Five Spot Page 3

  “Adelé!” Adam Sheppard rushed off the elevator.

  “Adam!” I cried, and we gave each other a bear hug.

  He held me at arm’s length. “Gorgeous, as usual.” He tilted his head toward Wilson and pretended to frown. “Who’s this guy?”

  I introduced the two men.

  “Isn’t it thrilling to finally meet Adelé Nightingale’s paramour?” Batsy asked as they shook hands.

  “Can we not use that word?” Wilson asked. “I hate that word.”

  “But what about the raffle?” Hatsy asked.

  “What raffle?”

  “Nothing!” I jerked a thumb at our luggage. “Let’s go.”

  “You mean he doesn’t know?” Patsy asked.

  “Know what?” Wilson again.

  “Nothing!” I flapped my arms, and bless his heart, Adam got the hint.

  “I know you want to get to your room,” he said and grabbed the luggage cart.

  ***

  My annoying husband can be annoyingly persistent. “Know what?” he kept asking as we traveled upward. “What raffle?” he kept repeating.

  “Nothing,” I said for the umpteenth time and tried desperately to change the topic. “So how’s Tori doing?” I asked Adam, and he looked at me as if I’d lost my mind. I cleared my throat. “The Glee Club told me you helped her get settled?”

  “Roaring Tori is never settled,” he said.

  He guided us off the elevator and led us through a maze of hallways, all the while complaining how the rivalries between 3P and Double D, and between Tori Fister and Louise Urko, grew more intense with each Happily Ever After. Eventually we came to a stop in front of Room 422, and he took the key card I handed him.

  “Every year we make sure to house the two opposing camps at opposite ends of the hotel,” he told Wilson. “Otherwise we’d have World War Three on our hands.”

  “It’s all in fun,” I said, and Adam guffawed.

  ***

  “Wow!” I dropped my pink bag at my feet, tossed my purse onto the king-size bed scattered with scads of unnecessary pillows, and admired the spacious room. “I’ve never stayed in one of the suites.”

  “Ritzy,” Wilson agreed. He found a corner for his golf clubs while Adam unloaded the rest of our luggage.

  “Nothing but the best for the Hall of Fame inductees,” he said. “And the best of the best for you, Adelé. Corner suite, top floor, top notch.” He put the hang-up bag in the closet and told us we had the most secluded room in the house. “Some romance for the newlyweds.”

  “Too bad one of us doesn’t believe in romance,” Wilson mumbled.

  “That is not true,” I said indignantly. “I just don’t believe in happily ever after.”

  Adam gasped and covered his ears. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”

  I rolled my eyes, but he insisted he was serious.

  “You of all people deserve some happiness,” he said. “You waited a long time for happily ever after—in your private life, and in your shot at the Hall of Fame.”

  “Jess—I mean, Adelé—worked hard for this,” Wilson said.

  “Don’t I know it,” Adam agreed. “Time was on her side, though. Despite Tori Fister’s stunt.”

  “Stunt?”

  “Ancient history,” I said firmly, but I could tell Adam was gearing up for his annual tirade against Roaring Tori. I promised I’d tell Wilson all about the supposed stunt and gently guided Adam toward the door.

  Wilson held out a twenty.

  “No thanks.” Adam looked at me. “Just an autographed book?”

  I told him that was a given. “But you can also accept a tip.”

  “No can do.” He shook his head. “I won’t take money from the best author in the house.”

  “Your wife likes my wife’s books?” Wilson asked.

  “Not as much as I do.”

  Wilson grinned. “The good parts are really good, aren’t they?”

  “They’re all good parts.” Adam bowed and shut the door behind him.

  Chapter 4

  “Stunt?” Wilson asked.

  I plopped into the overstuffed easy chair. “Once upon a time, Roaring Tori supposedly pulled a supposed stunt. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Okay then.” He put his money away and took a seat opposite me. “Let’s talk about this supposed raffle.”

  I sat up straight. “Tori’s stunt!” I said and hastened to explain the Romance Writers Hall of Fame selection process. “It’s based on some exceedingly complicated and convoluted algorithm involving sales figures, reader reviews, peer reviews, and librarian recommendations.”

