Death and the Lit Chick sm-2

by G. M. Malliet

  Anyway, he realized, the poor ragged, emaciated sods were probably too weak from injuries, torture, hunger, and thirst to do much yelling. In his imagination, he heard their cries echo faintly off the stone walls. How many had languished at the bottom of this pit, suffering lingering and horrible deaths by starvation in this literal hell hole?

  "I doubt the victims were in much condition to scream by the time they were thrown in here," he told her. A small shudder of revulsion lifted his shoulders. He felt a sinking of the spirit, much as he had felt looking at the leper holes in the porch of a medieval church at Englishcombe. The long creep of centuries added weight to the fetid air.

  Joan said, "Let's get the hell out of here." He didn't stay to argue.

  "The hotel brochure also mentions a priest's hole," Mrs. Elksworthy said as they emerged into the main hallway. "This place has everything, doesn't it?"

  From the registration area below, they could hear Magretta putting the staff through its paces. They dared a peek down the stairs. Magretta was pounding one bejeweled fist on the countertop for emphasis.

  "If, as you say, there are no turrets left, which I do not for one second believe, I shall have a room with a view. The closed outdoor pool does not count as a view. I came to Scotland to see the mountain vistas and by God, I shall." She stamped one small, green-shod foot.

  "Madam, I am sorry," said the clerk. "I can only repeat, the last turreted room went to Miss Kalder. Perhaps she would be willing to organize an exchange."

  "Perhaps pigs will fly," muttered Joan Elksworthy.

  As there were in fact no mountains near the castle, St. Just could only wonder how the staff was going to cope with Magretta. He and Mrs. E-she really seemed to prefer the more informal mode of address-carried on into the sitting room, where waiters bustled about replenishing the afternoon tea service. The pair stood near where Donna Doone had sat earlier, overlooking the front of the Castle. A limo was now disgorging a broad-shouldered, pugnacious-looking man and a woman, presumably his wife. St. Just somehow was put in mind of photos of Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas from the 1930s. He had never been sure what black bombazine was, but felt fairly certain this is what the woman might be wearing-there was something altogether faded and old-fashioned in her appearance. She hovered several feet behind the man like a paid companion.

  "That," said Mrs. Elksworthy, "is Tom Brackett, the spy novelist, and his wife. I always forget her name. Tom claims to have been a real spy once. Or at least, he doesn't bother to deny the rumors-good for sales. Spy novels… not really mysteries, are they? Oh, and this woman just now arriving. That's Ninette Thomson. She's an agent."

  Another taxi pulled up, and it proved to be the last one of the day. It disgorged a woman of perhaps forty years with graying brown hair, plainly dressed in a nondescript dress of muddy brown.

  "No idea," Mrs. Elksworthy said. "She looks like she's been dragged through a hedge backwards, doesn't she? Oh, wait, that's Annabelle Pace. My, she's put on weight." She lowered her voice confidingly. "Occupational hazard for a writer," she informed him. "Writer's butt. I grew as big as a barn writing No One Here but Us Dead."

  Mrs. Elksworthy excused herself after one cup of tea to finish unpacking. St. Just stayed on as long as he could, and ate and drank as much tea as he could hold, hoping this Ms. De'Ath would appear. She never did.

  DARKNESS FALLS

  Portia De'Ath had spent the afternoon in her room, going over her notes for her work in progress. The castle's romantic setting so far wasn't helping as she'd hoped. She'd devised a plot of what had seemed at the moment of inspiration to be devilish ingenuity. In execution, it was turning into a sea of red herrings.

  But it was seven the next time she looked at her watch. She'd missed the start of the cocktail hour and would have to rush to change for dinner. She emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later in a fusion of steam and lavender scent, wrapped in one of the hotel's plush white terrycloth robes. Quickly, she slipped into a travel-proof black jersey, accenting it with gold jewelry at her neck and ears, and headed downstairs.

  At the Dungeon Restaurant, festively decorated with weapons and suits of armor, she was briskly led by a hostess to a table for two near Tom Brackett and his wife-too briskly for Portia to stop her. She had encountered the pair at a previous conference and had spent much of the time wishing she could kidnap Edith away from the man.

