58. The Agatha Christie-ish reveal

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So here’s what was happening while I blogged about Grossology and three women in a bar.

Remember I was thinking about motive?  And that there was no apparent motive for the murder of the booksellers. Except when it came to the killing of Barbara at Grapes of Wrath.

Her ex-husband, Bill Franks, had motive.   With her death, Bill got back his beloved Grapes of Wrath bookstore.  Along with its celebrity customers.  And the free lunches, dinners, and drinks from all the visiting sales reps.  And free flights to publishing conferences and the nice hotels, good meals, and welcomed drinks that go with those.

And my stupid map?  I kept looking at it.  And it slowly dawned on me.  Once off the first ferry in the morning, it would be a day trip from Martha’s Vineyard to the New Hampshire bookstore. Same with the Maine bookstore.  And a simple overnighter for the Ligonier bookstore.

The thing is, if Bill just killed his wife, he’d obviously be a suspect.  But if she was just another in a string of bookseller killings....

Assume Bill was reading this blog (quite likely). So he’d know about James Doyle being pissed-off at me all those years ago.  He could rig the killings to make it look like a crazed Doyle was doing them. 

Better yet, Bill would legitimize that angle by causing me to post about the killings on this blog.  How? I blogged that I was headed out to my beloved hometown bookstore. And Bill rightly assumed I’d drop in on the town’s one bookstore.

I walked right into it. I went full-in on the James Doyle angle.  I even promoted it.  God, I’m such a jerk!

Also, my posting about the New England road trips with Alan probably suggested to Bill the killings in New Hampshire and Maine.  Damn me, damn me, damn me!

Sigh, if only Bill, as George Gibson mentioned, would have pursued those children’s books he wanted to write. 

I was going to post about all this in real time. You know, allow Bill to read what I figured out.  Then I’d jump on my publishing soap box and scream out something like, “Bill!  You can’t stop me!  I’m a publisher!  I can’t be threatened!  Just like with the case of my killer buddies from college, us book publishers will pursue the dissemination of truth!”

And all six of my blog readers would say, “Wow, Jess.  So impressive!”

But reality kicked in.  If I was right, Bill was nuts and dangerous.  And I do have a family.  I think back to how Freeman’s dog was killed, and his car torched.

So I phoned good old Ligonier Police Chief Jim, told him that I had AGAIN solved the killings (remember that I also solved it when confidently declaring that James Doyle was the killer).  Surely among the police in Ligonier, New Hampshire, Martha’s Vineyard, and Maine they’d find common fingerprints or DNA that would match up with Bill.

And that’s what happened over the last couple of days.

Bill was taken into custody at his store.  James Taylor was there at the time.  As police escorted the hand-cuffed bookseller out of the store, Bill screamed “I’m innocent!”  Nodding his head toward Taylor, Bill yelled, “He’ll write a song about this.  You’ll be in big trouble.”

I’d like to use a bunch of exclamation points about how I SOLVED IT!!!!!! 

But a lot of good that’ll do those murdered booksellers.  Damn me and the crap this stupid blog causes. 

Tomorrow:  The End

57. Three women are at a bar

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The first says, “So yeah, I make about $300,000 a year after taxes.”

Second says, “What do you do for a living?”

First replies, “I’m a stockbroker.  How much do you make?”

Second answers, “I should clear $160,000.  I’m an architect.”

The two of them turn to a third woman, who is quietly staring into her beer, and ask her how much she makes per year.

Third woman says, “About $3,000.”

First says, “Oh yeah?  What kind of stories do you write?”

That works!

Tomorrow:   At last! It’s time for the Agatha Christie-ish reveal

56. Grossology

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I called Ligonier Police Chief Jim.  Stuff’s happening.  But I’ve been warned not to post any of it.  As I suspected, it looks like one of you folks reading this blog is the killer.  (I’m about as lucky at this blogging stuff as I was at the high school dating stuff.)

Anyway, yesterday, I mentioned Jack Keely, the guy I’m working with on a children’s book series.  

And whose handy mystery writing guidelines look like they’re going to help me nail a real killer. 

Jack and I first met when I hired him to illustrate a book I was publishing:  Grossology: The Science of Really Gross Things.

I had a children’s imprint (at Penguin).  My Planet Dexter imprint published unexpected-one-of-a-kind, kid-appealing, parent-approved, stealth-learning books.

It was a wonderful enterprise. A solid backlist was forming, foreign language deals were coming in, and we sold school-book club/fair rights on every book to either Scholastic or Troll. 

And with our staff doing most of the writing, we weren’t sharing rights income 50/50 with an external author.  All of that income wonderfully fell right to our bottom line. 

Then one day a brilliant manuscript arrived to my in-box. Its author was Sylvia Branzei and the title of her proposed book was Grossology: The Science of Really Gross Things.

Sylvia, an educator, had conceived of the perfect life sciences book.

Instead of teaching kids about their bodies via a predictable and boring presentation, she started her teaching units with gross things like farts, burps, bad breath, smelly feet, stinky armpits, and pimples.

And once her students were crazily engaged, she worked back to the science behind the grossness. 

We luckily found Jack and merged Sylvia’s text with his brilliant art.  I nearly fainted when seeing the first sample pages, they were so perfect, as if the publishing gods had intended the marriage.

And then we put fake (joke shop) vomit on the book’s cover.  Oh boy, oh boy, if ever a book was going to get spotted in a crowded bookstore, this was it! 

And if ever there was a book that kids would beg their parents to take to the cash register.  This could be huge!

So with great hope and enthusiasm, the sales team went out to take orders.

And the response?  A DISASTER!

This (above) is porno according to Walmart.

Bookstores refused to stock it, saying, “We don’t sell books with vomit on them.”  WTF? Where did that policy come from?  Has anybody else ever before pitched you a book with fake vomit on it?  How the hell do you have a policy for that?!  I hate stuff like that.

Walmart wouldn’t take it.  Said it was pornographic, citing an illustration of a bare butt. To hell with them.

At the end of the day, the critical retailer was Barnes & Noble.  If they’d stock it, other bookstores would have to come on board.  They couldn’t afford to lose sales to B&N. 

I much admired the B&N buyer, but something about the book made her nervous.

