Bobby consulted a hand-drawn map posted near the door.Margaux had a table in the corner, so I turned to look for her.
And there she was: the petite woman Vivienne had argued with the night before.
Her dark hair was in a bun again, and she was dressed in a way that suggested both money and taste: black slacks, a cream-colored top, andstacksof jewelry.The line in front of her table was shorter than some of the others, but it wasn’t the shortest in the room.It was hard to tell if that might have been because Graeme was right, and she was having some sort of business trouble, or if there were other agents who were more attractive for some other reason, or simply fate.
“God,” I said.“This is going to take forever.”
“Want to try to catch her later?”Bobby asked.
I shook my head.“We’re here.Let’s do this.”
“Okay.”
“I guess we’ll get in line and wait—uh, Bobby?”
Bobby apparently chose not to wait.Bobby simply walked past everyone.
Murmurs popped up in my wake.Someone shouted, “Hey!”And if looks could kill, I would have gotten a dagger in the back.
“It’s okay,” I said through throat-clenching flutters of, you know, being the center of a lot of angry attention.“Writerly emergency.We’ll be quick!”
I caught up with Bobby as he reached Margaux’s table.She was staring at him, and she had her hands pressed to the tabletop, perfect red nails tensed against the plastic.
“Excuse me,” she said.“There’s a line—”
“This won’t take long,” Bobby said.“It’s about Vivienne Carver’s murder and any possible connection you might have to it.”
Here’s the thing: in novels (especially poorly written ones), people are always gasping.There’s so much gasping sometimes that you’d think it was an epidemic.
But the woman in line behind megasped.
“What’d he say?”asked a weedy man behind her.
She turned and started whispering frantically.
Margaux must have noticed too because her expression darkened.“I don’t know anything about—”
“Let me stop you right there,” I said.“I saw you with Vivienne.You were the last person to talk to her before she died.”
Margaux stayed perfectly still, nails still pressed against the tabletop.And then she said, “Yes, but I believeyouwere the last person to see her alive.Yes, I know who you are.And no, I’m not interested in being part of your snooping.This is an opportunity for aspiring writers to consult with an agent, so unless you have a work-related question, or you have a book idea to pitch, I’m afraid we have nothing to discuss.”She arched an eyebrow.“Do you have a book to pitch?Because I thoughtA Work in Progresswas brilliant, and I’d love to hear what you’re working on next.”
What I was working on next was a masterpiece calledThe Case of the Returning Writer’s Block.
The silence dragged out long enough that Margaux said, “Shame.In that case, I think we’re done.”
Here’s a less than admirable fact about police interviews: the police are allowed to lie.About, well, pretty much everything.(The gray area, of course, is coercion—when a confession is no longer voluntary—so there aresomelimits.) And the reason police lie is that lots of people won’t talk unless the police have some sort of leverage, a way of forcing them to talk—usually by making them afraid, but sometimes, by making them think they have something to gain.
As I said, not the most admirable part of policework.But, the cynical part of me admitted, a necessary one.
“You want a book pitch?”I avoided Bobby’s gaze.“I’m looking for an agent.For the true crime book I’m working on.About thefirsttime I solved Vivienne’s murder.”
Margaux drummed her nails against the tabletop.“God,” she said to herself.“That could be bigger thanThe Nightingale Murders.”
“That’s right.It’s not something I want to self-publish.This needs real distribution.This is the kind of thing that’s on a table in the middle of Barnes and Noble.But first, I need an agent.”
“And you’re offering me, what?A deal?If I tell you what happened with Vivienne, you’ll cut me in on it?”
“I’m looking into her death—I’ve got a personal interest in making sure I know what happened, which I’m sure you can understand.”I smiled at her.“Let’s say it’s book two.”
