The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [87]
Annie steeled herself. “Oh, Mrs. Shaw, so many readers miss him and his books.” This, at least, was true. But her next words were a ploy, no more, no less. “One fan insists there was a title scheduled for publication before he died that didn’t come out.” She shook her head ruefully. “Fans are so stubborn. I imagine that it was a work in progress. Certainly if such a book existed, the publishers would have brought it out.”
“The Clue at Hacienda Dolores.” Victoria fumbled at her straw purse, lifting out a leather cigarette case. She opened it, then hesitated. “Do you mind?”
Annie did, but she was willing to inflict only so much misery. She smiled and murmured, “Certainly not” But she was a little surprised. Although many women of this age group smoked, it seemed out of character for Victoria Shaw.
The older woman, her hands trembling a little, lit the cigarette, blew away a plume of smoke, then said apologetically, “I quit for so many years. Bryan and I both. But since he’s gone, it doesn’t really matter.”
There was no intent in her words to shock or affront. It was merely a statement of fact, and it caught at Annie’s heart.
It didn’t really matter.
Two halves that make a whole.
Annie understood that. For a terrible instant, she imagined herself without Max. Nothing, then, would make much difference, would it?
It was a moment she would never forget.
Independence, the watchword for today’s women. Independence, admired and honored, encouraged and approved.
Could anyone truly love and remain independent?
No.
As for going on alone with any joy at all, that would take grit beyond measure.
“I’ve thought about having it privately published,” Victoria said quietly. “But Bryan wouldn’t have liked that. He was a professional.”
Privately published. That was the last resort of writers with unsalable manuscripts. Bryan Shaw would have been humiliated.
“You mean the book was complete and his publisher didn’t publish it?” Annie simulated shock. She did it without pleasure. Sometimes Lawrence Sanders’s Captain Edward X Delaney didn’t like his role, either.
Victoria’s thin face turned old as Annie watched, lines of misery etched at her eyes and her lips, the light in her eyes quenched. She drew deeply on the cigarette, suppressed a cough. “It was the last book in a three-book contract. Bryan’s editor left for another house. They hired a new editor. Bryan sent his book to Margo to submit. It was the ninth in his Father Corrigan series, and he was pleased with it. But a little worried. You know how authors are.”
Annie recalled Emma’s words: It all has to do with vulnerability.
Victoria didn’t wait for an answer. “Authors are so unsure of themselves. They can write a wonderful book and look at you with terror in their eyes. You see, in their hearts they’re always afraid this book won’t be good, this book isn’t right…. And yet, they know how well they can write. Sometimes,” her eyes glowed again, “Bryan would come out of his study and he’d give me a sheet and ask me to read it and say, ‘Oh, God, Torie, it’s the best I’ve ever done. Torie, it’s wonderful!’ Then he’d look at me with that fear in his eyes.”
She dropped the cigarette to the flagstones, used the tip of her shoe to grind it out. “He sent in his last manuscript. To Neil Bledsoe.” She slumped in her chair, old, defeated. “Neil Bledsoe killed my husband.”
Victoria said it quietly enough, but the hatred was there in a voice tight with anger. “Neil wrote Bryan a dreadful letter. He made fun of his book. You can make fun of anything, you know, if you want to. He made fun of it. But more than that, he berated Bryan, said the book was stupid, tedious, childish, poorly written.” Anger burned in her eyes. And murder in her heart?
Hands shaking, she lit another cigarette. “Neil rejected the manuscript. I told Bryan it didn’t matter, he could find another house. His agent”—a flicker of energy—“you’ve met Margo? She was Bryan’s agent. She was furious, said it was