Everyone on This Train Is a Suspect полностью

“So she and Henry have a dalliance, and then she doesn’t write another book for twenty-odd years? Is that true?”

“I can’t speak to the writing, but they were together.” Simone lowered her voice. “It’s hush-hush these days. But one of the things about being Henry’s assistant was I had all his logins—same password for everything, by the way, so much for codes and puzzles—and I was in charge of his emails, his website. I saw the things he used to send. Bad egg stuff. Including to Lisa, after that night.”

“Could you get back in?”

“God no. Like I’d remember the passwords. I do remember what he said though. Called her a, if I remember correctly, ‘firecracker in the sack.’” She winced at the words, even as she said them. “I’m amazed I lasted as long as I did in that job, come to think of it.”

“Why did you leave?”

“I was only there a year and a half. After Knee-Deep in Trouble, Henry’s second book, sales slipped. It wasn’t a great book—second books are tough—and then there was his accident. The painkillers made him fuzzy at the best of times, and I could tell the third was squeezing out of him like a kidney stone. I felt like I had to leave before Henry realized he couldn’t afford an assistant anymore. Plus, you know, I saw all the stuff flying around about Majors. I preferred to work on real literature. I scraped together some savings and moved back to Melbourne to start my agency. Obviously a big mistake seeing how popular Off the Rails was, given he’d agreed to a contract with bonuses in it to lure me over from Gemini, but, hey”—she pinched my cheek—“I’ve got you now, don’t I?”

“But you still felt he owed you, that’s why you wanted him as a client?”

Simone laughed. “You sure do read into things. No, not exactly. I told you the reasons I wanted Henry. He’s worth a lot of money—I wanted some. But, sure, maybe subconsciously I thought he owed me a little for the year and a half I spent putting up with him.”

“And your opportunity was that Wyatt wasn’t happy with McTavish’s next book? One wanted to end the series and the other wanted to keep it going. That was the friction between them. Without an agent, I assume Wyatt controls things like film rights and merchandising, and the other stuff that a publisher doesn’t usually have their fingers in. That’s big money. McTavish was worth more to Wyatt than just book sales.”

“Very good,” she affirmed. “You have been working hard.”

“How’d you feel when Henry declined your offer?”

I thought she was about to skewer me, but she impaled another marshmallow instead. “Where’d you hear that?”

“Gossip.”

She sucked her cheeks in. “So. I’m in it?”

“In what?”

“The book.”

“I guess.”

“You’re making me a suspect?”

“Depends on how you felt about Henry’s rejection.”

“Oh, come on. That’s thin. Besides, you can’t be that indignant about how everyone’s behaving here and not check yourself. As if you aren’t a little grateful. A little bit more secure in the inspiration for your next book. It’s fallen right in your lap. These murders are exactly what you needed. Pretty lucky, huh?” She did a little curtsy. “You’re welcome.”

“You’re welcome?” I repeated. It seemed an odd thing to say.

“For forcing you out of your comfort zone. You’re welcome.” This time she said it with the slow-motion cadence that people use when they feel they are underthanked, stretching the words like chewing gum.

“You haven’t answered my question,” I said.

A roar of good cheer sounded from the book club table and Simone turned their way. She gazed at them awhile, then turned back to me. “Here’s the truth. People like Henry and, hell, Alan Royce—they think they’re the only ones. Truth of it is, there’re plenty of people hungrier than they are these days, waiting in the wings. So what if I didn’t get Henry to sign on the dotted line? There’ll be another Henry. There’ll be another you. And despite what Wolfgang thinks, there’ll be another Wolfgang. And he’s got all the prizes in the world, but I’ve seen his royalty statements.” She held up her thumb and forefinger, a tiny space between, like locker room talk. “Now, what I would kill for”—she pointed at the book club—“is one of those Erica Mathison books. I know it’s another first-name last-name book, but those numbers . . .” She whistled. “Wyatt’s gotta be happy with that.”

“First-name last-name book?” I asked, confused.

“You know, you put the full name of the character in the title? Put a number next to it too, if you want to get real flashy. It’s the trendy thing right now. The Eleven Orgasms of Deborah Winstock, The Five Lives of Erin O’Leary, The Four Cousins of Barbara Who-Gives-a-Toss. They’re everywhere. You should consider it for whatever this”—she spun a finger at me—“turns out to be.”