  “So everyone has input?” Wilson said. “That sounds fair.”

  “Unless someone tampers with a piece of the puzzle.” I explained that ten years earlier I’d been neck and neck with Charm Willowby for a slot in the Hall of Fame. “Charm writes historical romances, too,” I said. “But she’s one of Tori’s clients. She writes for Double D.”

  “The enemy.”

  “Oh, for Lord’s sake. No one is anyone’s enemy. However,” I added, “Tori might have played a tiny little trick to shift the odds in Charm’s favor.” I raised an eyebrow. “She started dating Dewey.”

  “As in Huey and Louie?”

  “As in Dewey Womac. He was the president of the Librarians Love Romance Association.”

  “Ah,” Wilson said. “The stunt.”

  I shrugged. “Some people still claim Tori used her influence over Dewey, who then used his influence over librarians for Charm’s benefit. Far-fetched, no?”

  “Not if it worked.”

  I shrugged again. “It’s uncanny, but Adelé Nightingale’s library rating was extremely low that year.”

  Wilson got up to pace. Our roomy suite made that a fairly easy task. “So Charm Willowtree got inducted instead of you?”

  “Willowby.”

  He turned at the bathroom doorway. “And meanwhile you had to wait another decade? Ten years?”

  I agreed that a decade usually is ten years.

  “Not funny, Jessie. These people are all here, aren’t they?”

  “Not Dewey,” I said. “Tori broke up with him as soon as Charm got her place in the Hall of Fame, and he got voted out of office by the librarians that same year. Happily Ever After hasn’t seen him since.”

  “How about Tori? Can we avoid her?”

  I marveled at the man’s misguided optimism. “Hardly,” I said. “She isn’t called Roaring for nothing.”

  “What about Charm Willowtree?”

  “Willowby. Charm’s the emcee at tomorrow’s induction ceremony.”

  ***

  Wilson sat back down. “Let’s move on to this raffle the Glee people are so excited about.”

  “Oh, that.” I waved a dismissive hand and asked what he thought of the Glee Club.

  “I’m surprised only one of them is called Batsy. They’re all batsy.” He scowled and wondered how he would keep them straight. “Batsy, Hatsy, and Patsy? That’s worse than Huey, Dewey, and Louie.”

  I thought about it. “Okay, so Batsy’s easy,”

  “She’s the batsiest.”

  “She’s also the youngest, most energetic, and most vivacious.”

  “And Patsy’s the tall one, right?” he asked. “She’s even taller than you.”

  “Correct again. Patsy’s the oldest, and I would argue, the wisest of the three.”

  “How about Hatsy?”

  “Let’s see,” I said. “H stands for Hatsy and it stands for hour. Hatsy’s the stickler for staying on schedule. You’ll notice that right away, but don’t worry if you make a mistake with their names. Clearly, they all love you.”

  “Not Hatsy. What’s her problem?”

  I shrugged. “She’s a perfectionist—an excellent quality for running Happily Ever After year after year.”

  “So they’re batsy, but competent.”

  I had to agree that was a fair assessment of the Glee Club. “Don’t let the
ir names fool you,” I said. “Patsy’s an attorney, Batsy’s a pharmacist, and Hatsy owns a successful florist shop.” I gestured to the vase of flowers on the coffee table. “That’s her doing.” I pointed to the box of candy beside it. “And those are from Batsy, Happily Ever After’s resident chocoholic.”

  Wilson untied the pink ribbon, offered me a piece, and helped himself. He pointed to the bottle of Korbel peeking out of the ice bucket on the dresser.

  “Patsy’s doing,” I said.

  “Should we pop the cork?”

  I smiled and fluttered my eyelashes. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  ***

  “Time’s up,” Wilson said as he handed me a glass. “What about this raffle?”

  Ho hum. I took a gulp of bubbly and was gearing up for the inevitable when my cell phone rang. “Saved by the bell!” I chirped and got up to find my phone.

  “Are you sitting down?” Candy asked me.

