Unsigned (Booklovers) - Softcover

Julie Kaewert first indulged her fascination with book publishing by taking the Radcliffe Publishing Procedures Course in 1981. She then worked for book publishers in Boston and London before starting her writing career with a London magazine. Her series of mysteries for booklovers has topped mystery bestseller lists around the country. She is the author of Unprintable, Uncatalogued, Unsigned, Unbound, Unsolicited, and Untitled.

Chapter 1

Now there lived overseas
In the land of the Geats a youth of valiance abounding,
Mightiest yet mildest of men, his name Beowulf,
Who, hearing of Grendel [was] minded to destroy him...
— Beowulf

The moment before the bullet struck, I was glaring at a journalist I didn't like over a cup of coffee I didn't want. At eleven o'clock on this Saturday night,I was meant to be sipping champagne next door at the literary event of the year; instead, I had just burnt my tongue. The lights of the Meridien Hotel opposite twinkled gaily, illuminating this stretch of Piccadilly as its flags flapped to and fro in the October gale. It was the opening night of National Book Week, and it wasn't supposed to happen this way.

"Let me get this straight, Nathan," I said, replacing my cup on its saucer with studied composure. "You expect me to believe that Trevor Gravesend -- owner of Britain's most eminent publishing company and president of the Publishers Association — had his star author murdered to increase sales?"

Before answering, Nathan Griffith sucked hard on a cigarette, his fingers shaking, and cast suspicious glances at the few others populating the coffee bar. Nate, a staff writer for Britain's publishing and bookselling organ, the Bookseller, looked more gaunt than usual. The twenty-something journalist was cursed with an old man's body: his prematurely wrinkled face, ashen from frightening excesses of nicotine and alcohol, was sadly consistent with his balding pate and cadaverous frame. With the hand holding the cigarette he raked a few tenacious hairs across the top of his head and blew smoke to one side.

"I don't like it any more than you do, Plumtree. But that anonymous caller was very serious indeed. It could have happened as he said. Think about it: Gravesend was quite concerned about Montague's book, between the obscene advance he had to pay, and its wandering nature. You saw the reviews. And the title! I mean, really — Beowulf's Blood? What could Gravesend have been thinking of?" Out of habit, Nate fingered the terrifically tattered and grimy notebook he dragged with him everywhere for recording industry secrets.

I stifled my irritation, vowing to give Nate a badly needed lesson in literature — and no more than three minutes of my time. It was beyond me why Nate had chosen me as his father confessor. "Actually, Beowulf strikes me as a rather nice association for a novel about a monstrous serial killer — noble Beowulf versus the hideous Grendel, the timeless battle of good versus evil. You're an avid Trekkie — don't you discuss this very sort of thing at your Star Trek sci-fi conferences? Use your common sense, Nate. McKinley Montague's signing takes place in less than an hour. Why haven't we heard anything about the author's tragic death? Besides, to make such an accusation about Trevor Gravesend — of all people — on the basis of an anonymous caller ... really, Nathan, you should be more careful. Perhaps your libel law needs swotting up."

"Plumtree, listen to me." Nathan looked ready to jump out of his skin in his desperation to convince me. "Please! Try for once to expect the worst in someone. Someone who stands to lose a hell of a lot if he doesn't have a best-seller in his pocket on his way to the Frankfurt Book Fair and Merger Mania. Someone who cares about money more than—"

Crack! Instinctively, I raised my arm to shield my face from the cascade of glass that rained down next to me. The deafening collapse of the window seemed to carry on and on, as if all the glass in Piccadilly had just shattered at my elbow. Sheets and shards exploded into a million pieces, flying in all directions and tinkling endlessly onto the marble floor of the small establishment.

In the next moment, all was eerily quiet. I looked across at Nathan, who appeared stunned but unhurt.

A bullet. Through the window. I knew the sound all too well.

Reaching across the table, I shoved Nathan down by his shoulder. We scrambled down on our hands and knees, unsuccessfully avoiding the sharp shards of glass as we sought protection beneath the absurdly small table. Nate reached up and groped for his precious notebook; he found it and clutched it to his chest.

I caught Nate's eye. If the bullet had been intended to silence him, then perhaps it was true: England's most respected publishing house had literally killed to sell books. Good Lord.

But how had they got on to Nate? Someone must have followed us. ... Quickly, I thought back over the rather extraordinary few minutes that had preceded Nate's appearance that evening.

