Али Брэндон - Double Booked For Death

She snorted at her own joke and added, “It doesn’t matter to me . . . I’ve made my money off you, and I can always find another Valerie Baylor somewhere. But what about you?”

Her tone grew even harder.

“Oh, maybe I’m wrong. Maybe the parents won’t care that little Susie and Jimmy are reading books written by a cross-dresser. And maybe I’m wrong about the fans, the thousands who dressed up in black capes and stood in line for hours for an autograph in every major city. Maybe they won’t feel betrayed because the author they worshipped never really existed. And all those major review publications who gave Valerie Baylor starred reviews? Maybe they won’t feel like idiots for praising a woman who once stole other writers’ work because she couldn’t get her own published. And maybe Mr. Pinter won’t feel like you and Valerie pulled a fast one on his company, putting her out there as the brilliant talent that came up with the Haunted High series. Maybe all of them will forget, and you can keep on writing those books of yours forever.

“But, then, you know what that means, Morris?” She gave a cold, tinkling little laugh—the kind of laugh that, to Darla’s mind, could have come straight from the Janitor’s closet. “It means that you’ll have to face your biggest fear. You’ll have to make all the public appearances, do the television interviews, show up at national conferences and speak in front of hundreds—even thousands—of people. You’ll have to do all the things that Valerie did for you. Oh, yeah, she couldn’t write a shopping list if her life depended on it, but she loved the limelight, craved it, while you hate it. That’s why you dress up as a woman, so you can hide your true self from everyone . . . even from yourself!”

Darla exchanged swift, troubled looks with Jake. Hillary was far more intelligent than she’d ever given her credit for being, Darla realized. Now that the agent had put it out into the open, the whole Morris-Valerie collaboration with the Haunted High books made for an odd if understandable symbiosis. One twin had the talent, while the other had the looks, the presence. Together, they were Valerie Baylor. And Hillary had seen what Darla had guessed at: that the Mavis persona was Morris’s way to walk among the living, so to speak, rather than keep himself locked away from the world in some personal Janitor’s closet.

But what didn’t make sense—at least, from what Darla had heard—was why Hillary had such great enmity toward the pair. No matter the deception, hadn’t she managed a sweet cut of their pie?

“Morris, why don’t you answer me?” the agent demanded, sounding peevish now. “Oh, that’s because I’m right, isn’t it? So if you want me to keep your secret, I need some quid pro quo. Maybe I’ll even put in a good word for you with Mr. Pinter, tell him you’re just as talented as your sister, so you can keep writing under Valerie’s name. And I’ll even write you a juicy new contract that says you never have to make a public appearance if you don’t want to.”

“But why should I pay you anything,” came Morris’s voice in reply, “when your secret is far more damning than mine?”

“Wh-what do you mean?”

The spiteful tone abruptly fled her voice, replaced by uncertainty as she straightened in her seat and gazed about her, looking for Morris. “I don’t have any secrets.”

“To the contrary, I think that you do.”

The sound of his footsteps grew louder now, though Darla still could not see him from her vantage point.

“You found out that I wrote the Haunted High books, not Valerie, and you thought you could use that and my personal life to your advantage.” His voice took on a faintly mocking tone. “ Morris is rich . . . he’ll pay me to keep my mouth shut, to keep the status quo. But you forgot that rich people hate to part with their money, just like everyone else. And you also thought that Valerie didn’t know about the blackmail. But she did.”

He paused a beat and then added, “And she didn’t like it.”

The lights that had been flickering almost imperceptively as he spoke now abruptly blinked out. As they were plunged into darkness, Hillary gave a little scream.

“I know what you’re trying to do, Morris!” she shrieked, while Darla choked back a reflexive gasp of her own. The woman’s tone was so shrill that Darla wondered if she could be heard through the stage floor. “You’re trying to scare me into going away. But it won’t work. So turn the lights back on and give me my money!”

Then a few things happened simultaneously. A light slowly flickered on near the two red velvet chairs tucked away in the far corner, while the pungent odor of cigarette smoke abruptly wafted toward Darla. The surrounding air seemed colder all at once, so that Darla hugged her stole more closely to her and wished she dared pull her shoes back on. Even the sounds from the theater above seemed suddenly muted, as if even the cast had halted to learn what was happening there beneath their feet.

And then a woman’s voice—not the agent’s, but uncannily familiar—spoke.

“Hillary, you always were a greedy little bitch.”

The lights near the chairs flickered again and dimmed, while a figure wrapped in a hooded black cape abruptly materialized. Morris? Darla thought in confusion, squinting for a better look. Surely this was some sort of trick that the man was playing to unnerve the agent . . . except that the figure before them was oddly transparent. Staring at the phantom image, Darla felt the hair on the back of her neck leap to attention. A bit desperately, she reminded herself that she didn’t exactly believe in ghosts, herself . . . that was, if she didn’t count the strange footsteps that had wandered her store and the unseen force that had stacked books into nice neat columns on her living room floor.

Then the figure reached graceful hands up to push away the concealing hood, revealing a spill of black hair and a pale face with bright red lips that was straight from the author’s photo on the Haunted High books.

“V-Valerie?” Hillary quavered, taking another step back. Then, seeming to rally, the woman protested, “I don’t believe it. That’s you, Morris, dressed up like your sister! Don’t think for a minute that I’m going to fall for your silly disguises.”

The figure chuckled, the soft sound of amusement edged with what sounded like anger. Still, his—her?—tone was conversational in reply. “What, aren’t you happy to see your favorite client again? And here I dragged myself out of that nasty coffin just so we could have this little chat.”

In a casual move, the figure sat upon one of the red chairs . . . except that instead of sitting, she hovered a good two feet over the cushion, the lines of the chair still visible through her transparent form. The sight of the floating image seemed to drain the last of the fight from Hillary. In a small voice, she said, “I don’t want to see you. Turn on the lights so I can get out of here.”

The phantom Valerie shook a reproving finger.

“Not yet, Hillary. Not until we talk about how you followed me out of the store the night of the autographing. You thought I was Morris, didn’t you? You’d been harassing him for money to keep the secret. But Morris had told me what you were trying do. I didn’t want to believe him, so I told him I wanted to hear your threats myself.”

“I-I really didn’t mean it,” the agent whimpered. “I just needed a little cash. My mom is sick, and—”

“Bullshit,” the ghost replied in a distinctly earthly manner. “Morris checked. Your parents are fine back in Ohio, and they had no idea that their darling daughter has a nasty little habit involving white powder.”