“Means I’m basically homeless and unemployed and desperate to finish a book.”
Leigh cackled and Myra guffawed as smoke streamed from their noses. “We’ve been there,” Myra said. “We met thirty years ago when neither one of us had two pennies to rub together. I was trying to write historical fiction and Leigh was trying to write that weird literary shit she’s still trying to write and nothing was selling. We were on welfare and food stamps and working for minimum wage, and, well, things were not looking too good. One day we were walking down a mall and saw a long line of people, all middle-aged women, waiting for something. Up ahead was a bookstore, one of those Walden bookshops used to be in every mall, and sitting at a table having a grand time was Roberta Doley, back then one of the bestselling romance gals in the business. I got in line—Leigh was too much of a snob—bought the book and we made each other read it. The story was about a pirate who roamed the Caribbean raiding ships and raising hell and running from the Brits, and it just so happened that everywhere he docked there was a gorgeous young virgin just waiting to be deflowered. Total crap. So we conjured up this story about a southern belle who couldn’t stay away from her slaves and got herself pregnant. We threw everything at it.”
Leigh added, “Had to buy some dirty magazines, you know, for reference materials. A lot of that stuff we didn’t know about.”
Myra laughed and continued. “We knocked it out in three months and I reluctantly sent it to my agent in New York. A week later she called and said some idiot was offering fifty grand as an advance. We published it under the name of Myra Leigh. Isn’t that clever? Within a year we had a pile of cash and never looked back.”
“So you write together?” Mercer asked.
“She writes it,” Leigh said quickly, as if to distance herself. “We work on the story together, which takes about ten minutes, then she grinds it out. Or we used to.”
“Leigh’s too much of a snob to touch it. She’ll damned sure touch the money, though.”
“Now, Myra,” Leigh said with a smile.
Myra sucked in a lungful and blew a cloud over her shoulder. “Those were the days. We cranked out a hundred books under a dozen names and couldn’t write ’em fast enough. The dirtier the better. You should try one. Pure filth.”
“I can’t wait,” Mercer said.
“Please don’t,” Leigh said. “You’re much too smart for it. I love your writing.”
Mercer was touched and quietly said, “Thank you.”
“Then we slowed down,” Myra continued. “We got sued twice by this crazy bitch up north who claimed we had stolen her stuff. Wasn’t true. Our crap was much better than her crap, but our lawyers got nervous and made us settle out of court. That led to a big fight with our publisher, then our agent, and the whole thing sort of knocked us off our stride. Somehow we got the reputation as thieves, or at least I did. Leigh did a good job of hiding behind me and dodging all the mud. Her literary reputation is still intact, such as it is.”
“Now, Myra.”
“So you stopped writing?” Mercer asked.
“Let’s say I slowed down considerably. There’s money in the bank and some of the books are still selling.”
“I still write, every day,” Leigh said. “My life would be empty if I didn’t write.”
“And it would be a helluva lot emptier if I didn’t sell,” Myra snarled.
“Now, Myra.”
The pack’s largest dog, a forty-pound long-haired mutt, squatted close to the patio and dropped a pile. Myra saw it happen, said nothing, then covered the area with a cloud of smoke when the dog was finished.
Mercer changed the subject with “Are there other writers on the island?”
Leigh nodded with a smile and Myra said, “Oh, far too many.” She chugged the fruit jar and smacked her lips.
“There’s Jay,” Leigh said. “Jay Arklerood.”
It was becoming apparent that Leigh’s job was to merely suggest so that Myra could then narrate. She said, “You would start with him, wouldn’t you? He’s another literary snob who can’t sell and hates everybody who can. He’s also a poet. Do you like poetry, Mercer dear?”
Her tone left no doubt that she had little use for poetry. Mercer said, “Don’t read much of it.”
“Well, don’t read his, if you could even find it.”
“I’m afraid I haven’t heard of him.”
“No one has. He sells less than Leigh.”
“Now, Myra.”
“What about Andy Adam?” Mercer asked. “Doesn’t he live here?”
“When he’s not in rehab,” Myra said. “He built a fine home down on the south end, then lost it in a divorce. He’s a mess but a really good writer. I adore his Captain Clyde series, some of the best crime fiction around. Even Leigh can stoop to enjoy it.”
Leigh said, “A lovely man, when he’s sober, but a dreadful drunk. He still gets in fights.”
Seamlessly taking the handoff, Myra jumped right back in with “Just last month he got in a fight at the saloon on Main Street. Some guy half his age beat the hell out of him and the police hauled him in. Bruce had to post his bond.”
“Who’s Bruce?” Mercer asked quickly.
Myra and Leigh sighed and took a sip, as if any discussion of Bruce might take hours. Leigh eventually said, “Bruce Cable, he owns the bookstore. You’ve never met him?”
“Don’t think so. I can remember visiting the store a few times when I was a kid, but I can’t say that I met him.”
Myra said, “When it comes to books and writers, everything revolves around the store. Thus, everything revolves around Bruce. He’s the Man.”
“And this is a good thing?”
“Oh, we adore Bruce. He has the greatest bookstore in the country and he loves writers. Years ago, before we moved here and back when I was writing and publishing, he invited me to a book signing at his store. It’s a bit unusual for a serious bookstore to host a romance writer, but Bruce didn’t care. We had a helluva party, sold a bunch of books, got drunk on cheap champagne, and kept the store open until midnight. Hell, he even had a book signing for Leigh.”
“Now, Myra.”
“It’s true, and she sold fourteen books.”
“Fifteen. My biggest signing ever.”
“My record is five,” Mercer said. “And that was my first signing. Sold four at the next, then zero at the third. After that I called New York and canceled everything.”
“Go, girl,” Myra said. “You quit?”
“I did, and if I ever publish again I will not go on tour.”
“Why didn’t you come here, to Bay Books?”
“It was on the schedule, but I freaked out and pulled the plug.”
“You should’ve started here. Bruce can always drum up a crowd. Hell, he calls us all the time, says there’s a writer coming in and we might really like his or her book. That means get our butts down to the store for the signing and buy the damned book! We never miss.”
“And we have a lot of books, all signed by the authors and most unread,” Leigh added.
“Have you been to the store?” Myra asked.