Bell, Book, and Scandal

itself.“
     

Four
     
    The conference registration was to begin at one- thirty Thursday afternoon. It had been Shelley’s advice that Jane call the hotel at ten in the morning and ask if the suite was ready.
    “You need to be the first one there. Meeting and greeting, you know,“ Shelley said. “There are always people who come early. People who have family in town to visit, or business to conduct privately, maybe shopping and such.“
    Having been assured that the suite was available, Jane gathered up her manuscript and took one long last look at it for errors. She found only two and ran out new pages. She packed it in a box and put it in a canvas bag. She also had a copy of the first three chapters and the outline of the rest of the book in case she came across an agent or editor who was interested. She’d read somewhere that this was a necessity at a writers’ conference.
    She’d even shopped a bit in the interval between seeing the suite earlier and returning to it. Three casual skirts, four blouses with coordinated lightweight sweaters. She also had black trousers and a sparkly black top for the banquet night. She’d even dug out a few pieces of jewelry that she seldom wore. A sapphire and diamond ring her parents had given her for her twenty-first birthday. A cheap but good-looking silver linked necklace that made her neck itch if she wore it for too long.
    It was more than she needed, but she didn’t want to miss a moment running home if she spilled coffee on herself.
    Jane arrived at the hotel at ten and went to the suite. She’d thought about hauling the manuscript to the lobby and studying it one more time. But that would look too needy.
    Instead, she took along a copy of the latest Felicity Roane book with her. She positioned herself close to the front desk, so she could glance up from time to time and see if she recognized any of her favorite mystery authors. There had been photographs of them in the last brochure she’d received.
    She saw a man who had to be Zac Zebra arrive wearing black trousers and a black sweater thrown over a shiny white shirt, open at the neck too far. He had black-and-white-striped hair. She knew he was one of the speakers. Did they have their rooms paid for? she wondered. He took out a credit card, but that meant nothing. Even when you had a free room, as she did, hotels wanted a credit card for incidentals like food, drinks, and dry cleaning.
    She went back to reading her book, glancing up from time to time.
    A woman who might be Felicity Roane herself checked in about ten minutes later. Jane glanced at the formal photo on the back of the book. If this was Ms. Roane, she was a lot more casual than the picture. Her hair wasn’t up. She had a windblown ponytail with a scarf around it. She was in jeans and a baggy lightweight gray sweater.
    Jane hoped this was the author she liked so much, and liked, too, that she seemed less daunting than the photo. It was all Jane could manage to stay seated. She wanted to run over to the front desk, book in hand for autographing. But Ms. Roane might have had a long trip and wouldn’t want to be fawned over while waiting for her room assignment.
    She went on reading, so caught up in the story, in spite of the fact that she’d already read it when it had come out in hardback, that she probably missed several other famous attendees. When she finally looked up the next time, Shelley was checking in. Jane put a bookmark in the book, stuffed it in her purse, and approached her just as the bellhop was taking up her suitcases.
    Fishing in her pocket, Shelley pulled out a five-dollar bill and tipped him before turning to Jane. “Have you spotted anyone yet?“
    “Zac Zebra,“ Jane said. “Nobody could mistake him. And a woman I think was Felicity Roane. But I’m not positive it was she.“
    “Where are you sitting?“ Shelley asked.
    “Right over here. Don’t you want to go up and unpack?“
    “I’d rather gawk with you for a while.“
    While they watched the front desk, chatting about what fun the conference was going to be, a rather heavy, terribly overdressed young woman came in. She and the man with her were wearing cowboy hats and flashy western clothing and lots of turquoise jewelry.
    “Probably country-western singers performing somewhere in Chicago, don’t you think?“ Shelley asked. “Nobody dresses that way for no reason.“
    “Maybe. Or maybe they’re just rubes come to the Big City for the first