Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [47]
“Delicious,” Kathryn Jalick declared after her first taste of chicken. “What’s the secret to the marinade?”
“If I told you that, Kathryn, it wouldn’t be a secret any longer,” Smith said pleasantly.
“Spoken like a real chef,” Marienthal said.
“Mac’s a wonderful cook, but only when the spirit strikes him,” Annabel said. “I think he secretly always wanted to own a restaurant, but knows what an insane business that can be. I prefer a college professor for a husband.” She touched his arm.
“Actually,” Smith said, “I’ve been threatening for years to give up teaching, study cooking in Provence, and get a job in some restaurant kitchen. One of many unrequited fantasies.”
“Care to share them with us?” Kathryn asked.
“Not in mixed company,” Mac said, laughing. He turned to Marienthal. “So, Rich, we’re anxious to hear the latest with your book, and your read on the murder at Union Station. The victim, Russo, served as your inspiration, as I understand it.”
Marienthal appeared uncomfortable fielding the question. He sipped from a Belgian-style beer brewed in a Baltimore microbrewery that Smith, knowing Marienthal was a beer drinker, had bought especially for the evening. Rich looked at Kathryn, who avoided his eyes and focused on her plate.
Realizing an answer was expected, he said, “Well, things are going okay with the book. It’s at the printer and should be out soon.”
“What about Mr. Russo?” Annabel asked. “Had he come to Washington to meet with you?”
“Ah, yeah, he did.”
“You must have been in absolute shock,” said Annabel, “when you heard the news.”
“How did you hear?” Mac asked.
“I got a call.”
“I thought you might have been that mystery man they mentioned on TV,” Mac said with a chuckle. “The one who supposedly blurted out Russo’s name to the TV reporter.”
“I’d still like your marinade recipe,” Kathryn said.
“Sure, I’ll write it out after dinner,” Mac said. To Marienthal: “Did you get to see your folks when you were up in New York?”
“Yes, I did. Dad said to say hello.”
“How’s he doing?”
“Pretty good, I guess. He’s slowing down. Doesn’t practice much anymore.”
“I don’t blame him,” Mac said. “Criminal law can take a lot out of you. It can be, well, almost criminal.”
“You should know,” Kathryn said.
“Yes, I suppose I should. I’m sure he had some comments about the murder. After all, your dad represented Russo in the plea proceedings and put you in touch with him.”
“That’s right,” said Marienthal. “He wasn’t crazy about the idea at first, but I guess he realized how much I needed a book like this under my belt.”
“I’m dying to read it,” Annabel said.
“So am I,” Mac said.
“You’ll be among the first to get a copy,” said Marienthal. “I have to thank you again, Mac, for going over the publishing contract so thoroughly with me. I really appreciate it.”
“The least I could do. As I told you, publishing law isn’t my bag, but I was happy to do it.” He shook his head and laughed. “I’d never seen a contract like that, Rich. The publisher—what is it, Hobbes House?—really stacked things in their favor. That returns policy is a license to steal.”
Marienthal laughed, too. “I know,” he said. “The publisher sells books to bookstores on consignment. The store orders, say, ten, sells two, sends the other eight back to the publisher for full credit.”
“How does that impact the writer?” Annabel asked. “I looked at the contract, too, but my bag, as Mac puts it anachronistically, was matrimonial law.”
Mac answered. “From the way I read it, Rich gets paid royalties twice a year, provided he’s earned any beyond the advance. But the publisher has the right, according to the contract, to withhold a big portion of what’s due him in the event there are returns during the next six-month accounting period. It’s a hell of a float for the publisher.”
The peculiarities of the publishing industry occupied the conversation through the end of dinner.
“We’ll have dessert on the terrace,” Annabel announced.