She'll never know we were here.”
A big dog barked next door, and I jumped. My stomach felt funny. "But Marian's my friend.”
We headed toward the back yard gate. Just then, Marian's fancy sports car drew up in the driveway and Harley shoved me inside the gate and shut it. We hunched down behind the fence to watch Marian, who wasn't alone. A tall, dark hunk of about my age bloomed from the passenger's side and pulled a meter-square object from the trunk before accompanying Marian inside, lugging the thing.
"Who's that?" Harley asked.
I shrugged.
"That's not a Corvette. It's a Porsche 911," Harley breathed. "What's in her garage, a Rolls Royce? I think she's our thief.”
We stood there in the dark, and soon bird-like sounds emanated vaguely from one of Marian's upstairs windows. Okay, enough. I started to creep out the gate.
"Wait." Harley was biting her lip.
"What? We're leaving. Now."
"I have to pee. Bad," she said. "I had a couple Red Bulls earlier, and …"
"Wait until we get home." I tugged her toward the car.
"I have to go now. " Harley's bladder was notorious. We'd had to get out of line so many times at Disneyland when she'd had to go and wouldn’t go alone.
Harley ran up and knocked on Marian's door. Hard.
After about ten knocks, I ran up to pull her hand away, but just then Marian peered around the door, her hair all ruffled, her pupils large. Jungle sounds and heavy drums blasted from behind her. "Oh. Rhonda?"
"I'm sorry," I began.
Harley pushed me aside. "Hi, Marian. I've heard a lot about you. We happened to be in the neighborhood, and I," her face squinched up, "need your bathroom."
I stood there, red-faced, as Harley stormed the castle and bounded up the stairs past Marian’s shocked face.
Marian reluctantly let me into her foyer. Her face was flushed and she was wearing a toga, or maybe a sheet. From the hallway, I could see a long massage table in the living room, covered in creamy sheepskin. Lit candles lined the edges of the room, on end tables, window sills, the mantelpiece. The thrumming jungle sounds and exotic candle scents conjured up Africa.
"Early Halloween party?" I said weakly. "Hey, I'm so sorry if this is a bad …"
Marian blinked her dilated eyes.
I tried another tack. "Um, we—er—were driving around discussing my book and I—Could I talk to you?"
"The phone?" Marian had found her voice.
"Well, it was just as we passed your street. Harley said, 'Hey, let's go ask Marian. She'll know.' And I said no, then she insisted …"
"Her bladder." Marian sighed.
"Marian, what can I actually do about the plagiarism? I mean I know my work's got a copyright the minute I type it on a page, but so what?"
Marian took pity on me and led me to the kitchen where we sat at her glass-top wrought iron table. Then, patting down her wild hair, she gave me a measuring look. "You need a copyright lawyer. Your work is copyrighted, but I don't think you can start a suit unless you register it first. Which could take some time. Meanwhile, the lawyer will want copies of your work and the Jackson work compared side by side."
"I just tried to buy his book. Sold out. The whole state …"
She frowned. A thump sounded overhead. We both looked up. What was taking Harley so long?
I said, "What if they're not exactly alike? Do I have any chance in hell of winning a lawsuit over this Jackson guy when I have no famous name and he's got a huge publishing corporation and a world of fans behind him?"
She put a finger to her chin. "You wrote it, right?"
"Of course." I looked her in the eye. "Every word. I swear."
"Good. Take the evidence of that—old drafts and new—to the lawyer. I'll be a witness.”
Another thump, downstairs this time.
She looked around. "I need to go check on my … cat."
She left, and I took in the cozy room. A gorgeous antique stove, warm cherry cabinets, lovely old china, with large windows looking onto her green, green garden: pure Marian. A desert highway postcard on the
A big dog barked next door, and I jumped. My stomach felt funny. "But Marian's my friend.”
We headed toward the back yard gate. Just then, Marian's fancy sports car drew up in the driveway and Harley shoved me inside the gate and shut it. We hunched down behind the fence to watch Marian, who wasn't alone. A tall, dark hunk of about my age bloomed from the passenger's side and pulled a meter-square object from the trunk before accompanying Marian inside, lugging the thing.
"Who's that?" Harley asked.
I shrugged.
"That's not a Corvette. It's a Porsche 911," Harley breathed. "What's in her garage, a Rolls Royce? I think she's our thief.”
We stood there in the dark, and soon bird-like sounds emanated vaguely from one of Marian's upstairs windows. Okay, enough. I started to creep out the gate.
"Wait." Harley was biting her lip.
"What? We're leaving. Now."
"I have to pee. Bad," she said. "I had a couple Red Bulls earlier, and …"
"Wait until we get home." I tugged her toward the car.
"I have to go now. " Harley's bladder was notorious. We'd had to get out of line so many times at Disneyland when she'd had to go and wouldn’t go alone.
Harley ran up and knocked on Marian's door. Hard.
After about ten knocks, I ran up to pull her hand away, but just then Marian peered around the door, her hair all ruffled, her pupils large. Jungle sounds and heavy drums blasted from behind her. "Oh. Rhonda?"
"I'm sorry," I began.
Harley pushed me aside. "Hi, Marian. I've heard a lot about you. We happened to be in the neighborhood, and I," her face squinched up, "need your bathroom."
I stood there, red-faced, as Harley stormed the castle and bounded up the stairs past Marian’s shocked face.
Marian reluctantly let me into her foyer. Her face was flushed and she was wearing a toga, or maybe a sheet. From the hallway, I could see a long massage table in the living room, covered in creamy sheepskin. Lit candles lined the edges of the room, on end tables, window sills, the mantelpiece. The thrumming jungle sounds and exotic candle scents conjured up Africa.
"Early Halloween party?" I said weakly. "Hey, I'm so sorry if this is a bad …"
Marian blinked her dilated eyes.
I tried another tack. "Um, we—er—were driving around discussing my book and I—Could I talk to you?"
"The phone?" Marian had found her voice.
"Well, it was just as we passed your street. Harley said, 'Hey, let's go ask Marian. She'll know.' And I said no, then she insisted …"
"Her bladder." Marian sighed.
"Marian, what can I actually do about the plagiarism? I mean I know my work's got a copyright the minute I type it on a page, but so what?"
Marian took pity on me and led me to the kitchen where we sat at her glass-top wrought iron table. Then, patting down her wild hair, she gave me a measuring look. "You need a copyright lawyer. Your work is copyrighted, but I don't think you can start a suit unless you register it first. Which could take some time. Meanwhile, the lawyer will want copies of your work and the Jackson work compared side by side."
"I just tried to buy his book. Sold out. The whole state …"
She frowned. A thump sounded overhead. We both looked up. What was taking Harley so long?
I said, "What if they're not exactly alike? Do I have any chance in hell of winning a lawsuit over this Jackson guy when I have no famous name and he's got a huge publishing corporation and a world of fans behind him?"
She put a finger to her chin. "You wrote it, right?"
"Of course." I looked her in the eye. "Every word. I swear."
"Good. Take the evidence of that—old drafts and new—to the lawyer. I'll be a witness.”
Another thump, downstairs this time.
She looked around. "I need to go check on my … cat."
She left, and I took in the cozy room. A gorgeous antique stove, warm cherry cabinets, lovely old china, with large windows looking onto her green, green garden: pure Marian. A desert highway postcard on the
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