Boo Hiss Page 5

  With a skeptical sigh, he flipped it open. Butch said, “Have I told you about the things I had to eat on some of my missions?”

  Ainsley nodded. “You’ve mentioned it a time or ten.”

  “Snippy, aren’t we?”

  “Tired. I spent half a day trying to convince Melb to go to the doctor. She absolutely hates doctors.”

  “Is she sick?” her father asked.

  “Kind of. She’s nauseated but seems to have quite a good appetite, all at the same time. But I can’t get her to rest. All she wants to do is scrub floors. The closest she’s come to seeing a doctor about it is calling Garth, who came over and gave her a horse pill.”

  “I hate swallowing big pills,” Butch said.

  “It was an actual horse pill. Garth claims it was all natural.”

  “All natural what?” Butch asked.

  “All I know is that my usual homemade chicken soup isn’t helping her. I don’t know what to do.”

  “She’s a big girl. She can figure it out,” her dad said. Butch was still eyeing Tammi over at the bar.

  “I’ll tell you one thing. This snake fiasco is about ready to make me retire.” Her father threw up his hands. “See? I can’t even find my favorite!”

  “The twelve-ounce steak?”

  “There is no steak on this menu.”

  “Here it is. Steak au Poivre!”

  “What?”

  “It’s the New York strip you like, with the peppercorn.”

  “Yeah. But there’s no sauce with it.”

  “Yeah, they’re calling it a wild mushroom demiglaze. Sounds tasty!” Her father rolled his eyes. “What’s wrong with saying steak with saucer?”

  Butch said, “Where’s Wolfe again?”

  “With Alfred, his former editor.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Alfred thinks Wolfe might want to try religious fiction.” Butch slapped his hand on the table, startling everybody. “How dare he!”

  “Dare he what?” Ainsley asked. “That offends me.”

  “Why?”

  “The Bible is not fiction!”

  “No, no. Religious fiction is a kind of novel, like a genre. Alfred says there’s a whole market for it, and now that Wolfe’s a Christian, he might want to look into it. Wolfe’s skeptical, but Alfred is really on top of things like this.”

  “Wolfe’s a smart man,” her father said. “He knows what he’s doing.”

  Ainsley’s heart warmed. Though her father hardly had an understanding of Wolfe’s life or world, he had taken Wolfe in like a son. For the first time in years, Wolfe had a family. And this Thanksgiving was sure to be his most memorable, aside from last Thanksgiving when he almost died in a snowstorm.

  Her father was suddenly distracted, watching something across the room. When she turned, she saw Martín Blarty and Lois Stepaphanolopolis weaving their way between tables, Lois guiding Martin by the hand. They were both more dressed up than she’d ever seen them. Lois had a shade of red lipstick on that could be seen half the room away.

  “Isn’t that cute!” Ainsley gasped. “They’re on a date!”

  Her father stuck his nose back in the menu.

  “I would’ve never thought those two for a couple,” Butch said. “She’s a foot taller than he is.”

  “So what. I think it’s cute. What do you think, Dad?”

  “I think I’m tired of all the love in the air. I come home, and all I see are Thief and Blot cuddling on the sofa, their tails entwined, meowing some sort of lovey cat language. Not to mention the dozen or so calls a day I get for Butch from women asking about him. Do you think you might want to call at least one of them back?” He gave Butch a harsh look. Butch didn’t notice because he was watching Tammi again.

  He looked at Ainsley. “You’re gone now, happy with the love of your life. The last thing I want to see is Martin and Lois—” He gestured toward them. “Look at those two! They’re acting like high schoolers. Get a room!” he said, but not loud enough for anyone but his table to hear.

  Ainsley glanced over in their direction. They were just sitting and talking at the table like anybody else. Tammi approached for their order. Ainsley hadn’t even had a chance to decide, but Butch was giving her plenty of time by trying to impress Tammi with his knowledge of Middle Eastern delicacies. Tammi looked completely grossed out.

