John Marshall Tanner. Recognized for being both literate and highly entertaining, Greenleaf’s novels often deal with contemporary social and political issues.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1999 by Stephen Greenleaf

  Cover design by Drew Padrutt

  ISBN:978-1-5040-2619-2

  This 2016 edition published by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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