“Do you?” said Jane politely.
Farrah nodded. “I was a huge fan of the Cherry High Gossip Club series when I was in high school,” she said.
Jane suppressed a laugh. The Cherry High books were some of the most vapid books she’d ever come across. They centered around a group of girls who published an anonymous gossip magazine about the goings-on at their upper-class high school. Not surprisingly, the series sold millions of copies, particularly after the television show based on it became a hit.
“Do you know Felicity Bingham?” Farrah asked, naming the author of the series.
“I’m afraid not,” said Jane.
Farrah took a small tape recorder from her bag. “Too bad. I assumed all of you writers know each other,” she said.
Jane sat down on the couch opposite Farrah. “Brakeston isn’t exactly the literary capital of the world,” she said.
“Brakeston?” Farrah repeated, a frown creasing her flawless brow.
“Where I live,” said Jane. “It’s in New York.”
Farrah nodded. “I remember now. Sorry. I’ve been crazy busy this week.”
“It’s quite all right,” Jane said.
Farrah fussed with the tape recorder for a minute while Jane waited. Then she placed it on the table between them. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s start. You’re English, right?”
Jane repeated the story she’d rehearsed in preparation for the interview, and for all the interviews Nick assured her she would be doing. She was from England but had moved to the United States at a young age when her father, a diplomat, was transferred there. She had no siblings. Her parents were both dead. It was tragic and convenient, and Jane told it well.
“That’s pretty much what the bio your publisher sent over said,” Farrah told her. “I tried to find out more on the Internet, but there isn’t anything. Don’t you have a website?”
Jane shook her head. “I’m afraid I’m not terribly up-to-date on technology,” she said. “I’m old-fashioned that way.”
“Old-fashioned,” Farrah repeated. “That’s kind of sweet. Usually when I interview people they’re texting and checking their email at the same time.”
She asked a few more tedious questions (What did Jane do for fun? What was her writing day like? How did it feel to have her first novel come out at her age?), all of which Jane answered with what she hoped was charm and wit. Then Farrah cleared her throat and adopted a more serious demeanor.
“Where did you get the idea for the novel?” she asked.
“It’s something I’ve worked on for a number of years,” Jane told her. “The idea first occurred to me when a friend was having a new house built. I started thinking about how intimate the relationship between the builder and the homeowner is. It’s almost a marriage of sorts. Then I came up with the characters of Constance and Charles, and the rest grew from there.”
Farrah nodded vigorously. “I see,” she said. “So they’re real people?”
“Well, no,” Jane replied. “They’re fictional characters based on the experience of a friend.”
“What’s your friend’s name?” asked Farrah.
Jane hesitated. “I don’t think she’d want to be mentioned by name,” she said.
“If it was someone else’s experience, don’t you feel like you—I don’t know—stole it?” said Farrah.
“Stole it?” Jane said, shocked. “No.”
“But it isn’t your story,” Farrah persisted.
“It’s fiction,” Jane said. “All fiction is based on some kind of truth. My book is not literally about my friend. It is inspired by her.”
“I see,” said Farrah. “Still, don’t you think you should have come up with something of your own?”
Jane looked at the reporter for some time, unsure how to respond. Finally, Farrah spoke again. “I’m sorry for asking these questions,” she said. “But I think we journalists owe it to our readers to print the truth.”
“The truth?” Jane said. “I don’t understand.”
Farrah turned off the tape recorder. “I shouldn’t do this,” she said. “But I love your book, and you seem like a nice person.” She pursed her lips, as if she were trying to solve a math problem. “I got an email,” she said eventually. “A couple of days ago. I don’t know where it came from. It was anonymous. Whoever sent it said that you … borrowed the idea for your book from someone else.”
“Borrowed it?” said Jane. “You mean plagiarized it?”
“I don’t like to use that word,” Farrah said. “But yes, that’s more or less what it said.”
