“Hi, hello. I know this might sound odd but I have information about one of your authors. The late Professor Lionel Graves. I was wondering if I could speak with his editor,” Harper began as Natalie’s heart pounded.
“What kind of information?” the woman said over the speaker phone.
“I’m in possession of his next book. The one he, actually we were working on together when he passed. Since we worked very closely together on the research during the final month of his life I feel responsible for fulfilling his last wish and seeing this published. Of course, my first step was to reach out to his editor…” Harper referred to the page of notes in front of her, “Allen Turning, since he worked on Lionel’s last release. Is this something you think Mr. Turning would be willing to discuss?”
“Yes, definitely, let me get your name and number and I’ll have him get back to you.”
Looking satisfied, Harper relayed the information while Natalie felt like vomiting.
She hoped Harper knew what she was doing. There might not be a publishing jail, but being prosecuted for stealing someone’s intellectual property was probably enough to land them in regular old jail.
Call her crazy, but Natalie didn’t think claiming Lionel’s ghost gave her permission to publish his book was going to fly as a winning legal defense.
Chapter Twelve
Natalie had seen Professor Lionel Graves in many moods in their short association, but for the first time he looked angry.
“Why in the world would you agree to a deadline next month?” he demanded. A bit of spittle flew in her direction but didn’t quite reach her.
“Your publisher had a hole in the schedule and your editor said he could get the book out early fourth quarter of this year if we submitted the finished manuscript next month. Otherwise it would be a full two years before it was released. I thought you would be happy.”
“Is he not happy?” Harper asked as she watched what to her would appear to be a one-sided conversation.
“Happy? No, Miss Chase and whoever this other person is, I am not happy. A masterpiece takes time. Art cannot be rushed.”
“It’s a history book. Not the Sistine Chapel.” Natalie turned to Harper. “He wants more time.”
“It’s going to be tight. I admit that. But I think it will be more than worth it to make that late October release date. That will position the book perfectly for the holiday gift giving season,” Harper explained.
Lionel, brows raised, shifted his glare to Natalie. “Who is this person?” Lionel spat, forcing another fine spray of moisture from between his lips.
“This is my friend, Harper Lowry. She’s a published author,” Natalie explained, leaning back out of the splash zone.
Would she even feel ghost spit should it hit her? It was too disturbing of a concept for her to want to find out.
“A New York Times best-selling published author,” Harper corrected.
“And what, pray tell, does she write?” Lionel asked with a judgmental glance that took Harper in from head to toe.
Granted Harper was not dressed to impress. She was wearing her usual winter outfit of leggings, snow boots, turtleneck and oversized sweater. It wasn’t much different from what Natalie had on.
It was January in cold and slushy upstate New York. No one was dressed up… No one except for Professor Lionel Graves who would be spending eternity in what Natalie thought of as his pompous author uniform of corduroy slacks, a button-down shirt, plaid vest and sports jacket, suede elbow patches and all.
But as for Lionel’s question, Natalie said, “Harper writes…romance.”
It was as if the man, ghost, whatever, had been slapped in the face. He actually drew back and paled. She didn’t know ghosts could go pale but he did.
“Romance!” he roared. “Good God.”
“Yes,” Natalie replied reluctantly. Then added, “Best-selling romance.”
Harper let out a sigh. “I don’t need to see or hear his reaction. I can guess.” Her gaze pivoted from Natalie to the empty space in front of them. “And I’ll have you know, buddy, that I earned enough on one book release this year, one, to buy a brand-new car, in cash. So there.”
By the end of the rant, Harper was poking the air with one finger, likely imagining stabbing Lionel in the chest to emphasize her point. Unfortunately, he stood nowhere near her.
Lionel did now wear a satisfyingly annoyed expression as he said, “There is no accounting for the taste of the masses. But even the writer of that trash has a valid point.”
Natalie did not pass that back-handed compliment along to Harper.
