For a second Mercer felt sorry for her and was almost tempted to volunteer as her reader, but she quickly remembered her tortured prose. Myra stormed back with another quart, kicking at a dog as she sat down.

She said, “And don’t forget the vampire girl. Amy what’s her name?”

“Amy Slater,” Leigh said helpfully.

“That’s her. Moved here about five years ago with her husband and some kids. Hit pay dirt with a series about vampires and ghosts and such junk, really awful stuff that sells like crazy. On my worst days, and believe me I’ve published some dreadful books that were supposed to be dreadful, I can outwrite her with one hand tied behind me.”

“Now, Myra. Amy’s a lovely person.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Anybody else?” Mercer asked. So far every other writer had been trashed and Mercer was enjoying the carnage, which was not at all unusual when writers gathered over drinks and talked about each other.

They thought for a second and worked their drinks. Myra said, “Got a bunch of the self-published crowd. They crank ’em out, post ’em online, call themselves writers. They print a few copies and hang around the bookstore, pestering Bruce to put ’em up front by the door and dropping in every other day to check on their royalties. A real pain in the ass. He’s got a table where he puts all the self-published stuff and he’s always wrangling with one or two of them over placement. With the Internet everybody is now a published author, you know?”

“Oh, I know,” Mercer said. “When I was teaching, they would leave books and manuscripts on my front porch, usually with a long letter describing how wonderful their work was and how much they’d appreciate a blurb.”

“So tell us about teaching,” Leigh said softly.

“Oh, it’s much more fun to talk about writers.”

“I got one,” Myra said. “Guy’s name is Bob but he uses the pen name of J. Andrew Cobb. We call him Bob Cobb. He spent six years in a federal pen for some type of bad corporate behavior and learned to write, sort of. He’s published four or five books about what he knows best—corporate espionage—and they’re fun to read. Not a bad writer.”

“I thought he left,” Leigh said.

“He keeps a condo down by the Ritz, and in the condo he’s always got some young girl he met on the beach. He’s pushing fifty, the girls are usually half that. He’s a charmer, though, and can tell great stories about prison. Careful when you’re on the beach. Bob Cobb is always on the prowl.”

“I’ll write that down,” Mercer said with a smile.

“Who else can we talk about?” Myra asked, chugging.

“That’s enough for now,” Mercer said. “It will take some work to remember these.”

“You’ll meet them soon enough. They’re in and out of the bookstore and Bruce is always having folks over for drinks and dinner.”

Leigh smiled and set down her drink. “Let’s do it here, Myra. Let’s throw a dinner party and invite all of these wonderful people we’ve been trashing for the past hour. We haven’t hosted in some time and it’s always Bruce and Noelle. We need to officially welcome Mercer to the island. What do you say?”