The Merchant of Menace

William Johnson in the picture) said.
    But Jane and Shelley weren’t having any. “It’s late. We have to go,“ Shelley said.
    “Please—“ Tiffany began.
    “Nothing you can explain is going to improve our dispositions,“ Jane said. “I can promise you that.”
    Both of the Drs. Johnson were still sputtering fitfully as Jane and Shelley left the house. “Can you come in for a while?“ Jane asked. “Or are you still planning to go to bed early?“
    “I’m much too mad to sleep,“ Shelley said.
    They tidied up the mess the kids had made with dinner, fixed themselves soft drinks, and settled in Jane’s living room. Jane dredged up a pack of cigarettes and lit one. It didn’t help at all.
    Shelley said, “When I read those other books they wrote, I really thought they were fascinating. But the idea of you and me and our families and neighbors being put under their sociological microscope makes me furious. I know that’s selfish, not caring about other people’s privacy, only my own. And being made to feel bad about myself makes me even angrier.“
    “Do they use people’s real names?“ Jane asked.
    Shelley shrugged. “I hope not, but I don’t know. The people they write about are very vivid. They probably fictionalize a bit and have to use fake names.“
    “But when the book about us comes out, we’ll all be recognizable to each other, won’t we,“ Jane said. “I’m just sick about this. It’s a betrayal. A huge, mean-spirited practical joke.”
    Shelley nodded. “More to you than most of us, Jane. You went out of your way to be nice to them. I was only nice to them because I knew you’d take me to task if I weren’t. This sure explains a lot, doesn’t it?“
    “What do you mean?“
    “About them,“ Shelley said. “Why they seem too young to be retired. Why Billy Joe works at a computer and has lots of reference books. Why they appear to have plenty of money from an unknown source. Why they’re renting instead of buying.“
    “Didn’t Sharon Wilhite say she owns the house? Didn’t she have to know they were fakes?“
    “She probably rents it through an agency. I can’t quite see her rushing home from the office to chat with potential renters. As for a signature on a contract, ‘Billy Joe’ really is William J. Johnson and Tiffany/Lenore probably didn’t sign it.”
    Katie came thumping down the stairs, into the kitchen, and called out, “Thanks, Mom. I was gonna clean it all up. Really, I was.“
    “It’s okay,“ Jane said listlessly.
    Katie came in and looked at her mother, then reached out and pretended to take her pulse. “Are you okay? You should be mad at us.“
    “I’m too busy being mad at someone else just now.“
    “Oh, good,“ Katie said. “Does that mean you wouldn’t care if I had a few girls over for the night?“
    “It does not.“
    “Too bad,“ Katie said cheerfully and headed back to her room.
    “It’s Saturday night and none of my children asked to go anywhere!“ Jane said, suddenly aware of something other than the Johnsons. “What’s wrong with this picture?”
    But Shelley wasn’t willing to wander off the path. She was annoyed and she intended to stay annoyed until she’d hashed the whole situation out. “The strange thing is, they’re changing their technique.”
    “What?“
    “Well, I’ve only read two of the books. I think there are four. But in those two, the Johnsons moved into an area and tried to fit in. I remember something about learning to speak Spanish before moving into the Hispanic town and dying their hair dark so they’d fit in better. And in the one about the Pennsylvania mining community, they did a full year’s research on the area, the history, the family names, mining terms, and such.“
    “But they didn’t do that here,“ Jane mused. “No, they set out to be as obvious and misplaced as possible,“ Shelley agreed.
    “I wonder why.“
    “So do I. Maybe it’s a marketing thing. Like, you know, the editor says the sales of the last book weren’t as fabulous as the one before and they better jazz the new one up a bit.“
    “More of an exposé than a study, you mean. ‘Look at how nasty these snobs are to somebody who doesn’t fit in’?”
    Shelley nodded. “Something like that, maybe. Skewering the subject group instead of merely describing them. Come to think of it, when I read the two books, as much as I enjoyed them for an insight into another subculture, I had a faintly uneasy sense that