G Malliet - Death and the Lit Chick

They got through the rest of the meal, their aimless chatter and industry gossip magnified by the room's vaulted roof. When the waiters began bringing coffee and dessert, Rachel Twalley rose and began reading from her prepared welcoming speech, which bore an uncanny likeness to her opening remarks at the conference. The evening bore all the hallmarks of the usual interminable awards dinner, in fact, until Lord Easterbrook stood to announce it as his pleasure "to honor Kimberlee Kalder for writing the best debut novel Deadly Dagger Press or any other publisher has seen in decades… or perhaps, ever. Kimberlee Kalder came from obscurity" (here a dark frown creased the perfection of Kimberlee's brow) "and rose quickly to become the brightest star in the Deadly Dagger galaxy" (the frown disappeared, and the mouth widened in a catlike smirk). "To prove how highly we honor our successful authors, I am pleased to present Kimberlee this evening with a bonus cheque for thirty thousand pounds."

A collective gasp came from every corner of the room. Portia remembered it later as more a howl of outrage, but that may have been Magretta's contribution to the chorus. Kimberlee rose from her chair, dressed in what looked like a white satin slip, and gave an unconvincing show of surprise followed by a long thank-you speech that managed to thank no one or smooth any feathers. Midway through, Tom Brackett walked out, followed by Edith.

When it was over, Portia turned to Mrs. Elksworthy.

"Whew. I don't know about you, but I could fancy a brandy."

"I could fancy several. It might stimulate my thinking on how I might have spent my bonus cheque if one had ever been offered. Bonus cheque -whoever heard of such a thing?" Joan Elksworthy's cheeks held a high color, her face an angry expression.

St. Just, who had been sidling up on the pair from behind, planning his ambush, was just about to seize the moment when Rachel Twalley approached.

"Would you both like to join us for a drink?" Portia asked.

St. Just nodded as Rachel said, "I thought you'd never ask. A quick one, though, and then home to my husband. Really, sharing a table with Tom was the last straw for me tonight. That man is so spiky. I can see why he writes spy novels. Not a word out of him, even under torture."

"He really was a spy once, wasn't he?" said Portia. "That's always been the scuttlebutt."

"If you told me he'd spied for the Russians and they'd refused to let him defect to Moscow, it wouldn't surprise me. Anyway, I heard him inform Edith just now that they were meeting someone in the sitting room, so let's take over the library."

The library was fashioned in the style of a gentleman's drinking club, all wing chairs and roomy, rumpled sofas, with shelves of crumbling leather-bound books lining the walls. It was sited next to the sitting room at the end of a long hallway, past display windows of clothing, sporting goods, and high-end souvenirs. The library contained a service bar, which was technically in operation twenty-four hours a day, or until the last guest was rendered unconscious, whichever came first, which had made it a natural meeting place throughout the conference. One seating group centered round a wood-burning fireplace; another was clustered near a panoramic window offering a far-ranging view of the castle park. Individual chairs with side tables dotted the corners of the room. Faded Persian rugs were strewn about the vast floor.

Their party, which grew to include B. A. King, Ninette, and Winston-Donna Doone having returned Cinderella-like to her castle duties, with a promise to join the group later-ran into Magretta at the door to the library, waving a sheaf of stationery headed with the Dalmorton crest.

"I'm taking a drink up to my room to work on my new novel." Her eyes glistened dangerously. "Research, you know. Some of us have to work for a living."

She cantered off on high heels, green shawl billowing like a sail behind her.

"What's there to research?" wondered Annabelle. She threw back her shoulders, and, puffing out her considerable chest, mimicked: "Details, details! Verisimilitude is of course important! But people are the same in every age, don't you think? It's the-universality-of the naked human condition, its tawdry hopes and blind ambitions, that I por tray in my books." Laughing guiltily at Annabelle's pitch-perfect imitation, the group began placing orders with the bartender. There was some muttered grumbling that Kimberlee-and Lord Easterbrook-should pick up the tab.

Lord Easterbrook was nowhere to be seen, but Jay Fforde and Kimberlee entered, shoulder to shoulder, and quickly commandeered the view overlooking the grounds. They sat throwing significant glances at each other, backlit in a yellow nimbus cast by the castle floodlights, in a pose that invited no interruptions. Beyond this romantic tableau, Portia could see a strengthening storm whipped by wind; intermittently the room's arched and mullioned windows rattled gently, lending a constant rumbling undercurrent to the buzz of conversation. The wind stepped up its mournful chorus as it moved through the distant trees-a chorus punctuated by shrieks as it skirled through the chimneys and wound past the castle battlements.

Everyone else, including Rachel Twalley and the local dignitaries, drifted into small groupings by the fire (St. Just again lost the scrum to sit beside Portia). Before long the talk reverted to the apparently inexhaustible topic of Amazon.com rankings. And from there, Kimberlee being preoccupied safely out of hearing range, the conversation turned to the chick lit trend.

"I don't get it, I really don't," grumbled Annabelle. "What exactly is the attraction of crime stories where the heroines teeter around New York and London in stiletto heels swigging martinis and coffee with a mobile glued to their heads? Besides, I never thought a mystery could make any sense written in the first person, present tense."

"It is rather an interesting technique, though," said Winston in his deep, melodious voice, "once you stop noticing how ruddy intrusive it is." Winston sat folded into his chair, legs and arms jutting in all directions. He put Portia in mind of a grasshopper. "In comparison, how would you characterize Magretta's work? Romantic suspense?"

"Womjep," supplied Mrs. Elksworthy, leaning in to the group. "Woman in Jeopardy. As different from Kimberlee's stuff as can be imagined. All creaking staircases and shadowy figures. The heck of it is, Magretta Sincock was the lodestar in the Dagger constellation for a very long time. But-at least to hear her tell it-every word is conceived and produced only by painstaking labor. Kimberlee makes it all look too easy."

"That local reporter seems to think books like Kimberlee's are the wave of the future," said Annabelle. "Sadly, I think he may be right."

"Quentin Swope?" asked Ninette, pushing back the heavy fringe over her eyes. "I saw him just now joining Tom in the sitting room, weighted down by hair gel. Hard to imagine what Tom might have to say about chick lit."

"Hard to imagine Tom inviting anyone to join him. Harder still to imagine anyone accepting the invitation," said Annabelle.

"I suppose he's hoping for some positive publicity out of Quentin," said Winston. "And I, for one, did accept the invitation-hoping for the same, I don't mind admitting." He stood. "I should be getting over there."

"Judging by what happened to Magretta this morning, that might be a dangerous game," said B. A. King. "She should leave publicity to the professionals." He stood, shooting the cuffs of his dinner jacket. "I think I'll join you, Winston. Can't hurt to know what's in the pipeline."

"I wonder," said Winston, "if the reporter isn't hoping for an 'in' to the book publishing world. If ever I saw someone likely to have an unpublishable novel in his bottom desk drawer, it's Quentin Swope."