G Malliet - Death and the Lit Chick

Her companion never arrived and she seemed in no hurry to leave. St. Just, wanting to extend the time he had to observe her (as he thought, unobtrusively), ordered a second coffee that would keep him awake into the wee hours, trying to recapture in his sketchbook the angles and planes of this lovely creature's profile.

He would have been chagrined to know that while Portia De'Ath noted with amusement the tall, barrel-chested man staring at her with wounded eyes, she herself slept that night like a baby.

"What is it now, Annabelle?"

B. A. King, publicist and former literary agent, studied his new manicure, while reflecting on the problems of having a former lover as a client, especially a lover/client like Annabelle Pace. The chief problem was that there was never a decent out, not that decency was a quality B. A. prized too highly.

"Don't use that tone with me," came a voice over the phone at a volume calibrated to shatter B. A.'s whiskey glass. "You've got me signing books in some godforsaken town no one ever heard of in a store no one can find. I drive around for two hours and when I finally get there, ten people show up and half of them thought they were there for Patricia Fucking Cornwell. The other shoppers skittered around me like I was harboring the Ebola virus. You call this a promotional tour?"

B. A. sighed heavily. How many times? "It's not the readers here in New York you need to cultivate," he said patiently-for him. "It's the people in the heartland who never heard of you. Name recognition comes by increments. There is no such thing as overnight fame."

"Tell that to Monica Lewinsky. I want you to cancel the rest of this tour. Whether you cancel it or not, I'm not showing up."

"That will certainly add to the fund of goodwill you've been building up with the independent bookshops. Listen, Annabelle. You've only got two more days and then you have to get on a plane to Scotland anyway. If you think they haven't heard of you in Iowa, just imagine the reception you'll get in Scotland. But that's exactly the point of getting yourself out there. So you will become better known by the people who've never heard of you yet. Do you follow me?"

Somewhat mollified, or rather, somewhat deeper into the wine bottle she'd ordered from room service, Annabelle said, a wheedling note in her voice: "You will be there, won't you? You did promise."

"Of course, darling Annabelle. Your invitation to Easterbrook's little fling is something I'll be busy exploiting to the fullest. It's quite an honor he included you, you know. You're the only American on the list. Well, apart from Tom Brackett and his wife. And, I suppose, Joan Elksworthy-she lives here now, even though she's from Scotland or somewhere."

"Well, that's four of us, even if you don't count Kimberlee Kalder," said Annabelle. "She's half American, I've heard. In fact, I've been hearing too much about her lately. She must have one hell of a publicist."

"Not at all, Annabelle. Some books sell by word of mouth."

He felt somehow it would be wisest not to mention that his main-his only-interest in being in Scotland was the opportunity it afforded him to talk with Kimberlee and see if he couldn't woo her into his stable. Not that Annabelle wasn't perfectly aware of that. Yet another of the pitfalls of having a former lover as a client: She simply knew him too well.

"What exactly is that supposed to mean? My books sell by word of mouth."

He supposed she had a point: For grizzly autopsy scenes it was hard to beat Annabelle and her "plucky, zany, forensic-scientist sleuth," as Lord Easterbrook's marketing department would have it. And maybe the mistakes Annabelle rather famously made in writing about police and medical procedure caused the pros to snap up her latest for a good laugh.

"What's that you say? We're losing the signal." A near impossibility, since he was on a land line, but hopefully she wouldn't recall that.

"See you on Thursday, then," he shouted into the phone. "'Bye!"

He hung up hastily, just in time to miss the next salvo.

It was time to get rid of Annabelle, he decided. One way or the other.

Further down the coast, in Washington, D.C., warmed by a fire of pinon wood imported from the Southwest, Tom and Edith Brackett were discussing the upcoming conference over a scotch and soda (him) and an herbal tea (her).

"I have a bad feeling about this," said Edith. "Do we have to go?"

Tom looked at his wife, annoyed. He had to keep reminding himself to try to be nicer to her, a resolution forgotten almost as soon as it was made. But, really-no matter how often they traveled, the little ninny always had an attack of nerves just before a trip. If anything, she was getting worse. And… couldn't the woman do something about that hair? Was it really necessary to try to make some kind of virtue of turning gray? When he thought of the pretty woman he had married twenty years ago, he couldn't believe the dried-up wreck she had become. It never occurred to him that marriage to him for twenty years might have had something to do with it.

"How, bad feeling?" he asked, with exaggerated tolerance. He began repeatedly smoothing his moustache, a sure sign of his irritation, but Edith forged ahead.

"Not about the conference. About the castle. Look at this."

She thrust a travel magazine across at him, indicating an article illustrated with color photos; the headline read, "The Haunting of Dalmorton." The castle, filmed at night, battlements illuminated, rose like a dragon out of a fog-shrouded, medieval moat.

Tom scanned the first few paragraphs, then burst out in coarse laughter.

"You're talking about the ghost? The 'Woman in White' seen walking the halls? For God's sake, Edith. It's a bunch of crap they make up to give gullible tourists like yourself a cheap thrill."

"But I-"

"I'll tell you this for free. If I'm going to start believing in ghosts I'm not going to start with a hoary old cliche like that. 'Woman in White' indeed."

He knocked back the dregs of his drink and held out the empty glass to his wife.

Edith took the glass from him-it would not have occurred to her to suggest he get his own refill. She was miffed, however; long experience of their marriage told him that. She withdrew, but with an expression that told Tom the retreat was only temporary. She handed him his fresh drink, then sat waiting in what would have looked to an outsider a companionable silence, her eyes tracing the familiar pattern in the Aubusson carpet at their feet. Then it came:

"I don't mean the ghost will come and… cast a spell or something. Try to frighten us. But-just look at this place. The photos give me the creeps. It has a bottle dungeon, for God's sake. Think of all the poor people who suffered and died there."

"Think of all the publicity I won't get if I don't show my face. It's an honor to be invited, Edith. Hard as it is to believe, the old tightwad is voluntarily loosening the purse strings at last. I have to go. If you really want to stay here-"

"No," she said, in a still, small voice tinged with panic. She had a morbid fear of abandonment that Tom exploited to the full. Some idiot story about being left behind by her family-he couldn't be bothered to recall the details.

Edith brought out the worst in him, he thought irritably. He would no more leave her behind than he would fly to the moon. She served as his personal valet, and after twenty years of having her at his beck and call he could hardly dress himself.

"We've not been apart in twenty years," said Edith, "I'm just saying-be careful. Be careful, that's all, Tom. It's just a feeling I have…"

Tom smiled, a smile that generally remained hidden behind an expression of intense self-satisfaction. His was otherwise an unremarkable face that a shaved head and Van Dyke beard did nothing to render memorable. His years in the spy trade may have taught him too well the value of blending in.