Free Ellipsis by Stephen Greenleaf

her watch. “She’ll be here in twenty minutes. I’ve got things to do.”
    As Lark hurried off toward the main room, I decided to check out the basement. The stairs were wide and plushly carpeted, but the rooms below street level were dark and dank and uninviting. Most of them seemed to be rarely used offices or overstocked storage areas full of stuff that had been stacked away for years. I looked in as many as I could get into, flipping on lights, poking and probing in likely spots and not very likely ones, too, then moving on. My search wasn’t exhaustive nor could it be, given the timetable, but I had a feeling that when and if this guy made his move, it was going to be out in the open, a face-to-face showdown with Chandelier Wells, the settling of some long-festering grudge. Nonetheless, after I checked the rest rooms and boiler room and broom closet, I went back upstairs substantially less than confident that there was nothing dangerous down below.
    Inside the ballroom, the caterers were setting out wine bottles and plastic glasses and trays full of finger foods, the Jimbo’s boys were setting up folding chairs along the perimeter of the room, and the women from Dunne and Son were unpacking cardboard boxes filled with freshly minted copies of Shalloon with a meticulousness more common to archaeology than pop fiction.
    I ambled over to Ms. Dunne. “What’s the drill?” I asked. “They line up, get a book, have it signed, give you the money, then stay around to party if they want to?”
    She nodded. “That’s about it, except we make them buy the book first, then take it to Chandelier afterward. We’ve found if we do it otherwise, there are lots of personally inscribed books lying around after the party’s over. Which makes Chandelier furious and costs me money since I can’t send them back to the publisher.”
    â€œSounds like there’s some coercion involved in making up the guest list.”
    Ms. Dunne chuckled dryly. “I wouldn’t call it coercion, at least not to her face, but Chandelier isn’t happy when at least two hundred of her closest friends don’t show up at her book parties. She lets them know it when they’re no-shows, too.”
    â€œWho all gets invited?”
    â€œChandelier and Lark make telephone calls to a hundred people and we mail four hundred invitations to our customer list. The local chapters of Sisters in Crime and Romance Writers of America both get invited, as well as various reading and writing groups that Chandelier has spoken to over the years. The event is advertised on Chandelier’s Web site and ours as well, of course. And in the local papers.”
    â€œSounds like half the world will be here.”
    She laughed. “Not quite. But if fewer than two hundred people show up, Chandelier gets irritated. Since no one likes it when Chandelier gets irritated, we do what we can to fill the room.”
    â€œDo they have to have a written invitation to get in?”
    She shook her head. “It’s wide-open.”
    â€œGreat,” I said sarcastically, then tried to make nice. “How did you meet Chandelier, anyway?”
    â€œWe went to summer camp together. Up in the Sierras, near the Feather River. That was years ago, of course, but we were in the same cabin and we both liked to write poetry so we kept in touch.”
    â€œDo you know anyone who has reason to want her harmed?”
    She took her time to answer, folding her arms across her chest, looking toward the pile of books that was materializing on the sale table. “Chandelier can be … difficult, at times. She’s a proud woman and she doesn’t forgive a slight very easily, so there have been several shattered friendships over the years. But none of it is life-and-death, I don’t think. Except maybe for Thurston Buckley.”
    â€œThe real estate guy?”
    Meredith nodded. “He fell pretty hard