Ellipsis Page 7

  “Pretty sure.”

  After a last glance at the stricken fan, Chandelier looked at me the way she would look at a dog that had just soiled the rug. “I’ve been less than impressed with your competence, Mr. Tanner. As a matter of fact, that woman in cowboy boots looks more in charge of things than you are.”

  I decided not to tell her that Ruthie was working for me. “Lighten up, Ms. Wells. If someone takes a shot at you, it isn’t going to happen in front of two hundred hysterical women.”

  “Three hundred at least. And not all of them are hysterical.”

  “They would be if someone pulled a gun.”

  Her scowl loomed large. “That’s quite sexist of you, Mr. Tanner. I’m not sure I want someone with those attitudes on my payroll.”

  “Actually, it was more nasty than sexist. I tend to get that way when someone implies I’m not doing my job.”

  She lifted a blackened brow. “Well? Are you?”

  “You’re still breathing,” I said, just to prove I was still nasty. Then I stood up. “Let me know if you’re taking me off the clock. In the meantime, I’ll be on the job.” I started to walk away.

  “Wait,” she said at my back, in a voice I hadn’t heard before, one that was scared and needy and even a little chagrined. “I’m sorry. I just … those notes have gotten to me, I guess. I feel very vulnerable all of a sudden. Of course I want you to stay on the job. Definitely. Till we find out exactly what’s going on.”

  “Up to you,” I said nonchalantly, determined to be the only person in her life who didn’t need the work. “How did you get here to Jimbo’s?” I asked.

  “My car. Driven by my driver.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “With the car. Parked somewhere nearby. Why?”

  “If someone’s serious about taking you on, it’s a lot more likely to happen en route than in some public place like this.”

  “As I mentioned last evening, my driver’s highly trained.”

  “By the FBI.”

  She nodded. “He was a field agent here in the city. A friend in the U.S. attorney’s office recommended him.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Filson. Jed Filson.”

  “How long has he been with you?”

  “Two years.”

  I looked back to where the woman had gone down. Thanks to Ruthie’s ministrations, she was back on her feet and being comforted by her peers. “I’m going outside for a minute. Why don’t you give that woman a free book?”

  Once again, she bristled. “I don’t need you to tell me how to do my job, Mr. Tanner.”

  “Ditto, Ms. Wells.”

  She started to say something that would remind me of my place, but I went looking for the driver before she had the chance.

  I found him parked in a red zone a block away, wearing a gray fedora and sitting behind the wheel of a classic black Lincoln Continental of early-eighties vintage, looking less a federal agent than chauffeur to a minor mafioso. A uniformed cop was leaning on the window, talking to him. They both laughed, then they shook hands, then the cop strolled away down Columbus.

  Filson was rolling up the window when I tapped on the glass. With a moan and a hum, the window reversed directions as Filson slid his right hand onto his belt holster.

  “Sorry, Mac; I’m not for rent. This is a private car.”

  “I’m not in the market for transportation,” I said.

  “Then what can I do for you?” he asked, his eyes no doubt active behind his coal black shades.

  “I’m Tanner. The inside man.” I showed him my ticket.

  He processed the information, then stuck his hand through the window. “Jed Filson. Heard you were on the job. Not that it amounts to much.”

  We shook. “Just wanted to introduce myself.”

  “Appreciate it.”

  “Cop giving you a bad time?”

  “Not after he knew the situation.”

  “Good. See anything odd on the way over?”

  “Only the usual. Which in this town is plenty.”

  “Any idea who might be behind the notes?”

  “Nope.”

  “Take it seriously or is it just another nut?”

  He shrugged. “Between you and me, I’m not losing sleep.” His grin slid toward the salacious. “Not for this gig, anyway.”

  I nodded in deference to his estimate if not his ethic. “You packing anything but the side piece?”

  He gestured toward a shotgun strapped to the opposite door. “There’s some semiautomatic shit in the trunk. I got more firepower than the Third Marines.”