  Her agent Ninette Thomson, this night foreswearing her usual animal prints and leggings in favor of a simple black dress, joined her moments later. Portia now realized that at another nearby table sat her disappearing travel companion, Kimberlee Kalder, and a handsome blonde man whom Ninette introduced-rather frostily, thought Portia-as Jay Fforde, agent. Ninette treated Kimberlee to an accusatory glance that could have done service as a steak knife. Kimberlee smiled sweetly back, scanning both women with expertly kohl-lined eyes. If Kimberlee remembered abandoning Portia at the train station-in fact, if she remembered her at all-it was clear that now she only had eyes for Jay Fforde.

  Ninette and Portia studied the menu, eavesdropping the while. Kimberlee seemed to be the topic of several muted exchanges going on around them. Heads also kept turning in the direction of an unremarkable woman who sat alone, wearing an unfortunate dun-colored polyester dress. Portia finally recognized her from years of seeing her photo in bookstore advertising displays-Annabelle Pace. Annabelle, who wrote tales about an oversexed forensic pathologist-Canadian, Portia rather thought. Despite the fact the author's research on forensics had been criticized as laughably slipshod at best, the books generally lingered several weeks on the best-seller lists. Although, Portia realized, she hadn't seen the name Annabelle Pace in those lists for some time. Annabelle was looking decidedly ill and drawn-far older than her publicity photos, at any rate.

  Other people recognizable as conference attendees began straying in, including Magretta Sincock, dressed now in a peculiar green the color of decomposing celery. Thankfully she had left any matching hat in her room. She stood surveying the restaurant, apparently captivated by its barrel-vaulted ceiling. Portia had a suspicion she was holding this pose until most of the diners registered her presence. She also suspected Magretta was waiting for one particular pair of eyes to notice her. When Kimberlee Kalder finally did look up, Magretta did a staged double-take and danced across the room, gushing hallos, a wizened but game Peter Pan. If Magretta had hoped politeness would demand she be invited to sit, it was a short-lived hope. The pair gave her a dismissive, chilly greeting and resumed their conversation under her nose.

  A somewhat subdued Magretta nevertheless threw back her shoulders and marched over to Tom Brackett's table, a move Portia doubted was any more inspired. Her effusive greeting did not include Tom's wife, although it was possible Magretta didn't actually register the woman, who had an eerie ability to blend into the walls.

  "I am so pleased to meet you at last," Magretta warbled. "I am…" and she drew herself up to her full five feet, in heels, "… well, as of course you must know, I am Magretta Sincock. It is odd, is it not, that two such famous writers have never met?"

  Tom put down the knife with which he had been sawing at something and surveyed the little hand being offered him, as if he had never seen such a thing before. He extended one large paw in Magretta Sincock's direction, then suddenly seized the hand tightly, holding it in a grip until Magretta let out a little squawk and began, ever so slightly, to buckle at the knees. Finally, silently, he released her. Magretta Sincock stood wavering, stoically masking the pain. The other diners exchanged alarmed glances, no one quite knowing what to do. Kimberlee Kalder laughed.

  "Well, best be off," Magretta said at last, in a bright, strangled voice, her face nearly as red as her hair. "I've so enjoyed our little chat." Bowed but unbeaten, she walked, slightly staggering, over to Annabelle's table, where a similar performance was repeated, minus the wrestling match. Annabelle took her hand gingerly and asked her to join her, "one star of yesteryear to another."

/>   "Oh, God. Don't remind me," said Magretta, flapping a napkin into her lap.

  "I suppose it's marginally better than calling us washed-up has-beens…"

  "Not by much. Wait until I get my hands on that loathsome little toad of a reporter." She paused. "I hear you're just back from Iowa."

  "Kansas or Iowa or some where. Goddamn publicists. I've seen bigger crowds at a salad bar."

  "Been there," said Magretta. "Just me, three store clerks, and a homeless man who tried to follow me back to the hotel."

  "Who is your publicist?"

  "B. A. King," said Annabelle.

  "Ah," said Magretta.

  "I wonder what Tom Brackett's doing here anyway," Annabelle said after a moment.

  "He doesn't have to come, that's certain. He seems to get plenty of publicity without leaving home."

