Final Draft by Shelley Burbank
Chapter One
“What’s a private detective doing at a shindig like this?”
The white-haired gentleman with the goatee and sequined bow tie nudged Olivia Lively’s arm, sloshing her glass of sparkling white and earning himself a glare that could refreeze the melting ice cubes in his glass of scotch.
“Oh, I don’t know.” Liv drained what was left of the wine and signaled to the bartender for another. “Maybe I got tired of spying on gangsters, hanging out on the docks with smugglers, and tailing Mexican drug lords through the streets of Portland.” She gave him a mocking smile.
The short, Colonel Sanders look-alike—who happened to be one of Maine’s most celebrated poets—honked out a drunken laugh and wagged a finger at her. “Funny girl,” he said, slurring his words.
The bartender set a flute in front of her and gave her a sympathetic smile.
“Excuse me.” Liv slid from her bar stool. So much for socializing.
She smoothed the green fabric of her Halston gown, a second-hand find bought online for a song, and looked around. She spotted her best friend, Ashleigh, near one of the silent-auction tables where a playful, modern painting was on display.
Mindful of her champagne flute, Liv wove through the well-heeled crowd toward Ashleigh. She’d had her eye on that Rick Hamilton piece all night. Time to put in her bid.
The Telling Room event planners had outdone themselves. Glittery decor transformed the venue into an Art Deco fantasy. Twinkle-lights looped in long strands across the ceiling. Slim, gold bud vases held single white roses on tables draped in black and white linen. Several young couples, dressed in Roaring Twenties finery, jitterbugged on the parquet dance floor in the corner.
Unlike the stuffy social affairs of her parents’ circle, the Glitterati Ball attracted a much more laid-back, affable crowd.
Swaying through the room in the Halston, her grandmother’s emerald earrings swinging from her ears, Liv caught several admiring glances. A few people, recognizing her, nodded and smiled. She waved acknowledgment but didn’t stop to chat. That Hamilton painting would look perfect hanging above her bed, and she wasn’t about to let anyone, not even her best friend, outbid her.
She’d almost reached the painting when someone grabbed her arm.
She tensed, turned.
She was surprised to see the bartender. He was in his mid-twenties, kind of cute with curly brown hair and a dimple in his chin. He glanced past her shoulder and dropped her arm. “I need to talk to you,” he said. “It’s about, um, a private detective thing. A job.”
Liv narrowed her eyes. “Seriously?”
The guy glanced around again. He seemed nervous. Maybe a little desperate. “Yeah. Can we just, you know, go somewhere a little less crowded?”
“All right. Hold on.” Liv pressed her lips together for a moment. “Blame it on the champagne, but the only place I can think of at the moment is the coatroom. Let’s go.”
Giving up on the painting for the time being, she headed for the coat-check area which had been decorated with potted plants and more white twinkle lights and a beautiful Art Deco mirror. She felt a slight prickle of excitement. The evening had taken an unexpected, somewhat delightful, turn.
“Hi there. We need a moment.” She flashed a smile and a twenty at the attendant who gave her a suspicious look but accepted the money and stepped aside. Liv and the bartender slipped into the narrow space filled with down puffer coats, capes, and woolens.
“Okay,” Liv said, crossing her arms. “Who are you and what’s this all about?”
“Mason Falwell stole my novel!”
With no preamble, the words burst from the cute bartender’s mouth. He leaned closer to her, crowding her in the already close confines of the space. “I heard you tell that guy you’re a detective. My name’s Cooper Tedeschi. I’m a writing student. In the MFA program at Longfellow College.” Cooper’s mouth twisted. “At least, I used to be a student there.”
“Okay.” Liv put up a hand. No need for him to get any closer. “So?”
“So, Falwell, that washed-up, old coot, took my manuscript, sent it to his agent, and got a publishing contract.” Cooper’s nostrils flared. “There’s even talk of a movie deal. He’s going to make a fortune. With my story. I need you to help me prove it.”
