“I’d imagine you have heard about me,” she said. “I’ve seen Mal’s phone bills.”
Tom and I shared long and expensive phone conversations into the wee hours; friendships in the writing game often require long-distance maintenance.
“And,” Jill went on, showing Tom the ironic smile that was among the laundry list of reasons why I fell in love with her, “I’ve heard about you, too. Is it true you’ve written more books in your short life than Mal’s read in his longer one?”
“Probably,” Tom said.
Jill turned to me and squeezed my arm. “Look, I’ll get in line here, Mal, and get us checked in. You two go sit over there and insult each other for a while.”
We took her advice, settling down on a velvet-cushioned settee. Various game-players were milling about expectantly, but here and there people sat and quietly talked—Tom and I, for instance, basking in the soft yellow lighting and warm, homey atmosphere of the old resort.
“Where’s Anna?” I asked.
“She couldn’t make it this trip,” he said with a regretful little shrug.
“I haven’t seen Anna since Bouchercon,” I said. Anna was Tom’s lovely, zoftig, Oriental spouse, who’d accompanied him to the annual mystery convention, held last year in San Francisco. “Hey! Wasn’t she pregnant?”
“You really are the king of amateur detectives,” he said. “She was only six months along, and you figured that out.”
“My powers of observation are legend,” I said. “Meaning, greatly exaggerated. So, what? She’s home nursing a two-month-old?”
“Literally,” Tom said, nodding. “Normally, I wouldn’t do one of these things without her—but being invited to be part of Mystery Weekend at Mohonk is kind of an honor.”
And it was. If I wasn’t a friend of Curt Clark’s, I wouldn’t have been invited; I was just too small a fry in the mystery world to qualify. Curt, who was the latest of several top-rank mystery writers to head up the Mohonk Mystery Weekend, was “an acknowledged master of the comedy caper,” as The Mystery Chronicler had put it.
“I see you’re going to be speaking tomorrow afternoon,” he said, referring to a program he held in one hand. “On ‘Translating True Crime into Mystery Fiction.’ ”
“I haven’t seen that yet,” I said, meaning the program. “All I got in the mail from Curt was the suggested topic for my speech, and a cast list and description of my character in the mystery. Which I assume each of us playing a role got, so we could put together an appropriate wardrobe.”
“Right,” Tom said. “I play a tough private eye.”
“Typecasting,” I said.
“I guess. All I had to do was pack a trenchcoat and fedora and .38. Well, it’s a full-scale replica of a .38, anyway. How about you?”
“I play a nerd,” I said. “Sort of Pee-Wee Herman on the Orient Express. And no further comments on typecasting are necessary.”
“All I can say is, some of us are obviously typecast. Did you get a load of who the murder victim is?”
“No. I mean, from the write-up Curt sent me about my character, I gather it’s a critic.”
“It sure is a critic,” Tom grinned.
“Can I infer, then, that the role of critic is being played by some real critic?”
“You can. Care to guess who?”
“I don’t remember seeing a critic on the guest list....”
“Clark left that name off the list. He likes to play things cute, you know. That’s what he’s famous for, in those books of his—his wicked sense of humor.”
“Who, then? The only critic I can think of that anybody might want to murder is that weasel Kirk Rath.”
Tom beamed. “The very weasel in question.”
Kirk S. Rath was, at the ripe old age of twenty-seven, easily the most famous and controversial critic in mystery circles. A smug, pedantic critic (his professed role model being John Simon), Rath was the editor and publisher of The Mystery Chronicler, published out of his home in Albany. This monthly magazine, famed for its in-depth interviews with mystery writers and its scholarly, yet entertaining, articles about the classic writers of both the drawing-room and tough-guy schools of mystery fiction, had been the surprise publishing success of the mystery world in recent years. Starting as a fanzine, The Mystery Chronicler had spread to the mystery bookstores and now was circulated to several of the major bookstore chains.
More important, it was widely circulated to libraries, and was having a big impact on which mysteries got bought by the libraries themselves, which, of course, was the major market for most hardcover mysteries.
