Fiona Silk Mysteries 2-Book Bundle. Mary Jane Maffini
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for you to say.”
“It is easy for me to say. And easy for me to mean too. Anyway, I don’t give a flying fig about your butt. I have important matters to worry about.”
“Oh sure, you can be offhand and uncaring. I’m alone in the world. You already have a boyfriend.”
“But not a boyfriend who remembers me.”
“Don’t be so negative. It could be very, very good from a sexual novelty point of view.”
My jaw crashed to the floor and smashed into a... Hang on, that wasn’t my jaw, although it might have been. I whirled to face the doorway. Josey stood, white-faced, freckles popping, mouth gaping, up to her skinny ankles in shards of glass.
I said to Liz, “Oh, great. That was my antique cut glass lemonade pitcher. Now look what you’ve done.”
Liz shrugged. “Me? Talk to the person who dropped it.”
“She was shocked.” I lowered my voice. “For heaven’s sake, Liz. She’s an innocent kid. Why would you say something like that in front of her?”
“Don’t be daft,” Liz said. “Kids are not innocent.”
“She is,” I said, sticking with the whisper.
“Oh, get over it. She has to grow up some time.”
No, she didn’t, I thought. Josey’s life had been bleak and deprived. She’d never had a chance to be a kid, why should she have to hear about sexual novelty here in my little house? If I hoped anything, it was that Josey would have a glimpse of normal life when she was with me. That wasn’t so likely when Liz was on the premises.
“I am really sorry about your lemonade jug, Miz Silk. I know it belonged to your aunt. I’ll try to find you another one just like it. I’ll check out the antique stores and the pawn shop.”
“Don’t worry about it. Accidents happen.”
“Do you really have a new boyfriend, Miz Silk?”
“No, Josey, I...”
“What about Marc-André? It hasn’t even been a year.”
“Don’t move your feet, Josey. There’s glass all around your sandals. Let’s watch out for Tolstoy.”
In his corner, Tolstoy raised his handsome Samoyed head, struggled to his feet and headed down to the basement again. I think we were too much for him.
“And don’t worry. I’ll be there for Marc-André,” I said.
Josey beamed. “Well, that’s the best news. Because, if there’s going to be any of that sexual novelty stuff, don’t you think it should be with him, and not some new guy?”
If you drew up a ledger for my life, with columns headed “positives and negatives”, Josey would be at the top of the positives, and not just because for a small fee she could mow my lawn and fix my sticky windows and ferret just about anything out of the local library, including the reference department. In the time I’d known her, she’d become like family. Like the child I would never have. Tolstoy, being a dog, naturally would make the plus side, darn near tied for first place with Josey and Marc-André. My friends Liz and Woody could be on the positive side, depending on their moods. Also a plus, along with the house, the garden and the village, was the Colville painting that Aunt Kit had left me. I loved it more than any other object.
On the negative side was my financial situation. Negative meaning, in the red, out of credit, here comes trouble, what now, dear God, that kind of thing. And my career as a romance writer, since I hadn’t earned out my last advance. I suppose we shouldn’t forget my car, which was gasping its last. And definitely, you could add the phone, which was now ringing, and which never brings anything good.
I let it shrill on and on until I heard my agent, Lola, on the answering machine.
“Pick up, Fiona, darling. You’ll be glad you did.”
I picked up. As a rule, I put Lola on the positive side. Even though she was calling at nine in the evening. After the day I’d had, I might have already gone to bed, except that Liz was still there and showed no sign of leaving.
Lola takes a little getting used to. By getting used to, I mean three things: first, don’t expect her to actually listen to anything you have to say and second, do expect to be startled by almost every word that flies out of her mouth. For a third, don’t be surprised that she calls everyone darling, even, say, police officers attempting to give her speeding tickets.
Lola had what she thought was a great idea.
“I should write a what?” I said, predictably startled by her opening gambit.
“An erotic cookbook. Isn’t that too perfect? I told your assistant this afternoon. I hadn’t realized that you had an assistant.”
“Sorry?” I said again, thinking I must have heard wrong. Something that happens quite often with Lola.
“Never mind, darling. It’s none of my business if you have an assistant when you’re too broke to breathe.”
“Listen, Lola. Your confidence in me is gratifying, but there’s no way I can write an exotic cookbook.”
“Erotic!” Lola shrieked.
“What? Erotic? Are you insane? That’s even worse. That’s not even possible.”
“Bixby and Snead are keen to have you do one. They’ll really play it up on next fall’s list. There’s a spot, and the topic’s hot.”
“What do you mean they’re keen to have me do one? Do you think maybe they have me mixed up with someone else? Say, for instance, with someone who could write an erotic cookbook? Hang on! What did you tell them?”
“This is no time to be overly fussy, darling. We have a chance at a terrific high-profile project. You’ll get tons of media and better yet, money. Let me remind you, you can use it.”
I started to say that I hate media, but Lola was too fast for me. “Stop resisting. You need this deal desperately, and I mean that in the kindest possible way.”
“I can’t cook.”
“You can read, can’t you?”
“Of course, I can read.”
“If you can read, you can cook.”
I was pretty sure that wasn’t true, but I tried another tactic. “I have no sex life. None whatsoever. Don’t you think that might make things difficult?”
“Pay attention, darling. I represent a couple of crime writers. They don’t go around bumping people off or solving cases. Get with the program.”
I was about to say, I’m not turning out to be much of a writer, when it occurred to me I shouldn’t remind my agent of that. “Aside from my unsuitability, I wouldn’t even know where to start a project like that.”
“Start with research.”
“I don’t know anything about...”
“A bit of erotic lore, aphrodisiac foods, seasonal variations, recipes. Whip it all together, ha ha. A few anecdotes, memories. Nothing to it.”
I said, “Wait a minute, I have to know, why me for this project? Is it because of what happened with Benedict?”
“Perhaps you shouldn’t dwell on that.”
“That was murder. And now they want to splash my name all over the papers again? I’m not the kind of person who can deal with that kind of attention.”
“What you are, darling, is not the most solvent of my clients. And in this business, that’s saying something. So yes, it was my idea and, yes, the thing with what’s his name is a fabulous hook. Especially the bed part. It means