  Peeking over her menu, she watched her dad observe Martin and Lois. She knew immediately. Her father had a crush.

  She ordered for herself and her dad, and while Tammi was still waiting for Butch to say something she could write down on her pad, Ainsley casually said, “Lois asked me to cater the opening night of her new play, Not Our Town.”

  “I’m having second thoughts.”

  “About what?”

  “This play. I agreed to play a part, but it’s probably going to be a waste of my time. I’m no good at this sort of thing.”

  Ainsley couldn’t believe it! Her father? Agreeing to be in a play? She knew this was serious, and she had to keep her father in the play, if nothing else, for his pride.

  “You know, Dad,” she began carefully, “sometimes a little competition doesn’t hurt.”

  He glanced sideways at her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “The play, of course,” she said. “If you’re worried about someone else doing the part better than you, it might motivate you to turn on your best … acting charm … and take a few Tony-worthy risks.” She was hoping this wasn’t going to take a “wink.” Her dad was a very literal man, and it was hard to infer with him.

  Her father stared forward, seeming to get her point. “I miss your mother,” he said suddenly.

  That even got Butch’s attention back to the table. They looked at each other and then at their dad.

  Ainsley said, “Mom would want you to be happy.”

  He contemplated something silently for several seconds, then grumped, “What’s it take to get a cold glass of nonsparkling refreshment from a mountain spring?”

  Ainsley looked down. It was actually on the menu, and served bottled for three bucks.

  Wolfe stared at the ceiling of his house, while listening to Alfred’s expensive loafers cross the tile with a pace short in stride and long in annoyance. “So,” Wolfe said, “what you’re saying now is that I shouldn’t do this? You’ve been talking to me for days. ‘Wolfe, consider it. Seriously.’ Did you not say that?”

  Alfred finally arrived back at the couch, but instead of sitting, he leaned against the fireplace and cleaned his fingernails.

  “What is it with you? You’re acting like a nervous Nelly.”

  Alfred paused to look at Wolfe. “You’re insulting me with clichés now? You really are out of practice. We have to get you writing again.”

  “I thought that was the whole point of exploring this new genre.”

  Something was up, and Wolfe knew it. Alfred was picking at hangnails that didn’t exist. Even without his manicure budget, Alfred Tennison always believed in flawless hands.

  Wolfe stood, visibly startling Alfred. “All right. Cough it up. What’s going on?”

  “It’s just that, well … there’s no easy way to say this … “ He sounded like he was about to announce the death of a relative.

  “Just say it.”

  “Wolfe, you know you are a close friend, and because of that, I would never put you in harm’s way.”

  “Okay …”

  “And that’s why I think this whole thing is a bad idea.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re not going to fit in.” “Fit into what?”

  “Okay, let me put it this way. Do you remember Belinda Besworth?”

  “The sci-fi writer? Yeah, I met her a couple of times.”

  “And meeting her was sort of like an event, right? I mean, she’d come to these New York literary parties dressed in silver lamé from head to toe. And who could forget her white hair molded into a single, Washington Monument spike?”

 
“She was different.”

  “Different? Anne Rice is ‘different.’ Belinda was from another world. And as much as she tried, she just never fit in.” “I’m not following, Al.”

  “I just don’t think you’re going to fit in.” Alfred’s eyes pleaded, and his back hunched as if under a hundred pound shawl. “See?”

  Wolfe shook his head. “You don’t think I’d fit in?”

  “It’s a whole scene,” Alfred said with expansive big gestures. “Just like in New York, except not in New York. There are certain expectations in certain scenes. You’re well aware of that. That’s half the reason you always hated New York.” Alfred smiled. “And why I always loved it.”

  Wolfe crossed his arms. “What kinds of expectations?”

  “Just trust me. I have my sources.”

  “Who?”

  “As much as you’d like to think of yourself as religious, I’m just afraid you might be perceived as a … “ “A what, Alfred?” “A freak.”

  Wolfe laughed. “A freak?”