For all its distinctions, however, The Mystery Chronicler was best known for one thing: the articulate but mean-spirited, often viciously personal criticism written by smug young Kirk Rath himself. Rath was currently tied up in no less than three libel cases, all stemming from his personal attacks upon various mystery writers.
“Brother,” I said. “I don’t know if I share Curt’s sense of humor on that one. Every guest he’s invited has reason to hate Rath.”
“Including you.”
“Yeah, he’s fileted me a few times. And you, too.”
“He really hates my work,” Tom said, rolling his eyes. “ ‘Sardini also writes adult westerns. Perhaps the prolific Mr. Sardini should stick to sagebrush and sex; his private-eye “yawn” features a dim-witted detective who may be the most singularly uninteresting character in mystery fiction.’ ”
“Don’t tell me you memorize bad reviews.”
“They sear into my brain like a branding iron, as we cowboy writers from Brooklyn like to say. So... what did Rath say about you, Mal?”
“Which time?”
“Last time.”
“I don’t remember.”
“Try.”
“Umm, it might’ve been something like ‘Mallory writes fictionalized accounts of real-life cases, and this latest is his most unengaging, unconvincing mock-up of all—thin on character, weak on basic storytelling skills.’ ”
“Yeah,” Tom said. “I don’t let bad reviews get to me, either.”
Jill came over with our room key and said, “We’re on the ground floor. I’d been hoping for one of those rooms with balconies and a view, but what the hell.”
“I’m just down the hall from you,” Tom said to her as he and I stood. “So my view isn’t any better.”
“Maybe Kirk Rath’ll let us borrow his view,” I said. “No matter what floor he’s on, it’s bound to be aloof.”
“The room’s this way,” Jill said, gesturing; she’d had enough snappy patter and milling around. “I want to freshen up before dinner.”
We told Tom we’d see him in the dining hall, and I followed Jill around a corner, down a wide corridor, subdued wallpaper and polished woodwork all around; it was one of those endless halls like in the movie version of The Shining (Stephen King again—he’s everywhere) and I half expected that little kid to come pedaling his Big Wheel around the corner at us.
But he didn’t and we finally found our room—64—and Jill worked the key in the lock, saying, “Tom seems like a nice guy.”
“Yeah, sure,” I said. “And he’s probably written another book since we saw him last.”
We stepped inside. The room was small—make that cozy—but it had its own polished-wood and brick fireplace with a fresh supply of firewood nearby. Our bags awaited us as well. The walls were papered in vertical stripes of yellow shades and the ceiling was high and the window looked out on a patch of snowy ground beyond which was the white frozen lake. A wooden, Japanese-style walkway bridge spanned a near section of the lake, from one ledge of rock to another, with a gazebo at midway point; the wooden bridge did not at all obscure the view of the lake, beyond which rock ledges rose, as well as towering evergreens, distinct and distinctly unreal in the blue-gray moonlight.
But back in the room we had a problem.
“Twin beds,” we said.
“There must be some mistake,” I said.
<
br /> “Maybe it’s because we’re not married.”
“If it comes to that, I’m ready for a ceremony at sea. Where’s the captain of this ship?”
“Wouldn’t that be your friend Curt Clark?”
I paced between the beds. “When I made the arrangements with Curt, I told him I was bringing a female companion. I figured he would’ve guessed I didn’t mean my Aunt Mabel.”
“If you had an Aunt Mabel.”
“If I had an Aunt Mabel,” I said, and then, in midpace, I noticed something else that wasn’t there.
“Where’s the goddamn TV?” I said.
Jill poked around, looking in this corner, and that one; and in the bathroom, and she even, I swear to God, looked under the nearest bed.
“There doesn’t seem to be one,” she said.
“How do they expect me to watch Hill Street Blues?”
“Somehow I don’t think they do.”
“What the hell else am I supposed to do with my Thursday nights in Iowa?”
“We’re not in Iowa, anymore.”
“They got TVs in New York,” I said, irritably, “even upstate,” and went for the phone on the nightstand between the beds. Only there wasn’t one.