Jane was at a loss for words. Who would accuse her of such a thing? She hadn’t the faintest idea. She had no enemies that she knew of. Except possibly Byron, a voice in her head said.
Byron. Would he really do such a thing? She could think of no one else who would want to. But this was low even for him. Did he really despise her so much? You did wound his manly pride, the same voice reminded her.
She could sense Farrah waiting for an answer from her. But how should she proceed? She could protest all she wanted to, but the accusation had already been leveled. Anything she said would sound disingenuous, especially to someone like Farrah, whose idea of investigative journalism was based on the reporting skills of the girls of Cherry High.
“I think it’s important that I address this,” Jane said carefully. “But would you excuse me a moment? There’s something I have to attend to. It will only take a few minutes.”
“Sure,” Farrah answered. “No problem.”
Jane stood up. “I’ll be back shortly,” she told the young woman. “Please, help yourself to a beverage from the minibar.” She smiled graciously as she went to the door.
Once she was in the hallway she ran as quickly as she could to the elevator. She paced as she waited for it to arrive, then practically leapt inside when the doors finally opened. Hitting a button on the control panel, she rode down a floor and got out. She looked for the numbers painted on the hallway wall and followed the arrow to number 1822. She rapped on the door and waited for Kelly to answer. A moment later the door opened.
“You have to help me—” Jane began. Then she realized that the man standing before her wasn’t Kelly. It was someone she’d never seen before. And he was wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. “I’m sorry,” Jane fumbled. “I must have gotten the number wrong.”
“Who is it, Bryce?” Jane heard Kelly’s voice. “Is that my laundry?”
“No,” the man Jane now assumed to be Bryce said. “I believe it’s your author.” He moved out of the way as Kelly appeared in the doorway
“Jane,” he said. “Aren’t you supposed to be doing your Entertainment Weekly interview?”
Jane nodded. “That’s why I’m here,” she said, glancing inside the room where Bryce was looking through the wardrobe.
Kelly noticed her stare. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I should have introduced you first. Bryce, this is Jane. Jane, this is Bryce. My partner.”
The last word hit Jane like cold water. Partner, she thought numbly as she realized what it meant.
“I forgot you two have never met,” Kelly continued, oblivious to her shock.
Bryce slipped a shirt on. “I love your book,” he said.
“Thank you,” said Jane. She turned her attention back to Kelly. “We have a problem,” she said. She then explained the situation.
“Is that all?” Kelly said when she was done. “Don’t worry. This happens with every big book. Some crackpot starts a rumor that the author plagiarized the book. He fires off letters to various magazines and tries to cause trouble. Usually it’s some wannabe who thinks he’ll get attention or money by causing a stink.”
“But she says she doesn’t know who sent the email,” said Jane.
“That’s actually good news,” Kelly told her. “That means it’s just someone with nothing better to do. Here’s what you do. Tell this woman—what’s her name?”
“Farrah,” s
aid Jane.
“Farrah?” Kelly and Bryce said in unison.
“Something about her mother,” said Jane. “So, what do I say?”
“You tell her that we’re aware of the emails and that they’re being sent maliciously by someone who has a grudge against you. Tell her our legal department is handling it. That will shut her up. She won’t write anything about it if she thinks she might get in trouble for spreading unfounded claims.”
“That’s it?” said Jane.
“That’s it,” Kelly said. “Sometimes living in a litigious country works to your advantage. Now go, before she gets even more suspicious. Here, take this so she thinks you really did have something you needed to do.” He handed Jane a copy of her book. “She’s only read a bound galley. Tell her you wanted her to have a signed copy of the real thing.”
Jane took the book. “Go,” Kelly ordered. “We have to be at the studio by one-thirty”
“Bye!” Bryce called out as Jane left. Jane didn’t answer. As she headed for the elevator, she wondered how she could have been so foolish regarding Kelly’s preference for men. He’s smart, handsome, and cultured, she thought. I should have known. You’d think I would have learned my lesson after what happened with Percy Shelley.
