“I admit, Mr. Brennan’s signing was this store’s very first,” I said. “But I have had plenty of experience in the publishing business.”
“Really?” Shelby replied. She arched an eyebrow skeptically, even as she brushed a wet ringlet of black hair away from her high, smooth forehead.
“Oh, yes,” I continued, naming the publisher I had worked for, and a brace of popular authors with whom I’d worked in my days as a “publishing professional.”
As I rattled off the names, I realized it was an impressive list, even if my dealings with some of those talents would be casually dismissed as “past history”—because, unfortunately, these days publishing operated on the “What have you done for me lately?” principle. The key, of course, being the post-dot-bomb era’s interpretation of the word “lately,” which used to mean over the past five years, but now meant over the past six weeks (the length of time chain stores gave a book to catch on before it was sent back to the publisher’s warehouse in a DDS truck).
Unfortunately, by the time I was finished reciting my résumé, I felt cheap and hollow. Suddenly I was having a flashback to my worst days in that badly managed New York publishing office, where the overall dynamic was vintage John Bradshaw dysfunctional family.
In my experience, lazy, bad managers were the ones most impressed by the slick self-promoters. The hardest workers, who tended to be boring nose-to-the-grindstone types, were subsequently overlooked. My problem was that I’d been brought up to believe self-promotion was not, in fact, a virtue. Bragging, I’d been taught, was a form of conceit not to be encouraged, respected, or admired. And it’s something I still believe, frankly.
However, when the vulgar endeavor of blowing your own horn becomes the quickest road to advancement in an office, you’re sunk if you keep your mouth shut.
Style over substance, lip service over true service, self-promotion for rank promotion: I shudder to think how many offices in America are managed with this philosophy. But, I fear, it’s an inescapable reality. Thus, boring, dedicated workers go unrewarded—while slick, pushy operators are put in charge.
I actually felt my stomach turn as these memories of office politics washed over me. I wanted to believe I was over all this, that I’d put it firmly behind me with my move north. But Shelby had dragged me right back, down to her level. A few minor insults and I’d stooped to bragging in my own defense.
Don’t be so hard on yourself, said Jack. I got dragged down plenty in back alleys. Sometime there’s nothing you can do about it. Just make sure your punches land.
Okay, maybe I did land a good one: Shelby’s smile became a little more plastic, a little more forced, and I felt that sickly familiar sense of satisfaction. But my victory was fleeting. Women like Shelby were far better than I at this game.
“Interesting bit of experience you’ve had,” she snipped with the sort of creepy cheeriness one usually only hears in a gothic melodrama. “Too bad it’s all behind you. Don’t feel too bad about it, though. Not everyone can hack the big leagues.”
My fantasy about wringing her neck was interrupted, thankfully, by my own private dick. You’ve done a good job distracting her, doll. Now ask about Joshy boy.
Jack was right, of course—and he probably noticed that I’d done a good job distracting myself, too. Okay, I thought, back to business.
“It’s so very difficult to decide about people,” I said, trying hard to keep my delivery casual. “I mean, it takes a truly gifted manager to quickly judge who has the ‘right stuff’ and who is just going to be some total loser, you know? To judge right away who deserves your encouragement and help and who you should crush—for the good of the company, of course.”
“That’s very true.” Shelby’s eyes widened with glee.
Bingo! People like Shelby were fairly transparent. Nailing her “philosophy” on office politics wasn’t hard.
“I wonder, what’s your opinion of someone like Josh?” I asked. “Do you think he’ll make it?”
She flapped her hand. “Josh is a conniving little toady, if you want my unvarnished opinion.”
“Oh, by all means. Don’t hold back.”
“It’s nothing personal. I like him otherwise, you understand. He’s just typical of the kids coming out of college these days. Doesn’t want to listen to people above him—just wants responsibility handed to him. Like this very hot literary author the company’s putting on tour in January. Josh has got it in his head that he can direct the tour, take care of the author, and handle all the media appearances. Crazy. He’s been with the company less than a year, and he’s already lobbying me for a prime assignment like that. But I don’t trust him, frankly. And I think he’d do just about anything to get ahead.”
That gave me pause.
Okay, so I didn’t like Shelby, but I believed what she was saying where Josh was concerned—mainly because her summation was rapid-fire and not in the least forced. There was no sign of the plastic expressions or ingratiating fakeness of her previous exchanges. Nothing phony was present in her judgment of Josh; she’d meant what she’d said.
And what does that tell you? asked Jack.
“It tells me that Josh has a motive for doing something risky, like helping Brennan’s killer,” I silently told Jack, “if the risk helps him advance his career. But I don’t see any connection between Brennan’s death and Josh’s advancement. Unless he’s helping Shelby, and she’s the killer, but what motive would she have for killing Brennan? Her glory was in directing his big book tour—and now that’s over. Shelby had no motive to kill Brennan. None that I can see.”
There’s got to be a connection between Josh and the murderer. You just need to find more dots to connect, doll. So look for more dots.
I was about to ask Shelby more about Josh when I heard footsteps outside. I turned to see a hooded figure lunging toward the door.
I screamed. Shelby Cabot screamed. And the figure recoiled back.
Then he lunged forward again and jiggled the door handle, but found it locked.
“Who is it?” I cried. “Who are you?”
The man pulled down the hood of his L. L. Bean rain slicker and pointed to the handle of the locked door.
“It’s Kenneth!” Shelby said to me. “Kenneth Franken.”
I looked again. It was Kenneth Franken, the late Timothy Brennan’s son-in-law—though right now, with his soaked-through rain slicker and drooping hair, he more resembled a half-drowned lobsterman just finished with his traps.
I unbolted the door. As Kenneth stepped in, the downpour followed him. Rain splattered everywhere.
“I’m sorry I frightened you,” he said.
“Come in and get dry,” I told him.
As he came through the doorway, Kenneth slipped on the wet floor and grabbed my arm to steady himself.
“Excuse me,” he mumbled.
Kenneth Franken’s hand was cold—very cold, and he was soaked to the skin. Obviously, he had been out in the night a long time. I glanced across the street, but that loitering man was gone. I knew then that he had been that man.
How odd, I thought. Why would Franken lurk about in the rain? Why not just knock?
Franken turned to stare at Shelby Cabot. The woman wheeled, deliberately giving him her back, which Kenneth just stared at. So I stood staring at Kenneth. The silence continued until I, for one, was feeling rather embarrassed. I was about to say something to break the obvious tension when Shelby turned around and faced me.