“There isn’t even a damn phone,” I said. “Maybe if I go down to the front desk, they’ll provide me with two tin cans and a long piece of string!”
“Cool it, lover,” Jill said, pointing to the table next to her. “There’s a phone here by the window.”
And there it was. It had been right in front of me before and I hadn’t noticed, so caught up in the view of the lake and mountains and such had I been.
“It’s on a long cord,” Jill said. “Want to move it over to the nightstand?”
“No,” I said, joining her, dialing 0. “All I want is my TV and a double bed.”
“I like a man who knows what he wants.”
“Curt Clark’s room, please,” I told the operator, and waited. I looked around the room some more, waiting for Curt to come on the line.
“If I got to pay a little extra myself,” I said, “I am going to get my double bed and TV. I’m a juggernaut on this one, kid.”
She gave me a thumbs up. She worked for a cable company. She believed in TVs. Double beds, too, for that matter.
The phone was ringing in Curt’s room and in my ear and it would have gone on forever, I guess, if I hadn’t hung up.
I stood. I spread my hands and said, not without a little desperation, “How do they expect us to have any fun in a room with twin beds and no TV?”
Jill shrugged expansively. “It’s a mystery to me.... But then this is a mystery weekend, isn’t it?”
“Come on,” I said, taking charge, heading for the door. “If I know Curt, he’ll be down in the bar. We can get this thing straightened out.”
My hand was on the door but I stepped back; somebody had trumped my doorknob with a knock. Okay, then. I was game; I opened the door.
Curt Clark was standing there, with a big grin on his face—and where else did you expect it to be?
He moved in past us, a good-looking, rangy guy in his late forties, with thinning blond hair and dark-rimmed glasses; he was wearing a sports coat with patched elbows, and corduroy trousers.
“Ah, good!” he said, gesturing about him. “You got one of the nice rooms.”
“The nice rooms?”
“Well, they’re all nice, but they don’t all have fireplaces. That’s cute, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, uh... it’s cute.”
Curt turned to Jill and said, “And you must be...”
“Mal’s Aunt Mabel,” she said, smiling, shaking his hand.
He didn’t get the joke, but he knew an inside joke when he saw one and laughed a little anyway. “Funny,” he said, “I figured you for this Jill Forrest person Mal’s always raving about.”
Tom Sardini wasn’t the only reason my phone bills were thicker than my latest novel.
“That’s me,” she said. “I have to admit I haven’t read any of your books yet....”
“You’re in good company,” Curt said, smiling some more.
“But I intend to soon,” she said. “I’m not really a mystery fan—”
Curt waved a hand in the air. “Me, either!”
“—though I’ve started to read a few, on Mal’s recommendation. I’m enjoying them.”
“Let me guess,” Curt said, stalking our room, checking it out, peering out the window at the icy lake. “He’s feeding you Roscoe Kane intravenously.”
This time I smiled. “I haven’t hit her with any Kane, yet. I’m starting her off on Hammett and Chandler.”
“Good, good,” Curt said, planting his feet in one place. “In twenty or so years he’ll have you worked up to me.”
“Oh no,” Jill said. “You’re coming up next... right after Mickey Spillane.”
Curt laid a hand on his chest. “Rating right after the Mick on Mal’s reading list is a high compliment indeed. This doesn’t prevent me from being horrified, of course. Speaking of which, isn’t this place something? This is where they should’ve filmed The Shining!”
Him again.
“Actually, Curt,” I said tentatively, “we were wondering about the twin beds....”
“All the rooms have twin beds,” he said dismissively.
“Well, uh, what about the television?”
“There aren’t any televisions. Why, are you still watching television? Nobody watches television. I thought you were a writer, for Christ’s sake.”
“This place does have me a little confused,” I admitted. “Look, let’s go down to the bar. I’ll buy you a drink and—”
“There’s no bar,” Curt said.
I laughed. “I could have sworn you said—”
“There’s no bar,” he said. “I said that, yes. That’s because there’s no bar.”