  "It would probably be better for his career if he stayed put, actually. I doubt he'd have as many fans if they'd seen his performance tonight with you."

  Surreptitiously, Magretta shook out her still-aching hand. But her resentful gaze slid over not to Tom, but to Jay and a simpering Kimberlee.

  "I see the world hasn't changed since I was a girl," said Magretta.

  "How so?"

  Scarcely bothering to lower her voice, Magretta said:

  "It's not whom you know, but whom you sleep with."

  "Roger that."

  AT THIRD SIGHT

  The conference began in earnest the next day, and St. Just, along with most of the authors, was bussed into Edinburgh, feeling rather like royalty on the way to open a chain store in the provinces. The air was cold and the road glazed with frost, the warm spell of the day before a fast-fading memory.

  The coach deposited them at the Luxor Hotel, where they were issued name badges and set loose to mingle, clash, or-in St. Just's case-hope to escape notice altogether. He'd stayed in his room the night before, ordering room service, but he'd met most of the others at breakfast. The one person he wanted to see, of course, had not been there.

  An opening session was scheduled within the hour in the hotel's main ballroom, and participants had begun to gather outside its double doors, some sitting on the floor with coffee cups, like mendicants in a church porch. Many had opted for comfort in jeans and spandex, while many had gone in-oddly, St. Just thought-for the pinstriped captain-of-industry look. Most had mobiles attached to their ears.

  Old acquaintance were reuniting, standing back to admire and comment on how well the other looked. But underneath it all-all the back-slapping and the faces wreathed in smiles-St. Just picked up the occasional impression of a past slight or grudge being dusted off for a closer look.

  Donna Doone squeezed her way out of an opening in the crowd to join him, dressed today in a sequined, low-cut white jumpsuit that inescapably called to mind Elvis: The Vegas Years. Mrs. Elksworthy also materialized from somewhere, just as Magretta Sincock came steaming into view. Today she had assembled a costume the color and texture of a putting green, with a feathered cavalier hat and a leather belt slung gunslinger style around her ample hips.

  "Oh, look," she said, pointing with her glass of orange juice. "Rachel Twalley."

  "Yes, she's a dear friend of mine from school days," said Joan Elksworthy, following Magretta's direction, then adding, "Oh, my." They all looked over at Rachel, who stood wrestling with a cascading sheaf of papers and an empty stapler, casting aggrieved glances at the burbling entourage now forming around Kimberlee. Her harried manner suggested a woman tired of all work and no glory.

  Magretta went on: "She writes, or rather wrote, Regency mysteries with a corgi sleuth, owned by a Princess Royal-or was it a dachshund owned by Bonnie Prince Charlie? Anyway, I suspect she agreed to arrange this rave-up in an attempt to keep her name alive before the public. At least she'll be listed in the program for something."

  Ignoring the frosty reception these comments were getting from Joan Elksworthy, Magretta went on:

  "But historicals are doing rather well now. I'm thinking of going in for one myself. What would you say," she said, turning to St. Just, "to a spunky heroine who escapes human sacrifice in ancient Gaul, only to find that she has the ear, along with other parts, of the great Caesar, helping him resolve potentially embarrassing political scandals?"

  "It's a… novel idea," said St. Just, not daring to steal a glance at Mrs. Elksworthy.

  "You think it's rubbish, of course," said Magretta, catching him off guard with her unexpected acumen, "but I tell you, publishers are looking for a hook, however stupid. Is that Quentin Swope, I wonder? The one who wrote that simply libelous article in the Edinburgh Herald? I have a word or two for him." Magretta slid the strap of her purse over her shoulder and swooped off in a flutter of molting plumage.

  The eddying crowd gradually pushed them in the direction of the sellers' room, where books representing the fevered output of the gathered were offered for purchase, along with apparently in-demand mystery paraphernalia such as sloganed T-shirts and cat bookends. St. Just was becalmed near Annabelle Pace at a table selling collectible crime novels. He was turning to comment on a first-edition Chandler when he saw she had struck up a conversation with Winston Chatley on her other side. Sensing some old chemistry or affinity there, he held back.