As always, the pressure was on the buyer to maximize the margin on the shelf space she was responsible for.  I.e., just what margin was she earning off of each foot of shelf space she bought for?  The determining formula included 1) discount from publisher, 2) co-op marketing dollars from publisher, 3) retail price, and 4) inventory turnover.  If the cookbook buyer or the travel buyer made a higher margin per foot on their shelves, then the children’s buyer would lose shelves to those other buyers.  Retailing is not for the faint of heart.

The B&N buyer kept refusing to stock Grossology.  Damn it!  I so believed in it.  If we could just get it into stores, if kids could just see it, I absolutely knew it would take off.  It was time to step up to that conviction.

I called the buyer.  I told her I’d send her 300 free copies of Grossology.  She didn’t have to spend a cent.  I’d pay the shipping. If the book bombed, just trash them.  Grossology retailed for $15.  If she sold 300, she’d clear $4,500.  That margin could not be beat.  She hesitated…then agreed. 

I pushed a bit more.  I wanted it in the window of the Fifth Avenue store in Manhattan.

Another 50 free books got me that.  We shipped the 350 books to B&N.

Just two days after those 350 books arrived at B&N, our sales rep walked into my office holding up a fax.  “Order for 2,500 units of Grossology from B&N.”  We smiled and high-fived.  Four days later he walks in again, “Another 5,000 books from B&N.” 

Our sales manager got on the phone to the sales team and told them what B&N was doing. They all called all their accounts.  Within 24 hours, orders started pouring in from the other accounts.  (But never from Walmart. Like I said, to hell with them.) And we started re-printing the book as fast as we could.

Within a month Grossology hit the New York Times bestseller list and stayed there for a year. 

Its success grew:

• into a series—Animal Grossology with fake bird poop on the cover, Grossology Begins at Home with a rubber cockroach on the cover, etc.

• a Grossology museum exhibit traveled to science museums all over the world (and still does)

• an animated series showed up on TV

• Sylvia toured (and still does) North America, visiting schools, science museums, and conferences.

Grossology was one of the biggest hits of the decade and a Top Ten moment in my career.  Damn proud of it and the team behind it. 

Thanks, Jack. And thanks, a second time for that mystery writing help.

Tomorrow:  Why isn’t it, “Three women are at a bar.”

55. Thinking about motive

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I’m working with colleague and friend Jack Keely on developing a children’s book series.  I’m smiling as I type that sentence because it’s the best thing I’ve ever worked on.  Really.  But it’s now in submission to several publishing houses so I can’t say much about it.  But here’s a hint:

Anyway, Jack’s written a couple of quietly published mysteries.  And is always working on another one that he hopes might find a home with a larger and more commercial house.

I mentioned to Jack that I too am playing around with writing a mystery.  Sadly, I’ve been playing for more than 25 years.  Really, mine may be the most often abandoned manuscript in history. 

Jack works hard at his mysteries.  He reads books about writing mysteries.  He pays for online classes about writing mysteries.  He outlines his books, takes lots of notes, follows all the rules.  Very disciplined.

Whereas I just open up a Word document and start typing until I have to pee or a Steelers game comes on.  Been doing that for over 25 years.

So Jack kindly sent me his short and simple guide to writing a mystery.  I now keep it right next to my computer. I set my coffee on it, scribble notes on its back, spill gin on it, and sometimes even refer to it:

See that second step?  Motive.

That got me to thinking. What’s the motive for these bookseller killings?  Who benefits from each of their deaths? 

Laurie had no immediate family or business partner.  She left everything—bank account, dishes, clothing, and her bookstore—to an aunt who doesn’t read.  And it’s not like somebody wanted that retail space—there’s no demand for storefronts in Ligonier.  No motive there.  Nothing. 

From what I can tell via a few phone calls and an hour of poking around online, same goes for the dead booksellers in New Hampshire and Maine.  No family, or a disinterested family.  The victims had businesses that bordered on hobby, they were barely vibrant enterprises.  There were no hidden vaults in their stores’ basements and no million-dollar Gutenberg bibles in their used book section.  No motives there.  Nothing.

I keep thinking about motive.

Then I go back to my stupid map of the Northeastern states (btw, those mapmakers really seem to like Canada). 

Bingo!

I think I’ve got it.

But I can’t risk posting it right now

Time for a call to Ligonier Police Chief Jim.

Tomorrow:  We’ll see.

54. Jury duty

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Remember my posting several days ago about my Lawyers & Other Reptiles book?  20 years after its publication I got called to jury duty in New York City. 

I’m good with jury duty.  It’s the right thing to do.  I’m a good citizen.  But there were personal issues this time.  I couldn’t get stuck on a jury.

I showed up. I got called onto a potential jury.  The two lawyers explained the case, wanting to make sure that there were no conflicts of interest for us potential jurors.  This was the last chance to pull out of the jury.  I listened carefully.  Nothing. Not even a hint of conflict.

Then the attorneys called for a coffee break and announced that if any of us had cause not to be on the jury and were uncomfortable with speaking in front of the other jurors, now was the time to talk directly, and in confidence, with the attorneys.

For about 30 minutes, I had been working on a Lawyers & Other Reptiles strategy.  Perhaps I could explain how I wrote an unkind book about lawyers and certainly that causes me to arrive with prejudices to any argument that the attorneys might make.

I approached the two attorneys. 

“I think there might be a problem with my serving as a juror.”

They frowned.  They didn’t need this crap.  They’d heard all the bullshit stories.

“See, I wrote an unkind book about lawyers.  It was called ‘Lawyers and Other Reptiles,” and I—

“You wrote ‘Lawyers & Other Reptiles!’” He grinned like crazy, “I’ve got that on my desk!”

“Me too!” the other jumped in, “I can’t believe you’re that guy.  You’re a legend!  I must have bought twenty of those.”

“My daughter has one in her office,” proudly said the other.

“Darn it,” said the other, “wish I had my copy with me.  Be great to have you sign it,” he smiled.

Then one looked at the other and both nodded.  They turned back to me and said, “I don’t think we’ll be needing your services.  We’ll see that you’re excused.”

Lawyers, you gotta love ‘em.

Tomorrow:  Thinking about motive

53. Robert Parker, Stephen King, and me

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Around 1978, I discovered Robert Parker’s Spenser books.  He had me by the 800th word of The Godwulf Manuscript. 

He stayed my favorite author for 30 years (a large chunk of my life) until he suddenly died, writing at his desk, in his Cambridge (MA) home, in 2010.