The excitement had begun as Nicola Beauchamp, my trade editor, and I were making our way through the windy night to a bookshop grand opening and signing party. Bang in the middle of Piccadilly Circus, a vicious October gale whipped Nicola's skirt up round her waist and held it there. She'd whooped in surprise and fought to clamp it down again, but not before I'd caught a glimpse of her rather stunning legs (and equally noteworthy knickers). Though I failed to stifle a smile, I did avert my eyes — only to see an approaching cluster of yobbos gesturing lewdly at poor Nicola and calling out surprisingly creative compliments. I'd reached down to put an arm round my diminutive employee's shoulders, drawing her close as the louts passed.

When the danger was gone, I dropped my arm again and tried to alleviate her embarrassment. "I'm curious to see what Wellbrook's Books has made of the old Simpson's building. Bit of a challenge to imagine New Fiction in men's haberdashery."

"I'll say. But all that white marble and glass should set off the books nicely. What I find hard to imagine is the idea of a midnight signing. What sort of a turnout can they possibly expect?" My dignified, petite, very literary editor and I were on our way to a coveted champagne reception celebrating the official opening of the grandest new bookshop in Britain — a superstore on the American model, complete with gourmet coffee bar. Everyone was desperately curious to see the transformation of the elegant institution formerly known as Simpson's, where Britain's upper classes had purchased their clothes for generations, into the Wellbrook chain's flagship store.

But the real highlight of the evening was to be a signing by McKinley Montague, the most sensational novelist in Britain and author of a new serial-killer chiller. Wellbrook's had thoughtfully timed both its opening and Montague's signing to coincide with the launch of National Book Week, now moved to autumn from spring. Personally, I thought it should be moved right back again, because it was too close to the Frankfurt Book Fair, beginning at the very end of this same week. Bit of a cock-up in the NBW planning department.

At the same moment I'd heard Nate's high-pitched voice calling from behind us — Plumtree! Wait! — Nicola and I found ourselves caught in the vortex of a small tornado of dried leaves and dust. We stopped in our tracks, Nicola clamping her arms round her thighs prudently as I shut my eyes against a hail of grit. In retrospect, as a publisher of books, I see that dirty little whirlwind as a bit of foreshadowing by the Omniscient Narrator in the Sky — the rather obvious sort used by the gooseflesh-generating McKinley Montague. A dirty little whirlwind was about to sweep away British publishing as we knew it . . . but who'd have suspected that such malignant and unsuspected forces would be at work in our gentle world of books?

Quite right — I should have suspected.

When the whirlwind subsided I blinked half of London out of my contact lenses and glimpsed Nathan Griffith jogging toward us, famous notebook in hand ... Nathan, who never jogged anywhere, and who had written a rather flattering profile of Plumtree Press for the most recent issue of the Bookseller. He caught us up with a disturbing gasp for breath.

"Nathan! You know Nicola Beauchamp, don't you?" They nodded at one another in greeting and we continued to battle our way down Piccadilly. Between the short, intense young journalist panting on my right and tiny Nicola, I felt a veritable giant. At six foot four, I tower over most people and often worry that it is intimidating.

"Big night for bookselling news," I shouted cheerfully to Nathan. Ahead of us, the rabble queued for entry to the daringly innovative midnight signing while the bigwigs of the book world walked past them through the door, presenting their invitations to the reception.

"You don't know the half of it," Nate wheezed. "Alex, I need to talk to you. Alone," he added pointedly, with an obvious glance at Nicola. And so, though I wasn't eager to hear Nathan's latest conspiracy theory regarding the acquisition of publishing companies, I'd agreed to a quick chat. Given his recent complimentary profile of the Press, I felt it would be rude not to do as he asked.

I left Nicola at the Simpson's — I mean Wellbrook's — glowing glass front, which shone like the sun onto Piccadilly and revealed acres of white marble floor within. It was disconcerting, as I'd suspected, to look through the doors and see a table of books labelled "New Fiction" where there had always, as long as I could remember, been a mannequin sporting a mackintosh and a brolly. A bit wistfully, I followed Nate as he oozed down the street, gliding away from the party with a liquid motion that always made me feel he was trying to slip away from someone.

Drawing up next to him, I teased, "Okay, Nate — what is it now?" Privately, I was amused by his perpetual assumption that something sinister lurked behind every publishing deal, and every bookcase in the corner shop. But he glanced back as if convinced we were being watched, and without answering did a swift double-take before thrusting me through the door of the coffee bar.

Was that it, I thought now, under the table with Nate? Had someone followed us from Wellbrook's?
No fusillade of bullets had followed the single shot over our table; no gun-toting assassins lurked in the street outside. The rotund, mustachioed coffee shop proprietor seemed stunned, gaping out from behind his massive stainless steel Italian coffee machine. His young washer-up, however, sporting rings through every conceivable (and inconceivable, no doubt) bit of flesh, seemed to instantly assess the situation and take charge.

