6 - Pages of Sin

whispered. “She never said a word.”
    “I wasn’t sure if she told you,” he murmured. “But I never felt it was my place to betray her confidence.”
    “She didn’t say a thing.”
    “It’s because she didn’t want your pity,” Byron said quietly. “People had been pitying her for years and she was sick of it. So she decided to take matters into her own hands. It was important to her that she finish both of your books, so she did that. She tidied up her own personal affairs and then did what she needed to do.”
    “Oh, poor Wanda,” Elaine said. She sucked in a great sob and began to cry in earnest. Marjorie’s eyes filled with tears, too. Byron pressed his lips in a thin line to keep from sniffling, but the pressure was too great. He pulled both sisters into another group hug and they all wept for Wanda. And maybe for themselves.
    It was painful to watch, especially with my tendency to tear up at the first sign of a whimper. I blew my nose, then glanced at Mom, wondering if maybe we should leave them alone to grieve. But she was watching them avidly, despite the tears dripping down her cheeks.
    I was right there with her, just as teary and captivated by these three as she was. There was no way I could walk out of here now. And that insight brought on another wave of weepiness, not only because of the pain I imagined Wanda had to have suffered, but because this was another one of those tender, like mother, like daughter moments you read about in books.
    “Well,” Marjorie said, straightening her dress and sniffling as she stepped back from the group clench. “I guess my big plan to convince you to write my books for me is dead in the water. You’ll pardon the expression.”
    “What?” Elaine said, then shook her head as if she hadn’t heard correctly. “Are you kidding? You thought I would want to write for you ?”
    Marjorie sniffled some more as she examined her fingernails. With a shrug, she said, “My mistake.”
    Byron cleared his throat. “Actually, Lainey, we both were sort of hoping you might agree to step in for Wanda. Marjorie’s Traveling Anarchist franchise is too lucrative to quit it now.”
    “Don’t talk to me about lucrative,” Elaine snapped. “My last contract was for seven figures. My books have been translated into fourteen languages. The royalties alone have kept that God-forsaken castle in Somerset from crumbling around us for the last ten years, no thanks to Radisson’s latest indictment.”
    “Seven figures, huh?” Byron considered her words. “Sounds like you might have owed Wanda a raise.”
    Elaine gasped and slapped both hands over her mouth.
    Marjorie laughed. “Oh, this is rich, no pun intended. Not only were you using your own sister as a ghostwriter, but you weren’t even paying her a fair wage.”
    Elaine winced, then groaned as her shoulders sagged. “Oh, my God, I’m despicable.”
    Laughing even harder, Marjorie threw her arms around her sister. “The fact that you can admit it is just one reason why I still love you.”
    Byron wasn’t going to be left out of this group grope. He wrapped his big arms around both of them and gripped them tightly. “I love you girls. I’m sure we can all help each other, going forward.”
    And just like that, they were back to being the Bizarro Family. I caught a glimpse of Mom and Dad, whose expressions indicated they were thinking the same thing.
    “Let’s have a quick glass of wine together before we go to the service,” Byron suggested with a cheerful glint in his eye. “We can toast the restoration of our loving family and the beginning of a beautiful new business relationship.”
    If he couldn’t draw them in with that love of family line, Byron probably wasn’t beneath stooping to a little blackmail. Perhaps Elaine and Marjorie realized the same thing, because a tentative smile passed between the sisters, then grew to a broad grin. I suppose they had to admire Byron’s panache.
    I checked my watch. Since they seemed to have patched up their differences, I figured it was well past time Mom and I got some answers to our questions. I opened up each of the Jane Austen books and pulled out the documents we’d discovered over the past few days. I’d already decided to keep my tone light rather than accuse anyone of anything. I didn’t want to rock the fragile Bradford-Frawley family boat any more than it was already rocking.
    I got their attention by clearing my throat. Then with a bright smile,