Back at her room, she paused at the door and caught her breath. She looked at her watch. She’d been gone only five minutes. Now she simply had to get through the rest of the interview. She would tell Farrah that she’d had to get permission from her editor to tell her about the claim of plagiarism, as it was now a legal matter. That should take care of it.
She opened the door. “I’m sorry about the interruption,” she said. “I wanted to get you—”
She stopped mid-sentence. Farrah was lying across the bed. Her eyes stared up at the ceiling, unblinking.
Chapter 23
Mrs. Eleanor Burnham regarded Constance icily. “You should be commended on your successful entry into our company,” she said. “It isn’t often that a young woman of your background rises above it.”
“I wonder if that is indeed the case,” Constance replied, smiling sweetly. “Or perhaps it is not I who have risen but you who have fallen.”
—Jane Austen, Constance, manuscript
“FARRAH?”
Jane approached the bed slowly. The reporter didn’t respond, and her eyes remained open. Then Jane noticed the two small wounds on her neck. The blood around them was still fresh.
“No, no, no,” said Jane, shaking the young woman. Her limp body rolled beneath Jane’s hands. Her head turned and she looked, unseeing, into Jane’s face.
“Damn,” Jane said firmly. The girl was gone.
Clearly, she had been bitten. But by whom? As far as Jane knew, she was the only vampire in the hotel. Then again, she had never been particularly good at sensing her own kind; it was as if her vampire radar had fizzled out from years of disuse. Certainly there were likely to be others of her kind in Chicago, but she didn’t know any of them. The only other possibility was Byron.
It all became clear. Byron was the one who had sent the reporter the email. Now he had killed her in order to frame Jane not only for plagiarism but for murder as well. I knew he left too easily, she thought bitterly. He was planning his revenge.
Well, he’d done a good job of it. She looked at Farrah’s lifeless body. Then she lifted the girl’s lips with her finger, recoiling at the sensation. There was no blood on her teeth. That, at least, was good. It meant that Byron hadn’t turned her. She was merely dead. Which isn’t much of a relief, Jane thought as she closed the girl’s mouth and reached for a tissue with which to wipe her finger. As she did, she noticed the clock on the bedside table. It was almost noon.
She remembered Kelly saying that they had to be at the studio by one-thirty And she still had nothing to wear. She’d dressed comfortably for the plane, and what she had on was not at all acceptable for appearing before millions of viewers. She had to find something. But she couldn’t just leave Farrah lying on her bed. Anyone who came in would see her, and that would be disastrous.
There was no way she could get the body out of the room. Even if she could drag it into the hall, what would she do with it? And she couldn’t ask Kelly for help with this particular problem. Apart from the whole murder thing, it would bring up other questions Jane was not prepared to answer.
The longer she worried, the less time she had to shop for an outfit. She looked around the room. The closet was impractical, as was the bathtub. She would have to stow Farrah under the bed for the time being.
Taking the girl by the shoulders, she pulled her off the bed and laid her as gently as she could on the carpet. One of Farrah’s shoes fell off in the process, and Jane tried slipping it back on the bare foot. But it wouldn’t quite go, and so finally she shoved it under the bed. She followed it with Farrah’s body, first pushing it as far as she could, then going to the other side and pulling it the rest of the way.
That’s better, Jane thought as she straightened the bedspread. Now for the shopping. She located her purse and looked inside for the notes Lucy had written up for her. Lucy had written out what pieces should be worn together, and had outlined the makeup regimen Jane should follow.
Now, however, the list was useless. All of Jane’s clothes and makeup were who knew where. She had to start all over, and this filled her with panic. She didn’t even know where to begin. But the clock was ticking, and she had to move. Grabbing her key card, she left the room and headed down to the lobby, where she approached the concierge desk.
“Excuse me,” she said, trying to keep the hysteria from her voice. “Where’s the best place to look for shoes? I seem to have forgotten to pack my good ones.”
