"What did your husband think of this?" Mel asked.
"He stayed out of it, saying Denny was an adult and had to make his own decisions. And it just became worse."
"In what way?"
"He came home for a Thanksgiving dinner and told us he'd decided he wanted to find his 'real' parents. 'Real' is the word he used. We were his real parents. We'd raised him from the day he was only two days old. I felt as if he'd stuck a knife in my chest."
"Did your husband agree?" Mel asked.
"No. He said the same stupid thing. Denny was entitled to do so, if it meant so much to him."
"Did Denny succeed in finding out anything?"
"I have no idea," she said. "And I don't want to know. If this is all you need to ask us, we need to get on with arranging the funeral. We have three plots in a cemetery here in Chicago we bought while we lived here. One for me, one for Harry, and one for Denny. Someday we'll be there with him again. And we need to know where his things are. His clothes, his books, his checkbook so we can cancel the account."
"They're in boxes. They'll be delivered to your hotel as soon as you want."
"Today," she said firmly, standing up and heading for the door. She stopped briefly, and said, "You will tell us who killed him when you get around to finding out, won't you?"
She didn't even wait for an answer — just slammed the door on her way out.
Mel was simply glad she was gone. During Mrs. Roth's rant, he'd had an insight that might prove worthwhile. He knew exactly which pile of paperwork it was in. The one that he thought he'd never need again. He went looking for it.
Twenty-two
When Jane and Shelley left the needlepoint shop, Shelley suggested they stop somewhere for lunch.
"We're on our last caterer tonight for the dress rehearsal and have to feed quite a lot of extra people. The whole cast and crew. Props people, lighting people, even the scene painters and their teacher will be there."
"Do you think you have caterers for tonight who can cope well?" Jane asked.
"Only if we do it in the lobby, which the college has approved. In fact, most caterers like to feed a real meal to a couple of hundred people rather than the snack suppers they've done so far. That's the real test of their skills."
"We haven't tried Chinese catering, so for lunch, let's go to that Chinese restaurant we always like," Jane suggested. "They have the best jasmine tea I've ever tasted."
When they'd placed their orders, Shelley said,"I went to that Internet site that you told me about. The Annie Silverstone one. She seems to be an attractive, interesting person with a good background in publishing. But there weren't the details I wanted to see."
"Like what?" Jane asked.
"Like who are the writers she represents? We know Felicity is one, but you'd think she'd mention others."
"I think most of her authors wouldn't want to be mentioned," Jane said. "It would invite people with crappy manuscripts to send them, claiming that someone like Felicity had recommended the agent. Even if Felicity had never heard of the person."
"Hmm. I hadn't thought of that," Shelley said. "I suppose it could even happen to you if you were to be listed on the site. You haven't heard from Ms. Silverstone yet, have you?"
"Not yet."
"I'm sure you'll hear from her soon."
"Things in publishing sometimes go very slowly, I think. Especially in August and December. And there are still two other agents who are the heads of their agencies and specialize in selling mysteries."
"Are you interested in seeing the whole dress rehearsal tonight?" Shelley asked.
"Not especially. But if you want to, I'll stick it out. I'd like to see how the costumes and sets
look, if nothing else. You drive this time. I'm starving for spring rolls and you'll get us there sooner."
"But you already ordered them for lunch." "So? What's your point?" Jane asked.
Mel's request to search pawnshops for old golf drivers paid off all too well. They had come in in droves. Eight of them at least. Three were clearly new. A waste of time. He took note of which officers had turned them in. The other five needed to be examined more closely. The more there were, the longer it was going to take. He looked them over and only sent three along to the experts.
If positive results didn't come in, there were two more he'd have to submit. All of them as per his instructions had been bagged and the searchers had tried to find out, as best they could, who had pawned them and where they'd found them.
Jane had eaten two whole appetizers — spring rolls and crab Rangoon, her favorites — and spicy orange-flavored Mongolian beef. Half of which she'd brought home. She'd also gone through four cups of jasmine tea. She stuffed the box with the leftovers in the fridge and nearly ran to the downstairs half-bath the moment she,reached home. As she came out, the phone started ringing.
She glanced at the caller ID and saw that it was a New York City number.
"Is this Jane Jeffry?"
"Yes, this is she," Jane said breathlessly.
"I'm Annie Silverstone. Did I catch you at a bad time?"
Jane got a grip on herself and said, "Not at all. I've been hoping to hear from you."
"I love this book, Ms. Jeffry."
"Thank you. Please call me Jane, if you like."
"Okay, Jane. And you'll call me Annie. I'd like to represent you. But I wanted to tell you how I work before we go any further. I don't expect my authors to sign a contract. I don't work with people I don't think I can trust. I've spoken to Felicity and she says you're honorable."
"That's good of her to say that."
Annie continued. "Most agents used to charge ten percent of what the author earned. In recent years, most have gone to fifteen percent. I stuck with going halfway between — I charge twelve and a half percent. But I also charge for a few other things, like FedExing advance reading copies to reviewers that the publisher doesn't send to. And I write contracts that save the foreign sales for us, when I can. I often send copies of books to overseas publishers as well."
"That sounds fair to me. I'm so new at this that I didn't know what to ask," Jane admitted.
"You'll learn fast. Now — you are writing another historical mystery, aren't you?"
"I am. It's not about Priscilla, though."
"That's good. It's hard with historical mysteries to keep one heroine perpetually involved in murder. When is this one set?"
"Edwardian. I'm still researching. I have a vague outline and the first few chapters — at least I think right now that they're the first chapters."
Jane was surprised at how calm she felt. Annie was leading her through this important discussion with skill and tact.
"I'm sure we're going to work together well. Do you ever visit New York City?"
"I haven't for a long time. But I could."
"I'd like to meet you in person soon. And I'll need a bit about your background, anything you think would interest the marketing people or readers. Could you e-mail me something within the next week? Two hundred words or so."
Jane smiled to herself. This was going to be easy, and it would probably surprise Annie to learn that Jane had grown up all over the world with her diplomat father and her mother and sister. She'd save the story about the French teacher who taught a bunch of twelve-year-olds to pick locks. That would be a good story to tell Annie when they met in person.
"Would the middle of next month be a goodtime to meet?" Jane asked. "I'll have all my children back in school by then."