“Creating more undead humans, which is just a win-win for all. Do you see any pets in here?”
“I hope not,” said Dooley with a shiver. “If they’re all like that Miss Piggy I hope we don’t run into any more pets on this particular tour of duty.”
“Pity.” Miss Piggy and Kevin Bacon were a washout, as far as sleuthing went. I was hoping to score some points with the next batch but it looked like Burke was not a pet lover.
So instead of wandering around in search of our next target, we settled down near the window, where the rays of the sun played on our fur and where it was nice and warm, and listened to Odelia and Gran conduct their second interview of the day.
“Isn’t it true, Mr. Burke,” said Gran in sharp tones, directing her phone at the horror writer, “that you hated Mr. Ackerman? And isn’t it also true that you resented the fact that he made a lot more money at this writing thing than you did? And isn’t it also true that—”
“Wait a minute,” said Rockwell, holding up his hands in a gesture of defense. “I mean, it’s true that I once said Ackerman wasn’t much of a writer.”
“You called him a hack.”
“I meant it as a compliment! Ackerman was a writer in the pulp fiction tradition. He could produce a clean draft in next to no time, and his readers loved it. Where it took me a year to write a halfway decent book he wrote a dozen, and they sold like hot cakes.”
“So you hated his guts,” said Gran, narrowing her eyes.
“I admired him!”
“You were jealous!”
“No! Well, yeah, maybe a little. I mean, who wouldn’t be? He sold more books than the next ten writers on the bestseller list. He raised the bar for all of us. Did I envy him? Sure! Did I want to kill him over his killer output? Of course not! I wanted tobe him, not kill him.”
“Hmph,” Gran said, indicating she didn’t believe a word the novelist said.
“Look, I went in there last night fully intending to set the record straight. I know I’ve said some things about Chris in the past that he was sore about, even though at the time I meant it in jest—like I said, more in tribute than criticism. My words got twisted and we ended up with this feud or whatever. So when my publisher suggested I moderate the reading I jumped at the chance. But when I got there I suddenly had a change of heart.” He shook his head. “I—I worried that people would see this as a publicity stunt. My last couple of novels weren’t well received, and my sales have been down. The only thing I’ve got going for me is that I’ve never sold out. My fans know I don’t compromise. That I’ll never go on TV to hawk a product or a book I don’t believe in. And going into that reading suddenly felt like a bad idea. This business is about perception and I don’t want to be accused of selling out.”
“I’m sure your readers wouldn’t have seen it that way,” said Odelia gently. “They would have seen it for what it was: a writer not afraid to confess he made a mistake.”
Rockwell smiled.“You’re too kind, Miss Poole. But I doubt that in this social media age people would have taken my side. Pretty sure the pitchforks would have been out and a very public tarring and feathering would have ensued. My fans can be pretty darn vocal.”
“So let me get this straight,” said Gran. “You never went inside the library?”
“Oh, I went inside, all right. But the moment I did my gut told me it was all wrong. So I turned around and walked right out again.”
“Without talking to Ackerman?”
“Without talking to Ackerman.”
“He wasn’t going to be happy about that.”
“No, I’m sure he wasn’t. But that couldn’t be helped. My integrity means more to me than selling a few more books. And as it happens it was probably a good thing that I walked. I would have gotten embroiled in this whole murder business if I hadn’t.”
“Oh, you’re embroiled whether you want to be or not, chickadee,” grunted Gran.
“Did you see anyone else when you were at the library?” asked Odelia.
“Well, I saw Malcolm Buckerfield,” said Rockwell. “Ackerman’s publisher? I told him I couldn’t go through with the reading and he said he understood. Then again, he wasn’t Ackerman’s publisher anymore. Chris dumped him and negotiated a new deal with Franklin Cooper. Very lucrative, too, or so I heard.”
“What was Buckerfield doing there?” asked Odelia.
“Probably trying to convince Chris to stay with him. Malcolm was desperate. Ackerman was his biggest author. Losing him would mean losing a big chunk of change.”
“Would it be accurate to assume that losing Ackerman meant losing the business?”
Rockwell thought about that for a moment.“I doubt it. For one thing, Chris’s entire backlist stays with Buckerfield Publishing, and those books will continue to sell. So to answer your question, losing Chris was a big blow, but it wouldn’t have jeopardized the business.”
“But don’t you agree that Chris Ackerman’s death benefits Mr. Buckerfield greatly? That backlist will be worth even more now.”
“That’s true,” Rockwell acknowledged. “Every time a writer dies the value of his backlist suddenly goes up. But that’s only a short-term effect. Eventually people forget. New authors arrive on the scene and the old guard is forgotten. Who remembers Harold Robbins or Sidney Sheldon or Arthur Hailey? Those guys were million-sellers. So unless the publisher hires a ghostwriter, like in Robert Ludlum’s case, and continues to churn out the more lucrative blockbuster series into perpetuity, those sales are going to dwindle and die.”
“Chris Ackerman never signed that deal with Franklin Cooper,” said Odelia. “Which means he’s still a Buckerfield author, and new books will be published by his old publisher.”
It was obvious from the expression on her face that she was thinking hard. This was obviously a new line of inquiry. And a most interesting one at that.
“If you put it that way,” Rockwell admitted, “Malcolm had a lot to gain from Chris’s death. Though any deal he wants to make will have to be made with Chris’s heirs.”
“Angelique and Trey Ackerman,” said Odelia slowly.
Yup. The plot was definitely thickening. Like molasses.
The conversation continued for a while, and I actually started to nod off. In my defense, it had been a long night and half a day, and as everyone knows cats need their eighteen hours of sleep if they’re going to function at maximum capacity. I’d just started dreaming of some nice Cat Snax when all of a sudden a sharp yapping sound woke me up.
When I searched around for the source of the noise, my eyes finally settled on a tiny dog. In fact it was the tiniest dog I’d ever seen, no bigger than a teacup. Which made Rockwell Burke’s next comment very apt indeed.
“Don’t mind her. That’s Paris, my teacup Yorkie. She’s adorable, isn’t she?”
Adorable was not the word that sprang to mind at the sight of the lilliputian long-haired mutt. The thing kept barking furiously, so finally I decided to take matters in hand by shouting,“Hey! What’s the matter with you?”
This seemed to startle the dog to the extent that it gave two more halfhearted yaps then shut up and sat staring at us, its little pink tongue lolling.
“We better have a chat with her,” said Dooley. “That’s what we’re here for, right?”
Dooley was right. And even though having a chat with a miniature dog was the last thing I wanted to do, I dragged my weary body from the floor and strode towards the window, which had been opened a crack.
“You,” I told the dog, not in the mood to mince my words, “come here.”
And lo and behold. Paris, the teacup Yorkie, came there.
Chapter 24
“Who are you guys?” she asked the moment we’d set paw out on the balcony.
“My name is Dooley,” said Dooley, enunciating slowly, as if talking to a toddler. Or a dog. “And this is Max. We’re here to ask you some questions about your human. First question. Are you a living dog or an undead one? Think hard before you respond, dog.”