G Malliet - Death and the Lit Chick

"What?"

"Yes. Officially she was a clerk-typist, but there are hints of undercover work in her C.V."

"Well, I must say, it's a great disguise."

"Apparently Tom saved her life a few times, and she his. I suppose that created whatever bond those two managed to form."

"Even though the bond seems to be loosening a bit now, with her success. Or more likely, the thrill of being a punching bag is just gone."

Moor nodded, "Too bad we can't at least apply for an ASBO against Brackett."

"Anti-Social Behaviour Order? Yes, too bad. Even though his wife seems to bear the brunt, it would still be fitting."

"We also have a report from New Mexico of suspected embezzlement by Mrs. Elksworthy."

"You're not serious."

Moor nodded. "It was never prosecuted; she was just quietly let go by her employer. Apparently they were sympathetic-and besides, she paid back every penny. She has-had-a lover who came down with a terminal illness, and didn't happen to be covered by health insurance. Of course, she wasn't covered by Mrs. E.'s insurance at work, either. So Mrs. E. embezzled to pay the hospital bills, which were enormous. Her partner had no family-or rather, they had turned her out for her… inclinations, long before. I got all this straight from some gabby old cat who still works at the firm. Anyway, Mrs. E. took it all on as her responsibility, and the employer let her pay them back in increments. Luckily, her books started to sell about then. She's still poor as a church mouse-just take a look at her financials over there-but she owes no one a penny. This was ten years ago and there's not another spot on her record, before or since."

Was that the reason for her insistence on the "Mrs.?" St. Just wondered. She was from a generation where keeping up appearances about that sort of thing mattered very much. The fear of reprisals was always there. And of exposure. Blackmail…

"The power of love is…" he said aloud, without intending to.

"Is what?"

"Nothing. Go on. I was just wondering if Kimberlee somehow got wind of this for her little book." And he filled them in on Kimberlee's threat to Magretta.

"Probably did," said Moor. "Our Kimberlee didn't seem to have a strong sense of self-preservation, did she? I thought novelists were supposed to make things up-it certainly sounds like that would have been the safer route to take. Anyway, then we have B. A. King. His real name, apparently. I guess his parents couldn't afford anything but initials. He has one or two drunk and disorderlies in his file."

"You astonish me."

"Here's something that really will astonish you. He writes romance novels. Well, he wrote one. That book you found in Kimberlee's room, it was his. He's Leticia-Anne Deville."

"I find it really, really hard to picture B. A. King writing that heaving-bosoms kind of thing, sober or not."

"You're not the only one. Anyway, not much motive there in either case-or is there? A case could be made that Mrs. E. was pushed too far-but would she have the physical strength for this murder, I wonder?"

"I'm not certain about that myself. But never underestimate the power of an adrenaline surge," said St. Just. "Well, the only constant motive across the board seems to be rivalry. Fear of what Kimberlee might have been writing in her new book is certainly, to me, the stronger motive."

"Agreed. Then there's Ninette Thomson." He jabbed a finger at the report. "A real scofflaw, this lady. Overdue parking tickets all over London and New York."

"But nothing really dodgy." It was a statement rather than a question.

"Afraid not," said Moor.

"How about Rachel Twalley?" St. Just asked. "Her alibi check out?"

Moor nodded.

"Straight home to her husband, a pillar of the church. I can't see any problems there, or with the other people Donna let out of the castle. The timing pretty much puts them out of it, and they swear they all hung together until the moment they left the premises, anyway."

"Even if they'd hung around, motive would have been a problem."

"Agreed. Young Quentin Swope, now, might have the type of personality we're looking for. According to his employer, he spends most of his time in the penalty box."

"How so?"

Moor chewed thoughtfully at the corner of his mouth, twirling one side of his mustache, then said, "Nothing too serious, apparently. I'm reading between the lines here again. The employer marks it down to youthful idealism. A few complaints of 'aggressive' tactics used in landing an interview."

"Hmm."

"Donna Doone has a possible connection to the case, though."

"Donna?"

"She had a brother who committed suicide. He was a teacher, living in Sheffield at the time-the same time Kimberlee was working for the paper. There were some allegations-unproven-that his relationship with one of his students wasn't all it should be. There was a lot of press coverage-you know the kind of thing: hint, hint; nudge, nudge-but nothing written in plain language that could land the paper in trouble. I gather the man had always been a bit unstable, and the notoriety seems to have pushed him right over the edge. They're looking back at Kimberlee's columns now; she seems to have led the crusade against him."

"Poor Donna. Certainly there's a motive there. Good old-fashioned revenge. Although I wouldn't have said that was her style. She's more the type to agonize endlessly, trying to forgive the unforgivable. How about Easterbrook. Anything on him?"

"Not really. Nothing at all, really. Born in a house the size of the Vatican. Public school background, Oxbridge, yada, yada. One of the few aristocrats to escape the rolling tumbrels of inheritance taxes and make enough money to maintain his stately home by himself, without having to turn it into a theme park. Doesn't appear to have ever have held an ambition beyond the family business. He's apparently honest, as far as businessmen go."

St. Just was not overly surprised. Easterbrook's cold mind may have been forged in the dank, unheated dormitories of a Gulag system like Eton or Gordonstoun, but that wouldn't necessarily have turned him into a criminal. If that were the case, the gaols would be filled to over-crowding with bluebloods.

"Married?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"She grows tulips."

"Anything else? Anything on her?"

"No."

"Tulips."

"Yes."

St. Just stood and walked over to one of the arrow-slit windows. Far below, Portia was sitting on a garden bench, wrapped tightly against the cold, the light from the castle windows gleaming faintly on her dark hair. Winston sat beside her, his head close to hers in urgent conversation-closer than St. Just felt was strictly necessary to convey an opinion, however urgent. His heart did something he didn't know hearts could really do-a triple-axle followed by a somersault. He had to get this woman out of his mind; she was making him ill.

He realized Moor was speaking to him.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"What we don't know is why it was done, then."

"Or how. Not to mention, by whom."

Moor nodded. "And we won't know who until we know why. Sod this for a lark. Practically any of them could have done it."

St. Just turned deliberately away from the window view. It was like removing a sticking plaster with one pull. He wanted to be down there with Portia, dragging her away from Winston's doubtful charms, not stuck here discussing this damned case.

He felt somehow like a traitor, but he had to ask. In a voice as casual as he could manage, he said, "Anything on Portia De'Ath?"

Moor shook his head. "Not on her, no. Her only connection with crime is that her American uncle was shot by an off-duty policeman. Killed. Turned out the man was unarmed. That kind of thing can queer you on police the rest of your life."

Oh, God.