The Return of Betty Snickerdoodle Page 7

  Bea peered through the thick, wavy green glass in the door. The light looked faint. She rapped on the door: no answer. She rapped again, then pounded insistently, her little hand in a fist; still no answer. Luckily, she’d done her hair up fancy, just in case she got to see Charlie. Looking around the hallway to be sure she was alone, Bea pulled a bobby pin out of her stiff, round hairstyle; a few twists and a peel of the rubber tip, and the pin was ready for redeployment.

  Bea leaned on the door jamb as best she could, then began methodically working the tiny rods inside the lock with her pin – at least that’s what she thought she was doing. Nuts! Bea thought. I guess it’s harder than it looks on those mystery programs. She made a mental note to bone up on it once the new book was in the can. You never know when you might need that skill. Maybe Perry would know someone who could teach her.

  Bea was about to walk away when it dawned on her that she hadn’t even tried the handle. The door swung open with a creak. Bea slapped her forehead and snickered to herself. It didn’t occur to her to question why the door was unlocked.

  The office looked just like she remembered. Charlie’s taste was classic: literary, dignified, and masculine. Brocade drapes dressed the windows. Big leather chairs seemed to invite guests to stay a while. Personal effects were few, except for a collection of framed pictures on top of a short bookcase next to Charlie’s desk. And as was typical for Charlie, everything was perfectly tidy – far too tidy for Bea’s taste, naturally. Oddly, one file drawer behind the desk was conspicuously left open.

  A single folder was pulled out of its jacket, its many contents haphazardly strewn over all the hanging files. Bea didn’t have to get closer to see whose file it was. Sunlight leaking through the drapes behind the cabinet was bright enough to reveal the label: “Betty Snickerdoodle – Bea.” Bea could see that someone had rifled through her confidential paperwork – royalty statements, publishing contracts, check stubs, and the like – and beaten a hasty retreat.

  Bea turned to the collection of pictures on the bookcase. About ten framed photos were arranged in an overlapping fashion on the small surface. It was hard to distinguish them at first. But one photo caught her attention: It was a picture of Charlie standing at a golf cart with an unfamiliar young man. Smiling beside them was another young man she did recognize: Cash.

  She picked up another framed picture for a closer look. It was Charlie and his much-younger wife, who was beaming and holding a baby boy on her lap; a toddler girl sat on Charlie’s. Charlie looked about 20 years younger in the picture. Was the baby Cash? Bea was scrutinizing the baby’s tiny face, looking for a resemblance. Nothing. He just looked like a red-faced blob, like most babies did in Bea’s decidedly non-maternal estimation. If not for the blue outfit, Bea wouldn’t even have been sure he was a boy.

  A demanding woman’s voice cracked her concentration. “What do you think you’re doing?” the stranger barked at Bea. She had a no-nonsense appearance with a short haircut, glasses, and khakis and a plaid shirt. She had a squat, sturdy build. Bea guessed she was in her forties.

  “What does it look like?” Bea fired back, annoyed at being startled. “I was looking for Charlie. What business is it of yours?

  “Looking for Charlie? Really? Well how did you get past the locked door? I see the jamb is damaged – is that your doing?”

  Bea hadn’t noticed, but she saw now that the door frame was marred by several deep gouges. It looked like someone had previously pried the door open – perhaps the same person who was so interested in her file.

  “Take a good look at me. I’m nearly 80. Do you really think I could pull something like that off? And did I use my magical disappearing crowbar?” Bea said, spreading her hands for effect. “The door was open when I got here,” she added impatiently.

  “Really. Well, as I’m sure you have figured out, Charlie is not here.”

  “Yes, I can see that. Do you know when he’ll be back?”

  “And if I knew that, why should I tell the lady I caught breaking into his office?”

  “I didn’t break in,” Bea insisted. “I’m one of his authors. One of his more famous ones, as a matter of fact. I need his help – someone stole something of ours. And besides, I’m a little worried about him,” she added, softening her demeanor. “He hasn’t called me back in several days, and that’s not like him.”

