“I’ve had negative reviews that were actually quite constructive,” one author, Paula Fowler, said with a smile. “But that’s not very common. There are people out there whose only pleasure in life appears to be tearing authors to pieces.”
“Not to mention the occasional sock puppet,” another author added.
Heather frowned. “Sock puppet?”
“Bad reviews put out there by fake accounts, usually for nefarious purposes,” the author explained. “For example, supposing a very popular—but thoroughly unscrupulous—author wanted to eliminate the competition. Maybe they have a new release and they don’t want other such releases to detract attention from it. So they have reviewers set up who purposefully go about giving poor ratings and poor reviews, whilst praising their release to the heavens.”
A reader put up her hand. “You don’t mean that actually happens? That’s dreadful.”
“Of course it happens.” Melody turned the nearest mic toward her. “It happened to me. I brought out a book that was attacked by an army of rabid fans. They wanted my book to fail, pure and simple. And every subsequent book I released, the same thing occurred. It’s very distressing. There have been times when I’ve almost given up on the idea of pursuing a career in writing.”
The discussion continued, but Jonathon was intrigued by the comments. “Do you know what Melody was talking about?” he whispered to Fiona.
She nodded. “A couple of years ago, Melody was one of the finalists for the Speakman Award. It’s an award for outstanding fiction that is given out every year. Well, this was Melody’s debut novel, and there was a lot of buzz about it. Teresa was up for the same award, and ultimately it went to her.”
“But what does that have to do with reviews?” Jonathon was puzzled.
“When the award was announced, Melody kicked up a huge fuss. She claimed that it had been an unfair process and that Teresa had bribed the judges. Apparently Melody had got to meet one of the judges and claimed her book had been out in front, but then some of the judges suddenly changed their minds, and it went to Teresa. Then Melody went on social media, protesting that Teresa had set her fans onto Melody, telling them to review her book negatively.”
“Is any of this true?” Jonathon was appalled.
“We have no clue as to how the judges voted. But yes, Melody’s debut book was suddenly on the receiving end of a slew of bad reviews. We’re talking hundreds of them, within the space of a couple of weeks. Not to mention her subsequent releases. And yes, they probably did have an effect on sales. But as to whether Teresa orchestrated it?” Fiona shrugged. “Who knows?”
At that point, Heather speared her with a pointed stare, and Fiona lapsed into silence. Jonathon didn’t follow the rest of the discussion. His mind was on Melody Richards. From the sound of it, she blamed Teresa for the failure of her books. Whether this was true or not, it explained the tension between the two of them during the dinner.
It could also be a solid motive for murder. A bruised ego, a career blighted? As a talented photographer, Jonathon knew creative people could sometimes suffer from heightened emotions, and people had been killed for less.
At the end of the panel, Heather thanked the authors, and the audience applauded before getting up to approach the table or to leave the room.
“Well, that was illuminating.” Professor Harcourt cleaned his glasses. “My panel won’t be nearly as riveting.”
“You’re speaking tomorrow, aren’t you?” Jonathon asked.
Professor Harcourt nodded. “I’m a little nervous, to be truthful. I’m more accustomed to lecturing medical students on the intricacies of forensic pathology. Their questions tend to be purely technical and free from emotion. I’m not sure what to expect from this audience.”
“Trust me, they’ll be riveted,” Mike assured him. “There’s a reason TV shows like CSI and NCIS are so popular. People want to know how crime detection works.”
“Are you going to talk about cases you’ve worked on?” Jonathon asked him.
“Yes. I’m also going to go through the basic terms so people are more familiar with them. Different types of lividity, how we determine time of death….”
“We did a little of that ourselves last year,” Mike commented with a wry smile.
Professor Harcourt blinked. “Truly? We must talk about this at some point. Perhaps this evening in the pub? I should like to hear more.” He smiled. “You two fascinate me.”
“We aim to please.” Jonathon consulted his agenda. “And now I’m going to grab a coffee before the next session.”
“And what’s that on?” Mike asked.
“Conflict within romance.”
“As in, how to avoid it or create it?”
Jonathon grinned. “Maybe a little of both?”
THE EVENING pub crowd was a good deal smaller than the previous night, but Jonathon was secretly pleased about that. He didn’t want Mike run ragged, especially when Jonathon had plans for once the pub had closed. He aimed to shut out the world and lose himself in Mike’s arms.
Bliss.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, and Jonathon removed it to peer at the screen. Dammit. It had been a few months since his father had called—not that Jonathon had minded that in the slightest. With a sigh, he signaled to Mike that he had a call, then stepped outside into the warm evening air. Despite it being past nine, the sun hadn’t fully set yet and cast long shadows over the village green.
“Hello, Father.”
Thomas de Mountford cleared his throat. “Ah. So you are alive. I was beginning to wonder.”
“What can I do for you?” With his father, it was always best to get straight to the point.
“It’s been a while since we last spoke. I was wondering how things are progressing.”
“Things?” Jonathon wanted to laugh. His father was never one to speak in such vague terms. “Care to be more specific?” As if he didn’t know what was coming.
“I saw the photos from the ball at the Grosvenor.”
Seeing as that had been the whole point of the exercise, Jonathon said nothing, waiting for more.
“So I’m calling to see if there have been any developments between you and Ruth. Do you have any news for me?”
“No, I don’t. We’re not engaged. We haven’t even spoken of it.” Though strictly speaking, that was a lie—they’d talked about an engagement, after all.
“Then maybe you should speak of it. You’re going to be thirty this year. Time is trickling through your fingers, especially if you intend starting a family. You don’t want to be much older with small childre—”
“I think you need to stop right there.” Jonathon was suddenly bone-tired of hearing the same old refrain.
“Excuse me?” Ice crept into his father’s voice.
Jonathon gave in to the weariness that pervaded him. “Dominic’s death brought a few things home to me. Life is too short, for one thing. None of us know how long we’ve got. And I truly believed you losing your brother would… mellow you somehow, but I can see now that was wishful thinking.”