She came through my door in the early afternoon wearing a thin, summer print that flowed over her body like water. She was young and on the petite side, a bit smaller than I normally favor them, but her hair was long and the dress hinted at enough flesh to convince me that I wouldn’t be picking any bones out of my teeth when I went for my dinner.
She was pretty, too, but her pained expression reminded me of a mouthful of bad scotch and her attempt at a smile vanished faster than a jackrabbit on hump night. A small purse dangled from one arm and in the other she clutched a sheath of papers so tightly they might have been the Dead Sea Scrolls.
I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry at the sight in front of me, but it had been a slow month and I couldn’t afford to be picky about a potential client. I stood up and gave her my best smile, the one I usually reserve for the cops. “Welcome to the Conrad Detective Agency,” I said, extending my hand.
She reached for it and the sheath of papers slipped from her arms and splashed onto the floor in front of my desk. She groaned and bent down to pick them up, giving me a glimpse of cinnamon skin that was definitely choice. She gathered up the papers into her arms and stood, catching sight of my battered old Smith-Corona.
“Oh,” she said, staring at it. Her gaze shifted to me. “Are you a writer?”
My cheeks felt a little hot. “Yes,” I admitted. I quickly added, “When I’m not solving cases, that is.”
Her eyes went back to the anachronism on my file cabinet. It held a blank sheet of paper in it, kept there for those moments when inspiration struck. Like all blank sheets, it looked lonely. I’m not sure what I expected, maybe for her to ask me what I wrote about. That’s what people usually asked, if they asked at all. But she surprised me. She set the papers down and said:
“Writers are such sick fucks, aren’t they?”
The words came out in a rush, as though she’d been holding them back through sheer force of will and now expelled them onto my desk, the way a bulimic might toss up a slice of pizza. But if she meant to shock, she must have been disappointed in my reaction, or lack of one. The truth was, I couldn’t argue with her statement.
“What I mean is,” she went on, “writers write these stories. And then you read them and before you know it, you’re sucked in. And pretty soon, unless you’re very careful, you don’t know what time it is, or what day it is, or where you are, or even who you are. All you know is that you’ve got to read that next line, and that next page. You’ve got to know how it ends.” She shook her head. “Now what kind of a person can make you do that?”
“A truly sick fuck,” I agreed, laughing. “And, unfortunately, there’s not enough of them to go around. Or haven’t you checked out the Best-Seller lists lately?” I leaned forward. “But when you find one that you can’t stop reading, doesn’t that make you the sick fuck?”
“I guess so,” she laughed, the blush coarsening her delicate features. “But it’s still the writer’s fault.”
“Touché.” I gestured to the jumble of papers she clutched. “Now then, what can I do for you, Mrs. –“ She hesitated a moment, perhaps wondering how I knew she was married, when the rock she sported on her left hand had to be worth at least a couple years rent on my office.
“Vawdrey,” she said finally, “Claire Vawdrey.”
“Now then, Mrs. Vaw—“
“Claire, please.”
“Claire,” I repeated, motioning for her to sit down. “What can I do for you?”
She sat, the cotton fabric of her dress embracing her like a lover. “Mr. Conrad, I need your help.” She kept her eyes averted, which was fine with me because I couldn’t help staring at her squirming breasts. Finally, she thrust the papers at me and said, “Perhaps it would be simpler if you just looked at these first.”
I picked up the pages and ruffled through them without looking at the contents. They weren’t numbered but a casual guess put them around fifty. The lines were double-spaced and the uniformity of the lettering told me they’d been inputted on a computer or word-processor and then printed out on a laser printer, using a standard font. Probably Times New Roman, from the look of it.
I flipped back to page one and read about halfway down the page before skipping to the next page. I read most of that page and then skipped forward again, three or four pages this time. After a few more minutes of skimming, I put the folder down. Her gaze was expectant.
“Not bad,” I admitted, “if you like that sort of thing. The descriptions are vivid, the sentence structure varied and easy to follow; offhand, I’d say whoever wrote this has the makings of a very sick fuck indeed. Of course, like most everything in the genre, it tends to get repetitive. There are only so many ways you can say ‘fuck’ and ‘suck’ and ‘come’.” Her eyes held steady on my face. “Why don’t you tell me what’s bothering you, Claire?”
“Well, Mr. Conrad –“
“Joe.” I held up the papers. “After reading this, I think we can dispense with the formalities, don’t you?”
“Joe.” Her blush returned. “What’s bothering me is what’s on those pages.”
“Why?”
She took a deep breath and I expected another torrent of words, but again she surprised me. “I suppose you’ve already guessed that I am the woman being written about.”
I nodded. The descriptions were not only vivid, but judging from the way her body bunched and trembled beneath her dress, extremely accurate.
“Isn’t that reason enough?”
“Not necessarily. I know a number of women who, while they might not care for the graphic nature of the material, would love to be admired the way this author clearly admires you.”
“That’s just it, don’t you see? I don’t know who the author is! And even if I did, I’m not interested in this kind of admiration.” She put up her hand. “And before you ask, the answer is no, I haven’t done any of the things this person has written about me.”
“What does your husband think about this? Or does he know?”
“Yes, he knows. I have no secrets from him. He is just as perplexed as I am. In fact…” Her voice trailed off.