  “Good.”

  “Anything going down inside?”

  “Only adulation.”

  He shrugged. “Typical Chandelier scene. Me, I don’t get excited by anything but the ponies. Well, holler if you need me.”

  “Same here.”

  He smiled easily and professionally. “I imagine we’d both take a full-choke load of double aught before we’d ask the other for help.”

  I grinned to show he was right, then strolled back to the ballroom, wondering if Filson could be a plant in service to some thug. If so, it wouldn’t be the first time a feeb had turned turncoat.

  The crowd had thinned in my absence, and only a few people were still in line to buy books. Everyone else was eating and drinking, everyone except Ruthie Spring.

  When she sidled my way, I spoke like a con, without moving my lips.

  “Nice work with the swooner.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Just a case of the vapors?”

  “Yep.”

  “See anything else of interest?”

  “Nope. You?”

  “Nope.” I looked at my watch. “This is about over. You might as well take off.”

  “Fine.”

  “Buy a book?”

  She patted her purse. “Damned right. It’ll be on the expense account, too.”

  I walked Ruthie to the door and said good-bye. When I turned back toward the crowd, I noticed a small commotion around Chandelier’s seat. As I hurried that way, Lark caught my eye and motioned me to join them.

  “Look,” Chandelier said tightly as I leaned over the table toward her. She shoved a copy of Shalloon toward me. “The title page.”

  I opened the book. Below the printed title and above Chandelier’s printed name, in the space where she always autographed books, was a message, hand-printed in black ink: SINCE YOU HAVE IGNORED OUR WARNING, YOU WILL DIE BEFORE SUNDAY. ENJOY YOUR WEEK—IT’LL BE YOUR LAST.

  Chapter 9

  A silently as a contagion, the sneak attack on Chandelier Wells slowly infected the room. People milled around in worry and confusion, aware of the commotion and concern, wondering what could have happened, hoping Chandelier was all right and that she wasn’t going to leave the premises before she signed their books. My guess was Chandelier was a trouper who would do her public proud, but given the extreme expressions that danced across her face, I wouldn’t have bet the ranch on it.

  After talking to everyone involved, which is to say to Chandelier’s entourage and the people from Dunne and Son, I tentatively concluded that the message hadn’t been written at Jimbo’s, it had been written back at the bookstore. According to Meredith Dunne, the books had been in the store for five days. Most had remained in the boxes that had been shipped from the Madison House warehouse in New Jersey, but a few boxes had been opened so some copies could be displayed in various areas throughout the store, including a stack at the cash register. On the morning of the party, the display copies had been repacked and hauled to Jimbo’s by the staff, then unpacked and stacked on the table, ready for purchase by Chandelier’s fans. In the interim, there had been plenty of opportunity for someone to take a book off a stack at the store, scrawl the threat on the title page, put it back on the stack near the bottom, and be virtually certain that the next person to see it would be its author.

  There was one flaw in that scenario. To maximize efficienc
y, Chandelier demanded that the jacket flap be placed in the book so that it would open to the title page, where she always signed her name. The woman who had that task was an employee of Dunne and Son who was on duty at the event and who seemed as devastated as the rest of the retinue by what had occurred.

  After I had traced the journey that Shalloon had taken, I pulled her aside. “I understand it was your job to go through every book before you sold it,” I said.

  She nodded.

  “To fix the flap so it would open to the title page.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you see any writing in any of the books?”

  She shook her head vigorously. “Of course not. If I had, I would have said something. And I certainly wouldn’t have sold the book.” She rubbed her eyes then her nose, wetting her knuckles and smearing her eyeliner. “I’ve done the flap thing so many times I can do it blindfolded with one hand. If there was a tarantula in there, I wouldn’t have noticed unless it bit me.”

  “Did you see anyone other than Chandelier writing in a book after you sold it?”

