Bell, Book, and Scandal

nine-thirty in the morning sound? Give me a call at room 602 to confirm.“
    Jane looked at her watch. It was nine thirty-seven. Probably that wasn’t too late to call. Melody was presumably still out to dinner with her authors. Jane left a message confirming the time and asked where they should meet.
    Mel had come up to see the suite and Shelley was showing him around while Jane was listening to and returning the phone message.
    She found the two of them in Shelley’s bathroom, Mel with his shoes off, testing the heated floor.
    “Neat news,“ Jane said. “The editor wants to meet with me in the morning. I must make some notes about what I’d like to change about the plot to make it more of a mystery and about how I’d like to tone down some of the description of the house. What time are you speaking, Mel?“
    “One o’clock,“ he said, putting his shoes back on.
    “We’ll be there to hear you,“ Jane said.
    “There’s no need,“ Mel said. “I don’t want to interfere with your plans.“
    “But we want to hear you,“ Shelley said. “We’ll be there.“
    “Janey,“ Mel said. “Get on with your preparations for the appointment. I’m going down to the bar and stay out of your way.“
    “I’ll come with you, if you don’t mind,“ Shelley said. “Jane needs to be left alone for a while.“
    Jane sat on her bed with the notebook that was one of the freebies included in the conference book bags. She wrote down everything that had been simmering in the back of her mind since the interview with Melody Johnson and the subsequent panels of speakers. It didn’t take her long, so she called Mel’s cell phone. “Would you like to come up here?“ she asked.
    He said, “Might as well. Shelley’s found someone else to talk to.“
    She greeted him at the door. He threw his jacket on a chair and followed her to her room. She’d already gathered up her papers and disappeared into the bathroom. When she came out, naked, she said, “The floor is heating up. I’ve set all the shower jets at a nice warm level. Let’s play in there.“
    Shelley came back at eleven, saw Mel’s jacket on the chair, and quietly went to her own room without disturbing Jane.
    Mel left at one in the morning, in spite of Jane’s objections. “I’m supposed to be in my room. And you need to be up early for your meeting.“
    Shelley and Jane were both wide-awake at seven. Melody Johnson called Jane back shortly after eight, saying she hoped she wasn’t calling too early and suggesting that they meet in her hotel room, where they could speak privately. Jane agreed and quickly hopped into the shower. When she came back out, room service had brought up the simple breakfast Shelley had ordered for the two of them.
    “Are you ready for your interview?“ Shelley asked.
    “Yes. I’ve made quite a lot of notes. I won’t bother her with all of them unless she asks to hear them. I’ve put the most important changes up front in my notes.“
    “I’m so excited for you,“ Shelley said, spreading raspberry jam onto a hot Wolferman’s muffin.
    “Don’t become too excited. It’s not a slam dunk,“ Jane said.
    “I know that. But I have a good feeling about it. Shall we go to the first presentation this morning? It’s at eight-thirty“
    “I might as well sit in for a few minutes, since we’ve paid for it,“ Jane said.
     

Thirteen
     
    Jane had awakened that morning excited about the meeting with the editor. She was well prepared. She knew now that she’d finished the book as a mystery. She hadn’t started it, though, with anything mysterious. It was a matter of making clear there was something that was troubling Priscilla from the first chapter, and at intervals along the way. She’d even marked on her outline where these intervals were.
    But in the back of her mind, rattling around, was the vague thought that she should have asked Mel something else about Zac. She closed her eyes, remembering what he’d said at dinner, but it was no help. It was a query that had flitted across her mind and vaporized instantly while he was describing the scene of the crime.
    From experience she knew, or at least hoped, it would come to her when she least expected it. Halfway through a ham sandwich. Or when she was brushing her teeth or peeling potatoes. She’d often had lost memories pop up at that kind of boring time.
    Once, when someone had asked her who was the artist who did the sculptures and pictures of horses, Jane had had