Dirty Tricks: A Kate Lawrence Mystery by Judith Ivie Read Free Book Online

your
book, along with an application form and fifty dollars, to the nominating
committee, and presto! You’re a Pulitzer Prize entrant.   Notice the word ‘entrant.’ You’re not a
nominee until the prize committee nominates you, but since the general public
doesn’t understand that distinction, the wanna -be
gets away with calling herself a nominee. Thousands of writers pull that stunt
by entering themselves every year. That’s how the prize money is accumulated.
They don’t have a shot in hell of winning, of course, and never achieve the
status of nominees. It’s easy enough to check on the Pulitzer website, but
hardly anyone ever bothers to do that.”
    “Unbelievable,” Strutter summed up our thoughts. “Is it working? Are her
books best sellers?”
    May looked amused. “The short answer is no, and it’s simple to figure that out if you ask
yourself a few questions.”
    “Like what?” I asked.
    “Like how come,
if she’s such a fantastic writer, she’s still self- publishin ’? Wouldn’t she have an agent by now? Wouldn’t Random House be beggin ’
her to sign with them? Wouldn’t Hollywood want to option a title or two?   All you have to do is go on the review sites and
see that only a handful of reviews have been posted for each of her titles—all
five-star, by the way, which is a dead giveaway they’ve been written by her relatives
and close friends. The poor thing has become a joke among those in the know. It’s
really pretty sad, or at least it would be if it weren’t so irritatin .”
      “Good lord, why do you want to engage with
such people?” Strutter asked in amazement.
    May smiled with perfect good
humor. “There are always a few bad apples in any profession. Fortunately, I
work with mostly excellent, ethical writers who are simply a delight. We’re not
all loony tunes with delusions of grandeur. Most of us are happy knowing we’re
gifted enough to tell a decent story that our readers seem to enjoy, period.
Why, some of us can even spell.” She plunked her wineglass on the coffee table
and patted her tummy. “Thus endeth today’s sermon on
the darker side of publishin ’.   So are we goin ’ out
for dinner, or are we ordering in?”

 
 
 
 
    Four

 
    Monday was Margo’s day at Vista
View, so Strutter and I planned to keep things
covered at Mack Realty. I’d become so accustomed to having fresh coffee waiting
when I walked into the Law Barn every morning, it was disappointing to find the
office dark and no appetizing aroma wafting from the copier room after we let
ourselves in. The place seemed particularly empty without my daughter Emma
clattering around on the second floor and running up and down the stairs, now
that she and her real estate lawyers had grown their business and left for
bigger quarters in Glastonbury.
    “That’s funny,” Strutter reported as she turned on the table lamp in the
lobby and went to stick her head into May’s temporary office. “Wonder where she
is?   Do you think we should give her a
call in case she had car trouble or something?”
    I checked my watch, which
confirmed that it wasn’t quite nine o’clock yet. “Let’s wait a bit. Maybe the
contractor’s crew is taking the day off, and she’s sleeping in for once. I’d
hate to be the one to spoil that after the past few weeks she’s suffered
through.”
    “Since when is
bunking in with us temporarily such a hardship?” Strutter teased. “Seems to me she could have done worse.” She filled a pitcher and
poured water into the pot while I measured out the coffee and added it to the
basket. “She could be sitting all by herself at Starbucks, nursing a latte
while she rides on their WIFI.”
    “I actually did that during the
freaky October snowstorm a few years back that knocked out our power for four
days,” I remembered with a shudder.
    “I remember it in my nightmares,
same as everyone else who had small children at that time,” Strutter agreed. Her daughter