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Constance remained unfilled, as well, when Merle didn’t appear.
    â€œAre we ready to spend some money, ever’body?”Cletis shouted into the microphone. He got a loud chorus of
yay
s and
you bet
s in response. Reminding the crowd that they were spending money for a good cause, he opened the bidding on the opportunity to name a character in Constance Aldringham’s next book. When the bids reached five hundred dollars in a couple of seconds, I noticed Axie’s shoulders slump.
    â€œWhat’s your name, sir?” Cletis asked the winning bidder after bringing down his gavel with a resounding
whack
.
    â€œNestor Niedernecker,” a rotund man shouted from midway back. “That’s a great name for a hero, right?”
    The crowd roared with laughter. Constance paled and I could see her planning to make Nestor Niedernecker the smallest of bit characters.
    Cletis kept the auction moving as efficiently as he always did, and the Readaholics did a great job as spotters, marking down the winning bidders’ numbers. Brooke got the book she wanted, and my mom bid on a basket of books but didn’t win it. Only two or three items from the end, Cletis held up a fat manila envelope. He opened it and peered inside. “This item doesn’t appear to have a lot number, but there’s a note here that says it’s an original manuscript of
Never Again, My Lovely
, donated by the author, Fran—”
    Francesca Bugle leaped up. “It’s a mistake. That’s not for sale,” she said, striding toward Cletis, poppies bobbing with each step. “I don’t know how that got mixed up with the sale items.” She held out a hand, clearly expecting Cletis to hand it over.
    He peered down at her with a puckish grin. “Not sofast, little lady. This auction is for a good cause—you can’t just change your mind about donations. Perhaps you’d like to make a bid?” He held up the envelope and waggled it.
    Francesca forced a smile. “Five thousand dollars,” she said. In the stunned silence that followed, she added, “I’m happy to support the scholarship fund. I wouldn’t be a writer today if I hadn’t gone to college on a scholarship.”
    Cletis brought his gavel down. “Sold, to the lady with the flowery hat.” He handed the envelope to her with a courtly bow, and she returned to her seat. The crowd applauded her generosity and she acknowledged them with a wave and a more natural smile. From my vantage point, standing near the stage, I could see her furrowed brow when she sat. She removed her hat, scratched her head, and riffled through the envelope’s contents. I knew she was trying to figure out, just as I was, how the manuscript had ended up on the auctioneer’s table.

Chapter 4
    D uring the intermission between the auction’s end and the story contest, Francesca bulled her way through the crowd to me, expression ominous.
    I forestalled her with upraised hands. “I have no idea how that got into the auction, Ms. Bugle,” I said. “I’ve never seen it before. If you didn’t put it up there . . .”
    â€œIt’s my latest manuscript,” she said. “My publisher would kill me if it got out before publication day, which isn’t until next year. They’d probably void my contract and make me give back my advance, which was what we call in the biz a ‘significant deal,’ the most I’ve ever gotten.”
    No wonder she was willing to cough up five grand to get the manuscript back. “I’m so very sorry. Do you want me to ask Cletis—”
    She interrupted me with an impatient wave. “That old coot won’t know.”
    â€œWho had access to it?” I asked, unable to help probing the mystery.
    She shot me a look. “You’re a sharp one, aren’t you? My assistant, of course, and my researcher. Then there’s my agent—she