J. Jance - Kiss the Bees

"It's me," Megan Wright announced. Megan was a publicist working for Diana's New York publisher, Sterling, Moffit, and Dodd. She was young-not more than twenty-five-but she was businesslike on the phone and brimmed with a kind of boundless energy and enthusiasm that suited her for the job.

"I'm calling with your weekend's marching orders," Megan continued. "I just wanted to double-check the schedule."

Obligingly, Diana hauled out her calendar and opened it to the proper page.

"First there's the University of Arizona Faculty Wives Tea this afternoon at two o'clock."

"I know," Diana observed dryly. "As a matter of fact, I was on my way into the bathroom to shower and dress when the phone rang."

"I'll hurry," Megan said. "And then there are the two appointments for tomorrow. I'm sorry about filling up your Saturday, but I didn't have any choice. Tomorrow's the only time I could schedule the Monty Lazarus interview. Don't forget, he's the West Coast stringer for several different magazines, so it's an important interview. My guess is he'll be pitching the story to all of them."

"Where's that interview?" Diana asked. "I wrote down his name but not where I'm supposed to meet him."

"In the lobby of the La Paloma Hotel at noon. I don't have either an address or a map. Can you find it, or will you need a driver?"

Tucson may have been totally foreign territory to Megan, but Diana had lived in the Tucson area for more than thirty years. "Noon, La Paloma," Diana repeated as she jotted the words into the correct slot on the calendar under the name, "Monty Lazarus."

"And don't worry about a driver," Diana continued. "Believe me, I can find La Paloma on my own."

"Mr. Lazarus likes to take his own pictures, so you'll need to go prepared for a photo shoot. I warned him that he'll have to finish up no later than four, though, so you'll have time enough to get back home, change, and be at the El Dorado Country Club for the Friends of the Library banquet at six. Mrs. Durgan, your hostess for that event, called just a few minutes ago to make sure your husband will be attending. She wanted to know if she should reserve a place at the head table. Brandon is going, isn't he?"

"He'll be there," Diana said grimly. "If he isn't, I'll know the reason why."

"Good," Megan said, sounding relieved. "I told her I was pretty sure he was planning to attend."

When the phone call finally ended, Diana headed for the shower once more. On her way through the bedroom, she found Brandon sound asleep on the bed. She tiptoed by without waking him. No doubt he needed it. He barely slept at night these days, passing the nighttime hours prowling the house or pacing out on the patio. The midday naps he took between woodcutting shifts were pretty much the only decent rest he seemed to get.

Closing the door between the bathroom and bedroom, she undressed and then stood in front of the mirror, observing her reflection. She wasn't that bad looking for being a couple of years over the half-century mark. The face and body reflected back at her bore an amazing resemblance to what her mother, Iona Dade Cooper, had looked like just before she got so sick.

In the past few years Diana had put on some weight, especially around the hips. Her softly curling auburn hair had two distinct streaks of white flowing away from either temple. But her skin was still good, and with the help of a little makeup she'd look all right, not only for today's afternoon tea, but also for the photo shoot and banquet tomorrow.

Stepping into the shower, though, she was still chewing on what was going on between Brandon and her. It was too bad that if she was going to win some big prize that it had to be for Shadow of Death, a book Brandon had never wanted her to write in the first place. Not only that, it was unfortunate that what should have been her finest hour, the pinnacle of a writing career that spanned more than twenty years, should come at a time when Brandon, after being tossed out of office, was at his very lowest ebb.

The last month and a half, in fact, had been pure hell. She and Brandon had been at one another's throats ever since the engraved invitation had arrived, summoning them both to the awards festivities in New York.

Brandon had backed away from the gold-embossed envelope with both their names on it as though that rectangular piece of paper were a coiled rattlesnake.

"No way!" he had declared. "No way in hell! I'm not going to New York for that, not in a million years!"

"Why not? It'll be fun."

"For you, maybe. People are interested in you; they want to meet you. And while you're busy talking, someone will turn to me and say, 'What is it you do, Mr. Walker? Are you a writer, too?' And when I tell them I used to be sheriff but I don't do anything anymore, their eyes will glaze over and pretty soon they'll wander away. It's a ball doing that. I love it."

Diana had winced at the sarcasm in his voice, but she also knew the perils of playing second banana. She had felt the same way about attending political gatherings-the rubber-chicken luncheons and living room campaign coffee hours-back when Brandon had been a candidate for public office. But she had gone. She had kept her mouth shut, she had put on her good clothes and company manners, and she had gone. She had served as the proper political wife and had behaved the way political wives the world over are expected to behave.

Part of what had made that easy to do was the fact that she had believed so strongly in what Brandon Walker stood for. She had backed his plans for cleaning up the sheriff's department, for getting rid of the crooks and putting an end to the graft and corruption.

To be fair, back when she was first published, he had been there for her, as well. Those first few book tours when he had sometimes been able to join her for a few days at a time had been a ball. Back then, his going to functions with her had been easier for him because he had been more sure of his own place in the scheme of things. The ego damage associated with losing the election-from being booted out of a job he loved-seemed to have knocked the emotional pins out from under him. It was almost as though there had been a death in the family, and the grieving process had left him lost and directionless.

But to Diana's way of thinking, the main problem with the Pulitzer and everything associated with it was that the accolades were all coming to Diana over Shadow of Death, a book Brandon Walker had opposed from the very beginning.

"Don't bring all that stuff up again," he had warned her on the day Andrew Carlisle's letter had arrived from the Arizona State Prison. "Let sleeping dogs lie."

But she hadn't followed his advice. She had gone ahead and written the book anyway. And now, based on that, Diana Ladd Walker's stock had shot way up in the world of publishing. Sandy Hawkins, Diana's editor at Sterling, Moffit, and Dodd, was downright ecstatic. Requests for interviews and public appearances were flowing in. Meanwhile, Diana's marriage was in the toilet.

She and Brandon had argued bitterly over the trip to New York, with him citing any number of plausible but nonetheless phony excuses for not going. He didn't have a tux. With only one of them working, he couldn't see squandering all that money on his airfare. He hated being locked up in an airplane seat without enough room for his long legs. Most of all, in his opinion, Lani shouldn't be left home on her own, not with the end-of-school party season heating up.

"Why don't you say what you mean?" an exasperated Diana had demanded finally when she tired of arguing. "Why don't you just admit it? You don't want to go."

Brandon complied at once. "You're right," he had said. "I don't want to go."

"Fine!" Diana had stormed. "Suit yourself, but one of these days you're going to have to get over it, Brandon. One of these days you're going to have to realize that losing that election was not the end of the world."