G Malliet - Death and the Lit Chick

"Don't be stupid. No ghost has ever gotten the better of me yet. Editors, yes. And agents. B. A. King, that fatuous jerk, is going to be there. And that nitwit who wrote the chick lit mystery that sold by the truckload."

" Dying for a Latte? I know. I read it."

" Edith. You didn't."

"I often read your competition," she said defensively, always alert to warning signs of a quarrel. Tom with a wounded ego was not a man to be crossed. "I have to keep up on trends, you know."

"That is going above and beyond the call. I hope you held a book burning afterward. Anyway, what did you think?" he asked.

"About the book? Like the reviews said: It's a bright, frothy roman a clef with dark undertones. It's set in a major magazine publishing house and it's transparent which house it's meant to be. The main character comes across as a nitwit, all right, but I wonder if that's also true of the author. Certainly she did a fine job of filleting the fashion magazine industry."

"All in all, I'd say, forget the ghost," said Tom. "There's a real woman to be scared of."

Book People Donna Doone was at work on her novel, happily oblivious to the futility of writing a detective story set in prehistoric times.

She was at her desk in her little private office at Dalmorton Castle, staring at a computer screen that stared back, somehow accusingly, with the manuscript on which she had secretly been working for two years, stealing a few minutes from her employer wherever she could.

She had chosen to set her romantic-suspense crime novel in the Paleolithic era, something she was sure had never been attempted before. She was only just now beginning to appreciate why. But, she reminded herself, there were best-selling books with cat sleuths, pie-baking sleuths, psychic sleuths-pie-baking, psychic, quilting, archaeologist cat sleuths, for all she knew. Why not a crime novel featuring a Neanderthal detective, the first amateur detective in history? Or prehistory, as it were. It did away with the need for anything like a working knowledge of legal or police procedure. It also largely eliminated the need for scenes where teams of crime scene technicians swooped in with fingerprint kits and swabs and whatnot. Somehow, Donna didn't feel modern-day forensics were her strong suit.

She was certain, however, that she was striking just the right note with her dialogue, which she muttered aloud, reading from her screen:

"Why you think Batmo kill him, Ugmay?" asked Desirooma, deep brown eyes beneath her low, overhanging brow crinkled with concern, but filled also with that sullen, come-hither look that always made Ugmay's blood pulse with desire. He dropped his club to kiss her, hardly but gently.

"Me no know, but find out. Look, see scratches on Black Rock? He no fall, he push. Only bad man like Batmo do this. Me find. Me kill."

He kissed her again, pregnant with animal longing.

"Ugmay, you no fight Bad Batmo alone," she flushed, some time later, readjusting the bison pelt around her broad, work-coarsened shoulders. "Here, eat nuts and berries I gather for you today as Sun Goddess light fire in sky."

"You good number-five wife, Desirooma," said Ugmay. Donna plunged bravely on, sending Ugmay and Desirooma off to report the suspicious death of Gonzola to their tribal chief. She was interrupted by a hesitant tapping on her door. Quickly, she hit the save and close commands on her computer, bringing up in place of Caveman Death a spreadsheet of hotel reservation statistics. Only then did she call out, "Come in."

A small red head appeared around the opening of the door.

"They're starting to arrive. The book people."

"Be there in a minute, Florie. Be sure to alert reception."

Florie nodded, thinking as she shut the door that Donna had overdone the perm again. Her head was a perfect round ball of tight curls, as if she'd pinned one of the loofahs from the spa to her head.

Taking care to first turn off the computer, Donna walked down the hallway connecting the set of offices that constituted the administrative area for the spa and hotel. At reception, a young clerk stood chatting with one of the many bridal consultants who organized the weddings that took place in the castle's old chapel nearly every day. This weekend, nuptials had been put on hold because of the group from the writers' conference, but on Tuesday there would be another giddy bride and groom. The castle increasingly was becoming a romantic destination spot, with Scottish law, unlike English, still favoring hassle-free weddings. Donna had heard one American refer to Scotland as the Las Vegas of Europe, and she supposed they weren't far wrong. In any event, it meant a thriving cottage industry for the castle, and steady employment for Donna.

"Just until I sell my manuscript," she reminded herself.

From reception she walked up the stairs leading to the grand entrance hall, and from there into the sitting room to check on the preparations for afternoon tea. She heard from outside the crunch of tires on gravel. The velvet-covered window seat offered a view below of the front entrance to the castle. Donna settled herself comfortably to observe the various guests arriving by taxi or limousine.

An inveterate crime-novel reader, Donna found she could recognize nearly all the authors, even Magretta Sincock, whose publicity photo on the back flap of her books hadn't changed in thirty years. Seeing Magretta in person for the first time, Donna felt a pang of sympathy: Magretta must have added three stone since that early photo, and seemed generally to be having trouble climbing out of the taxi. She wore lipstick of a virulent orange, recklessly applied, and looked very much old and diminished, despite the cinematographic splendor of her outfit-a flowing affair of puce green silk. Why, wondered Donna, did women with red hair always think any old shade of green flattered them?

Magretta began capering her way over the drawbridge, but halted at the sight of another arrival-a stork-like, dour man who Donna thought bore a striking resemblance to photos she'd seen of Abe Lincoln. As the man drew closer, she saw this was Winston Chatley, his undertaker's countenance easily recognizable. He wrote those dark, serial-killer thrillers. Not really Donna's cup of tea.

Winston's arrival was immediately followed by that of a woman in a taxi whom Donna knew to be Joan Elksworthy, who wrote those lovely cozy mysteries set in Scotland. Donna began a mental head count: Still missing, among others, was Annabelle Pace, who wrote novels about a female medical examiner that, to Donna's taste, were just a touch too gruesome. There were things, after all, that were just not quite nice to think about.

Behind Joan Elksworthy, in a limousine, came what might have been the male complement to Magretta, the sartorial salt to her pepper, a man dressed somewhat in the style of a carnival barker. Altogether not a nice type, thought Donna, and undoubtedly the worst sort of American: loud.

Another limo crunched up the drive, this one stopping to dislodge another sort altogether, one of those upper-crust stalwarts of the British Empire she thought had died out with the Boer War. This, she felt, must be Lord Easterbrook.

Next, another posh man she didn't recognize, very young and handsome and golden in a Great Gatsby way, sleekly upholstered and spit-polished.

Yet another limo, this one causing a bit of a jam at the foot of the castle moat. The ensuing hubbub heralded the arrival of what was unmistakably Kimberlee Kalder, whose lovely image had illustrated countless displays in every major bookstore for the past year. It didn't seem possible, thought Donna, but Kimberlee was even prettier in person, her skin with the kind of natural glow that could never be achieved by mere spa visits. She wore a black suit with a pink shirt and matching pink high heels, colors she had made her own and seemingly forced upon half the female population of British twenty-somethings. She walked with a model's runway slide, her body tipped slightly backwards as if she were walking downhill, her hands hanging straight at her sides. Her driver brought up the rear, carrying her bags.