typing? Maybe the missis was with him. With a mischievous smile at the opportunity of catching them in the act, I quietly opened the door.
“Brad!” I exclaimed. There at the desk sat Brad, still in his jogging suit, typing away at sixty or seventy words a minute. “How’d you get back here?”
“Audrey!” He looked up, startled, and rushed to the door. The startled expression was tinged with guilt around the edges. “I took a short circuit today. Just looped around that little stand of cedars and came home. My leg’s bothering me. I wrenched it last night when I was docking Simcoe’s boat.”
“You didn’t say anything about it this morning.”
He had his hand on my elbow, blocking the path to his desk. “It didn’t act up till I tried to jog. What can I do for you?”
“I came for that diary of Rosalie’s. The one about gaining weight.”
“Have you got that far already?” he asked, staring.
“Not really. I’m listing various names and occupations of her lovers as a lure of what’s to come. What are you writing?”
“I decided to jot down some ideas about Eliot—you remember we talked about it.”
“You jot fast. You should get yourself an electric machine like mine. I thought it was the Simcoes in here, snooping around.”
“No, just me. I’ll get the diary.” He went to his desk to get it. Funny it was on the desk, where he was working on the Eliot jottings.
“Thanks.”
He didn’t invite me in, or seem interested in casual chitchat. In fact, I had a distinct impression my intrusion was unwelcome. Subtle little things like opening the door and pushing me out before I mentioned leaving. “See you tonight,” he called after me. “Dinner at seven-thirty——come early for a drink.”
“Sure, see you.”
“Would you mind bringing another of Rosalie’s diaries? They make good light reading.”
“Better than philosophy, huh? Sure, I’ll bring one.”
I forgot the visit as soon as I got back to work. It wasn’t till the devastating phone call from Eileen that I remembered it. “Audrey, how’s it going?” she asked.
“I should be done by the end of August—no problem.”
“That’s too late. The rumor is that Belton is a month ahead of us. Apparently Mason’s sequestered himself somewhere and is writing like crazy. It’ll knock a hundred thousand from our sales if he gets his out in time to cash in on all the excitement of Rosalie’s death. Can you speed it up?”
“I’m writing as fast as I can. You know Mason’s book will be a mishmash of old magazine articles, Eileen. I don’t think he’ll tap our market much.”
“Let’s be realistic. This isn’t the Shakespeare audience we’re after. Rosalie’s fans will buy the first thing that comes along, and won’t buy another a month later. Mason spices his up so well, you know, to appeal to the mass audience. Keep in touch. And about that illegitimate child, Audrey, see if you can pin it down. That’s one item most people don’t know about.”
“There’s nothing positive about it in her diary.”
“Well, go through her letters with a fine-tooth comb. Maybe you could give that Lorraine Taylor a call.”
“All that fine-tooth combing and calling isn’t going to help my schedule.”
“Do your best.”
“Sure,” I said, and hung up.
I hate you, Hume Mason, wherever you are. Panic had escalated to red alert, making work nearly impossible. I paced the room a minute to calm my nerves before going back to the typewriter. I bet Hume Mason had a word processor. How else could he pound out those execrable books so fast? Through the window, I glanced at Brad’s cottage. It was a gorgeous day. Why wasn’t he out working on his tan? Probably still in the cottage, typing away on his Eliot notes.
I wondered if those literary things paid well. He sure got a lot of money somewhere, with his Mercedes and his Guccis and his French restaurant. He couldn’t possibly do all that on a professor’s salary and a
“Brad!” I exclaimed. There at the desk sat Brad, still in his jogging suit, typing away at sixty or seventy words a minute. “How’d you get back here?”
“Audrey!” He looked up, startled, and rushed to the door. The startled expression was tinged with guilt around the edges. “I took a short circuit today. Just looped around that little stand of cedars and came home. My leg’s bothering me. I wrenched it last night when I was docking Simcoe’s boat.”
“You didn’t say anything about it this morning.”
He had his hand on my elbow, blocking the path to his desk. “It didn’t act up till I tried to jog. What can I do for you?”
“I came for that diary of Rosalie’s. The one about gaining weight.”
“Have you got that far already?” he asked, staring.
“Not really. I’m listing various names and occupations of her lovers as a lure of what’s to come. What are you writing?”
“I decided to jot down some ideas about Eliot—you remember we talked about it.”
“You jot fast. You should get yourself an electric machine like mine. I thought it was the Simcoes in here, snooping around.”
“No, just me. I’ll get the diary.” He went to his desk to get it. Funny it was on the desk, where he was working on the Eliot jottings.
“Thanks.”
He didn’t invite me in, or seem interested in casual chitchat. In fact, I had a distinct impression my intrusion was unwelcome. Subtle little things like opening the door and pushing me out before I mentioned leaving. “See you tonight,” he called after me. “Dinner at seven-thirty——come early for a drink.”
“Sure, see you.”
“Would you mind bringing another of Rosalie’s diaries? They make good light reading.”
“Better than philosophy, huh? Sure, I’ll bring one.”
I forgot the visit as soon as I got back to work. It wasn’t till the devastating phone call from Eileen that I remembered it. “Audrey, how’s it going?” she asked.
“I should be done by the end of August—no problem.”
“That’s too late. The rumor is that Belton is a month ahead of us. Apparently Mason’s sequestered himself somewhere and is writing like crazy. It’ll knock a hundred thousand from our sales if he gets his out in time to cash in on all the excitement of Rosalie’s death. Can you speed it up?”
“I’m writing as fast as I can. You know Mason’s book will be a mishmash of old magazine articles, Eileen. I don’t think he’ll tap our market much.”
“Let’s be realistic. This isn’t the Shakespeare audience we’re after. Rosalie’s fans will buy the first thing that comes along, and won’t buy another a month later. Mason spices his up so well, you know, to appeal to the mass audience. Keep in touch. And about that illegitimate child, Audrey, see if you can pin it down. That’s one item most people don’t know about.”
“There’s nothing positive about it in her diary.”
“Well, go through her letters with a fine-tooth comb. Maybe you could give that Lorraine Taylor a call.”
“All that fine-tooth combing and calling isn’t going to help my schedule.”
“Do your best.”
“Sure,” I said, and hung up.
I hate you, Hume Mason, wherever you are. Panic had escalated to red alert, making work nearly impossible. I paced the room a minute to calm my nerves before going back to the typewriter. I bet Hume Mason had a word processor. How else could he pound out those execrable books so fast? Through the window, I glanced at Brad’s cottage. It was a gorgeous day. Why wasn’t he out working on his tan? Probably still in the cottage, typing away on his Eliot notes.
I wondered if those literary things paid well. He sure got a lot of money somewhere, with his Mercedes and his Guccis and his French restaurant. He couldn’t possibly do all that on a professor’s salary and a
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