Spenser was a Boston-based private eye who supposedly lived on the same block as me, who supposedly had an office just around the corner from my office, and who ran along the Charles River just like I pretended to. 

Marlborough and Gloucester Streets, Boston. The Charles River

Parker’s writing was perfectly polished, not a wasted word or syllable. Reading Parker was like eating candy. Spenser had a cool Black buddy (Hawk), a sexy Jewish girlfriend (Susan), and a smart dog (Pearl).  Just like all us guys wanted.

My late brother was also a Parker fan. (Just as he was of Berke Breathed’s Bloom County.) I treasured our long-distance bond (he lived in West Virginia) around Parker and Breathed’s work.  Writers can make that magic happen.  

A new Spenser book was coming out.  The Harvard Bookstore Cafe asked me to a pre-publication, invitation-only reception for Parker.  Cool.  I went. And Parker personalized a book for my brother.  Parker seemed like a nice guy.

Then to be polite, I hung around the bookstore.  I talked with some bearded guy off to the side by himself.  I never introduced myself, neither did he.  He wore jeans, a leather jacket, and kick-ass boots. We talked about Spenser, Hawk, Susan, and Pearl. 

Nice guy, easy to talk with.  And he sure seemed to know a lot about writing.  Finally, he excused himself, “I got a long drive up to Maine.” He slipped out the door, got on a huge motorcycle, and took off.

Then the Harvard Bookstore Café guy I knew ran over to me.  He excitedly said, “I didn’t know you knew Stephen King!” 

Holy shit.

© All Good Fund

Tomorrow:  Jury duty

52. I'm back at it!

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I again Googled Barbara Franks. 

And again news of her death came up in the Boston Globe, the Vineyard Gazette, and the book publishing journals. 

Because Barbara had a former husband who was influential in regional and national bookseller associations, and a vibrant bookstore with customers including celebrities, politicians, authors and book publishers (like gentleman George Gibson), her death had not gone unnoticed, except by me, too busy with family and cocktails in Los Angeles at the time of her killing.

I Googled Laurie and Second Chapter Books.  There are a few articles in a few western Pennsylvania newspapers, then nothing.  And nothing in the book publishing journals.  Nobody in the New York biz even knew, and sadly, probably didn’t even care about Laurie’s death.  Hers is just a small bookstore, with a limited inventory of new and used books, in a small out of the way town of 1,500.  She wasn’t newsworthy.  (That breaks my heart.) 

Then I Googled using key words like “bookseller, bookstore, killed, killing, murder.”  And holy shit, two more bookstore owners had recently been killed.  One in New Hampshire, one in Maine.  They were stores that Alan and I had called on decades ago. These stores were also small, like Laurie’s.   And thus, also not newsworthy except for a bit of local media. Those killings barely made it beyond the local police report.

There was of course no mention of tossed books written by old white guys or a mysterious manuscript found at the murder scene. I’d have to call Ligonier Police Chief Jim to see if he could check about that stuff with the police in those communities.

I printed out a map of the country’s Northeastern states. And like a TV detective, I noted where each killing took place.   Then using a ruler, drew lines that connected the location of the four bookseller murders.  It wasn’t neat and tidy or telling.  Unless the lines indicated that a well-read serial killer lived in a Waterbury (CT) backyard.

Ligonier, way out west in Pennsylvania, was the outlier, throwing everything off.  The other three killings were sort of Boston-centric.  Damn it, I hadn’t discovered a thing.

I’m stumped.

For now, I better pause on this murder stuff.  You know, let it settle, maybe a pause will allow me to think more clearly.

So back to the publishing stuff. 

Oh, and the first comment on my Lawyers & Other Reptiles posting the other day was: 

Surprised you didn’t title it “Einstein & Other Reptiles.”  I want MY royalties.

 Tomorrow:  Robert Parker, Stephen King, and me

51. I'm thinking (frightening!)

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So I found myself thinking about...

• My and my family’s move and drive back from Pittsburgh to Boston.

• My road trips with Alan Fairbanks out of Boston and into much of New England.

• The mystery I’m watching on Brit Box,

• and its classic scene with detectives at the police station in front of a map with all the murder scenes push-pinned.

I sit up.

I go to my computer.

I start to Google.

Tomorrow:  I’m back!

50. I’ve been low before, and turned to making a book

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1991 was an awful year! Until August.

We (wife/Sally, son/Max, and me) relocated to Pittsburgh so that I could launch a regional publishing company. I was so frustrated by the large bookstore chains (bullies) that were key to successfully publishing nationally.   

So instead of going wide with book distribution, I liked the idea of going deep into a local market like Pittsburgh.  I’d publish local sports, local cookbooks, local calendars, local history, local biographies, local travel guides, etc.  Then distribute and sell deep into retailers of all sorts, not just bookstores.

But I never really stepped up to the intent. 

We pulled Max from his good buddies in Cambridge (MA), my wife didn’t give a damn about Pittsburgh (good lord, she hates football!), she had a miscarriage, I wasn’t making any money, I had health issues, my nearby brother was going through a divorce, then Sally got pregnant, at last, again, but then the pregnancy immediately went critical and Sally had to do full bed rest for four months.

Every second of those four months she just laid there, no friends, no extended family, no Internet, no podcasts, just frightened she’d lose another child.  And, of course, her income was also now gone.

I had to care for my son, care for my bedridden wife, and pay the mortgage.  I tried to get a housekeeping job on the night shift at a local hospital, figuring I could do that while my son slept.  The hospital didn’t want me.  Yep, 1991 was awful.

My divorcing brother bitched about lawyers and told nasty lawyer jokes.  Oh boy, I wish there was a book to give him. A small gift book, filled with anti-lawyer quotes, jokes, anecdotes—

Holy shit!  There’s an idea.  I could do that! 

This is all pre-Internet, but I had stacks of quotation and anecdote books, including those we published at Little Brown.  And Carnegie Library had a surprisingly good collection of joke books.

I put together a manuscript, titled it Lawyers & Other Reptiles, and at some point, submitted it to Contemporary Books in Chicago (Contemporary was later sold to McGraw Hill after which Contemporary disappeared). They offered me $5,000 for it.  Holy shit!  Hell, I would have sold it for $100 to buy that week’s groceries.  I signed the contract immediately.