  He began idly looking for the books of authors he recognized from the castle, reading the little biographies on the back jackets and marveling at the revealing choices of author photo. Magretta, in a hazy black-and-white studio shot clearly decades old, was recognizable mostly by her rigid, unchanging hairstyle. Head propped on her hands, she smiled at the potential buyer with the coy, come-hither look of an old-time movie vamp. Most of the other authors had adopted a friendly grin, or, in the case of the thriller writers, a grimace suggesting a minor bowel obstruction. Tom Brackett glared out at the world with a fierce sneer on his lips.

  Kimberlee's book was impossible to miss, and not only for the sheer volume of copies available for sale. The thick glossy cover was coated in a garish shade of hot pink; its title, Dying for a Latte, was set in a jagged black font meant to resemble knife blades. The subject was illustrated by an androgynous, prone victim with a black stiletto heel sticking out of its back and a woman's stocking tied garrote-style around its neck. In its outstretched hand was a martini glass filled with something St. Just hoped was meant to represent one of those designer cocktails rather than blood.

  The latte of the title was nowhere to be seen but perhaps that oversight was explained in the narrative.

  A scene ripped from today's headlines, thought St. Just. He picked up the book and leafed through it rather furtively, like a man in a lingerie store shopping for his wife's Valentine's Day gift. The story seemed to be about-as much as it was about anything-a young woman in a low-level publishing job with a tiny apartment, a shoe fetish, an unlimited clothing budget, and a philandering boss she finds dead of a gunshot wound. St. Just flipped back to the front cover at that point, wondering what had happened to the shoe, the stocking, and the martini glass. Shrugging, he flipped through a few more pages. Ninety percent of the book seemed to be taken up with the protagonist yakking about either this shooting or, in equal measure, her ex-boyfriend with her two "gal pals" and a gay decorator. These breezy discussions generally were held over cocktails in one trendy nightspot or another. Midway through, the heroine accosted the ex-boyfriend and gave him a good bollocking. Henry James it was not.

  "A Kimberlee Kalder fan? You?"

  The low, honeyed voice at his side startled him so the pink horror of a book nearly flew out of his hands. He blushed, as if he'd been caught reading porn.

  "Who, as they would say in America, would'a thunk it?" the soft voice added.

  He turned toward the speaker. Looking down, his eyes met a blue gaze the color of the sea at midnight. He felt as if he'd again slipped sideways through a time warp, for it was the dark-haired woman from St. Germaine's restaurant, the one he'd glimpsed again yesterday. Since he thought it was doubtful she'd rem
ember him, he was reluctant to mention their former "acquaintance," for reasons of pride or whatever that he didn't care to examine too closely.

  He closed the book and replaced it carefully with its ghastly pink sisters.

  "Just curious," he cleared his throat, smiled. "There's been so much talk."

  "Hmm. Oh, about the book, you mean?" she smiled mischievously, a smile to light any room. A smile he decided instantly he wanted to-had to-see every day of his life.

  Whatever it took.

  He'd learn to tell jokes, memorize joke books, if that's what it took, to make that smile appear.

  He didn't care who this woman was.

  He didn't care where she came from.

  He didn't care if she snored.

  St. Just was a goner.

  STIRRINGS

  "Yes, I suppose," continued the vision. "The roman a clef always arouses a certain amount of curiosity, at least among the people who think they might have been portrayed in it."

  He stood transfixed by that curious blue stare.

  Make her keep talking, he thought. About anything. It doesn't matter. Don't let her leave.

  His brain, at least the part that connected to his tongue, refused to obey.

  She'll think I'm an idiot, he thought frantically. Say something!

  Providentially, she seemed not to have noticed she was talking to an idiot.

  "But in this case, once the lawyers were through pecking at the Latte manuscript, I hear there wasn't any real meat left. Assuming there ever was. I've only read a few excerpts."

  "You said, roman a clef, " he managed to croak.

  She nodded.

  Doing great there, Arthur, he thought. She probably knows what she just said.

  "I mean," he went on, stopped, tried tearing his eyes from her face and found he could not. "What I meant was, the author worked in publishing?"

  "Apparently. Magazines. All the more surprising since Kimberlee seems barely able to spell or construct a sentence that does not contain the word 'like.' Although the spelling may be the typesetter's fault. You can never be sure. My last book had the word 'pratmatic' sprinkled throughout."