“Now, Myra.”
“So you stopped writing?” Mercer asked.
“Let’s say I slowed down considerably. There’s money in the bank and some of the books are still selling.”
“I still write, every day,” Leigh said. “My life would be empty if I didn’t write.”
“And it would be a helluva lot emptier if I didn’t sell,” Myra snarled.
“Now, Myra.”
The pack’s largest dog, a forty-pound long-haired mutt, squatted close to the patio and dropped a pile. Myra saw it happen, said nothing, then covered the area with a cloud of smoke when the dog was finished.
Mercer changed the subject with “Are there other writers on the island?”
Leigh nodded with a smile and Myra said, “Oh, far too many.” She chugged the fruit jar and smacked her lips.
“There’s Jay,” Leigh said. “Jay Arklerood.”
It was becoming apparent that Leigh’s job was to merely suggest so that Myra could then narrate. She said, “You would start with him, wouldn’t you? He’s another literary snob who can’t sell and hates everybody who can. He’s also a poet. Do you like poetry, Mercer dear?”
Her tone left no doubt that she had little use for poetry. Mercer said, “Don’t read much of it.”
“Well, don’t read his, if you could even find it.”
“I’m afraid I haven’t heard of him.”
“No one has. He sells less than Leigh.”
“Now, Myra.”
“What about Andy Adam?” Mercer asked. “Doesn’t he live here?”
“When he’s not in rehab,” Myra said. “He built a fine home down on the south end, then lost it in a divorce. He’s a mess but a really good writer. I adore his Captain Clyde series, some of the best crime fiction around. Even Leigh can stoop to enjoy it.”
Leigh said, “A lovely man, when he’s sober, but a dreadful drunk. He still gets in fights.”
Seamlessly taking the handoff, Myra jumped right back in with “Just last month he got in a fight at the saloon on Main Street. Some guy half his age beat the hell out of him and the police hauled him in. Bruce had to post his bond.”
“Who’s Bruce?” Mercer asked quickly.
Myra and Leigh sighed and took a sip, as if any discussion of Bruce might take hours. Leigh eventually said, “Bruce Cable, he owns the bookstore. You’ve never met him?”
“Don’t think so. I can remember visiting the store a few times when I was a kid, but I can’t say that I met him.”
Myra said, “When it comes to books and writers, everything revolves around the store. Thus, everything revolves around Bruce. He’s the Man.”
“And this is a good thing?”
“Oh, we adore Bruce. He has the greatest bookstore in the country and he loves writers. Years ago, before we moved here and back when I was writing and publishing, he invited me to a book signing at his store. It’s a bit unusual for a serious bookstore to host a romance writer, but Bruce didn’t care. We had a helluva party, sold a bunch of books, got drunk on cheap champagne, and kept the store open until midnight. Hell, he even had a book signing for Leigh.”
“Now, Myra.”
“It’s true, and she sold fourteen books.”
“Fifteen. My biggest signing ever.”
“My record is five,” Mercer said. “And that was my first signing. Sold four at the next, then zero at the third. After that I called New York and canceled everything.”
“Go, girl,” Myra said. “You quit?”
“I did, and if I ever publish again I will not go on tour.”
“Why didn’t you come here, to Bay Books?”
“It was on the schedule, but I freaked out and pulled the plug.”
“You should’ve started here. Bruce can always drum up a crowd. Hell, he calls us all the time, says there’s a writer coming in and we might really like his or her book. That means get our butts down to the store for the signing and buy the damned book! We never miss.”
“And we have a lot of books, all signed by the authors and most unread,” Leigh added.
“Have you been to the store?” Myra asked.
“I stopped by on the way here. It’s lovely.”
“It’s civilization, an oasis. Let’s meet there for lunch and I’ll introduce you to Bruce. You’ll like him and I can assure you he’ll fancy you. He loves all writers, but the young pretty females get special attention.”
“Is he married?”
“Oh yes. His wife is Noelle and she’s usually around. A real character.”
“I like her,” Leigh said, almost defensively, as if most people felt otherwise.
“What does she do?” Mercer asked as innocently as possible.
“She sells French antiques, next door to the bookstore,” Myra said. “Who needs another drink?”
Mercer and Leigh had hardly touched their drinks. Myra stomped away to refill her fruit jar. At least three dogs followed her. Leigh lit another cigarette and asked, “So tell me about your novel, your work in progress.”
Mercer took a sip of warm Chablis and said, “I really can’t talk about it. It’s a little rule I have. I hate to hear writers talk about their work, don’t you?”
“I suppose. I’d love to discuss my work but she won’t listen. It seems as though talking about your work would motivate you to actually write. Me, I’ve had writer’s block for the past eight years.” She chuckled and took a quick puff. “But then she’s not much help. I’m almost afraid to write because of her.”
For a second Mercer felt sorry for her and was almost tempted to volunteer as her reader, but she quickly remembered her tortured prose. Myra stormed back with another quart, kicking at a dog as she sat down.
She said, “And don’t forget the vampire girl. Amy what’s her name?”
“Amy Slater,” Leigh said helpfully.
“That’s her. Moved here about five years ago with her husband and some kids. Hit pay dirt with a series about vampires and ghosts and such junk, really awful stuff that sells like crazy. On my worst days, and believe me I’ve published some dreadful books that were supposed to be dreadful, I can outwrite her with one hand tied behind me.”
“Now, Myra. Amy’s a lovely person.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Anybody else?” Mercer asked. So far every other writer had been trashed and Mercer was enjoying the carnage, which was not at all unusual when writers gathered over drinks and talked about each other.
They thought for a second and worked their drinks. Myra said, “Got a bunch of the self-published crowd. They crank ’em out, post ’em online, call themselves writers. They print a few copies and hang around the bookstore, pestering Bruce to put ’em up front by the door and dropping in every other day to check on their royalties. A real pain in the ass. He’s got a table where he puts all the self-published stuff and he’s always wrangling with one or two of them over placement. With the Internet everybody is now a published author, you know?”
“Oh, I know,” Mercer said. “When I was teaching, they would leave books and manuscripts on my front porch, usually with a long letter describing how wonderful their work was and how much they’d appreciate a blurb.”
“So tell us about teaching,” Leigh said softly.
“Oh, it’s much more fun to talk about writers.”
“I got one,” Myra said. “Guy’s name is Bob but he uses the pen name of J. Andrew Cobb. We call him Bob Cobb. He spent six years in a federal pen for some type of bad corporate behavior and learned to write, sort of. He’s published four or five books about what he knows best — corporate espionage — and they’re fun to read. Not a bad writer.”