  “Charlie asked me to watch his office and pick up his mail. Pat Rogers – I work in the office next door,” said the woman, relaxing a little. “Private investigator. Sorry, it’s in my nature to be skeptical. The police have no clues who did this to Charlie’s door. It happened a few days ago. I’ve been watching in case someone returns. No luck so far.”

  “But where’s Charlie?” Bea said.

  “Sorry. He’s on a month-long cruise with his son. Southern Europe, Greek Islands.”

  “That son?” Bea said, pointing to the picture of Charlie and the two young men golfing.

  “Yes, that’s Charlie. I think one of the men is his son — the other’s a friend, I think. I’m not sure, though.”

  “You mean, his son ‘Cash’?” Bea asked. “I met someone named Cash who claimed to be Charlie’s son.”

  “I’m really not sure I caught his name. Cash, or maybe Chase? Something like that. We don’t talk about personal stuff much.”

  “Pat, you see this file – the one left out? I’d like to take a look at it.”

  “I think you should probably mosey along now,” said Pat. “I don’t think you pried that door open yourself, but that doesn’t mean you had nothing to do with it. You said you were one of Charlie’s authors. Tell me your name, and I’ll tell Charlie you came by if I hear from him.”

  “I … I don’t like to give out my name,” Bea said. “At least not my author name. You can call me Bea.”

  “Convenient. ‘Famous author’ who won’t give out her name. You know, just because you’re ancient doesn’t mean you’re not a con artist, ‘Bea,’” said Pat, making an exaggerated scare quote gesture as she said Bea’s name.

  “You know, for someone who doesn’t trust anyone, you expect a lot of trust right off the bat!” Bea said. “How do I know you’re not a con artist?”

  Pat was having none of it. “Nice try, lady. Now move along, because I’m going to lock up here.”

  “Then just let me use the phone to call my ride, and I’ll be on my way.” Bea moved toward the desk and pulled the card with Angela’s number out of her pocket. She tried three times; the phone rang and rang before announcing no messages could be left: Angela’s voicemail was full. As the phone rang for the fourth time, Bea tried to lean over surreptitiously and get a closer look at the contents of her file. But Bea’s best effort at subtlety was pretty weak, and Pat noticed what she was up to.

  “That’s it. You’re not calling anyone,” Pat said, grabbing the phone and replacing it on the receiver. “Scram, ‘famous author.’”

  “But how will I get back to Napa? At least let me make one more call.”

  “That’s your problem. Far as I’m concerned, you’re just the liar I caught nosing around Charlie’s office, who seems to have a keen interest in the files the last unauthorized visitor was rummaging through.”

  “That’s because those were my files!” Bea blurted.

  “What?” said Pat.

  “See that file? It says Betty Snickerdoodle. Well that’s me. My pen name, I mean,” Bea said. “Please don’t tell anyone.”

  “You’re Betty Snickerdoodle? Oh yeah, sure. And I’m Kinsey Millhone.”

  “No, seriously!” pleaded Bea.

  “Get out,” Pat said sharply. “You’re getting on my last nerve. I have seen the famous Betty Snickerdoodle, and you ain’t her.” Pat grabbed Bea by the arm, half dragging the old woman out the door.

  “Ow!” said Bea, swinging her cane and cracking Pat sharply on the arm. “All right, I’m moving on. No need to manhandle me. But you tell Charlie I am looking for him.”

  “Yeah, I’
ll be sure to tell him sweet Betty Snickerdoodle dropped by.” Pat sneered, rubbing her injured arm. Pat slipped out the door behind Bea, then reached around to lock the doorknob before closing it. “And I’m going to tell Frank down at the elevator not to let you in here again.”

  Well there’s an idea, Bea thought, as she started her way down the hall to the elevators. Maybe that elevator guy can help me figure out how the hell I’m going to get back to Napa.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Aseem?”

  Angela chose to pick up the call when she saw who it was, even though she’d been deliberately letting all calls go to voicemail all day. Bea had been right – she really did have too much to do. Why was she so stubborn? Now she was struggling to get her marketing copy done so that she could get back to work on her chapter. She’d be up all night at this rate.