  She shook her head.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes, but I don’t watch the customers, usually. I watch Chandelier or Meredith or … I mean, it never occurred to me that—”

  “It didn’t occur to me, either,” I interrupted, and patted her on the shoulder. “It would help if you would ask the other employees if they saw anything odd around here this afternoon and let me know if they did.”

  “Sure.”

  “Or anyone fishy messing with the display books back in the store.”

  “Okay. Sure.”

  I held out a hand. “My name’s Marsh Tanner.”

  We shook. “Andrea Lubitch.”

  I gave her a card. “If you learn anything, please give me a call. And thanks for your help.”

  “Okay,” she said tentatively, not sure if it was okay at all. She glanced back at the book table as though she feared it would collapse under the weight of her distress. “Chandelier’s so upset, I’ve probably already been fired.”

  I told her I was sure that wasn’t the case, but both of us knew it was pablum.

  The next person I talked to was the woman who had bought the book Chandelier had started to sign, only to be confronted by the addendum. The woman, Jessamyn Wallace, wore jeans and a sweatshirt with a picture of one of the Brontë sisters stenciled on the front. She was flushed and aflutter because she was, perhaps for the first time in her life, suspected of doing something wrong.

  “But what did I do?” she kept saying. “Why is Chandelier so upset with me?”

  I maneuvered her to where she couldn’t see Chandelier. “Did you write anything in the book you bought?”

  She blinked back a tear. “No. I … no. Nothing. I wanted Chandelier to write in it. I thought that’s why we were here.”

  “Did you get the book off the stack yourself?”

  “I think so. Yes.”

  “No one handed it to you?”

  She replayed the purchase in her mind. “No. I picked it out myself. One of them had a torn cover so I passed it by for a better copy. Then I paid my money, got my change, and went to Chandelier to get her signature. It’s for my niece. ‘To Penny on her twenty-first birthday’ is what I was hoping Chandelier would put in it. Even though it says she doesn’t do personal messages, I hear sometimes she does.” Jessamyn sniffed and trembled. “But now I guess I won’t get anything.”

  “Stay here a minute, please.”

  I went over to Chandelier, waited till she had finished upbraiding her publicist for some shortcoming involving radio ads, then spoke softly in her ear. “I don’t think this happened here. I think it happened while the books were on display in the store.”

  “Who’s at fault, then?”

  “No one, probably. Except the guy who wrote it.” Then I grabbed a copy of Shalloon off the nearest stack. “In case I don’t catch you before you leave, would you sign this for my niece? ‘To Penny on her twenty-first birthday,’ if you would.”

  She looked as if I’d asked her to lick me. “I don’t usually do individual inscriptions.”

  “Just this once. Pretty please.”

  She started to take a stand on principle, but decided that whatever grace she granted me wouldn’t set a precedent. “Very well.”

  She signed the book as requested and handed it back to me. When she was deep in conversation with Lark McLaren, I took the book to Jessamyn Wallace. “Here you go; signed as ordered. Chandelier’s very sorry for the fuss. She hopes Penny enjoys the book.”

  “Thank you. And thank Chandelier especially. She’s so wonderful.”

  “Yes, she is.”

  “If I did anything wrong, I apologize. Please tell her that, will you?”

  “Of course.”

  As Ms. Wallace strolled off, I returned to the book table. Chandelier Wells was back on the throne, her minions duly chastised for events that were not of their making. My turn in the dock was next.

  “Well?” she demanded as I approached. “What’s your take on this, Mr. Security Expert?”

  “My take is that no one could have prevented what happened unless they screened every book before you saw it. And that someone wants you to stop doing whatever you’re doing.”

  “Signing books?”

  “I doubt if it’s that.”

  “Then what?”

  “You’d know better than I would. How are you upsetting people these days?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I think you do.”

  “I don’t care what you think.” She looked at me with cold composure. “Are you going to interrogate the people at the bookstore?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because three of them are here and if they’d seen anything suspicious, they’d have said something already. I’ve asked one of them to nose around for me. If and when we get a suspect, I’ll take a picture down and see if we get an ID.”

