“But how would they get in, and how did anyone get my private cellphone number?”
“Oh, hey, maid?” I twisted a curious expression to Beth, returning from the bathroom with her face washed and her pajamas on. The clean face, sure—but I was amazed she could completely change her clothes without assistance. Impressive and admirable, though I would never say so. I understood the importance of personal independence, especially for those with special needs.
“I’m here for the Literary Laurels Convention and, darn it—silly me—I accidentally locked myself out of my room. Could you please open the door for me?” She presented us with a helpless, pleading expression and batted her lashes. “Then, once inside, she walks over to the table, slips her own keycard out of her pocket pretending she’d just picked it up, and flashes both it and a grin at the maid standing at the door. ‘Thank you so much!’ And that’s probably how it happened.”
“No wonder Tammy is such a successful author with you running her business,” I commented. “Do you engage in ploys like that often?”
Beth laughed, and Tammy beamed at her in appreciation.
“My sweetheart doesn’t need subterfuge to be successful. She’s a fabulous writer,” Beth replied.
“Aspen’s right, honey. I’d be nothing without you.” The love vibes were suddenly so powerful in the air that I wished I could retreat and give them the room. Instead, Beth joined us, and Tammy took her hand. “Back to the suspects.”
“Yeah, all three hundred twenty-one of them.” I rolled my eyes. “Minus the three of us, Catherine—oh, the look on her face! I hope the police find the perpetrator before she does. And I’m going to cross off Winter and Elaine, because really?”
“I’m with you,” Beth concurred. “We’re looking for someone who devolved after she felt you spurned her advances.”
“Unless that’s merely an excuse,” Tammy ventured. “If it is a jealous competitor, the motive is to gaslight you, drive you crazy, so you’ll stop writing sapphic romances which take readers and recognition away from her.”
“I don’t believe it works that way,” I professed. “We can all win together. Some of these reading freaks—and, honestly,The Guinness Book of World Recordsneeds to be keeping track of them—can consume a book a day or even two in a day. It boggles my mind! It’s like these readers have been starved for so long to have stories about women loving women that they can’t grab them up fast enough. And competition just helps us ensure we stay at the top of our game, so our readers can get better novels and short stories. Just because someone buys my book doesn’t mean they won’t buy yours too.”
“Hey, I agree with you,” Tammy asserted. “Catherine and I were talking about this just a couple of years ago, how the sapphic fiction market has exploded almost overnight. It used to be only a handful of authors were active in the genre, and now there are hundreds, with some truly excellent ones leading the charge. At the same time, the number of readers buying lesbian and other sapphic fiction has surged. So, yes, we can all succeed together, and nobody’s piece of the pie is diminished by the influx of additional up-and-coming authors.”
“However.” Beth lifted her index finger. “Not everyone is of the same mind as you and my sweetie. Some more established authors could view you as a threat.”
“Out of the seventy-one writers in attendance, forty-nine are finalists for an award,” Tammy recited. “Another twenty-five authors unable to attend are also finalists, but we’ll exclude them from the suspect list.”
“Elaine is a finalist for Young Adult Fiction, as it was a smaller category than Fantasy and she thought she’d have a better shot at winning,” Beth said. “Winter doesn’t have a finalistyet, but she’s working up to it. Still, neither would be in direct competition with you.”
Tammy wiggled fingers into her back pocket and fished out a tattered, folded copy of the schedule. “Let’s see who is,” she stated with resolve and unfolded the creased, frayed packet of pages. “You are a finalist in three categories. The others are …”
We looked over the list while Tammy rattled off all the names. Some were legendary, others I had seen on covers and in group chats, and a few names I didn’t recognize at all. Any of them could be SapphicLover69 or none of them.
Despite our serious discussion, Winter’s fierce protectiveness of me kept resurfacing in my awareness, and it spawned a thought. “What about spouses, partners, and significant others? They might see themselves as fighting off a potential threat to their loved one.”
“There are forty-two of those,” Beth said, adding, “and sixteen more in the industry, including publishers, editors, consultants, twelve artist types, and five representing marketing agencies.”
“I don’t see why any of those would be out to get me,” I responded. “I don’t see why anyone would. What about readers?”
“A hundred and seventy-five avid fans of sapphic fiction signed up to attend and, according to Catherine, only one didn’t show,” Tammy supplied. “I think we need to be wary of anyone who we spy giving Aspen angry looks or who fawns over her too much. Either could be a sign.” Turning to me, she asked, “Have you decided which events you’re attending tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” I answered weakly. “But I don’t want you changing your plans to babysit me.”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous!” Beth laughed. “We’ve been to so many of these things, no one has anything to say we haven’t already heard. But you agreed you wanted to attend the panelon dealing with book pirates because that’s a current, pressing issue.”
“You bet. I wouldn’t miss it. It’s just—”
“Enough quibbling,” Tammy declared. “And that cute, little Winter will be stuck to you like glue all day tomorrow too, so get used to it.”
“Has she talked to you about me?” I asked, purely out of curiosity, certainly not out of personal interest.
Tammy grinned, and Beth blushed.
“What did she say?”
“Oh, the usual,” Tammy threw out vaguely. “She admires your writing, loves your imagination, thinks the sun rises and sets simply because you’re in the world.”
I lowered my head, feeling extremely inadequate. “She’s just infatuated with Aspen Wolfe. She doesn’t know me; nobody does.”
