Kissing The Beehive
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Bestselling author Sam Bayer is stuck. Burned out from his third divorce, bored with the formulaic rut his writing has fallen into, and unable to deliver the manuscript for which he has been paid a stratospheric advance, he is desperate for inspiration. But a chance visit to his hometown of Crane's View, New York, sparks his imagination. Soon he immerses himself in an unsolved case of murder that took place when he was a teenager--Sam himself had discovered the body of the victim, a beautiful and wild teenage girl named Pauline. At the same time he is drawn into an explosive affair with a gorgeous but seriously loopy fan with the improbable name of Veronica Lake.
As Sam learns the disturbing facts about his lover's past, Pauline's murderer reappears--not only endangering Sam but putting his beloved fifteen-year-old daughter in jeopardy as well. Not knowing whom to trust, Sam has to brace himself for the truly unexpected resolution to this decades-old mystery.
Lake. What is the decorum for asking your lover why they didn’t tell you they acted in porno movies? Where is Miss Manners when we really need her? The next morning I called a friend who is a movie buff and also happens to be plugged into every Internet station in the galaxy. I asked him to find out how many movies ‘Marzi Pan’ had made. Two. Swallow the Leader and The Joy Fuck Club. While I was sitting in a semi-coma, trying to think of what to do next, Veronica called. I tried to be normal
then they’re cutting their own throat!’ ‘Maybe not. They’ve been damned clever so far. You know about female spiders? They can store sperm up to eighteen months, and they have this nice little tendency to eat the male after he’s done his duty. What we have here just might be similar — someone’s stored this up for thirty years, but now wants to make some babies with it.’ As if David Cadmus’s killer and my problems with Veronica weren’t enough, I had to give a speech. Months before, students at
Sotheby’s had recently had an auction of objects owned by famous writers. He brought out a worn black leather box and handed it to me. Inside was a plum-colored Parker 51, complete with broad nib. The same model Veronica had cut in half. But the one I was holding had belonged to Isaac Bashevis Singer! I was barely able to keep my tongue in my mouth. With a sinking feeling, I asked how much it cost, knowing full well I’d mortgage the house to own it. ‘It’s a gift from your friend. The one you
to talk with her for the first time. Everything till then has just been chatter. There’s something magical about sitting with that new being in your life in a nice restaurant…’ She smiled and took a roll from the basket. ‘Well, my boy, you’ve had your share of meals with new women over the years. What’s the latest report on Irene?’ ‘She calls and taunts me with the fact she’s hired one of the best divorce lawyers in the city. Then she cackles when she says how much she’s going to ask for in
to New York was always a local. It stopped twelve times in its easygoing ramble before pulling into Grand Central Station. Commuters took our train, old ladies going to the matinee of Hello Dolly, thirteen-year-olds in pants that were too short, purple V-neck sweaters and wearing enough Brylcreem in their hair to give the family car a lube job. Sighing, I looked towards the water and saw a young couple playing frisbee while a dog chased back and forth between them. It was having the time of its