My mom laughed like that was the funniest thing she’d heard all day.
“We called to make sure you’re okay—” my dad said.
“I’m fine.Don’t come out here.I don’t need any help.”
(Sometimes it pays to be preemptive.)
In a slightly less enthusiastic voice, my dad continued, “—and to say congratulations about the offer.We’re not trying to overstep or interfere with your business—”
“Heaven forbid,” my mother said in the martyred tone of every mother everywhere.
“—but if you have any questions, we’d love to help.I’ve gone through this a few times with Talon Maverick, and your mom has had a ton of her books optioned.Oh, and Phil said he’d be happy to look over the contract with you—strictly as a family friend.I know you said you don’t want him as your agent.”
To be fair, Ihadsaid that—but did I still feel that way?As far as agents went, Philwasgood, and I hadn’t been able to find one on my own.I didn’t necessarily have to decide now; if I did ask him to look at the deal, there’d probably be an implicit expectation that I’d eventually ask him to represent me, but he was a family friend, and there wouldn’t be an obligation.
“Okay,” I said.“I guess.”
“You don’t sound excited,” my mom said.
“It’s a big step,” I said.“I need to think about it.”
“Dash, these things are long, complicated processes,” my dad said.“Lots of moving parts.Usually, the project never ends up being made.You always take the money when they offer it, though, as long as the terms are good.”
“Right,” I said.“That makes sense.”
“I don’t understand what the problem is,” my mom said.
“Sorry, I’m driving.Gotta go.”
Were they right?Should I take the money, even if I wasn’t preciselyexcitedabout the whole idea?Unless Phil told me that the offer was a complete rip-off, the consensus seemed to be that the smart thing, the responsible thing, the career-minded thing would be to jump at the opportunity.
So, yeah.I thought about that as I drove the rest of the way to the college on autopilot.
Where I then proceeded to waste the day.
It didn’t feel like a waste at first.I found the spot along the creek where Steven had been found—not difficult, since it was swarming with law enforcement and taped off.I tried to talk to the sheriff, but she was too busy.I tried checking in with Bobby for more information, but he told me he couldn’t talk right then.I tried chatting up the other deputies, but Salk said I should probably go back to the conference, and Deputy Winegar spat on the ground—missing my Mexico 66s by about an inch—and told me to, quote,move along.
The sheer ingratitude.
As you might imagine, another death at a conference full of mystery writers drew a significant crowd—most of whom had pens and notebooks at the ready to jot down every little procedural tidbit for future reference.One industrious little guy had balanced his laptop on his friend’s back and was typing manically.Two women were frantically trying to fix their hair, checking themselves in their phone cameras, clearly preparing to record.
That was when the sheriff moved the perimeter of the scene farther out.
Lots of squawking.Lots of complaining.Frequent use of the wordsthat’s not fair.One author, a balding, bespectacled man who must have been boiling inside his sweater vest, absolutely refused to move no matter what Salk tried.And Salk—who is basically the sweetest guy in existence—looked like he was about to give the guy an atomic wedgie.
It was so different from Vivienne’s death—Vivienne’s had happened at night, and it had been sequestered to the grotto, where the sheriff had been able to control access.But more than that, Vivienne’s death had been frightening, a shock.A second murder was, apparently, old hat.
Which got me thinking.
Since I wasn’t having any success with my inside sources at the sheriff’s office, I decided I might have better luck talking to Graeme.I wanted to ask him about this other author, Whitney Smith—as the conference organizer, he was bound to know something about her.
But Graeme, it turned out, was being mobbed by a separate group of authors.These ones, unlike the group that had gathered near the creek, werelesspleased with a second death at the conference, and they wanted refunds.And apologies.And perhaps additional compensation.Graeme, flushed and running a hand through his thinning hair, kept trying to answer individuals as more people pressed in and shouted additional questions.
So, that was strike two.
I decided my best option would be to stay on campus, attending panels and sessions at the conference, occasionally checking on Bobby and the sheriff to see if I could: a) learn something by osmosis; b) spot someone doing something sneaky; c) track down Whitney; and possibly d) figure out if therewasa connection to this previous murder.
Here’s one of the nice things about conferences: nobody pays attention to you if you sit in the back and play on your phone.
