Free Dead Little Dolly by Elizabeth Kane Buzzelli Page B

staying late.”
    No time for the second call. I dialed Madeleine Clark’s number and held my breath until she came on the line.
    “Emily! Isn’t this exciting? Our first deal together.”
    “Yes,” I choked out. “Exciting.”
    “It’s from Crestleg Publishers. Your editor’s name is Faith Cardoni. She had to go out of town but will be in touch as soon as we’ve got the contract signed. She has a few changes she’d like you to consider . . .”
    So much at once: I had an editor with a name. I had a publishing house that wanted to bring out my novel. And . . . oh, oh . . . the editor wanted changes.
    “They’re new to mystery publishing, but looking solid, I’d say. Very, very solid. I think this will be a good career move for you . . .”
    How could I help but think: Any career move would be good for me!
    “It isn’t a lot of money . . .”
    Here came reality.
    “Standard royalties. A ten-thousand-dollar advance. Half on acceptance and half on publication. Advances are lower these days, you understand.”
    I nodded, realized she couldn’t see me, and croaked out, “Sure. Sounds fine.”
    The rest was how good she thought the book was and that she hoped I’d get right to work on the next one and a final congratulations, a promise to get the contract to me as soon as she got it, and then good-bye.
    I danced in circles around the house with Sorrow leaping beside me, wanting to be a part of whatever this grand celebration might be.
    There was a knock at the door and I happily answered to find Harry standing on my tiny porch, his heavy eyebrows drawn together.
    “Come in! Come in!” I opened the door wide. “Oh, Harry, I just heard from my literary agent. My book is sold!”
    I could hardly stop myself from leaping up and down again, then reaching out to take his gnarled hands in mine and do a jig.
    Harry leaned back and eyed me coldly. “This is my fifth time over to see you.”
    Feeling a sudden rush of ice over my skin, I stopped still and blinked at him. “I was in town.”
    “Yeah, figured. But, you know, I asked Delia to marry me and she said yes and now all that’s holding up the works is you.”
    “Yes, but . . .” I was going to try again to make somebody happy for me. “It’s hard to think right now. This is such good news! I’ve been working . . . so . . .”
    “You mean me and Delia. Yeah, I think so, too. Good news. Be great for both of us. Figure I could stay at her house during the winter. You know my house gets cold.”
    I gave up. “I’ll call Eugenia. She was talking about a picnic, maybe hot dogs and things like that. Over at Delia’s house.”
    “Can’t be there. Delia says she’d feel like she was rubbing her mother’s nose in it. You know, getting married so soon after the woman died.”
    “Can’t be at your house. Those dogs . . .”
    “I know. Thought about here. You got plenty of room.”
    “Not for the whole town.” Appalled wasn’t a strong enough word for what I felt.
    He shrugged and started for the door. “This’ll do fine. I’m paying for the food. And you tell Eugenia hot dogs are okay, but I got that freezer full of meat.”
    “I told her,” I said, then added, meanly, “She said she wasn’t cooking meat with tire tread on it.”
    He was still sputtering when he stepped out to the porch and I shut the door behind him.
    That left me one phone message to check.
    I figured I was running fifty-fifty when I heard Jackson’s voice and wished I’d taken a hammer to the machine before answering. All I wanted was maybe ten minutes to celebrate. And somebody to celebrate with.
    I got Jackson Rinaldi.
    “Terrible, Emily. Just terrible. My book: On the Way to Canterbury: The Days and Hours of Chaucer’s Pilgrims , has been panned in the New York Times . Can you imagine? I mean, a scathing review by a cretin from Yale who knows nothing, absolutely nothing about Chaucer or his pilgrims. I’m devastated, nonetheless. I have to come see you this weekend.