Everyone on This Train Is a Suspect

She shushed me, scanning the bar to see if anyone had heard. “Could you be a bit more discreet about it? Jesus.”

“So you don’t want to make a scene about McTavish’s reviews because, what, it will ruin your chances of signing him if it gets back around? And I’m supposed to think that’s you doing me a favor?”

“No. I’m doing it for me. Of course I’m doing it for me. Ever heard of capitalism?” She looked at me like I was a moron. “But I’m saying it might benefit you as well. Long term.”

“Jeez, does everybody just steal everyone else these days?”

“Not from me they don’t. Don’t get any ideas.”

A thought struck me. “Who publishes Wolfgang?”

“Ah.” She ran through her mental Rolodex. “Brett Davis. At HarperCollins. Why?”

“Wyatt’s trying to buy him.”

“Really?” She snorted. “Didn’t think that was his style. Humph. Trying to add a bit of class to his list, I suppose. Balance out that crap.” She nodded to the book club table behind us, whose occupants were discussing Erica Mathison’s book with unbridled glee. I raised my voice to speak over them.

“Another thing: you said McTavish didn’t blurb.” I put a defensive hand out. “This bit isn’t about me, I swear. It’s just interesting.”

“He doesn’t,” Simone said. “I was just as surprised by that as you were. Either Lisa or her publisher has got some serious dirt on him, or he did it just for the look on Royce’s face.”

“Worth it,” I said cruelly. This was rewarded with a wry smile from Simone, which I took as a standing ovation.

The discussion of the soft-porn book had started to bleed over to our chairs.

“It’s . . . honestly, it’s . . . genius!” Silver Beehive said.

“There are so many layers,” her friend agreed. “Just true vision.”

The third kissed her fingers. “It’s a revelation!”

“Excuse me.” Simone leaned over the back of her chair to interrupt. “You’re not talking about that book, are you? The Erica Mathison?”

“Perhaps.” Beehive wriggled her neck, preening and offended. “Have you read it?”

“I haven’t,” Simone said, in a way that meant I wouldn’t.

“Well, it’s people like you who could learn a lot from this book,” Beehive said, to a chorus of sniggering from her friends.

Simone gave a tight smile. “Thanks for the recommendation.”

“Come on, ladies, I think we should finish our drinks on the smoking deck,” Beehive said, deliberately loud enough for Simone to hear. She stood and the rest followed suit, clutching their precious books. It was less of a dramatic exit than planned, given they had to gather their bags, books and beverages, but Silver Beehive still made the pretense of striding out of the carriage.

“Gee, the word genius is worn to threadbare these days,” Simone said when they were gone. “Veronica should know better.”

“Veronica? You know that woman? Is she another publisher?”

Simone gave me one of those I don’t know why I bother looks. “Blythe? Chief books critic for the Herald?”

I stared back blankly.

“She wouldn’t have reviewed you. Up a level—or so I thought. I wonder who she was with just now. Not critics.”

“They work in museums,” I said. “I met them earlier.”

“No wonder they need the raunchy stuff.” Simone slapped her knees. “Right. I’m off. Early start and all.”

“One more quick thing. Promise I’m done complaining.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Ernest.”

“Archibald Bench? Mean anything to you?”

She shook her head, sucking her teeth in a clueless fashion. “I mean, I assume it’s some kind of puzzle. That’s how you have to talk to Henry. To get his attention, to impress him, you have to use his own tricks. He loves codes and riddles and wordplay and all that Golden Age stuff. That girl seemed pretty desperate . . .” She spun a finger in the air, hunting a name.

“Brooke.”

“Brooke! The superfan. She seemed pretty desperate to impress, so she’d come ready to play his own game. It’ll be some kind of in-joke. A clue in the book or something. But I have no idea what it is. Now”—she stood up—“I’m off to bed. I hear the sunrise is to die for.”

Like all good mistakes, which are often made quickly and in volume, I careered through my next three before I’d even recognized I’d made the first. These came in the order of: ruminating in the bar until I was the last one there; having another martini while I did so; and deciding to confront McTavish.