Gemma wanted a full day of activities, starting with a birthday party and author panel this morning and culminating in the costume party with all the guests dressing as their favorite gothic characters from books, TV, or movies. She thought it was wonderfully appropriate because there was that disastrous costume party sequence in Rebecca, and costumes play a large role in many gothic works. Think of the masquerade scene in Phantom of the Opera, and the protagonist’s mask, for that matter. Since Heaven, Colorado (population 10,096, according to the sign as you drive into town), was, sadly, devoid of gothic castles, we were holding it at the Club tonight.
The birthday party was because all of Gemma’s favorite gothic authors were born in September. They included Victoria Holt ( September 1), Joan Aiken (September 4), Phyllis Whitney (September 9), Mary Stewart (September 17) and Barbara Michaels (September 29). I had to admit it was almost eerie how many of them were born in the same month. To top it off, this September would have been Mary Stewart’s hundredth birthday, so my go-to baker had constructed a cake decorated with icing replicas of some of the birthday authors’ covers, and crowned it with a hundred candles.
Following the birthday party and panel, we had media interviews for the visiting authors, a high school writing contest for the authors to judge, and an auction of donated merchandise, including a collection of first-edition books by the birthday novelists. The auction was to fund a scholarship for a Heaven High School student to attend the Pikes Peak Writers Conference in Colorado Springs. Gemma had proposed naming the scholarship after du Maurier, but when the high school administrators found out that she was apparently bisexual and had had an affair with the novelist Gertrude Lawrence, they put the kibosh on naming it after her. They’d christened it simply the Book Bliss Scholarship for Creative Writing Students.
Even though gothic novels weren’t my reading material of choice, I’d heard of all of the event’s headliners: Constance Aldringham, perennial bestseller of gothic romance; Francesca Bugle, the midlister rumored to have a hit and a major studio movie deal on her hands with her forthcoming novel; and Mary Stewart, the much-ballyhooed debut novelist. Apparently, the latter’s birth certificate name was actually Mary Stewart, although she was no relation to the gothic romance author of the same name who had been big in the genre in the 1950s and ’60s. It made me wonder if names were destiny. Were all Mary Stewarts fated to become gothic novelists? If so, what did being named Amy-Faye Johnson portend?
Aggravation.
“I simply must be seated in the middle,” Constance Aldringham was telling my assistant, Al Frink. She rearranged the nameplates he had set on the table for the author panel that would start in half an hour. “And don’t forget to have a bottle of Perrier and fresh sliced limes at my place. Talking to fans parches me, simply parches me, and I must rehydrate. I count on you to attend to these details for me. I cannot, simply cannot, waste my creative energies on such mundane matters.” This last was apparently directed at her mousy-looking assistant, who quailed at the sharp note in her boss’s voice. Or it might have been meant for her husband, a bearded man with stooped shoulders who had made his way to the bookshelf with World War II histories immediately upon entering the shop, and was now hiding behind a study of tank warfare tactics.
The acknowledged grand dame of modern gothic romances, Constance Aldringham was a well-preserved sixtysomething who had wisely let her hair go white. Smoothed back from a wide forehead and caught up in a low chignon, it emphasized her pale skin, which was minimally lined for a woman her age. Her eyebrows were darker, peaked instead of arched, framing skillfully made-up light blue eyes. She affected clothes in dark hues that set off her hair. Today’s dress was navy blue, sweeping almost to her ankles, and accented with a paisley silk scarf chosen, I suspected, to obscure the slightest hint of jowls and a crepey neck.
Al gave me a “what do I do?” look, and I signed for him to let it be. We had intended to have the authors sit in alphabetical order, but if no one else complained it didn’t make much difference if Constance sat in the middle. On the short side, wearing a sweater vest and a bow tie, and with his sandy hair recently buzz-cut, Al looked like a refugee from the 1950s, the “good kid” Mrs. Cleaver and her ilk would have trusted without hesitation. In truth, he’d been a bit of a troublemaker in high school and it had taken him a couple of years to straighten up and enroll in college. The university had matched him with me as an intern for my event organizing business, Eventful!, a couple of years ago and it had worked out great. I’d recently asked him to come on board full-time when he graduated, and he was still thinking about the offer.
Now he straightened Constance’s name tent, gave the table skirt a twitch, and disappeared into Gemma’s stockroom, where we had parked the refreshments for the signing. I was about to follow him to set out the three cakes iced to look like the covers of the guest authors’ most recent releases, when there was a knock on the still-locked front door. Gemma hurried to let in a stocky woman I recognized from book jackets as Francesca Bugle. She wore a red jacket with wide lapels that did not flatter her top-heavy figure, and a felt hat decked with red poppies.
A man followed her, his attire making it plain he wasn’t from around here. I’d bet tonight’s paycheck he was from L.A. He wore a black linen blazer over a black silk T-shirt, slacks, and loafers without socks. Facial hair that was several days past “forgot to shave” but not quite up to “mustache and goatee” framed his mouth. I figured he worked hard to keep it at that exact in-between stage. Maybe ten years older than me—in his early forties—he had a round bald spot on the crown of his head and kept the rest of his hair cut short. A pair of trendy glasses was shoved up on his head and I wondered if they were meant to hide the bald spot.
