G Malliet - Death and the Lit Chick

Bemused and more than a bit annoyed-so much for the sisterhood of writers-Portia hailed a small taxi brightly decorated with an advertisement for jeans, a taxi imaginatively and exuberantly driven by a large, gray-haired man with an apparent death wish. He sped away from Edinburgh and hurtled like a bullet toward the outskirts, passing increasingly small and picturesque villages on the way. They looped under a bridge and zipped past the mildly curious gaze of a large herd of cows.

The driver accelerated on a final curve, and Dalmorton Castle came suddenly into view, perched dramatically on a small rocky mound and surrounded by a moat. She'd been prepared for this by photos from the castle's Web site, but not for the sudden reality. They had slipped the bonds of the modern world. The castle stood as it had for centuries-gray and austere, its dark drum tower and arrow-slit turrets starkly outlined against a blue-moonstone sky.

The castle was effectively sitting on its own little island, Portia realized. What had she been reading recently-something about how one lost touch with the world on an island, for an island was a world of its own. Then she remembered: The words were from And Then There Were None. And Christie had called the world one "from which you might never return."

"Cor," said the driver.

"Yes," agreed Portia.

They arrived at the drawbridge that spanned the moat- a moat, for heaven's sake -before which other conveyances were depositing little knots of people. Another little knot had gathered just inside the castle entrance.

Magretta Sincock stood about fretfully, no doubt waiting to be recognized. Portia, who knew her slightly from previous conferences, cast around her mind for words to sum up Magretta's style. She seemed overall to be aiming for an earth-mother-slash-brothel-madam look, with armorlike bracelets and brooches that suggested something unearthed at a Celtic dig. Her bouffant hair was a frizzy halo of geranium red, which she seemed to think showed to best advantage against shades of green. Today it was a billowing dress cinched at the waist by a wide Friar Tuck leather belt and a matching felt hat. A green boa scarf fluttered in the quickening breeze.

With a final rakish toss of her boa, Magretta attached herself to a blonde, urbane young man who greeted her with evident reluctance, dodging her questions about print runs before making his escape into the castle. Kimberlee Kalder having already sloped off with the only available bellhop, Portia was left standing with a small, nut-brown woman with gray hair cut in the shape of a German helmet. She introduced herself as Mrs. Joan Elksworthy, recently of New Mexico, formerly of Scotland.

Heads together, one gray and one dark, the two women began walking companionably over the drawbridge, stopping briefly to inspect the rope-and-pulley arrangement that raised the bridge in case of invasion. They continued through an arched stone walkway into the castle proper before descending a short flight of stairs to the reception desk. Here they were greeted by a round, bubbly woman, tightly spandexed, who introduced herself as Donna Doone, the castle's event coordinator.

"I'm here to make sure things run smoothly for our distinguished guests," she chirped. "I am so thrilled to have all of you here. I'm a writer myself, you know."

Cautiously, they shook hands all around-cautiously because Donna had the air of an author about to produce her unpublished manuscript for their delectation, there and then. As Portia stood back to admire the ancient room, a large green presence fluttered to her side.

"Now this," Magretta Sincock pronounced, "is more like it."

Her arm swept round to encompass the wood paneling, the rough-hewn fireplace, the stone stairway, and the weapons and armor ranged against the walls. An outsized painting, its varnish alligatored with age, depicted one of the many hopeless but heroic battles of Scotland's calamitous past.

"The perfect setting for a murder, don't you think?" said Magretta. " So inspiring. For one's books, I mean, of course."

Magretta's words made Portia vaguely uneasy. But, really, what were the odds anyone would actually be murdered at a gathering of murder mystery writers, when you really thought about it? Surely these people all batted out their hostilities on their keyboards.

The hotel receptionist called her over a few moments later and Portia stepped up for her turn at the registration desk. As she followed a porter up the main staircase toward her room, she never noticed the large man from Cambridge who stared after her, transfixed.

DCI St. Just's room was on the top floor of the castle, and while small, it more than lived up to the themes of plunder and pillage introduced by the main rooms below. To his delight, it proved to be one of the corner rooms featuring a turret. The turret itself had been transformed into a writing nook, complete with antique desk, lamp, and phone.

He began to unpack, laying out his kit in the marble-tiled bathroom, and folding his clothes into a beautiful old rosewood chest of drawers, on top of which rested several brochures describing the amenities of the hotel. A glossy blue tri-fold advertised the full-service spa.

He ran a hand down the back of his neck. He'd badly wrenched it once subduing a high-spirited villain, and after a month of pain-filled, sleepless nights, his wife had given him a certificate for a spa massage. He'd let the certificate expire; to him there was something decadent, something un-English, about such self-indulgence. Beth had asked him about it a few times. He wished now he'd at least had the kindness to lie and say he'd used her well-intended gift.

Beth had been dead three years now.

That wasn't possible, was it? Three years?

Poor Bethie.

His reaction to that lovely dark-haired woman-he'd overheard the clerk call her Ms. De'Ath-filled him with guilt, much like that spa certificate. He and Beth had never had the conversation where each spouse releases the other from the obligation of prolonged mourning in the event of the death of either. He and Beth had thought they'd live forever. They'd joked about having walker races when they reached the old people's home together.

He had never in three years given a thought to remarrying, but not for want of well-meaning friends, usually happily married women, who saw his single state as an affront to nature. A good-looking, intelligent man in possession of a steady job, a weekend home, and a good pedigree must be in want of a wife. Or famous words to that effect. They had waited a decent interval-eight weeks-before the invitations started pouring in. It was not from lack of respect for Beth, he came to realize, but more a case of supply-and-demand economics. These friends liked nothing better than to invite him to dinner and spring an unattached female on him. None of these arranged matches had "taken," of course. In fact, under the rapt gaze of these matchmaking friends, most of the women had seemed as uncomfortable as he.

Sadness settled over him like a monk's cowl. He simply was not in the market for a wife, and the whole concept of dating-dreaded word-struck him as both ridiculous and terrifying. Beth had been all he'd ever wanted. Her death had been the defining loss of his life. He wasn't going to allow the gods a second chance to destroy him.

Looking for a diversion from his thoughts-any diversion-he pulled out of his suitcase the conference brochure that had arrived the other day through the post. It was printed in pitch black and shrieking red, the bulleted points illustrated with little dripping bloody daggers.

He settled at the desk in the turret and began flipping through the pages. Among the scheduled topics were "Fifty Ways to Leave Your Agent" and "Print on Demand, or, First Let's Kill All the Editors." They were also to be treated to "Is PoD the KoD?" What on earth? This was followed by the equally opaque "Time to Deep-six the Chix?" He stopped to read the description: "Is it Women's Literature, or is it Chick Lit? Some in publishing circles feel it's time to nix the chix-chick lit that is. Hear what publishing experts see as the future-or not-of this hot genre!"