  “How are you?”

  “Yo, Angel! I’m great!” said Aseem. “I’ve just come into an interesting project. I need some social media help, and I thought you’d be just the right person.”

  “Hmmm. Tell me a little more about it,” Angela said, knowing she should have just said no. Knowing she shouldn’t even have answered the phone. She didn’t even have time for this phone conversation, let alone another project.

  “It’s for a book launch. That’s why I thought of you. It’s for this author who’s supposedly famous, but hasn’t produced a book in a while. Needs a website, social media presence, everything. The publisher wants to pay us a share based on the copies sold – I thought you’d like that. I know you worked a deal like that with the author in the wine country – and look how great that worked out. Anyway, the publisher gave me some rough estimates – seems like fast money, pretty easy.

  “He wants to make a big splash fast – so naturally, I thought of you,” Aseem said admiringly. “Even though you never told me much about Bea, I know she’s been living off those royalties for years now, and never seems to worry about money. You must be doing something right.”

  The timing was impossible, Angela knew. Absurd. Still, how could she not be curious? “What kind of book is it? And who’s the author?”

  “The publisher is so secretive, I don’t even know that much about it. He says keeping everything on a ‘need-to-know basis’ is essential. He thinks the author coming back will be a news story, and he doesn’t want to blow his big PR opportunity. He says ‘she’s coming back from the dead.’ In fact, I helped him scan the manuscript into a soft copy, but he wouldn’t even let me look at the title page. I could see that it was some kind of story about odd characters in a small town where everything seems to be about Christmas.”

  Angela’s ears pricked. A Christmas story? An author coming out of retirement? Publishing in a few weeks? “Is it a sweet story?” she said lightly. “A romantic story?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Aseem. “The scraps I read here and there were almost, well, raunchy. And a bit of a downer, too. Maybe you’d call it a dark comedy? One part had a guy leaving his clueless librarian wife for another dude. Maybe it’s romantic if you’re the other dude,” he added, laughing.

  Odd coincidence, Angela thought. Sounds kind of like the anti-Betty. Wouldn’t that be fun to promote at the same time she was working on the new Treacle Town, she thought, wheels automatically grinding. She mentally slapped herself. Get a grip, girl! You’re already at risk of not delivering everything you’ve promised to Bea.

  “It would be fun to take that on if I could,” Angela sighed. She realized what was really disappointing was the missed chance to spend more time with Aseem. “Bea’s been on fire with her new book. We’re planning to publish in just a couple of weeks, too. What are the odds that two authors would be ‘coming back from the dead’ with new books at the exact same time, both here in the Bay Area?”

  “Pretty darn slim,” agreed Aseem.

  “Anyway, I wish I could help. I hope your project goes well,” she added.

  “Me too,” said Aseem. “Hopefully another time?”

  “I hope so, too,” Angela said, not wanting to sign off. “Well, good luck!”

  Scintillating conversation, she thought to herself. She desperately wanted to say something more interesting, but her mind was blanking – and her phone kept distracting her. An unknown caller seemed determine to reach her. She hit “ignore” for a second time. “Maybe we could get together for coffee when we’re both done with these projects?”

  “I’d like that,” Aseem said. “Before you go, got any quick tips to share? I’m afraid I will have to take on the job myself – and I don’t have to tell you that I’ll be making it up as I go along.”

  Angela’s phone kept repeating its annoying buzz. Still no caller ID. Sheesh, awfully insistent for a robocaller.

  “You probably know more than you think you do,” she said. “You use a lot of social media, right? What gets people engaged in your experience?”

  “I don’t know if that will help me. In my hangouts, usually it’s something like a debate about iPhone or Android,” Aseem joked.

  “Well, are there any debatable characters or plot points in the book? You’d be surprised. People can get pretty riled up about that kind of stuff, even though it’s fiction,” Angela said. “And the more riled up, the better – where social media is concerned, anyway.”

  “Hmm, interesting! I’ll have to think about it, I guess,” Aseem said.

