“Mr. Spike is in the drawing room with Ms. Hall, her editor, and her literary agent,” Harold said.
I wasn’t sure what he meant by “the drawing room.” Harold must have seen me trying to make calculations, and so he made a subtle gesture with his head at a closed door just past the foyer. When I lived here, I’d always thought of that space as the TV room, but to each his own.
“Thanks, Harold,” I said. “Who is Melanie Joan’s literary agent these days?”
“Mr. Gault,” he said. “He just arrived from L.A.”
Oh, really, now?“Tony Gault?” I said.
“Yes.”
“He’s her film agent.”
“He handles it all now,” Harold said. “After that…seriesof unfortunate events, Ms. Hart decided to streamline her representation.”
I gave him a look. Calling what happened with Melanie Joan’s previous agent a “series of unfortunate events” was like calling theTitanica delayed boat trip.
He said it again. “Mr. Gault handles it all.”
I didn’t relish the idea of being in the same room with Tony Gault. I was relatively sure that the last time I’d seen him, he’d been in the process of putting his clothes back on. And the memory was not an unpleasant one. (I was engaged to be engaged—not dead.) That aside, I didn’t want to go into the so-called drawing room blind. I was annoyed at Spike for not psychically sensing I was at the door.
Harold’s jacket pocket dinged. He plucked out the phone and switched it to vibrate. I eyed the case—crystal-studded, with the Gucci logo at the center.
“This is Ms. Hart’s phone,” Harold said. “She asked me to keep it for the moment.” He dropped it back into his pocket. It vibrated, as if in protest.
“Harold?” I said.
“Yes?”
“Can you please tell me what the hell is going on in the drawing room?”
He nodded sagely. “Ms. Hart’s editor brought over papers to terminate her contract.”
“Oh…man.”
“Act surprised when she tells you.”
“I will.”
Harold leaned down and scratched Rosie behind the ears. “Good girl,” he said.
I wondered which one of us he was talking to.
“I blame the new regime, you know,” Harold said.
“Pardon?”
“Mr. Scepter,” he said. “The son. He’s not like his mother was.”
“That’s what Melanie Joan says.”
“We’ve known him since he was a boy, Ms. Hall and me. And by ‘known,’ I mean tolerated. Barely tolerated, in my case.”
“I think she’s with you on that,” I said.
“My assessment of him is this: He has always adored computers more than books. More than writers.” He stopped petting Rosie and stood up straight. “And he’s always been a little shit.”
I raised my eyebrows.
