G Malliet - Death and the Lit Chick

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."

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.