Six
The Boston branch of Melanie Joan’s New York–based publisher, Scepter Books, was situated on the top floor of a six-story Federal-style building on Farnsworth Street. I’d never been there. Neither had Melanie Joan. She’d visited the New York offices, she’d told me in the car, usually to sign books. “A month before my pub date, I sign hundreds of first editions,” she’d explained. “In turn, they serve me potato chips and beluga caviar, and mimosas, made with Dom, of course.”
On Farnsworth Street, however, the only thing getting served was attitude.
The receptionist was a guy in his mid- to late twenties with delicate features, cultivated stubble, and purposefully mussed brown hair. He wore horn-rimmed glasses, a white oxford with an open collar, and a Harris Tweed jacket that likely had elbowpatches. He could have stepped out of a Ralph Lauren catalog were it not for the expression on his face—like he smelled something decomposing. “Oh,” he said to Melanie Joan. “Hello.”
“Melanie Joan Hall and Sunny Randall,” Melanie Joan said. “Here to see Evan Woodrow.”
The receptionist nodded. Grudgingly, he stood up. “Follow me,” he said.
“Do we have to?” I smiled at him.
He didn’t smile back.
The hallway was dotted with framed bestselling book covers—most all of which had been written by Melanie Joan. The receptionist completely ignored them—and us. It made me angry. Here she was, essentially signing this kid’s paychecks, yet he was treating Melanie Joan with the cordiality of a prison guard. All because she’d tied one on and typed the c-word into an amateur critic’s comments section.
That was what got a world-famous author canceled these days? I was no expert on the publishing industry, but it seemed to me that if Melanie Joan had been a man, she might have gotten a little more sympathy from Elbow Patches here.
Once we got to the end of the hall, he turned to the door on the right and knocked softly. “Yes?” a man’s voice called out.
“Melanie Joan Hall is here.” Elbow Patches said my friend’s name as though it left a bad taste in his mouth. I was so offended on her behalf that I barely noticed the fact that he hadn’t mentioned me at all.
“Come on in, Melanie Joan,” said the voice, which Ipresumed was that of her editor, Evan Woodrow. Compared to the receptionist, he sounded downright friendly.
Melanie Joan moved past Elbow Patches and opened the door. I followed, knocking into him in a way that could have passed for an accident. Maybe.
—
Evan Woodrow’s office was very clean and bright, with a nice view of the street outside and a few plaques on the walls—awards of some sort. His desk was exceptionally tidy. Not a pen out of place. Next to his computer sat a short stack of bound manuscripts that looked untouched. No framed pictures. Nothing personal of any sort. It made me wonder how much time Woodrow actually spent in here.
“Sunny Randall,” he said, once we were seated across from his desk. “Haven’t I seen that name in the news?”
Woodrow was a wan, sallow-faced man with a sparse comb-over. He wore a rumpled shirt with coffee stains on the front and thick glasses that made his eyes look like fried eggs. He may have been Melanie Joan’s longtime editor, but, sartorially speaking, he couldn’t have been less compatible.
“Sunny’s been in the news a lot,” Melanie Joan said. “She’s one of Boston’s premier private detectives.”
“That’s nice,” Woodrow said.
“Thanks,” I said.
He looked at Melanie Joan. “Is Sunny acting as your lawyer?”
“What? No. Why would I need a lawyer?”
“Well, then,” he said, “you brought a private detective to my office because…”
“Sunny has graciously agreed to track down Book Babe so we can jump into damage control before publication,” she said. “I’ve got a plan, Evan. A good one.” She started to elaborate, but Woodrow cut her off.
“Listen, I’m not going to waste your time, Melanie Joan.”
“What?” Melanie Joan said.
“You know what a fan I am of your work, and you’ve done very well for Scepter. But…”
“But?” Melanie Joan said.
“Have you been online at all?” he said. “Since this morning?”
