G Malliet - Death and the Lit Chick

Whatever it took.

As St. Just was handing over his credit card to the store owner, Elsbeth Dowell, Florie's replacement at Dalmorton, was carrying a stack of freshly laundered sheets down one of the labyrinth hallways of the castle. Elsbeth, only months out of school, was proud of this, her first real job, and determined to do well. She liked stately Dalmorton, with its proud history and glamorous present; she knew Donna Doone to be a fair employer.

The door to one of the turret rooms-in fact the police's "Incident Turret"-suddenly opened of itself.

That's odd, she thought. Those doors each weigh a ton.

She peered inside.

Suddenly she dropped the sheets, and screamed.

Her screams seemed to have no effect on the two women in gauzy white dresses who stood before her, smiling, and beckoning her towards them. The women were both as transparent as cellophane. "Just like they was sweet wrappers," as she told Donna later, handing in her notice. She could see through both of them to the gray castle walls behind.

One of the women wore a voluminous gown, medieval in style, with long sleeves and a veiled headdress; the other a modern dress with spaghetti straps, short and clinging and low-cut. It might almost have been a white silk slip.

She had long, flowing, white-blonde hair.

It was well over a year since the Dalmorton murders, with Cambridge heading into an unseasonably warm June. As St. Just walked along Trinity Street past Heffer's, his eye was caught by the name Joan Elksworthy on a book in the display window.

He stepped inside for a closer look. He hefted the book off the display; it was a good-sized hardback with a glossy pink-and-black cover, edged in a tartan pattern of similar colors. A dark, looming castle dominated the illustration. Joan's name appeared in large, bold type over a title in still-larger type: Death at Dalmorton. Leafing through the pages, he saw what Joan had written was a nonfiction, "eyewitness" account of Kimberlee's murder. One of the store clerks, just walking past, told him it was one of their more popular items.

Of course St. Just had to have a copy. He remembered his last conversation at the castle with Mrs. E., just before he left for the police station with Moor and Kittle.

"Poor Kimberlee," she'd said. "I'm sure she never saw it coming. We all need to protect ourselves-some more than others-from knowing what our nearest and dearest really think of us, don't we? How could we go on living otherwise-without those blinders on?"

"A bit cynical, that, don't you think?"

"Not at all, Inspector. I'm just a realist."

Taking the book to the checkout desk, he also noticed that What Jesus Ate by Sarah Beauclerk-Fisk, a name from one of his previous investigations, was apparently still selling briskly, judging by its prominent display. He picked up the book and smiled, deciding to buy it, if for no other reason than old times' sake. He'd never get around to reading it, but maybe he could give it to someone as a gift. Or maybe he could start a collection: books by murder suspects. It was then the name Magretta Sincock on yet another book on the best-seller table caught his eye. Another hot pink and black number. He picked up the book and turned it over to read the jacket copy: "A refreshing and daring departure for the Queen of Romantic Suspense: hip, witty, irreverent. Most of all: cool. This season's must-have accessory for your beach bag."

Really. Somehow, that didn't sound like Magretta, and, as he scanned the pages, he began to recognize pieces of the manuscript the Scottish police had managed to retrieve from Kimberlee's sodden laptop. He turned the book to look at its spine, and saw the distinctive Deadly Dagger Press logo.

He barked out a laugh, causing nearby browsers in the sanctuary-like atmosphere of the store to turn their heads and frown at him in disapproval. She'd stolen it from Kimberlee, of course. Magretta must have copied the computer file onto a memory stick or a CD-despite her poor-little-me claims of no experience with technology-and only then thrown the laptop out of the window, thinking that would destroy it.

As it was, it came so very near to being lost.

The police only cared about the will they'd also found on the laptop, not the manuscript. The will in which Kimberlee had left everything to her husband, Desmond. The will she hadn't yet had time to change, despite advice from her solicitor-in a document also on the laptop-to do so as a preliminary step to divorce.

And now Magretta was claiming the novel-minus, of course, the parts she didn't want to see the light of day-as her own.

He wondered what, if anything, he should do about it.

Portia will know, he thought. I'll ask her.