Bell, Book, and Scandal

minute, Mel,“ Jane said, closing her eyes, hoping she could remember the fleeting, and now missing, question she wanted to ask Mel about Zac. She still couldn’t pull it from the back of her brain. She knew it was there somewhere, if only she could dredge it up.
    “Never mind. I’ve lost the thought again,“ Jane said.
    Mel was obviously becoming impatient, if not downright cranky, about being held up to discuss an attack that he’d already said several times wasn’t his case.
    Jane said too cheerfully, “You could collect a bunch more accolades if you’d hang out in the lobby for a while.“
    “What was that about?“ Shelley asked when Mel had gone.
    “What?“
    “You acted as if you had a question to ask him.“
    “I thought I did. But I couldn’t remember what the question was. I felt for a second there that it was about to bubble up when Mel finished. It passed fleetingly through my mind yesterday, but I can’t seem to be able to bring it back. I think it might have been important.“
    “Any way I can help?“ Shelley asked.
    “No. It’s a Frederic Remington thing.“
    “What on earth does that mean?“
    “You know. When you’re trying desperately to remember someone’s name? And when you give up, it comes to you out of the blue a couple of days later and just springs out at you.“
    “This happens to you often?“ Shelley said with a worried look.
    “It happens to everybody, I thought. I’ve seen you suddenly come out with a word you’d been searching your mind for. Last time it happened, it was ‘ontology,’ whatever that is. Remember saying it to yourself in the middle of a conversation about petunias?“
    Shelley had the grace to admit it. “I guess I see what you mean. Sort of. And it was dahlias, not petunias.“
    “What are we doing the rest of the day?“ Jane asked.
    “Shopping until Mel’s next session?“
    Jane replied, “I’m shopped out and you know how surly I can become when I reach that point. There’s a mystery trivia contest in the next session. Want to sit in on it with me?“
    “No, thanks. I haven’t read half the mysteries you have. I don’t go places where I’m bound to feel stupid,“ Shelley said. “Isn’t there some sort of awards party tonight? And a dinner we paid for in our fees?“
    “If I’m remembering right, it’s just a snack-and-drink thing. I wish one of us had brought along the schedule. The registration booth is closed temporarily, and the only way to get one is to steal someone else’s. Why don’t you go up to the suite and find one and make our plans for the rest of the conference? We’re both free now to do whatever we want. Although I’d really rather leave and go home and work on my book after Mel’s second talk.“
    “Jane, don’t say that. Not only have you paid for the whole conference, there might still be things you can learn that will be useful.“
    “Maybe you’re right,“ Jane admitted. “I’ll stick it out.“ She added wistfully, “I just wish I could remember...“
    “Stop working at remembering whatever it was. Your subconscious won’t be forced to disgorge it until it’s ready. Think about something else. Like dahlias.“
    The mystery trivia contest was fun and clever. It was run by Chester Griffith, the bookseller who knew so much about virtually every book he’d ever read. Jane had so much enjoyed his earlier presentation and was looking forward to this one.
    At first it was easy. He’d recite a short paragraph from a mystery novel. The first person to raise his or her hand would be allowed to answer. The contest was on the honor system.
    The first two questions contained the name of the sleuth. You received one point for identifying the author right. If you knew the title of the book, you earned an extra ten points. If you also knew the first date of publication, you’d tally up another twenty points. Almost all of the participants knew who the author was on the first question. It was Ngaio Marsh because Griffith chose a paragraph that mentioned Roderick Alleyn. Even Jane knew that one. Another half dozen, including Jane, knew which book it was from, “Black as He’s Painted.“
    Only one participant guessed the right publishing year, and she was an attractive, though somewhat overweight, young woman at the very back of the room. Several guessed the decade. Jane failed utterly on this part, though she thought it was probably in the fifties because it involved a black African friend Alleyn