The man behind the desk answered instantly. “Macy’s,” he said. “It’s only three blocks away. Or you could try Nordstrom, but that’s farther away.”
“Macy’s will be fine,” said Jane. “Thank you.”
She rushed from the hotel and practically ran in the direction the concierge had indicated. Arriving at Macy’s breathless and exhausted, she looked anxiously at her watch. She had less than forty-five minutes to get everything she needed, get back to the hotel, and get dressed in time to meet Kelly for the ride to the television station. She unfolded Lucy’s list and read the first item.
“Black pants,” she said aloud. “Red blouse. Right.”
She consulted a directory and made her way to the women’s department. Once there, she looked about helplessly. There were at least twenty different kinds of black pants, and almost as many red blouses.
“May I help you?” A young woman who looked disconcertingly like she could be Farrah’s sister approached Jane.
“I need some clothes,” Jane said unhelpfully. “And I’m in a hurry.” She thrust the list at the associate.
The woman looked over the list and nodded. “I think I know just what you need,” she said. “Come with me. My name is Sandra, by the way.”
“Jane,” Jane said curtly. She cast her eyes at the makeup counter as they went past. Eye shadow, she thought vaguely. Lipstick. Pink, not coral.
“Let’s try these,” said Sandra as she stopped in front of a rack of pants. “I think these will fit. Why don’t you try them on, and I’ll bring you some more options.”
“I don’t think I have time to—” Jane began.
“The fitting rooms are right over there,” said Sandra. “Go on. I’ll be right with you.”
Jane, cowed, obeyed. She took the pants with her into one of the little changing rooms and dutifully tried them on. To her surprise, they actually fit. She started to take them off, relieved that things were going so smoothly, when Sandra’s voice came through the door. “Here are some more pants,” she said.
“These will be—” Jane started to say.
“Here,” said Sandra, opening the door and thrusting an armful of pants at Jane. “I’ll be right back.”
Before Jane could object further, the girl was gone. Jane looked at the pile of
black pants, all of which looked to her to be exactly like the first pair, and groaned. A quick look at her watch increased her feeling of panic. I have to get out of here, she thought.
Opening the door to the dressing room, she crept to the door of the fitting room, the first pair of pants clutched in her hand. She peered out, looking for signs of Sandra. The girl was halfway across the sales floor. She had an armful of red blouses draped over one arm.
Go! a voice in Jane’s head shouted. Go now! Before she sees you!
Ducking down, she moved between the racks, keeping her head low in case Sandra spied her. Only when she was concealed behind a display of sundresses did she dare look around. Sandra was heading for the fitting rooms. Jane took the opportunity to rush over to one of the racks of blouses Sandra had been looking at. She grabbed one of the red ones, checking only to make sure that it was the right size, then fled toward the shoe department.
Minutes later, clutching a pair of black pumps, she left a stunned shoe salesman still kneeling on the floor surrounded by boxes. Next she tackled the makeup counter. “Eye shadow, lipstick, blush,” she shouted at the surprised clerk. “I don’t care what colors as long as it matches.”
The girl stared at Jane with wide eyes. “What brand would you like?” she asked. “We have a special on—”
“I have five minutes!” Jane shrieked, pounding her fist on the glass countertop.
The girl opened the cupboards beneath the counter and started pulling things out. As she worked, Jane craned her neck, hoping Sandra had given up on her. To her horror, she saw the girl wandering through the racks, apparently looking for her.
“This all looks wonderful,” Jane said to the makeup associate. “And I’d like to pay for all of this as well.” She loaded the counter with her clothes and shoes and practically flung her credit card at the girl, who ran it through the machine and handed Jane the sales slip to sign.
“I’ll just fold these for you,” the girl said, opening a bag and picking up the blouse.
“No time!” Jane said. She snatched the blouse from the girl’s hands, threw it into the bag, and swept everything else on the counter after it. “Thanks for all your help,” said Jane as she ran off. “Tell Sandra I’m sorry.”