Meanwhile, supportive colleagues (like gentleman George Gibson and sales guru David Goehring) helped me get the Director of Marketing position at Addison-Wesley, outside of Boston, and phew, we were on our way back.  I started the Addison-Wesley job, working from Pittsburgh, on August 1, 1991. 

Our beautiful—and healthy—daughter was born on August 12.  And in October, we moved back to Boston, where we would be for the next 25 years.

(I did two trips to Addison-Wesley between August and October.  I had to find a house.  Again, this is all pre-Internet.  I met a real estate broker one morning at 8:30 a.m.  I said, “Let’s hurry, I have a marketing meeting at 11, I got to find a house by 10:30.”  I bought the third one she showed me and made it to the marketing meeting with minutes to spare.)

So, I was at Addison-Wesley when Lawyers & Other Reptiles published.  And holy hell, it took off!  Actually, the book’s not really that “mean” to lawyers.  It’s more tongue-in-cheek. Contemporary did a perfect job on the trim size, interior design, and cover. And lawyers loved it!

Sample pages, Lawyers & Other Reptiles

Firms bought it by the case, to have copies in their waiting room and on the shelf of every office in the firm. They gave it to new partners and clients.   The book hit the Boston Globe, Denver Post, San Francisco Chronicle, and Ingram bestseller lists. 

I was a bestselling author!

Tomorrow:  I’m thinking

49. Killer Doyle is NOT in custody and I’m horribly hung over

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So as promised, I called back Ligonier Police Chief Jim.

They did find James Doyle. 

He was already in custody.  Sort of. 

At Blue Sky Monastery in Colorado.  He’s a monk in training, has been there the last six months, and has not left the Monastery at all.  Not even once. 

Forty-seven fellow Jesus-loving monks will attest to that despite their vows of silence.

Holy (really!) shit!  I did not see that coming. 

It’s not Doyle!  I didn’t solve a damn thing!  He’s been walking around in a robe, not saying a thing, not reading any stupid blog, walking no further than the monastery garden, and without a typewriter or computer or Post-it note pad in sight.

So who killed Laurie and Barbara?  Who’s using stuff in my blog while running amock, tossing books around, and killing booksellers?

I’m not smart enough for this!  I’m just a Joe Average book publisher. 

And in the spirit of a Joe Average book publisher in the midst of a crisis, I grab my bottle of Dorothy Parker. Then I call the liquor store to order another, “Tell Eddie [the store’s delivery guy] to hurry.  And not wear an Einstein sweatshirt!” (Recall this post.)

Maybe I should end this blog.

Feels like I unleashed something bad.

The world won’t miss my nonsense.  And the world’s certainly worse off for Laurie and Barbara no longer being in it.

I should go back to writing my stupid books.  You know, actually pick up a couple of thousand dollars here and there.  Use that to take a trip somewhere.  I wrote (and sold to a great house) a children’s book series about a cute little bat who lives at the Joanina Library in Coibra, Portugal.  I could visit there and write off some of the trip. Portugal sounds lovely.  I should do that. 

Enough with this blog.

Tomorrow:  I’ve been low before, and turned to making a book

48. Vanessa calls, Jim calls, and I've just about got this one solved!

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My book publishing blog, with murder mysteries woven through it.

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Vanessa called.

She talked to her co-worker.

Guess what books were scattered on the floor next to Barbara’s body?

They were paperback editions of Mailer’s The Naked and the Dead, Wouk’s Marjorie Morningstar, and Shirer’s The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich.

And then with no nudge from me, Vanessa said, “And there was a manuscript, like one printed at a photocopy shop, in our front window’s featured slot.”  She paused.  “Something about a rose, maybe?”

Under the Rose!  I knew it!

I thanked her and hung up.

I’ve just double-confirmed it!  The killer is that wacko James Doyle.  He’s still pissed-off about the authors we did a great job of publishing all those years ago.  And in his craziness, it’s somehow OK for him to kill innocent people like Laurie and Barbara.  And what the hell? Does he really think it’s going to cause some house to publish his final draft of Under the Rose?  Madness is a frightening and horrible thing.

Meanwhile, my mobile buzzed a few minutes ago.  It was Ligonier Police Chief Jim.

They must have caught Killer Doyle. Hmm, I sorta like that, “Killer Doyle.” Good for a book title or character.

I’ll post this, then call Jim back.

Tomorrow:  Killer Doyle in custody!

47. Blue Highways, a wonderfully unexpected bestseller

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In 1982, at Little Brown, we published Blue Highways, by William Least Heat-Moon.

I loved everything about that book.  Its clean, tight, reflective, nearly poetic writing.  Its clever title (travel the blue lines on a map, not the heartless interstates). And the author’s name.

Everybody on the publishing team felt likewise.  It was our passion project. 

The market soon agreed with us.  Great reviews.  Booksellers joyfully handselling it.  The word-of-mouth among excited readers nearly tangible. 

Least Heat-Moon wasn’t literary elite, he was unknown and unproven.  His writing didn’t come out of pretentious New York or California.  His was of the heart and the heartland.   

The book’s weekly sales were just under the rate needed to place it on the New York Times bestseller list. Each week we fell just short of the list by a slot or two. 

It was late October. Peter Davison (book’s editor), David Goehring (sales director), and I (marketing guy) gathered in Little Brown’s first floor conference room at 34 Beacon Street.

(By the way, Peter was a brilliant editor and writer.  In his day, he hung out with Robert Lowell, Robert Frost, Anne Sexton, Richard Wilbur, and Donald Hall.  And he slept with Sylvia Plath which really pissed off Ted Hughes. But that’s a story for another day.)

If we were going to get Blue Highways onto the Times bestseller list, we were about out of time.  Back then, 60% of all the books sold in a year, were sold in the 40 days prior to Christmas.  The big holiday commercial books were now publishing. The bestseller challenge was only going to get a hell of a lot more difficult.

Peter Davison

We talked about how Blue Highways was the perfect gift.  Everybody liked it, a delightful discovery.  Perfect to give to anyone.

How could we make it the season’s obvious gift book?  Place advertisements saying so?  Nah, too expensive.  And anyway, there were so many ads that time of the year, nobody would even notice.  That’s just pissing cash away.

Convince bookstores to feature it as “the” gift book of the season?  But how? Do what? Hire a thousand interns to stand in a thousand bookstores yelling, “Blue Highways is the perfect gift book!”  Nah.