  “It’s a harsh and subintelligent word, but I’m afraid it’s the right one.”

  “For a week you’ve been talking to me about going to this conference, and now you’re afraid I might be perceived as a freak?”

  “I’ll admit, I was overly ambitious about jumping into this thing without doing the proper research. I take full responsibility for that.”

  “I was more afraid of being recognized and mobbed.”

  “Trust me. Nobody’s going to recognize you, Wolfe. Christians don’t read your stuff. They read the Bible and pamphlets. Lots of pamphlets. And self-help books with seven steps.”

  “When is this conference?”

  “Tomorrow. In Chicago.”

  “Pack your bags. We’re going.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. I’m not afraid of being called a freak, Alfred.” I am.

  “Then don’t go.” Wolfe eyed Alfred. “Is that what this is all about? You’re afraid of being around a huge group of religious people?”

  “A huge group of creative religious people in seasonal sweaters. You’re quite enough as it is.”

  “You’re coming with me.”

  Alfred sulked. “Do I have to?”

  “It was originally your idea.”

  “Yes, but I’m trying to back us both out now.” Alfred stepped forward and looked Wolfe in the eye. “I don’t think you know what you’re getting yourself into.”

  “We’re about to find out. We leave at five thirty tomorrow morning.”

  Alfred stooped and pulled a folder out of his briefcase. “You might want to study this. It’s all the research I’ve been doing about what exactly a religious novel is.” Alfred smirked. “It might help you fit in.”

  “Thanks.” Wolfe took the folder, then went to his bookshelf and pulled down a book. He carried it to Alfred. “And you might want to take a look at this.”

  Alfred took it. “The Bible?”

  “It might help you fit in.”

  CHAPTER 7

  “ALL RIGHT, FOLKS, lets form the line this way. That’s right. Queue up right over there. Thank you, yes, thank you.” Alfred smiled at an elderly lady who looked like she should be knitting, not standing in line for a horror writer’s autograph. Wolfe hadn’t been at the conference for an hour when he was recognized, and chaos ensued. Alfred had expected to be stoned, but instead, a mob had rushed Wolfe, and now five dozen people stood in line for his autograph. Thankfully, Alfred had thought to throw a box of Wolfe’s books in the trunk. He’d really done it so that on the way back from what he was sure was going to be a disaster, he could show Wolfe this dusty old box of books as a motivation to return to the genre that had made them both famous. So far, everything was backfiring.

  “I can’t believe it’s him!” the little old lady said to Alfred. “What a treat!”

  Alfred stepped closer to her and whispered, “You really read his books?”

  “Every one of them!”

  “You wouldn’t know it by looking at you. Glad to see there’s a heathen or two here.” He grinned and winked at her.

  She was frowning. “Did you just call me a heathen?”

  “I’m sorry. Do you prefer to be called a liberal?”

  “What are you talking about? I’ve been going to a conservative church my whole life! My husband’s been a pastor for fifty years!”

  “Step on up, don’t lose your place in line,” he said, nudging her forward and out of his hair. What was going on here? He looked down the line of faces. Innocent enough. Maybe there wasn’t a religious authority around to control their reading habits.

  Beside him suddenly was a pleasant-looking, plump woman with scholarly glasses perched on her rotund cheeks. “You’re his editor, right?” the woman asked. “I’m Ellie Sherman. I’m an agent.” She wore an outfit that suggested a stay-at-home mom rather than an agent, but then again he was on foreign soil. He was used to a lot of black turtlenecks, tortoiseshell glasses, and at least one useless accessory, like a silk handkerchief too expensive to use.

  “Ex-editor. Alfred Tennison. I’m an agent now.”

  “You are?” She smiled. “You’re really well known in the publishing world.”

  The humble shrug Alfred offered couldn’t hide the humongous grin that was escaping across his face.

  “Until last year,” she added.

  “It’s part of the business.”

  “Of course. But I can’t imagine what you’re doing here.”

  “Just being an agent.”

  “You’re Mr. Boone’s agent?”