  “Oh, no.” I tossed my purse aside and perched on the edge of the bed. “Don’t tell me something’s happened to the cats? We’ve only been gone a few hours.”

  “The cats are fine.” Candy giggled. “And so is Karen.”

  I looked over at Wilson and pointed to my phone. “Candy,” I mouthed.

  He picked up my Happily Ever After bag. “Conference packet,” he mouthed. “Page thirty.”

  I mouthed a four-letter word and watched him start fishing around. “Karen’s working for Pierpont Rigby,” I said quite loudly, and that distracted him for at least a moment.

  “That’s not all she’s doing.” Candy giggled again. “Karen’s new job is just a teeny tiny piece of that story.”

  Wilson was digging deeper in my bag. I considered the various mementos he’d be wading through before he got to my official conference packet and decided time was on my side.

  I tuned back in to Candy. “Karen was acting rather strange last night,” I said. “So what’s the story?”

  Wilson plucked out a fluorescent pink key chain, at the end of which dangled two hot pink figurines in the throes of—

  “What the—” he asked.

  I pointed to my phone and asked Candy why she was giggling.

  “You’ll never guess in a million years,” she said as Wilson found a deck of playing cards.

  He made the mistake of opening the package and held up a card. “What the—”

  “Romance book covers,” I told him, and asked Candy what I wouldn’t guess in a million years.

  “Million’s a good word for it. Karen has a date with Pierpont Rigby!”

  I sat up straight. “Karen Sembler has a date with Pierpont Rigby!?” I screeched, and the cards went flying.

  “I told you to sit down,” Candy said.

  ***

  “Pierpont Rigby is richer than God.” Wilson stated the obvious.

  “And handsomer,” I said. “Handsome, as in one of Adelé Nightingale’s heroes, handsome.”

  Please don’t get us wrong. Certainly our friend Karen deserved a date with any man she chose. But Pierpont Rigby?

  Wilson knelt down to gather the playing cards, and I returned to Candy. “I’ve never known Karen to date anyone,” I said.

  “Like, duh. That’s why she was acting so weird last night.”

  “I’m surprised she told you.”

  “Me, too. But I got her to spill the beans when she came into Tate’s today. She needed an outfit for her date tonight.”

  I blinked twice. “We’re talking about Karen Sembler? Our neighbor? The redhead who lives downstairs?”

  “She begged me to help her.”

  I blinked again. “You helped Karen choose an outfit for her date with Pierpont Rigby?” I asked, and the playing cards went flying yet again.

  Please don’t get us wrong. Wilson and I love our neighbors. But their fashion sense couldn’t be more diametrically opposed. Karen wears jeans, T-shirts, and work boots, no matter what the occasion, while Candy sports miniskirts and stiletto heels, no matter what the occasion. I am happy to report my own style falls somewhere in between the two extremes.

  I braced myself and asked about Karen’s shopping spree and learned the details from the bottom up. Once we got past the foundations department, I was not at all surprised to learn she had refused to don a dress or skirt.

  “You know Karen,” Candy said. “But at least we found her a new pair of jeans. They fit real nice and no stains at all. No sawdust, even.”

  I smiled as Candy described the “to-die-for” silk blouse Karen had also purchased, but my smile faded when Wilson stuck his nose back inside the Happily Ever After bag.

  He found the refrigerator magnets. “What the—” He held a magnet up to the light. “Is that position even possible?”

  I told him to use his imagination, and Candy moved on to shoes.

  “Please tell me you talked her out of her boots?” I asked.

  “I did. Can you believe it?”

  Not really. But if anyone could perform the minor miracle of prying Karen Sembler out of her ubiquitous work boots it was Candy Poppe, the queen of sequined stilettos. And lo and behold, Karen had found a pair of patent leather sling backs that looked “real nice” with her new jeans.

  “Then we worked on accessories,” Candy continued. “I put my foot down and told her a tool belt is not a fashion accessory.”

  “Well done, Sweetie. And?”

  “And I offered her anything she wanted of mine.”

