Page 18 of Crime and Publishing

Quoth often felt trapped – not because we kept him in a cage, but because he didn’t fit anywhere. Through our relationship, he’d been able to explore his emotions through art, go to school, exhibit his paintings, and have a future. He felt free, and he wanted to give these ravens the same feeling.

I bent down and touched Oscar’s head. In many ways, I felt the same. When I first found out about my retinitis pigmentosa diagnosis, I felt trapped by it. But Nevermore Bookshop, and the guys, and Oscar, had made me see that my eyes weren’t a curse that destroyed my life, but just another part of me.

I sighed. “I can’t promise anything, but we can talk to Jonathan. Maybe he will be able to push back against Donna so they can be free.”

Thank you, Mina. It means the world to them. And to me.

Quoth hopped along the top of the fence, croaking and making the nyuh-nyuh-nyuh voice in his throat as he chatted with the ravens inside. I gripped Oscar’s lead tighter as fat raindrops started to fall on my shoulders. Oscar pulled on his lead. He wanted to keep walking, but I didn’t want to wander around on my own in the wet.

“I’m going to head back in,” I called to Quoth. “Did you want to come with me?”

I think I’ll stay for a bit longer, if that’s okay? I’ll come back before I head off to my painting class.

“Of course.” I waved goodbye to Quoth and directed Oscar back toward the path.

As we hurried toward the castle, I noticed a covered walkway leading around the side of the restaurant. That would keep us much drier than going back through the main entrance, especially if it led all the way around to the backdoor by the music room. I directed Oscar onto the walkway, and he got us underneath just as the rain started to really bucket down. It hammered against the roof above our heads as we hurried around the side of the castle.

As we rounded the corner of the restaurant, I overheard male voices.Who would be outside in this weather? If it’s Jonathan, maybe I can ask him about the ravens…

But it wasn’t Jonathan. I recognized Charlie Doyle and Hugh Briston. Before I even knew what I was doing, I flattened myself and Oscar against the house. Both of the men had been so horrible to me, I didn’t want them to see me out here, alone, without any of the guys. I hoped they would finish their conversation and leave. I pulled the hood of my hoodie tight around my face to keep off the worst of the water.

Thankfully, the rain eased off a little, and I caught part of their conversation.

“—so it’s all settled, then?” Charlie was saying. “You’re sending the contract in the mail?”

“Just as soon as Red Herring’s lawyers have drawn it up,” Hugh said. “An ex-detective turned crime writer is going to be a big hit with our readers. It lends an air of authenticity to the books that the reading public eats up. The ghostwriter will contact you in a couple of weeks to—”

“Ghostwriter?” Charlie sounded petulant. “You never said anything about a ghostwriter. What about my book? I’ve been working on that manuscript foryears.”

“Yes, and it shows,” Hugh snapped. “Your book is a steaming pile of crap written by someone who doesn’t know how to write. But that’s okay. The book doesn’t matter – the package does. The star quality. I can make you a literary star, Charlie, and we both make truckloads of money. Leave the book to me – I’ve got a bunch of hacks on my payroll who will whip it into shape for primetime. They’re mostly women, all young and hungry. I’ll send you an attractive one. Do you prefer a blonde or redhead?”

I didn’t think Hugh could be any worse, but yup, there it is.

“Could she be a blonde, like that Christina?” Charlie’s voice rose hopefully.

Gross, gross, gross.

“If you like Christina, I’ll assign her to you. Christina’s coming to work as a ghostwriter shortly, just as soon as I can convince that clueless boyfriend of hers that she isn’t worth seventeen million pounds.”

“And I can still tell people I wrote the book?” Charlie’s voice sounded almost…sad. “No one will know about this ghostwriter?”

“They have to sign an NDA to work with me,” Hugh said. “Most of them I found on previous retreats. They think if they write enough for me, I’ll give them their own publishing deal. But the last thing I want is for the world of crime fiction to turn into another offshoot of the romance genre, so that will never happen. But they don’t need to know that. It keeps them amenable. Ah, I see the breakfast being laid out, and I have to take a call in a few minutes. Shall we go inside?”

“Do you think maybe there’s another editor at Red Herring who might be a better fit for me? Surely, someone who is just as good as you who might want to work with me on my book. I don’t think the whole thing should just be scrapped, especially not the bit where the hero interrogates the murderer for sixteen hours. That’s quite goodandit’s factually accurate.”

“Oh, yes, all forty-eight pages of it – riveting stuff.” Hugh’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “And I don’t negotiate or hand off my authors to other editors. I run the show, got it? Sign the contract or no one at Red Herring or any other publishing house will speak to you again. It’s your decision. Right now I need to get inside.”

The two men moved off, and the restaurant door opened and closed behind them. I waited for a few minutes, cuddling up to Oscar as the wind and rain picked up, and then when I was sure I’d given them time to head upstairs, I ducked out and raced around to the restaurant door.

So Hugh Briston was awarding Charlie Doyle a publishing contract, but only so he could use Charlie’s status as an ex-detective to sell more books? And Hugh took advantage of young women as his ghostwriters while promoting his buddies to superstar authors? And all of this had been decided before we even set foot at Meddleworth?

If the world found out about this, Hugh Briston would be eviscerated. And I couldn’t say I was sad about it.

CHAPTERTEN

Bree: I know it’s early, but I just wanted to check, does Grimalkin usually eat her breakfast?

I put down a bowl of that meat you told me she likes, but now she won’t come out from underneath Heathcliff’s chair by the fire. She hasn’t eaten anything since I got here, is that normal?

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