  “More or less.”

  “Looking to pick up a few new clients at the conference?”

  “Of course.” Not.

  Alfred glanced at Wolfe, who was doing just fine signing autographs and talking to all these oddly adoring fans. He took Ellie by the elbow and moved her away from the crowd.

  “I could use a few tips,” Alfred whispered.

  “You?” she asked. “Tips on what?”

  “On this.” He gestured around the room, but what he really wanted to do was point at her. In any case, he was definitely the one not fitting in. “I’m fairly new to all this.”

  Ohhhh,” Ellie said, her eyes twinkling. “I see. You’re nervous about being an agent.”

  Alfred closed his eyes. An agent to these people. But he would take what he could get, since he was never one to be too obvious.

  “You’ve been an editor so long, this is probably completely new territory to you.”

  “Well, in a place other than a cocktail party, yes.” Alfred added, “Where I would always drink ginger ale.”

  “What kind of client would you want?” Ellie asked.

  “Well,” Alfred began, “obviously I’d want a nonsinner.” He pitched a thumb in the direction of the crowded line and chuckled, “Like none of those people.”

  She wasn’t following. Ellie could have used a good pair of tortoise-shell glasses and at least a business suit to help Alfred feel a little more confident with any suggestion she was about to make.

  “Someone who has the Bible memorized,” Alfred continued, after she didn’t offer any advice. “And certainly no women in short skirts. That’s a definite no-no.” Ellie still looked confused, so he added, “Or at least if they do wear short skirts, they should also be wearing tights. Don’t you agree?”

  Ellie paused and then said, “What kind of writing, I mean.”

  “Oh. Writing. Right.”

  “Is there a particular genre that you’re keen to?”

  Keen to. Huh. “Well,” Alfred said slowly, carefully pondering his answer, “I’m keen to any kind of writer who has the promise of a two-hundred-fifty-thousand first print run.”

  Ellie laughed. “Good one.”

  Alfred smiled, but he wasn’t sure what was so funny. He leaned over to Ellie and said, “Listen, as you can probably guess, I’m a little new to this kind of … setting. Is there anything that I absolutely, under a
ny circumstance, should not do?”

  Ellie looked completely amused by his question. She said, quite wryly, Alfred thought, “Just follow the Ten Commandments and you should be fine.”

  Alfred nodded. “Are those, by chance, posted anywhere?”

  As Wolfe approached the editor, he tried to rub the slick sweat off his hands against the fabric of his plaid shirt. He was realizing just how much he’d taken the familiarity of his relationship with Alfred for granted. This was like starting from scratch, and it had been quite a long time since he’d actually had to pitch a book idea face to face with an editor. He’d attempted to sell a coming-of-age book under a pen name over the summer, but it resulted in a harsh rejection letter that suggested he might try to add something interesting, like a plot, to the book.

  In his experience, there were two kinds of editors: social climbers and bookworms. Social climbers attended all the literary events they could get their prestigious name on and were regulars at any parties that served up caviar and intellect on silver platters of self-absorbing conversation. That had been Alfred Tennison, who thankfully had done a good job of representing Wolfe at places he should’ve been but never wanted to go.

  Bookworms, on the other hand, were socially inferior and seldom left their offices. They had no desire to be known or acknowledged. They had a pure, uninhibited love for literature. They were typically not known for their bathing habits, either. They would spend hours fighting for the exact right word in a sentence, while the Alfred Tennisons of the world were calculating for the fifth time an escalating royalty rate. But oftentimes the bookworms would find themselves far below their entitled place on the corporate ladder, simply because they weren’t social enough for the business.

  “How do you do?” the man said, extending his hand toward Wolfe. He wore a sweater vest that didn’t contain a single color from the striped shirt beneath it, and walked with a slight limp that drew attention to the arthritis in his hands. “I’m Harry Rector.”

  “Wolfe Boone,” Wolfe said, shaking his hand. “Thanks for meeting with me.” They sat in two leather chairs next to a fireplace.