Ellipsis by Stephen Greenleaf Read Free Book Online Page B

the point of emaciation, with chalk-white skin and straight, dark hair drawn back in a bun that made her look three times her age, which I guessed to be no more than thirty. Her skittish black eyes never seemed to light on anything for more than an instant, and her manner suggested the outside world was as potentially damaging as a peptic ulcer. The idea of Sally Rinehart imposing an editorial judgment on the deathless prose of Chandelier Wells was one of those concepts around which my mind had difficulty wrapping itself.
    Whatever the women had been discussing clanked to an immediate halt when they noticed me. It took a while, since there was wine to be drunk and shrimp to be nibbled, but when I made it onto their radar, the three of them looked up expectantly, as if I were bringing an advance copy of Publishers Weekly . I hated to disappoint them, but my most creative contribution to the meal was going to involve a meat-loaf sandwich.
    Amber gripped my hand like a lady wrestler the moment Lark introduced us, and her eyes roamed over me like a Sotheby’s appraiser’s—I don’t think I made the list for the next auction. Sally Rinehart made do with trying to pretend I was invisible.
    After I took my seat, we exchanged small talk about the weather and the city. Amber found San Francisco a major disappointment on this trip, especially in the amenities at her hotel and the stock on hand in the new boutiques around Union Square. For her part, Sally loved every single thing about it, especially the new museum of modern art, which she’d visited the day before. Despite several provocations, I refrained from becoming either a jingoist or a cynic.
    We placed our orders—the women each had a salad featuring various esoteric amendments and another eight-dollar glass of a Sonoma chardonnay; I had a turkey sandwich and an Anchor Steam, meat loaf not being featured for some reason, probably involving longevity.
    â€œI take it all of you know why I’m here,” I began when we were comfy and cozy and slightly buzzed. Each of them nodded her head. “I haven’t come up with anything helpful so far, so I’m going to need a history lesson, provided there is one.”
    The women exchanged looks. “History of what?” Amber Adams asked. “Or who?”
    â€œChandelier Wells,” I said.
    â€œBoswell himself couldn’t do justice to that one,” Amber muttered sardonically, though loudly enough for all to hear.
    I tried to stay in front of the agenda. “Before the first of the threatening notes arrived, was there any sign that Ms. Wells was creating trouble for anyone? Threatening them? Embarrassing them? Complicating their lives? Anything like that at all?”
    The women looked at one another once again and once again let Amber take the lead. “If you’re talking about her books, then as far as I know the answer is no. If you’re talking about personal relationships, it’s an entirely different story.”
    â€œWhat story is that?”
    Amber shrugged. “Chandelier is aggressive, demanding, and ambitious, both as a writer and a businesswoman. She drives people hard and demands nothing short of total perfection and absolute loyalty.” Amber paused for a sip of wine. “What makes it tolerable for those of us on the receiving end, usually, is that Chandelier drives herself even harder than she does the rest of us.”
    Sally Rinehart nodded a meek concurrence. Lark McLaren didn’t move a muscle. Apparently she had her own take on Chandelier and wasn’t about to go public with it.
    Just then a cell phone rang. Amber and Sally looked at each other. Amber took hers out of her purse, flipped it open, pressed a button, and said, “Adams.”
    I looked at Lark and Lark smiled indulgently. Just then another cell phone rang. This time Sally made the move for her purse, with the same result. And then it was Lark’s turn. For the next