“You know, you seem way too young to have worked on them,” she said.
Flattery would get her everywhere.
“I wasn’t the original illustrator. After forty books, they wanted to repackage and re-release the series with new artwork. I got the job when I was twenty-one.” Fourteen years ago. Felt like a million years ago. Felt like yesterday.
“Yours were definitely the best covers,” Piper said. “The old illustrator wasn’t bad, but the art was derivative, too much like the Hardy Boys series. Yours were like…I don’t know, if Dali did children’s art.”
“For the sake of the children, let’s be glad he didn’t,” Hugo said.
“Can I ask you something?” Ashley put her hand on her hip and cocked her head to the side flirtatiously.
Here it came. The autograph request. Or the selfie request. He didn’t get the star treatment often, and he planned on enjoying it.
“Go ahead,” he said.
“Why is a raven like a writing desk?” she asked.
“They both can—Wait.” Hugo narrowed his eyes. “Why do you ask?”
A sleek black phone sat on the counter. She tapped the screen a few times and held it up to display a web page. “It’s on Jack Masterson’s website today. It’s all over Facebook too.”
“What?”
“Let me see,” Piper said. She took the phone from Ashley’s hand. Hugo peered over her shoulder and read aloud:
My Dear Readers,
I have written a new book—A Wish for Clock Island.There is but one copy in existence, and I plan to give it away to someone very brave, very clever, and who knows how to make wishes.
Hugo’s heart started racing so fast his mind couldn’t keep up with it. Jack was doingwhat?
“Gotta run,” he said.
“Already? What’s going on?” Piper looked worried.
“No clue.” He kissed her cheek and bolted for the street, leaving behind his thirteen-dollar diamond-studded cup of coffee. He waved a hand at a passing taxi. It pulled over, and he got inside.
“Penn Station, quickly, please.” Hugo grabbed his phone from his back pocket. He’d put it on airplane mode while he’d been touring flats. Now he flicked it on, and suddenly a torrent of emails, text messages, and missed calls hit his phone in a cacophony of beeps, bells, and buzzes.
Eighty-seven missed calls and approximately two hundred new emails, all from media outlets and friends he suspiciously hadn’t heard from in years.
“Oh God,” Hugo groaned.
He called the house. Jack answered.
Hugo didn’t let him get a word out.
“What the hell are you up to?” Hugo demanded. “TheTodayshow left me five voice-mail messages.”
“It’s a foot,” Jack said, “but it’s not part of the body.”
“I hate your stupid riddles. Could you tell me in short, simple sentences exactly why a girl at a coffee shop just asked me why a raven is like a writing desk?”
“It’s a foot,” Jack said again, more slowly this time, as if he were talking to a child. “But it’s not part of the body.”
Then he hung up.
Hugo growled at the phone and considered tossing it out the window. But he probably shouldn’t do that as CBS News was apparently calling him. He sent the call to voice mail.
