Death's Savage Passion by Jane Haddam Read Free Book Online Page B

(probably) from suicide or subway accident There might be hidden motives—I’d known a few—but Verna was not well placed enough for any of the ones I could think of. The woman had had a minor career that looked on the way to a prolonged downswing when she died. She hadn’t had any clout.
    I hadn’t had any sleep. I stopped in the middle of a block, trying to make the dizziness go away and counting the hours since I’d had anything to eat. When I have gone without sleep, I lose my appetite. Since my body has almost no fat to draw on (I often think it does, but it doesn’t), the result is light-headedness, nausea, and a tendency to giggle. I was at Sixtieth Street. I had a distinct memory of a Hamburger Heaven at Fifty-seventh and Lexington. Hamburger Heavens make Roquefort cheeseburgers. I deserved a Roquefort cheeseburger.
    I was halfway down the long avenue block between Fifth and Madison when I saw the bookstore. I saw it out of the corner of my eye. I was thinking about Verna. I felt the odd wrench in my stomach and the. sudden tightening of my nerves, but I didn’t realize what was wrong until I’d passed the display window.
    What was wrong was me. I backed up. There was a pyramid of books in the window, one of those ten-foot-high house-of-cards constructions revolving on a turntable. The largest part of the pyramid was taken up by copies of the new Judith Krantz. The second largest part was taken up by copies of the new V. C. Andrews. The tenth largest part was taken up by me. What I had seen was the black-and-white studio portrait Doubleday had commissioned for the back of my book, visible when the turntable presented its backside to the street.
    This happened every fifteen seconds. It was like having my name in blinking neon lights.
    I am not one of those writers who pretend to hate publicity. I want all the publicity I can get. I want to spend fifty weeks at the top of the New York Times bestseller list. I put up with Marilou Saunders to get on her talk show. I thank critics for bad reviews—if I happen to meet them at the kind of party where we are both expected to be civilized. I was not, however, ready for that window.
    I paced back and forth in front of it, trying to decide what to think of it. I wondered how anyone ever got a book off a display like that. I considered the possibility that this bookstore didn’t sell books. It ordered books to make displays of, giving its oversensitive homosexual millionaire owners a chance to Show What They Could Do with Design. I felt dizzy again. I decided to go in.
    There was a long, low table of books behind the revolving turntable. On that table were Judith Krantz’s book, and V. C. Andrews’ book, and mine. I picked up one of mine and turned it over and over in my hands. It was thick and heavy and felt good—about the weight of a doorstop, which is what most critics use books for. The studio portrait was also good. It looked like me. It didn’t look like a studio portrait.
    I put the book back on the table. It looked very credible sitting there among all the other books. It looked like a real book.
    I had actually written a real book.
    Somebody had actually published the real book I had written.
    In hardcover.
    To be sold in bookstores.
    Good lord.
    I was telling myself that panicking over good news was the mark of a lunatic when someone tapped the arm of my jacket and “ahemmed” politely in my ear.
    “That’s a very good book,” the little voice said. “Very scary.”
    I turned around. The girl standing behind me had her hands clasped at her belt and her face tortured into an expression of extravagantly expectant helpfulness. She was pale and wan and plain. Her hair (dull brown, wiry) was a mess. One look in her eyes and you knew she hated working in that store.
    She peered at me through heavy horn-rimmed glasses.
    “Miss McKenna,” she said. “My goodness.”
    Nobody in New York says “My goodness.” Nobody wears four-inch horn-rims either, but