Voices began to surge around us, and the ultrahip dishwasher shouted at the half-dozen dazed patrons to stay down as he rushed from behind the worktop to the phone. I saw that the bullet had lodged in a framed photograph of Piccadilly at the turn of the century, a site uncannily close to where the coffee bar now stood. With a creeping certainty I felt the attack had not been a random act of violence. That bullet had been intended for Nathan ... or perhaps for me. Heaven knew I'd been involved in enough political and publishing intrigue to last a lifetime. Either way, we had to get out of there fast. Someone knew where we were, and we were very exposed indeed.

"Come on," I hissed to Nathan. We slipped and slid on the glass, which skated along under us as we struggled to our feet. Everyone seemed too distracted to pay much attention as I pulled him to the rear of the shop. I opened the exit door and glanced both ways down the narrow, pungent alley. "Let's get you out of here," I breathed, and tugged him past polyethylene bags full of rubbish down to the corner and into Jermyn Street, utterly deserted at this hour. I kept moving past the dark shops of antiquated tailors into St James's Square, past the London Library, and down towards Pall Mall. At last I ducked into the shadows of a recessed doorway, the offices of a well-known software company, and Nathan stumbled up to me. His face was grey.

"So," he said, wheezing horribly. "They're after me" — gasp — "at last." His feeble attempt at humour was tragic; his chuckle ended in a frightening coughing fit. "Always thought this might happen — " Wheeze. "Bound to." Gasp. "My career — " Wheeze. "Built on other people's dirt." He glanced up at me and winced. "You've blood — on your face — Plumtree. Bits — of window glass."

"You, too, I'm afraid." As we stood huddled in the doorway collecting ourselves, Nathan reached inside his pocket and drew out a folded tissue. He began to wipe at his face with one hand, while reaching for his packet of cigarettes with the other. Odd, I reflected, how we resort to routine activities — clean the face, light the cigarette — to escape the terror of more disconcerting thoughts. I suddenly felt simultaneously sweaty and cold. Concentrate, Alex....

I latched on to the possibility that the shot was not deliberately targetted at Nathan. It would be much less disturbing — and perhaps more reasonable — to believe that it had been a random act of violence. Sadly, those were not as uncommon as they used to be. But try as I might, I couldn't persuade myself the shot hadn't been intentional. As I folded Nathan's tissue over to a clean surface and began to wipe the blood off my face, I felt sharp stabs of pain where tiny bits of glass had lodged in my skin. I brushed them off and counted myself lucky indeed.

Though he still hadn't caught his breath, I watched in amazement as Nathan groped for a lighter. "Alex," he said around the fag, stuffing the rest of the packet away again.

"Mmm?"

The cigarette trembled so violently in his hand that I felt a wave of pity for him. "Watch yourself," he said. "They know I was talking to you."

They. "Nate, who are 'they'? And come to think of it, why did you tell me?"

He took a greedy drag of his cigarette, then lifted it out of his mouth. A wry, shaky smile began at one corner. "Because you're a bloody superman, Plumtree, aren't you? I mean, look at you, for heaven's sake. You're known for getting to the bottom of this sort of thing."

"Hardly. But I do think we should ring the police. After that call you received—"

"You wouldn't do that to me, would you? 'Nate Griffith is helping the police with their enquiries, as the only person with information pertaining to the murder of McKinley Montague?' Come on, Alex."

"Nathan, you received a tip about a murder. And someone might have just tried to kill you!"

"I know it. But I have my reasons, and I'm not ringing the police."

I sighed. Strictly speaking, after gunfire one is obliged to call the police ... but I supposed the omni-pierced dishwasher had done that. Meanwhile, time was creeping on ... not only was Nicola waiting for me at the party, but I wanted to find out what would happen at Wellbrook's. Would McKinley Montague appear or not?

First I'd have to find a safe place to leave Nathan — if I could persuade him to stay away.

"You will agree that it's too dangerous for you to appear at Wellbrook's?"

He exhaled a cloud of smoke and nodded. "I'd dearly love to go and investigate. But ... you're right. That bullet was close enough."

"Come with me, then. I've an idea." I hailed a taxi on the Mall, enduring the driver's curious glances at our imperfectly cleaned faces, and climbed out at a rather special place just off Berkeley Square in Curzon Street.

"Botkin's?!" Nate exclaimed, turning to me with an incredulous frown. "What on earth are we doing at Botkin's?"

I unlocked the door to the narrow little building, one of London's finest jewels of a bookshop — an institution, in fact — and let him in. I switched on the lights, and we took in the lovely wooden round table in the hallway, piled with contemporary fiction. Beyond that was a seating area in front of the large and elegantly fronted fireplace, where Botkin's customers used...