“But you will be before long. Everybody knows producers are lined up to throw money at you for the option on Low Pressure. It’s rumored that several A-list actors and actresses are campaigning for the parts. The casting couches have never had turnover this brisk.”
She shot him a look of pure disgust.
“No opinion on the subject?”
“None,” she said, stressing the word in such a way as to discourage any more questions. Just then a man wedged himself between two young women and thrust a copy of her book at her. Bellamy recognized him immediately. “Well, hello again. Hmm…”
“Jerry,” he said, smiling broadly.
“Jerry, yes.” He had an open, friendly face and thinning hair. He’d come to several book signings, and she’d spotted him in the audience when she lectured at a bookstore on the NYU campus. “Thank you for coming out this morning.”
“I never pass up an occasion to see you.”
She signed her name on the title page, which he held open for her. “How many copies does this make that you’ve bought, Jerry?”
He laughed. “I’m buying birthday and Christmas presents.”
She suspected he was also starstruck. “Well, I and my publisher than
k you.”
She moved on and, while Jerry fell back into the crush, Van Durbin boldly nudged people out of his way so he could stay even with her. He persisted with the question about a possible movie based on her book.
“Come on, Ms. Price. Give my readers a hint of who you see playing the key characters. Who would you cast as your family members?” He winked and leaned in, asking in a low voice, “Who do you see playing the killer?”
She gave him a sharp look.
He grinned and said to the photographer, “I hope you captured that.”
* * *
The rest of the day was no less hectic.
She and Dexter had attended a meeting at the publishing house to discuss the timing of the release of the trade paperback edition of Low Pressure. After a lengthy exchange of opinions, it was decided that the book was selling so well in the hardcover and e-book formats that an alternate edition wouldn’t be practical for at least another six months.
They’d gone from that meeting to a luncheon appointment with a movie producer. After they dined on lobster salad and chilled asparagus in the privacy of his hotel suite, he’d made an earnest pitch about the film he wanted to make, guaranteeing that if they sold him the rights, he would do justice to the book.
As they’d left the meeting, Dexter joked, “Wouldn’t your friend Van Durbin love to know about that meeting?”
“He’s no friend. T. J. David’s true identity was supposed to be a carefully guarded secret. Who did Van Durbin bribe to get my name?”
“A publishing house intern, an assistant to someone in the contracts department. It could have been anybody.”
“Someone in your agency?”
He patted her hand. “We’ll probably never know. What does it matter now who it was?”
She sighed with resignation. “It doesn’t. The damage has been done.”
He laughed. “ ‘Damage’ being a matter of opinion.”
Dexter had dropped her off at her apartment building with a warning: “Tomorrow’s going to be another whirlwind day. Get some rest tonight. I’ll be here at seven a.m. to pick you up.”
She’d waved him off with a promise that she wouldn’t be late, then entered the lobby of her building. The concierge had called to her from behind his desk. “A package for you was delivered just a little while ago.”
It had looked innocent enough when she’d set it on her dining table along with a stack of mail. The box had been sealed with clear packing tape. She’d noted that the label was printed with her name and address, but not the sender’s information. That was curious, but she didn’t think too much of it as she split the tape, folded back the flaps, and lifted out the gift-wrapped box inside.
She never could have prepared herself for the hideous surprise it contained.