Murder on the Orient Espresso(60)

So Rosemary, even under the influence, seemed to have been right.

‘How is Potter supposed to have come across this “idea”?’ Pavlik asked.

‘Danny apparently sent him the manuscript originally, hoping to get Larry’s endorsement or perhaps a referral to an agent, like myself, or an editor. Larry says … said that he didn’t even open the package.’

‘Did you believe him?’ Pavlik asked.

‘Of course. He’s my client, after all.’ An embarrassed smile. ‘Or was.’

‘So why has Danny been cozying up to Audra,’ I asked, ‘if he thinks she might have been in on this?’

‘I have no idea. Perhaps he hopes Audra will confide the plot of their new novel, and therefore prove Danny right about the plagiarism.’

Or, I thought, maybe the two already were acquainted and had hatched a plot of their own. One that didn’t include Laurence Potter lasting until the final chapter.

‘So what’s the book about?’ Pavlik was asking.

‘I can’t really tell you that.’

‘Carson, I’m certainly not going to steal Potter’s plot,’ Pavlik said. ‘And even if I considered the possibility, I can’t write.’

‘It’s true,’ I told Carson as we heard the sound of the far vestibule door opening. ‘The sheriff is addicted to redundancy.’

We all looked toward the door, but nobody entered.

Pavlik turned back to Carson. ‘The plot?’

‘The reason I can’t tell you is because, well, there really isn’t much of one.’

I mulled that over. ‘So … Potter couldn’t have stolen it?’

Carson shifted uncomfortably. ‘From what I could tell from Danny’s email, his manuscript doesn’t have much of a plot, either.’

I felt like banging my forehead on the tabletop. Again. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘You’ve read Rosemary Darlington’s most recent book?’

‘No,’ Pavlik said.

‘I haven’t either,’ I said, ‘but I understand it’s very steamy. Erotic. Is that what you’re talking about?’

‘Pretty much.’

‘And that’s what Potter’s new book was to be like as well?’ Sounded to me like Rosemary had more of a case against the recently deceased than Danny did.

‘Everyone’s doing it,’ Carson said, ‘which is part of the problem. Larry and Audra’s had the twist of being written by a man and a woman. The reader sees the scenes from two different viewpoints.’

‘Top and bottom?’ I guessed.

Pavlik stifled a laugh. ‘And what about Danny’s … uh, “plot”?’

‘From a man’s point of view only.’

‘Gay or straight?’ I asked.

Carson cocked his head. ‘You know, I’m not sure. But that might be a great twist for—’

This time Pavlik interrupted. ‘Do you believe that Danny could have killed Potter over any of this?’

Carson shrugged. ‘I wish I knew. These aspiring writers take everything so seriously. They don’t understand that there are only a handful of basic plots with shoulders broad enough to carry the three-to-four hundred pages of a novel, and what we’re all doing is re-imagining – no, more spinning – them. And even if someone did steal a concept, no two writers would come up with the same book.’

A gust of wind rattled the window next to us, making even our stationary train car sway.

Carson stood up. ‘I’ve had my say, and thank you for the opportunity. Do with the information as you will.’

Pavlik stuck out his hand reflexively and then retracted it nearly as so. ‘Thanks very much.’

After Carson left, Pavlik looked at me. ‘Well, what do you make of his story?’

‘Could be true, I suppose. According to Rosemary Darlington, Potter once tried to browbeat her into writing a novel to his specifications, with the further conditions being she’d publish it under her own name and split the proceeds fifty-fifty with him. Rosemary, smart woman, finally told him where to stick his book, but maybe Potter saw a brand-new opportunity when Danny’s material landed on his doorstep. Except this time he had no intention of splitting the money or credit with anyone. Or at least not anyone but his wife.’

Pavlik nodded approvingly. ‘Anything else?’

‘Everybody seems to be writing dirty books.’ I’d slid around to the back of the booth and was peering out the window.

‘Makes you wonder where they’re getting all their ideas, doesn’t it?’ Pavlik dug in his jacket pocket and produced the matchbook. ‘Here, perhaps?’