"Blurbs?" Shelley queried.
"You know, those 'I love So-and-So's characters. They're so vibrant.' Signed by a well-known author."
"Blurbs. I'll have to remember that. I'm a sucker for them," Shelley admitted. "If someone I recognize and like to read says something nice on the cover, I'll buy the book."
"That's the point of blurbs," Felicity said. "And it's usually a good guide to book shopping. Avoid the book if it's blurbed by Miss Mystery though."
"Why isn't there a picture of her?" Shelley persisted.
"Because she comes to conferences under her own name and chums up with authors to acquire the dirt on other authors. Nobody knows who she really is."
"That's sneaky," Jane said. "So why is she even listed in the brochure?"
"To warn the authors that she's around, I suppose," Felicity replied.
After the waiter had interrupted to give them their bill, Shelley said, "I'd guess somebody recognizes her."
"Why?" Felicity asked.
"Because if I were to tell some stranger some deep secret of Jane's — which I'd never do, needless to say — and later saw her report it on her website, I'd remember who I'd spilled the beans to."
Felicity stared at Shelley with astonishment. "Of course!" She made a head-slapping motion. "You're right. Some people must know who they blabbed to and about. But they don't dare admit
it."
"Rest assured," Jane said, "neither of us is Miss Mystery."
Felicity grinned. "You promise?"
"Girl Scout's honor," Jane said, raising her hand.
Their discussion was suddenly cut short when a couple came through the door of the restaurant. It was the country-western pair Jane and Shelley had seen entering the hotel. The woman looked around and shouted a sort of yodeling greeting of "Yippee! I reckon y'all are the mystery writers," she said, raising her hefty arms as if embracing the whole room. Her turquoise and silver jewelry jangled.
Heads turned with annoyance.
"I'm Vernetta Strausmann, and this is my everlovin' hubby, Gaylord. Pleased to meetcha, y'all."
She glanced around the room and spotted Felicity and screeched, "Omigod! It's Felicity Roane! You're my favorite author!"
Dragging along Gaylord, who looked both proud and embarrassed, she galloped over to their table. She all but jerked the chair out from under Jane.
"Here, honey, let me grab this chair. You set yourself down over in that one. I gotta hug my favorite writing gal."
Jane grabbed the bottom of her chair and held her ground. Felicity had her arms extended, palms out, to stave off the hug. She was blushing at being singled out so outrageously in public.
"I'm sorry, but I'm having a chat with friends. Maybe we could meet later," Felicity said coldly.
"Pretty wimpy friends, it looks like," Vernetta said, her expression turning mean, her eyes going piggy, and her already strident voice becoming even louder.
"They're my friends and you aren't," Felicity said firmly.
"Who'da thought you were such a bitch!" Vernetta screamed, looking around the restaurant to make sure everyone was listening. "You're just jealous of me because I'm gonna make a lot more money than you'll ever see. C'mon, Gaylord."
She stomped out. Gaylord leaned toward thetable and said, "Miss Roane, I'm surely sorry 'bout this. She don't always mean what she says. It's what she says is 'artistic privilege.' "
Felicity was obviously having trouble suppressing tears of rage.
"What a terrible woman," she said in a shaking voice.
Six
Somebody in the restaurant clapped a couple of times, and most of the other patrons joined in. "You go, girl!" one woman said, raising a fist to Felicity and grinning.
Felicity relaxed a little and waved back. "I need another jolt of coffee," she said under her breath.
"Why don't you come up to our room for it," Shelley asked. "There's anything there you'd like to drink."
"Let me take care of the bill first," Felicity said.
"No, you won't. Not after you told us so many interesting things," Jane said. "We'll take care of yours."
"Nope," Felicity insisted. "My cost is tax-deductible."
She hailed a waiter to pick up the bill, and during the slight delay, several of the other diners came over and asked who that awful woman was. Or who Felicity was. Several who weren't even attending the conference had heard of her
and asked if her books were for sale and could they catch her later to have them signed.
As Felicity scrawled her real name on the credit card slip and put the card back in her purse, she said to Jane and Shelley, "Who'd have thought that scene would have paid off so well?"
They strolled through the lobby and looked over the registration booth, which was just opening up for business. They each were given a canvas bag full of goodies, including a complete booklet giving the times and rooms where each session would be held and extensive bios of the speakers; free books by writers who were attending; pens with authors' web sites; bookmarks with lists of the author's books; and even a tiny pink-and-white box of peppermints from one writer. Jane and Shelley studied the booklet. It was much more complete than any of the materials they had received earlier.
"Jane!" Shelley exclaimed, "turn to page four. It's a picture of Mel."
"Good grief. He didn't tell me he was a speaker. How sneaky," Jane said.
"Who is Mel?" Felicity asked.
"Jane's honey," Shelley said.
"Damned good-looking man," Felicity said.
Jane flipped to a page at the back and said, "Wow! There are agents and editors here that you can see and talk to privately for fifteen minutes," Jane said. "I had no idea. Which would be a good one, Felicity?"
"Let's take it up with us and look it over," Felicity responded.
Felicity was frankly astonished at the suite Jane and Shelley were staying in. Shelley had to explain, with enormous modesty, that her husband had invested in the hotel and that part of the deal was having the suite be available to his family or friends when it wasn't otherwise booked.
Jane was impatient but tried not to show it. She wanted desperately to return to the registration booth before all the editors and agents were booked up. As they'd waited for the elevator, quite a few attendees had already lined up.
Felicity appeared to sense her tension and the reason for it. "Let me look at that. Oh, they're all baby editors and agents."
"Babies?"
"New ones with names like Tiffany and Bambi. But that's okay," Felicity said, "if they're babies in a good agency or publishing house. There are normally only a few heads of houses or agencies at small conferences like this." She pulled out her green-ink book-signing pen and checked three. Two agents and one editor.
"These are with good companies. And they're eager to come back to work with something to show for being sent here at their employers' expense."
"I don't see Sophie Smith on this list. Isn't she a really important editor?" Jane asked.
"Yes, but she leaves things like this to her underlings. Downtrodden people like that poor Corwin she drags around with her and abuses in public. You don't want to be with her anyway."