“Gemma! Hon!” Francesca threw her arms around slim Gemma and squeezed so hard she knocked Gemma’s glasses askew. “Nice to meet you finally.”
“Thank you for joining us for our Celebration of Gothic Novels,” Gemma said in her fluttery way. She smoothed the ruffle at her neckline. “I enjoy your books so much.”
“Especially the naughty bits, hey?” Francesca winked, then drew the man forward. “This is Cosmo Zeller, president of Zeller Productions. That’s the company that’s turning Barbary Close into a blockbuster. Right, Cos?”
Cosmo slouched forward and pulled one hand out of his pocket to shake hands with Gemma. “Spot-on, Frannie. It’s going to be big. Bigger than big. Huge. I think the opening weekend gross will beat the numbers Fifty Shades put up.” His gaze went to the smartphone in his other hand.
“He’s scouting locations since a large part of the book takes place in a small town in the mountains. It’s really in Oregon, but Cosmo says Colorado’s been offering filmmakers a lot of incentives. We’re staying the whole week—I’m fascinated by everything that goes into making a movie.”
The photographer approached and took a photo of the duo. Francesca smiled for the camera, stood beside Gemma for another photo, and then looked around the store. Spotting Constance and her entourage, she called, “Hey, Connie, Merle, Allyson. Good to see you.”
Constance dipped her head like a queen recognizing a peasant. “Francesca.” Her husband and assistant copied her, their nods tentative, as if Constance might divorce or fire them for acknowledging Francesca.
“A little bird told me sales of your latest are way down,” Francesca said, mobile mouth puckering into a moue of seeming concern. “Is it true Oubliette Press isn’t picking up the option on your next book?”
Constance sent her an icy look from narrowed eyes. Before she could reply, Francesca laughed heartily and sailed toward me, hand out. “I’m Francesca Bugle. And you are?”
“Amy-Faye Johnson. I’m the event organizer.”
We shook and my fingers tingled when she released her grip.
“Bang-up job you’ve done,” she said with a decisive nod that set the poppies on her hat bobbing. “Love the castl
e.” She gestured toward the painted flats. “I’ve never been to Heaven before, but it’s a nice-looking little town you’ve got here. Love that B and B, the Columbine.”
I’d managed to get all the writers and their various relatives and hangers-on into Heaven’s most exclusive B and B, the Columbine. In fact, they’d taken over the whole house for the week. Francesca and Cosmo were staying to scout for movie locations, Constance Aldringham and her family were taking advantage of the free accommodations and lovely surroundings to have their first vacation in eight years (or so Constance had told Gemma), and Mary Stewart was using the charming inn as a writing retreat.
“I’m ready for a change of pace,” Francesca said. “Just turned in a manuscript, so I’m in no hurry to get back to Winnetka. It was twenty-two degrees there when I left yesterday. Felt more like December than September. Brrr.” She gave an exaggerated shiver. “Scouting for movie locations will be fun.”
“I hope you enjoy—” But before I could finish, she was turning away, introducing herself to Al as he came out of the stockroom bearing the birthday cake decorated with frosting replicas of some of the birthday authors’ books.
“That is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” Francesca exclaimed. “Who is the genius that did that? I’ve got to get a cake like that for my next book launch. I can just see the cover of Never Again, My Lovely done up in buttercream and fondant. The mist, the seascape—it’ll be gorgeous.”
I gave her one of the baker’s cards. She was tucking it into the structured purse hanging from her elbow when there was another knock, Gemma unlocked the door, and a light voice said, “I’m not late, am I?”
We all turned to look at the willowy young woman glowing on the threshold. The sun shone through her white dress—my mother would have insisted on a slip—and set her red hair on fire. Pleased that we had been struck dumb by her entrance, Mary Stewart the Living (which was how I differentiated between her and the author of Madam, Will You Talk?, the Merlin trilogy, and other books I’d enjoyed when I stumbled on them as a college freshman) glided into the room and shook hands with Gemma. Behind her, one of the most handsome men I’d ever seen carried in a box and set it on a table. I couldn’t help thinking that he was a gothic hero come to life, tall, dark, and brooding, with full lips that would have landed him a men’s cologne commercial if he was an actor, and springy black hair that I knew would feel crisp if I ran my fingers through it.
What was I thinking? I was happily involved with Lindell Hart, Heaven’s chief of detectives. I didn’t need to be fantasizing about a man who hadn’t yet hit thirty and who looked as if he might be the model for the vampire on the cover of Mary’s book Blood Will Out. He politely backed out of the frame when the photographer came forward to take a photo of Mary Stewart.
Mary hugged Francesca and told Constance, “Simply lovely to see you again.”
While I was wondering if her emphasis on “simply” was a sly dig at Constance or if that was how all authors talked, she took the gorgeous man’s hand and said, “Everybody, this is my brother, Lucas.”
We all chorused, “Hi, Lucas,” as if we were at an AA meeting.
He flashed a brilliant smile that dispelled the broodiness. “Nice to meet you all.”
“There’s quite a crowd out there already,” Mary said, apparently delighted. She had a way of talking that made every sentence sound as if it ended with an exclamation point. “Scads of people waiting to meet us and hear about our books. This is going to be such fun!”
Strike three . . .
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