Boo Hiss (7 page)

Wolfe laughed. “Sounds like fun.”

C
HAPTER
8

A
LFRED HAD THE BODY LANGUAGE DOWN
. There was a lot of arm patting, which was taking some getting used to, and apparently nobody did the Euro-kiss here, but other than that, he was feeling a little more relaxed.

With dinner over, thirty minutes of free time took the evening to some sort of special night session that Alfred was scared to even ask about. It was tided
Cutting Out the Bad Parts: Exercising Your Redactor Arm
, and though there were hints that the topic might be self-editing, Alfred wasn’t entirely sure they weren’t talking about exorcism.

The room was still swollen with eager and talkative conferees, but Alfred stood on his tiptoes, trying to get a glimpse of Wolfe. Ordinarily, he was easy to spot in a crowd due to his height. But Alfred hadn’t seen him since early evening, and though he’d never felt very imaginative, he had dreamed up all sorts of scenarios, including the idea that a group might have hauled him off to another building to “pray over him.”

“Alfred?”

Alfred turned to find Ellie. “Oh, hello.”

“You look a little stressed. Are you okay?”

“I can’t find Wolfe. Have you seen him?”

“I saw him earlier. He was speaking to Harry Rector.”

Alfred smiled. That was a good sign. Mr. Rector was one of the most highly regarded editors in this business. Through his research, Alfred had
actually uncovered the fact that Mr. Rector’s father was responsible for some translation of the Bible. Now if that doesn’t get you in the door, what will?

“How is the conference going for you?” Ellie asked. “I’m making all kinds of contacts,” Alfred lied. “Of the nonphysical kind.”

“It’s all about the business card.” And with that, she slid one into his hand. Alfred looked down, and there was Ellies pleasantly round face frozen in time next to her name in nearly unreadable calligraphy.

“If you push the back, it actually sings you a tune,” Ellie said. Then she laughed. “I’m just kidding. But I have seen those. Who would spend that kind of money, though?”

“Exactly how long have you been an agent?”

“I’m in my fifth year.”

“Good for you.” Alfred grinned.

“Are you finding your way around okay?”

“Sure.”

“This must be a lot different than New York, huh?”

“Let’s just say I’ve never once prayed over my caviar.”

“Well, Wolfe has just been a complete delight. He doesn’t look at all like the picture on the back of his book.”

“Yeah, that’s been digitally enhanced.”

“To make him look younger?”

“Scarier.” Alfred tilted sideways, trying to get a glimpse of Wolfe, but he just saw more people. He looked at Ellie. “Let me ask you something. I’ve been doing my share of observing today, and I have to say, I’m nothing short of impressed. You have quite a strategy.”

“Strategy?”

“Yeah. It’s a little laid-back for my taste, but I’m willing to bet you score on charm alone.”

“What are you talking about?”

He stepped closer to her. “Which author are you trying to steal here? I won’t tell a soul, I promise.” “Steal?”

“Yeah. Surely you’ve got your eye on someone.”

Ellie turned to him. “I’m not trying to steal anybody.”

He snorted. “Right. You’re trying to tell me there’s not a big name here you’d love to draw your twenty percent from?” He scanned the room. “I once heard a guy promise an author he didn’t even represent yet to the editor of a competing house!”

“I’m not trying to steal anyone,” Ellie said. “I’m happy with my clients. I’m actually here to find fresh, new talent.”

“Really?”

“Sure. You never know when you’re going to discover the next Wolfe Boone!”

Suddenly a small woman was standing in front of Alfred, looking up at him like a needy child. Her thick glasses magnified dark circles and deep creases on either side of her eyes. She was trying to smile.

“She’s nervous,” Ellie whispered.

That was strange, because Alfred was also growing nervous at an alarming rate, especially when he noticed the thick stack of papers in her hand.

Ellie said to the woman, “Go ahead. Introduce yourself.”

“I’m Rosalinda Barrington-Glauchmeier.” She shrugged with a lopsided grin. “Actually, that’s a pen name. My real name is Doris Buford.” She held out a hand. Alfred slid his forward, and she grabbed it with the strength of a man twice her size. “Such a pleasure to meet you!”

“Likewise,” Alfred said.

Ellie smiled. “Likewise. That’s cute.” She looked at Doris. “He’s from New York. They say things like that.”

“I was wondering if you had some time to talk with me,” Doris said. “I’ve got a manuscript.”

Alfred’s hand found his face as he tried to look pleasantly agreeable. “Oh, um …”

“He’d love to,” Ellie interjected. “For the sake of new talent, right, Alfred?”

He glanced sideways at Ellie. “Sure.”

Doris’s small frame wiggled with excitement. Before Ellie could add any more suggestions, he said, “Doris, why don’t we sit over here, out of the way? You can tell me about your novel.”

As they sat, he couldn’t deny the strange feeling that was creeping around his entrails. Was that charity tickling his fancy? A sense of goodwill toward men and short mousy women?

Was he actually being a good person? He glanced back at Ellie. She had a tight-lipped grin on her face that seemed to show a certain pride in his willingness to pay attention to Doris.

Alfred gave Doris a reassuring smile, which seemed to do wonders for her fidgeting. She took a deep breath and tried to settle into her chair.

He spread his arms wide and, with a delighted grin, said, “Doris, what can I do for you, my dear?”

