Page 32 of Tell Me (Savannah 3)

Remmie Franklin, Nikki’s editor, worked for Knox Publishing, an independent publisher in New York.

“Hey, slow down. Look, I’m glad you’re all over this, but it’ll take time to write the book.” She jaywalked across the street and said, “I’m hoping to put it together as the story unfolds, of course, but it’s going to be months.”

“Don’t know if you have months. I gotta be honest here; I hear the sound of computer keyboards clicking all over the country even as we speak. Authors frantically putting together the Blondell O’Henry story. Publishers willing to pay for ghostwriters so she can put her name on her story, an autobiography. There’s bound to be some shirttail relative hoping to cash in on this. People are desperate to sell anything to a publisher, you know, and a story like this . . . guaranteed best-seller, if the timing is right. We have to work fast. If we come in late and the market is already flooded with Blondell O’Henry ideas or unauthorized biographies, then we’re in trouble.”

“I can only do what I can do.”

“Well, at least you’ve got an inside scoop,” Ina agreed. “Friendship with the victim, your uncle being the accused’s attorney. The cabin where the crime took place on property owned by your family. Yeah, we’ve got the upper hand on this one. So far. As soon as I hear from Remmie, I’ll let you know, but I’m assuming we’ve got the green light. See,” she said, a lilt in her voice, “I knew if you dug deep, you’d come up with the right story!”

Nikki didn’t argue, even though she hadn’t really “come up” with the story idea; it had fallen into her lap. She glanced over her shoulder. No Effie. Good. She must’ve veered off somewhere.

“And it doesn’t hurt that you’re engaged to a detective working on the case. The more personal connections you have to Blondell O’Henry, the better.” Nikki didn’t put up her usual argument. They’d been through it before. “So, you said in your e-mail that you were going to the prison to interview Ms. O’Henry. How’d that go?”

“It didn’t.”

“No?”

“So far I’ve been roadblocked.”

“Too bad. You’ll need to talk to her, see what she thinks now, after all these years. Has she altered her story? Had a change of heart? There’s no reason for me to speculate, of course. It won’t do any good. You know what you’re doing, so just run with it, and I’ll get back to you the minute, and I mean the minute, I hear from Remmie, but I think we’ve got a winner here!”

“Good!”

“And trust me, if I don’t get a call soon, I’ll nudge again. Meanwhile you keep working! Talk later!”

Nikki dropped her phone into the pocket of her jacket and kept walking, sipping her drink, her mind lost in the story she was going to write. Ina was right, she needed something more than what any author could offer, something deeper about Blondell’s daughter.

The wind nearer the river seemed more brittle, the air a few degrees colder, and as she stared across the steel-colored water, she watched a container ship as it chugged up the narrow channel. For a second she got that same unnerving sense that someone was watching her, but as she took another swallow from her cup, she glanced over her shoulder and saw no one who looked out of place, no one who reminded her of the tall figure she’d seen in the park—and now, thankfully, no Effie Savoy anywhere near. Her nerves were still strung tight, that’s all it was, and reading about the O’Henry case hadn’t helped calm her. Thinking of Amity and the horror she’d suffered only added to Nikki’s anxiety.

Her gaze followed a couple walking into a restaurant, and she told herself she was being silly. Again. And it was getting old. She’d never been one of those mousey women afraid of their own shadow, and she certainly wasn’t going to start now.

Nikki’s cell phone jangled again, and as she fished it out of her pocket, she saw her mother’s number flash across the small screen. “Hey, Mom,” she said as she waited for a pedestrian light to change. “What’s up?” she asked, but she had a pretty good idea of what was to come.

“I got a call from Ariella this afternoon,” Charlene said, confirming Nikki’s guess. “There seems to be some problem with the photographer, something about double-booking. Anyway she wants you to call her and straighten it out. You might have to hire someone else.”

The light changed, and Nikki, not the least bit interested in her wedding at the moment, said, “I thought we had a contract with Jacques.”

“I know, but there was a mistake on the photographer’s end, and something has to be done. The wedding is only six weeks away, you know.”

Inwardly Nikki groaned. How often had Charlene reminded her that her nuptials were soon approaching? As if she didn’t know the date.

“There also seems to be an issue with the chairs for the reception, or the slipcovers. I think they can’t get enough of the off-white ones, and to have some white and some ivory would look odd, I think. Also, I know we need to talk about the seating. Ten at a table just won’t work—”

“Mom!” Nikki said, hearing the little tremor in Charlene’s voice over the sound of street traffic and the sigh of the wind. “Look, I’m working right now. Can’t Ariella figure it out? Isn’t that why we hired a wedding planner?”

“But she can’t get hold of you, and these decisions have to be made. By you. Soon. You’re the bride.”

“I know.” This is why she’d wanted a simpl

e wedding, just family, but that idea had been squelched, not intentionally, but just as the guest list had grown, so had the event, and her frail mother had actually seemed healthier and stronger now that she had a purpose, that of marrying off her daughter. “Look, I’ll call her as soon as I’m off work,” Nikki promised.

“I’ll let her know. Five, then.”

“Mom, you know I don’t work regular office hours. I’ve got a major story I’m working on!”

“That Blondell O’Henry business, yes, I know.” There it was, the underlying tone of disapproval in her mother’s voice—if not of Nikki’s chosen profession, then of the woman who had been convicted of murdering her own daughter. Charlene had never minced words when it came to Blondell O’Henry.

“Just let Ariella know that I’m busy and not purposely avoiding her. I’ll call her the minute I get a second.”

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