Surprise flashed in Steven’s face.And what followed was a hard mask.“Ah.I should have suspected.Not interested.And no comment, or whatever I’m supposed to say.You can try someone else.”
“We’re trying to figure out what is going on,” I said.“Vivienne’s death—there are things that don’t make sense.”
“Oh, it makes sense,” Steven said; that must have been the bourbon talking because his flush deepened, and he took a deep drink.“Plenty of people wanted Vivienne dead.And that’s not a confession.”
“Anyone in particular?”Bobby asked.
Steven’s mouth twisted.“No comment.”
“What I don’t understand,” I said, “is why Vivienne was out there in the first place.In the grotto, I mean.It was dark.It was away from the conference.Why do you think she might have gone out there?”
“No comment,” Steven said again.But either it was the bourbon again or, like so many people, the urge to talk was too strong.“She might have been out there for any number of reasons, I imagine.I can tell you this: Vivienne never did anything she didn’t want to.And since I know what your next question is going to be, I was here, in the bar.They’ve got to have me on camera somewhere.”
“All night?”
“What do you mean all night?I was here when she was killed.That’s what matters.”
“Had you been in contact with Vivienne after she was arrested?”
“No, Mr.Dane.Believe it or not, getting arrested isn’t automatically the end of a writing career.Even being convicted of murder isn’t necessarily the end of the line—in fact, there’s a very successful writer of historical mysteries who’s living proof.But when people find out you lied to them?Made fools of them?That’s the end.”He stared into his drink.“That is the end.”
“Was it the end for you?”Bobby asked.
“Well, it sure wasn’t the beginning.”He flagged down the bartender, signaled his glass, and waited while she brought him another.Then he sat there, not saying anything.Music played softly in the background—something mellow and instrumental.
“What happened?”I asked.
“At first, nothing.Then, the lawsuits.It’s one of the rare times being attached to one of these international conglomerates has paid off; I don’t even think I’ve been named.”
“But you were fired?”Bobby said.
“Not fired, no.According to the lawyers I met with, firing might have been taken as an admission of guilt.Instead, I’ve been…mothballed, let’s say.I go to work.Occasionally, they give me something to do—the last one was a celebrity cookbook that was ninety pages long, all juices.The rest of the time, I sit there, perched on top of the bloated carcass of my career.”
(Okay, he wasdefinitelyan editor—talk about figurative language.)
“I’m sorry,” I said.“That must be hard, to be cut off from the work you love.”
He raised the fresh glass in a silent toast.
“What happened when you saw Vivienne again?”Bobby asked.
Steven froze with the glass to his lips.Then he drank and set the glass on the bar.“You heard about yesterday.”
“What happened yesterday?”Bobby asked.
“If you already heard, we don’t need to go into it.”
“Why don’t you tell us what happened?”
(God, Bobby wassucha cop, and I was totally here for it.)
“I didn’t hurt her,” he said.And then he laughed and raised his hand to his cheek.“If anything,shegotme.”
Bobby didn’t say anything.
(He was way too good at this; if I ever had to keep a secret from him, I was going to run away to Canada.)
“I know what you’re thinking,” Steven said.“I hated her for ruining my career.Yes.I did.But here’s the thing about being an editor.You work with a lot of jerks.Authors have big egos.Many of them don’t have a lot of social graces.And, at the end of the day, what we’re doing is business, and you wouldn’t believe how thin-skinned they can be.I don’t like a lot of my writers—” He hesitated.“Ididn’tlike a lot of my writers.But I still worked with them.And I knew a good book even when the writer in question was a handful.”