Mason Falwell.
Liv knew the name. Everyone knew the name. He’d won lots of prizes for fiction back in the ’80s and ’90s and was Maine’s most famous writer… after Stephen King, of course.
Falwell’s work had been translated around the world. His short stories and essays had appeared in prominent magazines. A popular speaker, he had presented papers on the history of fantasy and science fiction literature at numerous writing programs, book conventions, and college campuses every year. He still filled auditoriums when he gave infrequent readings at Longfellow College where he taught in the creative writing program.
As Cooper breathed heavily, face suffused with color and rage, Liv recoiled. His claims seemed highly improbable. Was this guy stable? She glanced over his shoulder. Cooper stood between her and the exit. Best to let him have his say, hand him her card, and give him the standard brush-off.
“You’re Mason Falwell’s student?”
“Yes. Or I was. He was my advisor, that ambulatory shell of a decaying has-been!”
“Well, you trash-talk like a writer, I’ll give you that much.”
He glared at her, clenching his fists. “You think I’m crazy?”
“I’m sorry, but this is very hard to believe. Why would Falwell steal your story?”
“Because he hasn’t written anything for years!” Cooper shoved his hands into his pockets, hunched his shoulders. “Look, I know it’s hard to believe, but it’s true. He was my MFA advisor. My mentor. I’d been revising my manuscript for months. Falwell said the story needed work but was promising. He gave me notes and suggestions. He encouraged me! Next thing I know, he’s announcing this new book deal. I’m telling you, it’s my story.”
“Did you confront him?”
“Of course I did…”
The coat check attendant pushed into the room, a ticket in her hand. “You two about done in here? People are starting to leave.” She reached behind Cooper for a coat.
“Yes. Just one more minute. Thank you so much.”
“Hurry it up, then.”
Liv turned back to Cooper. “So, in a nutshell, what happened?”
“When I accused him, he denied everything. I went to the head of the department, the dean, the president of the university. Falwell claimed I was delusional. I went to the college paper, and they wrote a story. Next thing you know, the editor of the paper’s fired, and I’m kicked out of the program. The whole thing’s swept under the rug.” His jaw clenched and unclenched a couple of times. “I worked almost two years on that novel and my degree, and now I have nothing to show for any of it. No degree. No book. Nothing… except a bunch of student loans to pay back.”
“So what do you want? Have you talked to a lawyer?”
Cooper let out a mirthless laugh. “What do I want? Let’s see. Falwell’s head on a platter, for starters. Barring that, I want to sue the university for wrongful dismissal. I want credit for my work. I want my MFA. I’ve met with a lawyer, but nothing’s happened yet. He says my claims will be hard to prove. When I overheard that comment about your being a private investigator, I thought maybe you could help.” Cooper looked her in the eyes. “I don’t know what else to do.”
Liv felt a rush of sympathy. Poor kid looked lost. Looked like someone had kicked him. Repeatedly. And laughed about it. She could at least meet with him, get more details before letting him, gently, go.
Wondering if she was making a mistake, she reached into her small clutch and handed him her card. “Call me tomorrow and we’ll set up an appointment, okay?”
Cooper slid the card into his pocket. “Thank you,” he said.“Next drink’s on me. You like the sparkling, right?”
Liv lifted her glass. “Right.”
As they made their way back to the ballroom, she sipped her wine and mulled over Cooper’s story. On the surface, the case sounded like a dud, but you never knew. There might be some truth to it, no matter how far-fetched it seemed.
If there was one thing her seven years in the investigation business had taught her, it was that people did strange things and for incredibly bizarre reasons. It wasn’t totally impossible that a famous writer like Mason Falwell might steal a student’s work. Implausible, yes, but not impossible.
Besides, who could make up a story that bizarre?
Later, as she placed her empty glass on a tray and went to claim the Hamilton she’d successfully won, the answer came to her.
A writer. That’s who.