The Last Cheerleader. Meg O'Brien

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ keep going.

      In Patrick’s case, however, it was I who had rejected his latest book several months ago, not an editor. It was a dark book with serial rapes in it—too dark for me. I’d reached a financial point where I could turn down manuscripts that bothered me personally, and though I hated to let Patrick go, he had insisted on writing In Peril. We had clearly reached an impasse, and I finally had to let him go.

      Patrick had been bitter at first, but then I’d heard that he was with another agent and his book was being picked up for almost seven figures. He’d been seen around town, dining in all the best restaurants with a smile on his face.

      Now that I’d lost Tony and Craig, I almost wished I had gotten Patrick that deal. But oh well. Water under the bridge.

      “Don’t be silly, Mary Beth,” he said now. “Of course I still want to talk to you. I’ll admit I was pretty upset at first, but that’s just because I felt set adrift without a canoe. And now things are going really great. Did you hear that I’m with Nolan-Frey?”

      “As a matter of fact, I did. They’re quite a big agency, on a level now with CAA. And I heard that they got you a great deal.”

      “Yes, well, it’s…Maybe I shouldn’t tell you this, but it’s still in the negotiation phase, nothing certain. It’s going well, though.”

      Agencies like Nolan-Frey took on someone on the basis of liking their work, then helped them to polish and even rewrite it if they thought that was necessary. Like a book doctor, except that they didn’t charge until after the book was sold, hopefully with a movie option. Usually they got significant options, with big money and stars attached, while the ordinary writer going through an agent who wasn’t as top-flight might get only two thousand five hundred for the option, and the movie would never be made. The paybacks are often better, then, with the big agencies like CAA and Nolan-Frey, but they’re harder for an author to get into. I was guessing they had taken on Patrick partly for his talent, and partly because I was his former agent.

      Not that Patrick’s books didn’t pull in good numbers. But at the time he left me, he was more or less starting out fresh again after three years with no book out, which meant that in his genre, which was mysteries, Nolan-Frey might have had a hard time selling him again to a publisher.

      “I heard they got you a high six figures,” I said. “I’m so happy for you, Patrick. I really am. And I’m sorry things turned out for us the way they did.”

      He made a doleful face. “Me, too. I miss you, Mary Beth. But I understood about the book. When you liked my work, you were the best agent in the world for me, and if you just couldn’t handle that last one, well…” He shrugged. “I guess it was for the best that we both moved on.”

      “I’m sure you’re right. And as I said, I’m happy that you’re with someone who’s doing well for you.”

      “So if my book is made into a billion-dollar movie, you won’t be sorry for missing out?” he asked with a grin.

      “Sorry as all get out!” I laughed. “But I’ll be here with bells on at your celebration party.” Raising an eyebrow, I added, “You will invite me, won’t you?”

      “Mary Beth, you will be first on my list. I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me. In fact—I’ve been wondering. Would you like to go to dinner sometime?”

      At my obvious surprise, he grinned. “It could be like old times. Old, old times. Before business got in the way. And then there was Tony…I mean, you and he seemed to have something going.”

      “Not really,” I said. “Tony and I were friends. You’ve heard what happened?”

      “It was on the evening news yesterday. About Arnold, too. What a shock.”

      “I didn’t get a chance to catch the news. Was there anything about Craig?”

      “Craig Dinsmore? No.” His eyes widened. “Has something happened to him?”

      “I found him dead in his motel room today. Well, yesterday, now. In the afternoon.”

      “My God, Mary Beth! It sounds like Who’s Killing the Great Chefs of—except in this case it’s your, well, you know…authors.” He frowned. “Do I need to hire a bodyguard?”

      “I doubt it,” I said dryly. “Since you’re no longer with me, I’d say you’re safe. You might want to hear what the sheriff thinks, though.”

      He was silent and seemed to be pondering the possible threat to his own life. The truth was, until he said it, I hadn’t really looked at it that way yet—that someone was killing off my authors. After all, Arnold had been murdered as well, and he was just my ex.

      Then I remembered that I’d negotiated a deal for Arnold years ago, for one of his toy-creations books. That qualified me as his agent, as well.

      But the idea was preposterous. Who would be out to get my authors? Or me? No, there was something else going on. I was sure of it.

      Lindy, who had been dozing in her chair, the tea and bourbon growing cold on the table beside her, stirred. Sitting up like a shot, she gazed wildly around her. “What? Where—where am I?”

      The faux-mink throw slipped to the floor, and I went over to her and put it back in her lap. “Here, cover up. We’re at the house of a friend of mine, remember? Patrick Llewellen. He used to be one of my authors, and we’re waiting for the sheriff to come and tell us it’s safe to go back to my house.”

      Lindy looked toward the sliding glass door we’d come through. “What if—what if whoever chased us down the beach is out there right now? What if he’s just waiting for us to come out?”

      “I saw a reflection of flashing red lights going by in front,” I said. “I’m sure the sheriff’s deputies are already there, and they’ll check out the beach, too. In fact, I’ll ask one of the officers to escort us back to my house.”

      When she didn’t seem at all mollified, I said, “Would you like me to warm your tea? There’s bourbon in it. It’ll take off the edge.”

      “I noticed,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Thank you, Mary Beth. I don’t know what I’ve had done without you tonight.”

      Again, her words seemed fraught with another meaning, but I let it pass for the moment.

      I left her with Patrick and went to the kitchen, while he sat on an ottoman in front of her, talking in low, soothing tones. I’d almost forgotten that about Patrick—how comforting he could be in a pinch. It was one of the things I’d lost when we split. That, and the sex—which, come to think of it, hadn’t been nearly as bad as I’d tried to remember it.

      Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

      Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

      Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

      Безопасно СКАЧАТЬ