We thought about gifts at birthday parties and under Christmas trees.

They’re wrapped.  That’s how you know it’s a gift.

Hold on!  So what if Blue Highways was sold already gift-wrapped? 

Unlike any other book in the bookstore.

You mean, actually gift-wrap the books?

But nobody’s ever done that before.

Exactly!

Now we were getting excited.

And we had a reprint of 15,000 due at the warehouse that day.

David ran to the production department where they wrapped a copy of Blue Highways with newspaper.  They now knew how much wrapping paper was needed per book.  They called suppliers. 

Peter ran over to the book’s designer.  She’d have a wrapping paper design in an hour.

We needed a sleeve on the book.  For price, ISBN, etc.  I called the designer back.  Told her we also needed a sleeve by end of day.  “No problem.” Like all of us, she loved the book and enjoyed the thrill of a cool idea. 

I called the warehouse manager.  She called Goodwill Industries.  30 minutes later, Goodwill confirmed it could put together a team of their residents to gift-wrap the books.  It was a perfect task for them.  And much-needed funding.

20 minutes later manufacturing called.  “We can have wrapping paper and sleeves to warehouse by end of Tuesday.”

I called the warehouse manager back.  Goodwill had meanwhile determined the time it took per-book-wrap, and confirmed that the warehouse could start shipping gift-wrapped Blue Highways on Friday.  And they could get the remainder of the 15,000 reprint onto trucks by end of next Tuesday.

David got on the phone in his office.  He called Waldenbooks.  And Dalton.  Then Barnes and Noble.  25 minutes later, with a big grin on his face (he just loved moments like this), David updated us, “Walden’s in for 3,000. Dalton for 4,000.  B&N for 7,900.  And Barbara at Grapes of Wrath took 100, figuring she can sell them along with all those autographed books of hers,” David kept smiling, “Gentlemen, we just sold out the 15,000 printing.”

And that’s why Barbara’s death reminds me of Blue Highways.  Sigh. 

Anyway, it all worked! Two weeks later after those gift-wrapped books hit stores and sold (like crazy), Blue Highways went onto the bestseller list.  And stayed on the list for the next 42 weeks.

Gift-wrapped Blue Highways

God, but I loved doing stuff like that!  Best feeling in the world (at least my world).

And we could do stuff like that back then.  The money to do it was mine to manage, the accounts were David’s, the book was Peter’s.  No calling together big meetings for a shared covering-of-asses, or checking with some overlord, just do it!  Nowadays, the motivation to work seems to be fear, not the thrill of causing success.  When I was at Pearson (for 23 years) its CEO, Marjorie Scardino, was a great believer in “just do it, ask forgiveness later.”  And she didn’t just say it, she truly had your back.  I got more done working for her than at any other stretch in my career.  It was the most freeing, empowering, liberating, make-a-real-difference way to do your life’s work.  I miss that!

Thanks, David, thanks Marjorie, and here’s to Peter (miss you!).

Oh, and when I recently compiled a collection of quotations, The Truth About Writing, Bill kindly gave a tip of the hat to the good old times, and provided the book's foreword.

 Tomorrow: Hoping for the Vanessa and Jim calls

46. I talk with Vanessa and pretend to be a private eye (losing my mind!)

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George’s niece and I talked. She choked up a couple of times.  Vanessa told me how a co-worker found Barbara dead on the store’s floor first thing in the morning.  There were no security cameras.   (These are bookstores. Homes to literature. Not banks, bodegas, or liquor stores.).  Nothing seemed to be stolen.  There had been no threats to Barbara.  There were a few books on the floor, maybe knocked over during a struggle.

I again explained that I was a book author, a publisher, and a friend of her Uncle George. 

Then I lied, “and a private detective.”  (Just what the hell is wrong with me!  Why do I say stuff like that?  The stuff just comes out of my mouth before my brain even knows it’s happening.)

Vanessa kindly promised to talk with her co-worker and get back to me.

And speaking of getting back to me, weird, I haven’t heard from Ligonier’s Police Chief Jim, or his state police cronies, after I called to tell him that Laurie’s killer was James Doyle.  You’d think they’d be more appreciative.  I’ll call Jim tomorrow.

Tomorrow (police update, Vanessa update, and all this talk of Barbara Franks makes me think of...) Blue Highways.

45. Book publishing’s last true gentleman

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I couldn’t say it better than did Grove Atlantic publisher Morgan Entrekin, “George Gibson is admired around the world as a brilliant, gracious, passionate publisher and editor.” 

George Gibson

I’ve known George since his early days at David Godine (a much respected Boston-based house).  Better yet, like many, I can call him “a good friend.”  George was Director of Marketing at Addison-Wesley’s trade division, the longtime publisher of Walker & Company, publishing director at Bloomsbury USA, and he’s currently executive editor at Grove Atlantic.

George edited and/or published Dava Sobel's Longitude and Galileo's Daughter, Ross King's Brunelleschi's Dome, Mark Kurlansky's Salt and Cod, Morrie Schwartz's Morrie: In His Own Words, Warren Berger's A More Beautiful Question, Carol Anderson's White Rage: The Unspoken Truth of Our Racial Divide, and my personal favorite, Donna Leon’s Inspector Guido Brunetti series.

George’s departure from Addison Wesley (“to learn Italian and better my tennis game”), and my taking over his position, is what made possible my nine-year-old son secretly signing books in the Addison Wesley warehouse on a Saturday morning.  (George, knowing that you read this blog,  Max sends along his “Thanks a lot.”).

George and I are now both in Manhattan and every other month we enjoy a dinner together at Bar Six off of 14th Street.

At our every-other-month dinner last night, I asked how his month in Martha’s Vineyard was this year (he’s done that every year since his childhood). 

Bar Six

George happily said, “It was healthy, full of promising manuscripts, and drinks with good friends.”

He continued, “Although it was weird to see Bill Franks back at Grapes of Wrath.”

“What?!”

“You don’t know?”

He quickly explained that Barbara died and per the terms of their divorce, the store went back to Bill.  “He was so happy to be back.  But really, he doesn’t look good, nor does the store.

“Hold on!  Barbara died?”

“You didn’t hear?  She was killed, found dead on the floor of her store when her staff arrived one morning.  Awful, just awful. Then Bill showed up a few days later to take over the store.”