  I bit my lip and tried to fathom Karen Sembler adorned in any of Candy Poppe’s oversized, overstated trinkets.

  “But she said no thanks,” Candy continued, and I breathed a sigh of relief. “So we raided your jewelry box when I got home from work.”

  “Excellent!” I frowned. “Unfortunately I brought my diamond pendant for the banquet tonight.”

  “But you left your pearls, Jessie. Karen liked those.”

  “Well done!”

  “And then Snowflake wanted to help.”

  “Oh?” I asked and tried to ignore the fact that my husband had finally reached my official conference packet. “What did Snowflake contribute?”

  Candy described how my cat had been poking around in the closet while they decided on my pearls. “We went to see what she was up to and found your stash of evening bags.”

  “The beaded clutch goes well with pearls. Did you find that?”

  “We did.”

  “Well done!” I checked the time. “Have they left yet? Did you see them off?”

  Candy sighed dramatically. “No, darn it. Karen drove to his place, and I guess Pierpont will drive from there.”

  “He or his chauffer,” I said, and we shared a giggle.

  About then I noticed Wilson, and the look on his face made me stop mid-tee-hee.

  He held up a nine by twelve color photo of himself. “What the hell?” he roared, and I told Candy I had to go.

  ***

  “What is this?” Wilson kept roaring while I read the flyer from across the room.

  “Paramour for a Day!” it said. “Get your ticket while supplies last!”

  “Would you look at that,” I said.

  “I am looking at it!” Wilson shook the stupid thing. “What is it?”

  I swallowed. “Umm, it seems to be a raffle of some sort. But I can’t read the fine print from here.”

  Ever accommodating, he moved closer and hovered over me while I read the fine print. Nothing that I didn’t already know.

  “Explain!” he shouted.

  “Would you please keep your voice down,” I hissed.

  “Your buddy Adam gave us the most secluded room in the house. I can scream all I want.” That’s what he said, but he did lower his voice considerably.

  “Wouldn’t you like to hear about Karen and Pierpont Rigby?” I asked.

  “No!” He slumped slightly. “Okay, yes,” he said. “But right now I want to hear about this.” He sat on the edge of the bed and handed me the flyer, and I finally told him the plan
—he was to be raffled off after breakfast Monday morning.

  “It was a Geez Louise’s idea,” I said. “I think you should be flattered.”

  “I think you’re a lunatic.”

  “Come on, Wilson. It’s for a good cause.” I explained that the proceeds from the raffle were always donated to a local literacy group. “They teach adults how to read,” I said. “And how many times have you complained that the root cause of most crime is a lack of basic education?”

  He squinted. “This will make a difference?”

  “Absolutely!” I pointed to his picture. “The tickets will sell like hotcakes. You’re so handsome.”

  “Laying it on kind of thick, Darlin’.”

  “No, really,” I insisted. “The raffle has never been so intriguing. And it’s a Hall of Fame year, which means there are over three hundred people here. And almost everyone is female, and almost everyone will spring for five or ten tickets.”

  “God help me.”

  I hesitated. “So you’ll do it?”

  He crumbled the flyer into a ball and tossed it into the wastebasket across the room.

  “That’s a yes, isn’t it?”

  No answer.

  “Yes!” I raised my fists in victory and sprang forward to give him a hug.

  “Remind me why I married you?”

  “Because you’re madly in love with me.”

  “Mad is the word for it,” he said and demanded a refill of his champagne.

  Chapter 5

  “This must be some shindig,” Wilson said as we wandered the hallways in search of the elevator. “We weren’t this dressed up for our wedding.”

  “You look nice,” I told him. “I’ve never seen you in a tux.”

  He pointed to my gold sequined dress. “Adelé’s looking good, too.”

  I thanked him for noticing, and we found the elevator. On the way down he wondered if we’d look so nice by the end of the evening. “I’m gearing up to protect you in case of attack.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Because of all the cutthroat competition.”

  “It’s a party, Wilson.” I suggested he turn off his cop brain, but by the time we reached the lobby I’d reconsidered. “I might need protection from Tori Fister,” I said.