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Purrfect Alibi The Mysteries of Max - Book 3

Marge Poole surveyed the scene. She wondered if they’d set out enough chairs. The event she was staging was without a doubt the biggest and most ambitious one she’d ever taken on. Even though the Hampton Cove library had been remodeled five years ago with exactly this kind of literary event in mind, and a small conference room had been added for writers to hold readings, Marge had never expected ever to land the bestselling thriller writer in the world for one of her Author of the Month evenings.

But there he was. Chris Ackerman. Author of such bestsellers as The Connor Conundrum and The Dixon Dilemma . America’s favorite writer and the most-borrowed author of all time. The scribe was seated on the small stage, peering through his reading glasses and going over his notes, an expensive-looking golden fountain pen poised in his hand. When he noticed Marge nervously bustling about, he fixed his pale blue eyes on her.

“Wasn’t Burke supposed to be here by now?” he asked.

There was an edge to his voice, and Marge didn’t wonder. A long-standing feud between Chris Ackerman and Rockwell Burke, the well-known horror novelist, had existed ever since Burke had announced that he felt Ackerman’s books were the work of a hack and a dilettante and had discounted his prose as bad writing. In fact it had surprised Marge a great deal when Burke had accepted to host the evening, and interview Ackerman on stage.

Perhaps the horrormeister had had a change of heart. More likely, though, it was because his own once flourishing career had hit a snag, his last three books not selling as well as he’d hoped, at which point his publisher must have insisted he try to turn things around by associating himself with the reigning king of the New York Times bestseller list.

“He’ll be here,” Marge assured Ackerman, who was glancing at his watch.

“He’d better,” grumbled the famous writer. In his early seventies now, Chris Ackerman was a ruddy-faced heavyset man with a quiet air of self-confidence. “If he doesn’t show up I’ll have to tell the audience what I really think of him.” He chuckled. “That his best years are behind him, and that I hated every book he’s put out for the past decade.”

“You don’t really mean that,” said Marge, shocked at the harsh words.

“Oh, but I do,” said Ackerman, adjusting his glasses to owlishly stare at Marge. “My publisher told me not to engage, but if Burke stands me up all bets are off.” He wagged a finger. “I’ll bet he’s doing it on purpose. Promising to make nice then making a fool of me.”

“I’m sure he’s simply delayed,” said Marge, checking the door to the left of the stage. “His publicist would have told me if Mr. Burke had decided to cancel at the last minute.”

“Not unless he wants to make a fool of me,” Ackerman repeated.

Marge checked her own watch. One hour until showtime. There was still plenty of time for Rockwell Burke to show up. Then again, the man’s publicist had promised Marge he’d be there on time, so he could go over some of the questions with Ackerman.

Marge, a fine-boned fifty-something woman with long blond hair, chewed her lip and walked the short distance between the conference room and the library proper. She wondered if she’d unlocked the front doors. It worried her that no one had shown up yet. Usually when she organized her Author of the Month evenings at least a few people arrived early, wanting to secure a good seat—or an autograph from the featured author. And with Chris Ackerman as the featured speaker she’d expected the town to turn out en masse.

The Hampton Cove library wasn’t a big operation. In fact it was downright modest. But it had a nice selection of books, DVDs and CDs, a computer room where users could surf the Internet, a cozy kids’ corner with a pirate ship where the kids could sit and read, a colorful fish tank, a collection of stuffed animals, and cheerful artwork by a local artist.

Breezing past the checkout desk and the newspaper stand, she quickly moved to the door, where her husband and her mother stood peering out at the courtyard in front of the library. The size of a postage stamp, the courtyard nevertheless featured a fountain and a few stone benches. At this very moment, though, it was as deserted as the library itself.

“Where is everyone?” asked Marge.

Vesta Muffin, a septuagenarian the spitting image of Estelle Getty, lifted her bony shoulders. “Probably at home watching The Bachelor . Which is what I would be doing right now if you hadn’t roped me into this meet and greet with your childhood crush.”

“He was never my crush,” said Marge, checking the doors to see if they weren’t locked. They weren’t. “I just like his books, that’s all. He’s an amazing writer.”

“I like him,” Tex said. A buff man with a shock of white hair, Tex always kept a Chris Ackerman on his bedside table so he could read a couple of chapters before going to sleep.

“Too bloodthirsty for my taste,” said Gran, adjusting her large, horn-rimmed glasses. “All those serial killers and crazy maniacs. How many serial killers do people really think are out there? Give me EL James any day over your creepy Chuck Peckerwood.”

“Chris Ackerman.”

“Huh?”

“Chris Ackerman, not Chuck Peckerwood.”

“Whatever. I’m just saying. If there really were as many serial killers as Ackerwood wants us to believe, the streets would be crawling with them and we’d all be dead right now, murdered in the most gruesome way possible.”

“It’s fiction, Mom. It’s not supposed to be real.”

“EL James is real. Christian Grey is out there. In fact the world is full of Christian Greys. Only problem is the world is also full of Anastasia Steeles who hog all the Christian Greys and leave nothing for the rest of us shlubs.”

Tex chuckled. “I doubt billionaires are anything like Christian Grey,” he said. “Real billionaires don’t look like runway models. They look like Bill Gates or Warren Buffett.”

“How would you know?” said Vesta. “You’re not a billionaire.”

Tex agreed that he wasn’t. Still, he said, he believed Christian Grey to be just as fictitious as Chris Ackerman’s trademark serial killers.

Marge didn’t think Christian Grey, real or not, would fancy a crusty old lady with tiny white curls and a big attitude problem. But since she didn’t want to get drawn into the argument, she decided to keep her comments to herself. “I don’t get it. Last month we had Jacqueline Rose Garner and people showed up an hour before the start of the event.”

“Which just goes to show you people are fed up with murder and mayhem. They want love and passion. Speaking of which, did you know Chase asked Odelia out on a date?”

“Yes, she told me. Chase took her to Villa Frank. Too bad it’s tonight. She really wanted to be here so she could meet Chris and Rockwell Burke.”

“You can’t beat love,” said Vesta in uncharacteristically sentimental fashion.

“He took her to Villa Frank, huh?” said Tex, rocking back on his heels. “I took Marge there for our wedding anniversary. Remember, honey? You loved their steak pizzaiola.”

“Oh, I did. And how about that almond joy sundae? That was to die for.”

For the next forty-five minutes, conversation flowed back and forth, mainly focusing on Tex and Marge’s daughter Odelia and Odelia’s boyfriend Chase Kingsley. People finally started showing up, though they were in no great hurry to take their seats, instead opting to chat with friends and acquaintances. For most people these Author of the Month evenings were more an excuse to socialize than to come and listen to an author read from their work.