How the hell did I miss that news?  It was surely in all the industry journals – Publishers Weekly, Publishers Lunch, and Shelf Awareness.  I’ve checked-out from world and national news these past four years.  It’s all so awful, it’s such a damn mess out there.  I no longer watch the news, I quit reading The Wall Street Journal and the Financial Times.  I ignore the news on social media and instead focus on dog videos.  And I just skim the New York Times headlines (I know what the article’s going to say).  But I do read the publishing news.

“When,” I asked George.

He told me.  Aha, that week in Los Angeles, at an Airbnb without the promised Wi-Fi, which was OK because I was completely consumed by spending time with my kids and granddaughter, and having drinks every night. It was an exhausting week.  I even skipped the industry news.

I asked, “Who?  Why?”

“Good question.  It didn’t seem to be a robbery, just a few books tossed on the floor.”

Holy hell!

Dinner over, I rushed home to Google it.  Yep, the industry journals, the Boston Globe, and the Vineyard Gazette had articles.  Each with one sentence noting Barbara’s death, a second sentence saying the police were seeking leads, and then 20 sentences of deserving and kind words about Barbara.  But nothing else.

You see where this is going, right?

Barbara’s death on Martha’s Vineyard sounded like Laurie’s death in Ligonier. 

I needed to know more.   

But I didn’t know the Vineyard police like I did Ligonier’s.

And I didn’t know anybody on staff at the island’s newspaper.

I phoned George on the wild chance he might know a clerk at the Grapes of Wrath.

“Yep, my niece, Vanessa, works there.  I’ll give her a heads-up then email you her phone number.”  Kind of him not to ask what the hell I was up to.  I would have.  But like I said, George is a gentleman.

Then, before the call ended, George suddenly laughed, but not in a funny way.  “Did you know Bill fancied himself a writer?  Specifically, nonfiction for children. That’s what he was going to do after losing the bookstore.  He claimed to have many book proposals to pitch.  Wanted me to look at them.  But Jane, Alyson, and Phoebe [childrens editors we both knew] warned me off, they all had already looked and he just didn’t have it.”

Poor Bill and his writing dreams.  His is not an uncommon tale.

Oh, and an hour ago I was left a voicemail from an unknown caller.  I listened.  It was simply a song called “Einstein Killed Me.”  Never knew such a song existed.  You can listen to it here.  It has great lyrics, like:

It’s possiblе to not tell a lie

Take you and the life you made

Step outside

Tomorrow: Vanessa

44. My innocent son and the dark underbelly of publishing

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In the early 1990s at Addison-Wesley, we were about to publish Accidental Empires by Robert X. Cringley.  I loved the book’s importance, its cynicism, humor, voice, and insider’s view. 

Just consider its subtitle: How the Boys of Silicon Valley Make Their Millions, Battle Foreign Competition, and Still Can't Get a Date.

And note its wonderful jacket copy: Cringley focuses on the astoundingly odd personalities—Steve Jobs, Bill Gates, Mitch Kapor, etc.—and the hacker culture that spawned remarkable technology.

The book’s author, Robert X. Cringley, was everything a marketing guy like me wants—quick, talented, an insider, and funny as hell. And I couldn’t wait to make a run at the bestseller list with it.

I was certain we’d put Accidental Empires on the bestseller list. We’d go with the same game plan that we used a few years earlier to put Tracy Kidder’s Soul of a New Machine (unknown author at the time and ugliest jacket ever) onto the list.  Seed the market—smartly, strategically.  This wasn’t about reviews or an appearance on a morning talk show.  Instead, both books were well-written and addictive reading.  That was the key.  Once read, one could not not talk about the book.  Every reader became an advocate.  If I could “seed” 1,000 signed copies of the book into the offices and cafeterias of hi-tech companies, it would take off.  And I had worked on that list of 1,000 for four months.  We were ready.

But hold on! Two things. 

First, the 1,000 books were in our offices outside of Boston.  And Cringley was in California.  I needed to fly him to Boston, put him up for a night, and hang with him as he signed all those books.

Secondly, Robert X. Cringley was a pseudonym. 

He called me the day before his flight. 

“Jess, I don’t have a signature.” 

“What?” 

“Cringley doesn’t have a signature.  Remember, he doesn’t exist.  I’m a pseudonym.  I don’t know what I’m going to write in those books.” 

Hmm, good point. 

“So why the hell pay to fly me out there?  Why don’t you just sign them?” 

Robert X. Cringley

Hmm, interesting. 

Not spending marketing money is always a good thing. Every marketing dollar not spent drops fully to the bottom line.  I had a chance to immediately add a couple thousand dollars to the profit margin.  Cool! 

“OK, Bob, stay home. I’ll cancel the flight and hotel. And sign the books.”

“Thanks.”

Signing 1,000 books is a pain in the ass – ripping open cartons, opening books, signing books, re-packing the books into cartons.  The whole thing goes much better with two people.

So early the next morning I woke my nine-year-old son, Max. “You gotta help me at the office today.”  Hey, why not?  It wasn’t like he was mowing the lawn, raking leaves, or helping old ladies at our church.

I bribed him with doughnuts.  We went to the office, unpacked the books, stacked them on tables, and I said, “OK, now we’re going to sign them,” I opened up a book to the title page, “On this page, just sign it Robert X. Cringley.”

“What?”

“Just sign it.”

“WHAT?”

“Just sign the books with the name Robert X. Cringley. I’ll do the same.  Together we can get these done by lunch.  I’ll buy you a burger.”

“But Dad, we’re not this Robert guy.”

“That’s OK.”

“Isn’t this wrong?” 

“Damn it, Max, it’s OK.  Cringley doesn’t even exist.”

“He doesn’t exist?  So you want me to lie about a lie?”

“It’s no big deal.”

“Dad, this is cheating!  Can I call Mom?”

“No!  Let’s just do this.”

“I don’t think—”

“I didn’t buy doughnuts and haul you over here to think.  Just do it.  Come on!”

And the saddest, had-just-lost-his-soul-to-evil-Dad little boy began his criminal career.  He didn’t say another word. Just signed the books. Didn’t speak to me the entire day.  Even after Cringley signed the one-thousandth book to Max.  Which Max still has.