  “How do you suggest you find a suspect?”

  “Step-by-step as always, Ms. Wells.”

  “I leave Friday on my tour. I’d like this to be solved by then.”

  “So would I.”

  She thought about issuing some orders, but decided I might not stick around till she finished. “So what’s your next step?”

  “I thought we were going to dinner with your people.”

  She shook her head. “I’m too upset to go out; I’m going home and have Ernie’s send something to the house. Your presence will not be required the rest of the day. I’ll see you tomorrow at noon at KXYZ. I have a TV appearance till one, then a reading at Steinway in Berkeley at two, then a drop-in at Baubles, Bangles & Books downtown at four. I’ll want you at each event.”

  “All of these have been advertised?”

  “Of course. There’s no point in enduring this without publicity.” She stood up and stretched, reminding me again how imposing she was. “Have you talked to Mickey?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I assume you intend to.”

  “Of course.”

  “Quite soon.”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well. I’ll see you at KXYZ tomorrow.”

  “Maybe you should consider staying somewhere other than home till this is straightened out.”

  “As I mentioned before, my house has the most elaborate security system money can buy. I choose to believe that it can perform as advertised.”

  I ignored the implicit insult but I was getting a little tired of her Evita routine. “Your choice,” I groused.

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Tanner. It’s always my choice. Be early tomorrow, so you can have the studio secured before my arrival.”

  “Will do,” I said, feeling the way I used to when my mother made me clean my room, which was that I wanted to make it messier.

  Since I’d obviously been dismissed, I headed for the door. Before I could make my escape, Lark McLaren caught up to me. “I’m g
etting worried,” she said.

  “So am I,” I admitted.

  “There was something very real about that one.”

  “I agree.”

  “And very hateful.”

  “Yes.”

  “So what should we do?”

  “Fly to Paris and wait it out in the bowels of the Ritz. But since that’s not likely to happen, just try to be careful.”

  “I can only be as careful as Chandelier lets me. She’s a brave woman, unfortunately. Foolhardy at times.”

  “One other thing.”

  “What?”

  “This doesn’t sound like a nutcase to me. It sounds like Ms. Wells is up to something the note writer wants her to stop. Get together with Chandelier and try to figure out what that is.”

  She nodded. “If she’ll let me, we’ll do it tonight. She has some telephone interviews, though, and a chat session on her Web site, then a photo shoot for a spread in Bay Area Homestyles. And Amber and Sally are coming to go over some last-minute changes in her tour. But I’ll try to fit it in. Definitely.”

  I laughed at the evening’s schedule Lark had described, which was more laden with effort and entanglements than my schedule for the rest of the month. “Just another evening at the Wells house?”

  “Actually, this is a slow night. You can’t imagine what it’s like when she really gets rolling. When we’re out on tour, I’m on the phone ten hours a day.”

  “When does she have any fun?”

  “Never. She doesn’t relax while she’s touring, all she does on tour is hustle. She’ll sign a book in the hotel john if they let her. I always have half a dozen copies in my backpack in case she meets a hot prospect en route to the loo.”

  “I’m beginning to sense why you don’t want to be a writer anymore.”

  “I thought you might.”

  I waved good-bye and headed down the street toward the Lincoln. When he saw me coming, Jed Filson rolled down the window on the big car.

  “One thing,” I said.

  “Shoot.”

  “If she goes anywhere but home tonight, or anywhere but to the TV studio in the morning, let me know as soon as possible.”

  “Right.”

  “She been hanging out in any strange places lately?”

  Filson’s stubble made room for a grin. “Hanging out in dives is her hobby. She prowls this city like a derelict, let me tell you. I been chasing bad guys around the bay for twenty years and she knows joints I never heard of, let alone been inside. Last week she spent a couple hours in some toilet out in the Potrero I wouldn’t go in without a rifle platoon.”