Alfred took a third tissue from Doris, and blew his nose with reckless abandon. “There, there,” Doris said.

Alfred couldn’t stop the waterworks. And in a matter of minutes, he’d become touchy-feely. This had drawn more than a few stares, but he really didn’t care. He hadn’t felt this much emotion since he’d received that forty-thousand-dollar bonus nearly a decade ago.

“So?” Doris asked, ready with a fourth tissue. “What do you think?”

“What do I think?” Alfred exclaimed. “Look at me! I’m dribble!”

“I’ll admit, I’m not as familiar with the New York scene as I should be, but usually when someone likes a manuscript, they just say so. However,” she added quickly, “I’m all for men expressing their emotion. It really is quite a sight. What do they call you? Metrosexuals? The last time I saw my husband cry was twenty-two years ago when he got his arm cut off.”

Alfred sighed, slumped, and wiped away his tears. “Doris, you don’t understand. Your story … did something to me. I can’t really explain it. But it … it …”

“Touched you?”

Alfred hesitated, the sexual harassment seminars he’d attended causing him to choose his words carefully. “I guess so.” “This has taken me four years to write.”

“It’s a powerful story, Doris. And those first chapters are amazing. I’m not one for love stories, but you’ve managed to win me over, and without a sex scene by page twenty-eight.” Alfred sniffled. “Truthfully, it’s a little hard to believe a man would go to such great lengths to save his bride, and then end up dying anyway, but you sold me on it, Doris. You sold me on it. You’ve raised the bar. I recently read a manuscript where I thought the protagonist was heroic because he was willing to give up his mistress, so this is quite a leap for me, as you can see.”

“So does this mean you’ll take me as your client?”

Alfred stared across at the woman, who was nearly swallowed by the leather chair on which she sat. He looked around the room for his only other client, who’d seemed to vanish into thin air. There he was, across the room, getting chummy with an old woman who looked like she was half a day away from her coffin.

He threw up his hands. “Why the dickens not?”

Ainsley pulled a sweater over her pajamas, buttoned up her coat, and got in her car. It was way too late to be out, but she wasn’t going to sleep much anyway.

She’d spent the evening fretting. Wolfe had told her he might be home late, and though she let him leave without an argument, it was difficult. After all, she’d changed her mind about being pregnant in the spring. She realized that if she waited much later to get pregnant, it might interfere with holiday plans next fall. Who would want to try to plan Thanksgiving with pending labor? And then there was the idea of being huge and pregnant in the hot summer months, when she normally would be out fertilizing her grass.

So according to her calculations, calendar, and temperature charts, her whole plan could be blown if Wolfe didn’t get home soon. And it didn’t look like he was going to make it. With a huge huff, she backed out of the driveway and headed toward Melb and Oliver’s.

Oliver had phoned, sounding frantic. “I’ve called the doctor!” he shouted.

Ainsley mustered up her calm voice. “Oliver, that’s good. I’m sure he’s on his way.”

“No! I’ve called the doctor, and now Melb is about to come unglued. She hates doctors!” Ainsley realized he was shouting because of all the wailing Melb was doing. “Can you please hurry over and talk some sense into her?”

Ainsley was at their house in less than five minutes. As she got out of the car, she could see Melb’s figure silhouetted against the curtains, her arm gesturing angrily at Oliver’s silhouette.

She hurried to the door and knocked. It swung open, and Oliver said, “She’s lost her mind!”

“Haven’t you read the statistics?” Melb shouted from her vertical position on the couch.

“The ones about how many wives drive their husbands crazy?” Oliver shouted back.

Ainsley stepped into the living room and between the two lovebirds. “What’s the matter?”

“She’s been sick for four weeks now, and she refuses to go to the doctor. But she’s getting worse, Ainsley. Today she could barely get out of bed.”

“Yet,”
Melb retorted, with a finger flying toward the ceiling, “I managed to scrub every floor in this house with vinegar!”

Oliver shrugged. “It’s true. In under two hours. But despite how ill she is, she is refusing to eat anything healthy.”

“He’s lying!” Melb shrieked. “Oliver! What did I have for breakfast this morning?”

He rolled his gaze toward Ainsley, and in an exasperated voice said, “Cantaloupe.”

“That’s right. Cantaloupe.” Melb crossed her arms. “With chocolate slivers on top.”

The doorbell rang, and Oliver rushed to the door as Melb burst into tears.

“Dr. Hoover,” Oliver said, pulling him in by the arm.

Dr. Hoover had been retired for twenty years, but still made house calls to anyone nearby, usually at any time of the day or night. He lived twenty minutes away in the next county. He was a pretty good doctor by all accounts, except he had shaky hands, which, in some doctorly situations, could put terror into even the bravest soul.

“Please don’t hurt me,” Melb whimpered. She was carefully eyeing the doctor’s bag.

“Melb, Dr. Hoover is here to help you. Don’t you want to get better?” Oliver asked.

“What are her symptoms?” Dr. Hoover asked him.

“She’s completely irrational, crying all the time, blaming me for everything yet wanting me at her beck and call. Her fuse is the length of my thumbnail, and if I mention anything that can be construed in any way other than its original meaning, she lets me have it!” Oliver slapped a harried hand against his forehead.