I looked at Jill; she looked at me.
“This place is owned and operated by Quakers,” he said.
“Quakers?” I said.
“Quakers?” Jill said.
“Quakers,” Curt said. “You know—like the oats.”
“Nixon was a Quaker,” I said. “He drank.”
“Not here,” Curt said. “The hotel—which insists on calling itself a ‘mountain house,’ by the way, because the Quakers who originated the place didn’t want to own anything so decadent as a ‘hotel’—has no bar, the rooms have no televisions, and there are no double beds. With that in mind, feel free to have as much fun as you want.” He checked his watch. “They’re serving supper now.”
“They do have food here, then?”
Curt grinned. “Sure, after you say grace,” he said, and went out.
I followed, and Jill hesitated at the door, locking up, then followed me.
“I’ll show you to the dining hall,” he said. Then he nodded to room sixty-two as we passed and said, “We’re neighbors, by the way. Feel free to knock for a cup of sugar anytime Kim and I aren’t in the room.”
Kim was Curt’s wife, a lovely woman in her late twenties, an actress.
“How did you do in the city?” Curt asked me.
“Well, I don’t have an agent anymore.”
“Jake Kreiger finally got to you, huh? What the hell, you’re due for a change.”
Jill said, “Maybe you could talk to your agent for Mal—”
I said, “Jill, please—”
Curt grinned. “My agent’s Jake Kreiger. Lack of tact doesn’t bother me much—I’m a native New Yorker.”
“Woops,” Jill said.
“Mal, forget all that career crap—the point of this place is getting away from it all,” Curt said, gesturing with both hands, walking fast. He seemed a little keyed up from all the responsibility. “Away from the modern world into something more peaceful.”
As he said this, three women in deerstalker caps scurried by, chattering like magpies.
“Right,” I said.
“Of course,” Curt said, as
we followed him up the wide stairs to the dining hall, “there’s nothing like a little old-fashioned murder to liven things up a bit....”
3
The dining room was an expansive, pine-paneled affair with an open-beamed ceiling that went up a couple of stories, and would have seemed austere if not for the usual Mohonk soft yellow lighting from chandeliers. The scores of small tables with white cloths and hard wooden chairs were attended by young men, in gold jackets, and young women, in black dresses with white aprons, whose serving counters were built around support beams, coffee steaming, condiments awaiting someone’s need. It was like a Protestant church with food.
And the food was good, if surprisingly no-frills Midwestern in style. I was reminded of the many fine family-style restaurants at the Amana Colonies back in Iowa, where bowl upon bowl of basic but quite wonderful food is brought to your table till you say “when”; and those of us from farm stock take our good sweet time about saying “when,” too. Mohonk was the same dang deal—homemade bread and rolls, fruit, steaming parsley potatoes and mixed vegetables, and your choice of two meats, tonight fried chicken and roast beef, medium rare.
After two days in New York, lunching and supping with editors and my ertswhile agent at expensive hole-in-the-wall Manhattan eateries (I’ve always wanted to use that word in a sentence) serving haute cuisine and sushi and the like, my middlebrow, middle-west taste buds were delighted to greet something so plainly, so purely food.
The heavyset gentleman sitting opposite me—a barrelchested man with short gray hair, gray eyes, and a startling tan, rather spiffily dressed in a blue blazer and open-collared peach-color shirt with a single gold chain at his throat—seemed to agree with me. He, too, was chowing down.
We had already introduced ourselves—he was Jack Flint (and I was Mallory, remember?) and I said I was pleased to meet him, and I was: he was one of my favorite writers in the genre, one of the handful of modern “tough-guy” practitioners that I kept up with.
Flint was in his midforties—and was that rarity among mystery writers: he had at one time been a private detective in what we laughingly refer to as “real life.” His detective novels were private-eye procedurals, dealing with such real P.I. practices as skip tracing and process serving, and were written in a beautifully understated manner worthy of Joe Gores.
Nice Weekend for a Murder (A Mallory Mystery) Page 2
