G Malliet - Death and the Lit Chick

He continued to struggle through the recondite schedule, trying to get a feel for what his audience might expect from him. On Sunday, they were to be treated to "Cat's Meow or Dog's Dinner?", apparently a discussion of which animal had a greater impact on sales of crime novels. St. Just would have thought neither. At least a parrot might prove a useful witness to a crime.

As an appetizer before the luncheon break, there was to be a session by one Annabelle Pace on "Every Which Way: Detection via Blood Splatter Analysis." His own session, he saw with dismay, had been titled, "Bad Boys." He sighed, reading the description: "Top cop DCI Arthur St. Just discusses police procedure in nabbing the baddies. Hold your fire as he fires off tales of his most famous nabs."

This was dreadful, even worse than he'd imagined. Who did they think he was? Eliot Ness?

He heard a tentative knock on the door. He opened it to find a woman with an exceedingly permed head of hair who introduced herself as Donna Doone.

"Just checking to make sure everything's all right," she said with a bright smile. "I see you did get upgraded to one of the lovely turret rooms-I made a special point of putting you in for one when I saw your name in the program. The famous detective here at Dalmorton? Too thrilling. Free upgrade, never fear."

Without invitation she bustled in, parked herself on the canopied bed, and surveyed the room. She was wearing, St. Just could hardly help but notice, an extremely tight-fitting and low-cut dress in a shiny fabric more suitable for a night at the opera. While he found the woman's familiarity a bit startling, St. Just was used to this kind of thing. Women trusted him, children trusted him, dogs and cats followed him home.

Nodding at the brochure, Donna Doone said, "Chronic, isn't it? Are you signing up for any of the excursions? You won't want to miss the Vaults in Edinburgh. They're like an underground village, really. Haunted, you know."

"I hadn't thought about it, in-"

"I must say, I've been looking forward for weeks to having all of you here. Have you seen Kimberlee Kalder yet? And Winston Chatley-now, there's a dark horse if you like. And Joan Elksworthy with those Scottish books-so lovely, you forget they're about murder. Still, I don't think they're as unrealistic as the pathologist capers that Annabelle Pace writes… But as a writer myself I know how difficult this can be. Reality, I mean."

Politely, wondering if she was planning to stay the night, St. Just asked her what she was writing.

"It's an historical mystery set during prehistoric times." She hesitated. "I could use some advice on the forensics, you see."

He didn't doubt that for a moment.

"I'm not really an expert in that area…"

It certainly explained the red-carpet treatment he was getting. What could he tell her, though? Mercifully, she had skipped ahead to another topic.

"Have you seen the castle grounds yet? Do let me give you the Cook's tour."

He started to refuse, worried he was incurring some kind of indebtedness, for clearly she was after advice for this novel of hers-advice no one alive could provide. Still, his legs wanted a stretch after the train ride.

Also, it might be the only way to get her out of the room.

The grounds of the ancient fortress consisted of acres of wooded parkland nestled near the banks of the river Esk. St. Just and Donna walked slowly, savoring the unusually warm but windy day, as she pointed out the flora and fauna and the golf course in the distance. Snow dotted the grounds like melted ice cream.

Eventually their walk brought them to a mews and weathering yard near the castle. Dalmorton, she explained, boasted a collection of hawks, buzzards, falcons, eagles, and owls-all medieval weapons of choice until the invention of the gun. The birds passed expert eyes over St. Just, like connoisseurs assessing the contents of a butcher's display cabinet.

He and Donna stepped into the aviary, where the cages looked barely strong enough to resist the birds' wire-cutter beaks. St. Just instinctively kept his distance. He was being closely scrutinized by one ferocious-looking buzzard when a woman feathered in a vivid shade of green flew in. He placed her in her late fifties, with a hairstyle that owed much to the influence of Maggie Thatcher, who in photos always appeared to be standing in front of a large balloon.

"There you are, Miss Doone," the woman trilled. "I've been looking all over for you." She waved her boa about to indicate the width and breadth of her search. "My room doesn't have a turret. I specifically asked for one of the turreted bedrooms."

"I say, I have-" St. Just felt a sharp little elbow in his ribs.

Donna Doone said, "Magretta. Miss Sincock. I'm afraid all room arrangements were made at the direction of Lord Easterbrook. I can't change them without his authorization."

Magretta was letting fly a salvo of protest when a brisk figure in brogues came bustling along the path and into the aviary. An Alice band in a fabric of Native American design held the chopped gray hair framing her betel-nut face, browned and scored from too many years in the sun; turquoise stones in intricate settings adorned her ears and wrists. The woman stopped with a friendly cry and introduced herself as Mrs. Elksworthy of Santa Fe. Donna took the opportunity to glance at her watch and detach herself from the group.

"Cocktails," she threw over her shoulder. "Seven o'clock. Tomorrow, don't forget, is the awards dinner. Smart dress code, everyone!"

If she'd hoped to escape she was mistaken. Magretta maneuvered a U-turn and churned off in Donna's wake.

Mrs. Elksworthy said conversationally, "Magretta lives in her own little Ruritania. Has done for years." Her eyes were a startling lake blue against the ravaged desert of her complexion. "As if we could forget that blasted dinner. What was Lord Easterbrook thinking-bound to cause trouble. I gather you're new this year?"

He nodded. In the distance, they could see a young man strolling the grounds by himself, his hair streaked nearly white by the sun. A golden-haired boy, indeed. Perhaps strutting was a better word: St. Just was reminded of a peacock looking for a mate.

"That is Jay Fforde," Mrs. Elksworthy informed him. "Agent to the stars."

"A nice-looking man," St. Just commented.

Joan Elksworthy again gave him the benefit of that disquieting gaze.

"He would surely agree. Anyway, Jay represents the turretless Magretta Sincock, among others, including me." She turned to him. "They couldn't get anyone from Lothian and Borders Police to do a little talk about police procedure?"

"For some reason they asked for me."

"Then you're being modest. I'm a friend of the conference organizer. You must be very well-known indeed for her to have asked specifically for you."

Together they left the aviary and crossed the weathering yard. He found Mrs. Elksworthy to be a comfortable woman, the type probably most at home in a world of herbaceous borders, potting sheds, and bedding plants. Except he imagined in Santa Fe the herbaceous borders might be replaced by rows of cacti. She carried about her a no-nonsense, captain-of-the-hockey-team aura. Such as she, reflected St. Just, had seen Britain through the Blitz.

They followed a sign pointing to the Old Spa area, which proved to be a room lined with antique photographs of large, stern-looking ladies from the turn of the last century wading, fully clothed, like hippos into the steaming bath waters. From there he and Mrs. Elksworthy ("Call me Mrs. E, everyone does") walked up a stone staircase to an area housing the modern-day indoor pool and spa. The azure pool water sparkled invitingly under recessed lighting.

It was as they walked down the hall toward the main part of the castle that St. Just noticed an ancient wooden door to the right. A small plaque on the wall next to it read: Bottle Dungeon. The door opened at his touch with a satisfyingly ominous creak.