LITMIR.BIZ

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Would you like to go to dinner sometime?”

      At my obvious surprise, he grinned. “It could be like old times. Old, old times. Before business got in the way. And then there was Tony…I mean, you and he seemed to have something going.”

      “Not really,” I said. “Tony and I were friends. You’ve heard what happened?”

      “It was on the evening news yesterday. About Arnold, too. What a shock.”

      “I didn’t get a chance to catch the news. Was there anything about Craig?”

      “Craig Dinsmore? No.” His eyes widened. “Has something happened to him?”

      “I found him dead in his motel room today. Well, yesterday, now. In the afternoon.”

      “My God, Mary Beth! It sounds like Who’s Killing the Great Chefs of—except in this case it’s your, well, you know…authors.” He frowned. “Do I need to hire a bodyguard?”

      “I doubt it,” I said dryly. “Since you’re no longer with me, I’d say you’re safe. You might want to hear what the sheriff thinks, though.”

      He was silent and seemed to be pondering the possible threat to his own life. The truth was, until he said it, I hadn’t really looked at it that way yet—that someone was killing off my authors. After all, Arnold had been murdered as well, and he was just my ex.

      Then I remembered that I’d negotiated a deal for Arnold years ago, for one of his toy-creations books. That qualified me as his agent, as well.

      But the idea was preposterous. Who would be out to get my authors? Or me? No, there was something else going on. I was sure of it.

      Lindy, who had been dozing in her chair, the tea and bourbon growing cold on the table beside her, stirred. Sitting up like a shot, she gazed wildly around her. “What? Where—where am I?”

      The faux-mink throw slipped to the floor, and I went over to her and put it back in her lap. “Here, cover up. We’re at the house of a friend of mine, remember? Patrick Llewellen. He used to be one of my authors, and we’re waiting for the sheriff to come and tell us it’s safe to go back to my house.”

      Lindy looked toward the sliding glass door we’d come through. “What if—what if whoever chased us down the beach is out there right now? What if he’s just waiting for us to come out?”

      “I saw a reflection of flashing red lights going by in front,” I said. “I’m sure the sheriff’s deputies are already there, and they’ll check out the beach, too. In fact, I’ll ask one of the officers to escort us back to my house.”

      When she didn’t seem at all mollified, I said, “Would you like me to warm your tea? There’s bourbon in it. It’ll take off the edge.”

      “I noticed,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Thank you, Mary Beth. I don’t know what I’ve had done without you tonight.”

      Again, her words seemed fraught with another meaning, but I let it pass for the moment.

      I left her with Patrick and went to the kitchen, while he sat on an ottoman in front of her, talking in low, soothing tones. I’d almost forgotten that about Patrick—how comforting he could be in a pinch. It was one of the things I’d lost when we split. That, and the sex—which, come to think of it, hadn’t been nearly as bad as I’d tried to remember it.

      The deputies came finally and spoke to us in Patrick’s living room. First, they wanted to know who he was and how we’d come to end up here. I explained, and they moved on to the search of my house.

      “We didn’t find the intruder,” one of the deputies said. “Your front door was wide-open, though. Did you leave it that way?”

      I shook my head. “He went from the bedroom into the living room, and we ran out on the deck through the bedroom door, then along the beach. When we first got here we saw someone following us, though, about three houses away.”

      “And you say he shot at you?”

      “Yes, in the bedroom. I ran in there when I heard my friend scream.”

      The cop who was asking questions looked at the other one. “Fits what we found at the scene,” he said. Turning to me, he added, “You were lucky.”

      I felt a chill, remembering the displaced air as the bullets whizzed by my ear.

      “We’ve checked the road and the beach,” he continued, “and we couldn’t find anyone. At least, anyone who shouldn’t be here. We’ll walk you back to your house, though, and look inside once more before we go.”

      “Thanks,” I said, turning to Lindy. “Ready?”

      She stood and came close to me, as if afraid to get too far away. I turned to Patrick and handed him the throw cover. Half smiling, I said, “Well, good night, then…not that it hasn’t been lovely.”

      “I’ll call you,” he said, walking us to the door with an arm around my shoulders.

      It took me a moment. “Oh, you mean dinner. Sure. Call me. It’ll be fun.”

      The deputies left my house and I got Lindy settled in bed just in time to see the sky lighten up over the ocean. I checked to be sure the front door and windows were locked, then took a shower. After that I made some dark Sumatran coffee and took a cup out onto the deck, along with an old newspaper. My Adirondack chair was dripping with sweat, as usual, from a light mist, and I put the newspaper on it to keep my jeans dry. Over my clean tee, I’d pulled on a sweatshirt with a hood because the air was chilly. It was June, though, and by the time ten o’clock arrived the sun would be high and warm.

      Living at the beach was something I’d always dreamed of. I didn’t kid myself, though. With Tony gone, and with Craig’s new contract a question mark, I might not be able to afford a house in Malibu and an office in a Century City high-rise. Oh, I’d do okay, because I’d made investments and saved, getting out of the worst stocks before they crashed. And there would still be commissions from Tony’s royalties. Maybe more than ever, now that he’d been murdered.

      Funny how dead writers and artists sell better after they’ve passed on. It’s as if the readers want to get into their heads, to figure out who they were and why they died. In the case of fiction writers, though, that’s a misconception. Fiction usually contains bits and pieces of the writer, the writer’s mother and father, the writer’s neighbor, some guy the writer met while walking his dog, and umpteen characters he or she may have seen on television and in the movies. It would be difficult for an author to write about him or herself every time, as it’s said that there are only thirty-six plots that exist in the entire world. The trick is to tell them differently and more originally each time. For that, you need a lot of people in your head.

      Sometimes I wonder how they do it. Especially the ones who write about serial killers. How do they keep all that horror in their minds for the length of a manuscript, and not become affected by it?

      As for Tony and my commissions on his royalties, I figured that those, along with my other authors commissions, would hold me for a while. Real estate around L.A., however, especially here at the beach, was out of sight. The mortgage payments on this house and the office in Century City would quickly eat up whatever monies the near future would bring in.

      Well, that was the life of an agent, as well as just about everyone else in the entertainment and literary business in L.A. Up, down. Up, down. It was like riding a pogo stick.

      That, or wearing a little pendant with cocaine in it. I know several who do that, and inevitably, they end up cheating their clients and keeping their money. They cash authors’ royalty checks from overseas without telling their clients that they’ve come, and with this they pay for their drugs and their high-flying lives. Until someone catches them out and sues. Then they lose all their clients, several of whom have come to me with stories of having been betrayed that way. It takes a while for them to trust anyone after that, but some of the best authors around have come

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