G Malliet - Death and the Lit Chick

"What do you think? Poisoned Pink, or Pink Menace?"

The young blonde woman of whom this question was asked adopted a pose of deep concentration, weighing the matter with all the deliberation of King Solomon presented with two feuding mothers. That the colors under discussion were nearly identical to the naked eye seemed to escape the notice of both women. The manicurist held the two small bottles aloft in the late winter sunlight streaming through the window of the trendy Knightsbridge beauty salon.

"The Poisoned Pink, I think, Suzie," the blonde said at last. "The other is so, like, totally last year. Positively no one in New York would be caught dead wearing it any more. Besides, Poisoned Pink sounds perfect for a crime writers' conference, don't you think?"

Suzie nodded, bending to her task and laying about with an emery board. Give me an old-fashioned romance book any time, she thought. Barbara Cartland, now: There was a woman who knew which way was up with men and all. Lovely hair she had, too.

"I'm getting an award from my publisher during this conference, you see. Did I tell you?"

Only three times.

Kimberlee Kalder, the blonde, paddled the fingers of one elegant, narrow hand in a bowl of soapy water as she lifted one elegant, narrow foot to examine the hand-woven gold brocade of her?900 ballet flats. "And for that and, well, other reasons, I want to look, like, to die for."

So there's another man at the end of all this effort, then, thought Suzie. Thought so.

"Not that I don't always strive to look, like, really hot," Kimberlee went on. "Image is, like, everything in this business, my agent says."

"I'm certain he's right, Miss."

"She, actually. At least, for the moment."

Not really interested, Suzie asked politely, "When's the conference, then?"

"This weekend. I head to Scotland tomorrow. My publisher is treating his most successful-well, in some cases, just his longest-lived-authors to a few days at Dalmorton Castle and Spa during Dead on Arrival."

Seeing Suzie's look of mystification, Kimberlee said, "That's a crime writers' conference held in Edinburgh every year. And, as I say, he'll be handing out a special award to his most successful writer: Me."

"Me," as Suzie well knew, was a favorite word in Kimberlee Kalder's vocabulary. That and "I." She was a big tipper, though-writing must pay bloody well.

"I always wanted to write a book," said Suzie wistfully. "Maybe I will one day when I have time. I'd write about me gran, during the war-"

Kimberlee just managed to stifle a snort of derision, although she didn't bother to hide the contempt that lifted her beautiful, chiseled mouth in a smirk. If she had a pound for everyone who was going to write a book when they could find the time-like they were going to pick up the dry cleaning or something when they got around to it. Really, people had no idea.

Cutting off the flow of wartime reminiscence, Kimberlee said: "No one cares about that old crap anymore. Don't forget-I want two solid coats of the topcoat. Last time my manicure only lasted two days. And watch what you're doing. You've missed a spot."

"Must be all that typing you do," Suzie said quietly. Kimberlee was her least favorite customer and there always came a point in their conversations when Suzie remembered why.

"What, me? Type?" said Kimberlee, as if to say, I? Slaughter my own cattle? "I guess you've been looking at my publicity stills. 'The Famous Writer at home, fingers poised over her laptop.' But I have people who do all that. I mostly just dictate."

Really? thought Suzie. So what else was new?

News item from the Edinburgh Herald, by Quentin Swope:

Book lovers wait in thrilled anticipation of this week's Dead on Arrival conference, where fans and would-be authors gather to meet their favorite crime writers-in the flesh. Said writers will also be signing their books "by the hundreds," conference chair Rachel Twalley tells this reporter.

Among conference highlights is the anticipated appearance of hot young newcomer Kimberlee Kalder, who burst onto the crime-writing scene last year, quickly climbing the charts with her runaway "chick-lit" hit, Dying for a Latte. Kimberlee will be feted before and during the conference by her Deadly Dagger Press publisher, Lord Julius Easterbrook, who must be thanking his lucky stars for leading him to Kimberlee. She may single-handedly have revived his moribund family publishing house.

Other Dagger authors invited to push out the boat at Easterbrook's exclusive gathering at Dalmorton Castle include Magretta Sincock, Annabelle Pace, and Winston Chatley-the stars of yesteryear. Rumor has it top agents Jay Fforde and Ninette Thomson, and American publicist B. A. King, are also on the guest list, along with ex-pat Joan Elksworthy, author of a detective series set in Scotland, and American spy-thriller novelist Tom Brackett. Also look out for newcomer Vyvyan Nankervis-a little bird tells me she's really Portia De'Ath, a Cambridge don, and the author of a delightful series of Cornish crime novels.

But it's our little Kimberlee who is stealing the other crime writers' thunder. Definitely, a publishing force to reckon with!

Jay Fforde had come to the conclusion that the invention of e-mail signaled the imminent demise of mankind. Even though his agency Web site stated explicitly "No E-mail Queries or Submissions," every day his network server was nearly shut down by some berk trying to send him a 150,000-page manuscript by attachment. The ones that made it through went straight into his little electronic trash bin, unread. Even after fifteen years in the business, Jay was amazed at the number of people out there tapping away at manuscripts-each one, of course, a potential best-seller, according to its creator.

The phone rang. A carefully screened call had been allowed through the bottleneck by Jay's assistant. Jay picked up the instrument, first pausing to fling back a strand of the longish, sun-streaked fair hair that flopped in accepted head-boy style from a center part on his patrician skull. Many thought his wide-set eyes, high cheekbones, and sulky expression held a suggestion of Byronic decadence, a thought Jay liked to cultivate.

"Jay," came a confidant, female voice. A trace of an American accent flattened what would once have been called BBC English, before regional accents became the new Received Pronunciation. Immediately Jay sat up a little straighter. The voice of a beautiful young woman who happened to be a wildly successful, selling-in-the-millions author was a potent combination for any agent.

"Kimberlee?" he said. Frightful name; it must come from her American side. Well, no one was perfect, although Kimberlee came close. "What a delight to hear from you. How was the rest of the holiday?"

His assistant appeared in the doorway, carrying a sheaf of manuscript pages. Jay impatiently waved her away, miming for her to close the door behind her.

"… Bahamas are not what they were, but still-you should see my tan," Kimberlee Kalder chirped on. "I just heard you'll be at Dalmorton. How wonderful of Julius to include you. Of course, you rep what's-her-name, don't you?"

"Magretta Sincock? Yes. For a short while longer, at least."

"Oh really?"

"Yes. Damned shame about her books and all, but tastes change, and poor Magretta will keep turning out the same old thing. I mean, seriously, how many women can there be out there married to some guy who-surprise!-turns out to have shoved his three previous wives overboard during their honeymoon cruise? Anyway, Easterbrook thought it would be a good opportunity to mix business with a little pleasure."