By nine thirty, my jittery nerves were being run ragged. Susan, when confronted, continued preaching patience, but my patience was running thin.
I'd talked with nearly every one of the two hundred or so people in the banquet room by then, and I was back with Eastwood and King, now joined by Carl Hiaasen, an incredibly talented Florida mystery writer who was one of my favorites.
"So you're saying this girl," Hiaasen said, disbelief all over his face, "this Marisa. She's the one who read it and got Natalie to contact you?"
"And edited it," I confirmed.
"Really," King said. "And she's a student?"
"Working on her doctorate in English. Creative writing, too."
"And Natalie listened to her?" Hiaasen said.
I nodded. "She's really good."
"At the editing, too?" King asked. "I mean, was it ju