  Angela wanted to help, but her phone buzzed again. “I’m sorry. Maybe I should take this call – whoever it is has called back four times while we’ve been talking. Good luck with the project, Aseem. Oh – and you know what always works? Offer a download – maybe the first chapter?”

  “Brilliant, that sounds like something I can do – thank you. And I’ll call you in a few weeks so we can compare war stories. Bye, Angel.”

  “Bye, Aseem,” Angela said, hurriedly swiping to accept the call. “Angela speaking.” But the line was dead. I guess that impatient caller finally gave up, she thought. Then she looked at the clock: 4pm. The afternoon had flown by. Crap! What if that was Bea calling for her ride? She had completely lost track of the time.

  If that was Bea, she would have been calling from Charlie’s office, Angela thought. Panicking, she searched online for the number of his agency. She found the number and dialed it. The phone just rang and rang until an automated greeting eventually told her Charlie was away from his desk and unavailable.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “What do you mean, you’re doing the social media yourself?” Cash barked. “I thought you had a real expert lined up. There’s no room for a fuck-up on this, Aseem!” A brief hush fell over the café, as other guests turned their way with alarm.

  “I know, I know,” Aseem replied softly, hoping to bring Cash down a notch. “But don’t worry. The expert I had in mind told me what I need to do. I trust her. And I’ve already gotten started – here, take a look.”

  Aseem popped open his laptop and set it on the table, looking around to be sure the other patrons had gone back to their mugs and their conversations. Aseem had roughed out graphics for Facebook, Twitter, and a landing page. They all had a slightly boozy, off-kilter, shady sort of Christmas look to them. Tilting Christmas trees, broken ornaments, and empty liquor bottles featured prominently. One had a corner image of a woman under mistletoe, her teary face smeared with mascara, her arms crossed tightly and a cigarette dangling from one hand. Behind her, two men held hands, one of them looking over his shoulder guiltily at the crying woman. In a kitchen, a grandma stomped her foot as she pulled a tray of burnt gingerbread men out of an oven. Two kids were fighting over a doll in the background; the doll’s arm was dangling out of its socket.

  Cash seemed to relax a little. “Okay. I think that will do,” he said. “But we’re going to need something more to get people to buy – don’t forget, you don’t get paid if they don’t buy.”

  “I’ve got that covered,” Aseem reassured him. “We offer a free chapter download, and put a special
offer inside. People who download the free chapter can buy the e-book before it even hits stores. We can control all the commerce ourselves – no cut for a retailer.”

  “I like it. We get all those email addresses, too – we can sell them all kinds of other crap after they buy the book. Hell, I bet we can find some Russians or Nigerians who want to buy the emails, too.”

  Aseem wanted to inform Cash about anti-spam laws, but bit his tongue. He’d figure out a way to control Cash’s access to the emails after the launch.

  “I’ve got the back end all ready to go,” Aseem said. “We have the technology to sell e-books right now. And once we format the file, print-on-demand won’t be a problem, either. There still is one big snag, though.”

  “What’s that?” Cash said.

  Aseem turned the laptop back around to face Cash, and enlarged the main graphic of the landing page. “These big, blank spots here,” he said, pointing to the white placeholders he’d left where the cover image of the book, the name of the author, and the page headline should go. “Isn’t it about time you told me who this site is for? I haven’t even bought a website address yet, and, as you’ve just been telling me, we’re getting down to the wire. We can’t open these sites without the names, or a web address where people can find them.”

  Cash hesitated. He didn’t want Aseem to start looking at Betty’s other sites; for one thing, it would be a distraction from the goal. Of course, Aseem getting distracted would be a minor problem compared to what Cash worried most about. What if Aseem found out who the author was and got a little too curious — or even tried to contact the old bat?

  Shit, Cash thought. It was dawning on him that his scheme had a few holes in it. When the opportunity came along he’d leapt at it, not really thinking through details like, say, how he’d publish Betty’s book without people realizing he’d stolen it. His “plan” had been limited to “move as fast as possible.” He thought he’d just get the book out there, sell like crazy from the get-go — and then if the old prune found a way to point a finger at him, he’d figure out how to run with the dough he’d managed to grab.