Signed book to Max

I went into work on Monday, Max went to school, and Accidental Empires went on to be a huge bestseller.  Woo-hoo!

What I didn’t know was how much that incident haunted Max.  For decades. 

He confided to college buddies about it after a few beers.  He frequently wrote of it in his journal, haunted by the dishonesty of what his father forced him to do.  He even told his girlfriend about it before he dared to propose marriage. “She should know.”  Man oh man, I had no idea!  I clearly traumatized him. He’s such a good, good guy.  

All’s well now. We talk of the experience. My daughter guides the conversation, making sure it ends with laughter and not expensive therapy.

Max went on to be a very successful author. His Last Kids on Earth series, a #1 New York Times bestseller, appears on bestseller lists year after year for months at a time and he won an Emmy for his Last Kids Netflix series.  His success puts to shame what success Addison-Wesley had with Accidental Empires.

So here’s what’s REALLY cool:  if you happen to have one of those 1,000 Accidental Empires autographed by Robert X. Cringley, you may actually have a book autographed by Max Brallier. Which these days, is a far BIGGER deal.

The dark underbelly of publishing works in funny ways.

Tomorrow:  Book publishing’s last true gentleman

43. Doyle must be reading this blog!

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I did posts on Mailer, Wouk, and Shirer.

In another post I recalled the words Doyle screamed at me.

I also mentioned I was going to Ligonier. Doyle correctly figures I’d visit the town’s bookstore.  He’d then swings by the store.  Probably mentions to Laurie that he knew me or worked with me. She’d kindly say in that small town way, “Oh you just missed Jess.  But he’ll be by first thing in the morning to sign more copies of his latest book.”

Doyle was last known to be working not far from Ligonier.

And the rumor for years is that Doyle was weirdly working on the final draft of the long ago published Under the Rose. 

Damn it, Doyle did it! 

In some perverted and insane way, he killed Laurie to get back at me.

I’ve solved this!

And holy shit, I’ve also just figured out that the killer is reading what I’m typing here. My head is spinning again. I’m calling Police Chief Jim as soon as I finish typing this.

So...

Hey Doyle! You dumb, sick, loser writer!

It’s over!

And meanwhile, you sicko, know that I’m safe in Manhattan. 

I’ve told building security all about you.  And hey, I know the delivery guys from both Chelsea Liquors and the Excellent Dumpling House.  So don’t try to pull that old trick on me.  I could safely live in my apartment here for as long as, well, a global pandemic.

I phoned Ligonier Police Chief Jim who then called that detective.  The Pennsylvania State Police are after your ass, Doyle, and will probably have you in handcuffs by the time I post this.

This is cause for a celebration. 

I call the liquor store for a bottle of Dorothy Parker and the Excellent Dumpling House for a delivery of their Shanghai Style Pork Fried Noodle.

Half an hour later my door buzzes.  Must be the gin or dumplings delivery. I open up the door and there’s a guy wearing an Einstein shirt.  I think I screamed.  I know I nearly wet myself. 

But it’s just Sammy from the Excellent Dumpling House.  “You OK Mr. Brallier,” he asked.

“Your shirt. Your shirt,” I catch my breath,” Well the hell did you get that?”

“At the Salvation Army on Eighth Avenue.  You like it?”

I grab the food and give Sammy a huge tip of relief.

I’m a wreck.

Sammy

Tomorrow (Back to the publishing stuff…really, I must.):  My innocent son and the dark underbelly of publishing.

42. I don’t know! Who's killing who and why?

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Geez, as if things don’t suck enough, pissed-off-Einstein guy commented on yesterday’s posting:  “Your joke sucks.  I’d pay that loser writer $3,000 just to kill you.” 

At times, pissed-off-Einstein guy does make me nervous.  Like now, when every time I close my eyes, I see that bloody bookstore floor in Ligonier.  Geez, just give the Einstein crap a break!

Anyway, I’m back to New York and I don’t know what to write!

My head spins.

I keep looking at the “Fuck you, Brallier” Post-it note I quietly pocketed. (Or, in other words, “I keep looking at the evidence I wrongly lifted from a murder scene.”)

Deep breath, deep breath.

Think about it.  It’s insane!

There’s a once-every-50-years-murder in Ligonier.

My favorite bookseller is killed—maybe somehow because of one budget meeting in Boston 35 years ago that caused James Doyle to publish an imperfect book.

And how the hell do those things connect if there’s really a connection? 

Me and...

• a bookstore in a little town of 1,500 where...

• I just happened to be for 48 hours to visit old friends. 

• Next to the murdered body are three books I helped publish decades ago,

• plus a revised manuscript for a long-ago published book,

• with a threatening note to me.

How does all of that somehow happen?

It’s gotta be James Doyle, right?

Those three books laying in Laurie’s blood—the very authors he screamed about at me outside Little Brown on Boston’s Beacon Street years ago.

On the Post-it, the same threatening words he cursed me with that day.

(Jackie, are you reading this blog?  It’s all nuts, right?  What do you think?  DM me.  Please.)

And there’s the “final draft” manuscript on display at Laurie’s bookstore.  The very thing it was rumored Doyle was working on.

I’ve Googled for hours. Doyle seems to have disappeared after teaching a writing class at Butler Community College early last year. Butler is north of Pittsburgh.  A very doable drive to Ligonier.  Oh boy.

I make a stiff drink. 

I want a cigarette, damn it. 

How in the hell would Doyle know—

Hold on! 

Tomorrow:  Doyle must be reading this blog!

41. Three guys are sitting at a bar.

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The first guy says, “So yeah, I make about $300,000 a year after taxes.”

Second says, “What do you do for a living?”

First replies, “I’m a stockbroker.  How much do you make?”

Second answers, “I should clear $160,000.  I’m an architect.”

The two of them turn to the third guy, who is quietly staring into his beer, and ask him how much he makes per year.

Third guys says, “About $3,000.”

First says, “Oh yeah?  What kind of stories do you write?”

* * *

By the way, it seems that Peters like my blog. So when it’s time to name my next dog….

Tomorrow: I don’t know! I’m in such a funk.

40. Laurie’s Murder

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I walked back to the bookstore with Police Chief Jim. He entered slowly. I didn’t go in.  I stood outside, near my vomit. 

Jim came back out after a few minutes.  “This one,” he said, “is out of my league.  I just called the state police.” Another Ligonier police car arrived. Police tape went up. An ambulance arrived.  People started gathering.  Most were crying, all of them were on their mobiles, texting and phoning.

Jim whispered to me, “You OK with going back to a bench on the Diamond?  I want you nearby.  State police will be here any minute.  They’ll want to talk with you.  But you do NOT talk to anybody?  Understood?”

I nodded yes, went down to the town’s newsstand, got some gum for my breath, a bottle of water to wash out my mouth, and a Snickers bar for my now empty stomach.

About an hour later, Jim came and got me.  We went back to the bookstore.  As we neared, I saw Laurie’s body go into an ambulance which then slowly left, its flashing lights on, but not its siren. 

Jim introduced me to a woman who identified herself as a detective with the state police.  I can’t remember her name.  We went into the backseat of her car.  I told her everything I had told Jim.  About being there yesterday, my coming back to sign more copies of my book, and there Laurie was, on the bloody floor.  The detective used a mobile phone to record what I shared with her.

She nodded toward Caroline Swank who was sitting in a nearby police car.  “She’s having a tough time calming down,” said the detective. 

I know Caroline.  She was a childhood neighbor and Second Chapter’s only staff beyond Laurie.  The detective said, “We’d like her to look around, see what’s not right in there.  You know, was it a robbery?  Did somebody have it out for the victim?  Stuff like that,” she shook her head, “but she’s in no shape for that to happen anytime soon.”

The detective continued, “Could you come into the store with me and look around, see if anything looks different than yesterday?  I need anything at this point.  There’re no cameras.  And no witnesses we know of.  My colleagues are talking with neighboring merchants.  And another colleague is over at the victim’s house.  We’re guessing you were first into the store after it opened and,” she nodded again at Caroline, “she’s not going to be of help.”

“Sure.”

I tried to not to look at the blood.  When I thought of it as just blood, I was mostly OK.  But the second I’d think of it as Laurie’s blood, I got dizzy. 

I focused.  I looked. 

Hold on, that’s weird! 

Laurie sold both new and used books.  Thus the “Second Chapter” name for her store.  And tossed on the bloody floor were copies of Norman Mailer’s Ancient Evenings, Herman Wouk’s The Winds of War, and William Shirer’s The Nightmare Years.

What the hell?  The three old white guys I had just blogged about.  Books that had something to do with a job I had 30 years ago.  And it’s those three books that happen to be on the bloody floor? Of all the books in the world? In this little town of 1,500 nice people? This makes no sense!  Is it personal? Holy shit!

“Notice anything?” asked the detective.  I’m sure I looked shock, confused, scared, and sick all at the same time.

“Nope,” I lied. 

I have no idea why I said “nope.”  Maybe it all just seemed so stupid.  What do I say?  Well, I had this job 33 years ago, we published lots of old white guys, one of them made a lot of noise typing, one of them had two huge dogs, and one of them had one eye.  Now their books are there on the bloody floor. Oh, and I have this blog about book publishing which on a good day has four readers, and I recently posted about those three authors....

See how so, so, so stupid that sounds?

“Nope,” I said again, sure after that bit of reflection, that it was still the right thing to say.

I turned my eyes from the books and the bloody floor, trying to catch my breath.  An oh god! Another “holy shit” moment! 

Next to the cash register, where my Olphabet book was displayed yesterday was instead a bound manuscript.  On its front, in all caps, it simply read:

UNDER THE ROSE

THE FINAL DRAFT

BY JAMES DOYLE

The room spun a bit.  I put my hand on the counter. 

“Sir? You OK?”  It was the detective.  “Mr. Brallier, are you—”

“Yep, I’m good.  Just got a bit dizzy.”

She took my left arm to walk me out of the store.  And with my right hand, I grabbed a Post-it note stuck to the front of the UNDER THE ROSE manuscript, and slipped it into my pocket.  The detective didn’t notice.

I took several deep and welcomed breaths of Ligonier air on our way back to the police car.

Once in the back seat she again started to record me.

“Well?”

“Nothing,” I said, “nothing looked different.”

“Damn it,” she said.

When I finally got back to my room at the Ramada, I pulled out the crumpled Post-it note.  The message on it read, “Fuck you, Brallier!”

I ended my night having too many drinks at Joe’s Bar....

Tomorrow:  ...so it seems somehow right to try that three-guys-sitting-at-a-bar joke.

39. Hold on! Things get very ugly in Ligonier

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There will be no joke today.  This isn’t funny.  At all.  Damn it! 

I stayed at the Ramada Inn.  (Yep, same place where the annual Ligonier Writer’s Conference is held.)  I slept in.  Then grabbed a coffee and muffin at Abigail’s and sat, peacefully, on a bench in the “Diamond.” (Which is known as the “Town Square” everywhere else.)

I looked around.  The memories were nearly overwhelming. I grew up in such goodness and innocence.  We used to joke around, referring to our hometown as“Mayberry.”  And high school friends, Jennifer and Jane, called it “Brigadoon.” 

Ligonier, PA

Just look at it!  This photo is the view from where I’ll be buried.  Not bad, eh?  In the photo’s center you can spot the town’s green-ish gazebo which sits smack in the middle of the Diamond and right next to the bench where I was enjoying this morning’s coffee.  It was very peaceful.  And just minutes before everything went to absolute hell.

At 9:57 a.m. I took a last bite of my muffin and a last sip of my coffee and headed over to Second Chapter Books to sign the five copies of Olphabet.  Laurie opens the store at 10 a.m.

I walked past a police car parked on the Diamond.  It’s often there, as the criminal activity in Ligonier is mostly about folks not coming to a full stop when entering the Diamond. 

Police Chief Jim was in the car, window down. We smiled and shook hands.  Jim, the son of a high school buddy, and I had spent a lot of time together recently.  If you don’t know what I’m talking about, head back to my posting for Blog 20.

Jim started talking about the Clark girl who was running around with the Horrell boy, the one who lived out by the Marker farm—

“Excuse me, Jim.  Laurie’s expecting me.”

I walked into Second Chapter Books and there was Laurie.  On the floor.  So much blood.  No need to check for a pulse like they do on TV.  She was very dead.  It was horrible.  I can see it now.  Worse yet, I can’t not see it.

I backed out of the store and threw up.  Then staggered back down the street to the police car.

Tomorrow:  I have no idea what will happen tomorrow.