A Plot to Die For (A Ghostwriter Mystery)
Page 24
“Right. Well, I have to say I’ve never been a big fan of Carey. I think he tries very hard but I’m not quite sure he’s pulling it off. His writing, well, it leaves a lot to be desired don’t you think?”
A few murmurs of agreement broke out around the lounge room where the meeting was being held and, encouraged, he launched into his trademark sermon on the fallibilities of the modern author. There wasn’t a decent writer left in the world, apparently; not since Hemingway and Salinger had a good book been published. Alicia couldn’t help wondering what a microbiologist would know about that but pushed the thought away and let out a long, soft sigh instead.
Why hadn’t she noticed it earlier? Why had it taken four sessions and a forbidden bottle of wine to make her see what was probably blatantly obvious to everyone else in the room from day one?
She just didn’t fit in here.
The truth is, Alicia Finlay couldn’t care less about literature. She just wished she did, the same way a woman who guiltily watches Desperate Housewives on TV wishes she could find the strength to switch over to that really important current affairs program on the public broadcaster. She just didn’t care enough.
Alicia’s mind wandered now to her own bookshelf in the cluttered, semi-detached terrace house she shared with her sister, Lynette, and their black Labrador, Max. The shelf was huge, took up an entire wall and tipped ever so precariously to the right. It was bursting with well-thumbed paperbacks, mostly crime novels, and mostly by British author Agatha Christie. Alicia smiled. What really woke her up in the morning and saw her drift off to sleep at night was an old-fashioned whodunit. And if it happened to be penned by the Queen of Crime herself, all the better.
She suppressed a giggle. Imagine if she suggested Murder on the Orient Express for the next book club! Wilfred would have a fit. Kirsten would choke on her chamomile tea. And I’d be in book heaven, she thought.
That’s it. Enough’s enough.
She stood up. She walked across to the side table. She picked up the bottle of red and poured herself half a glass. As she did so, the room fell silent behind her and she could feel their eyes boring into her back. She wondered if Kirsten would tackle her to the ground and wrench the glass out of her hands screaming, “But it’s not drink time yet!”
She turned around slowly and tried for her bravest smile. Kirsten’s eyes were abnormally wide. Verity looked nervous, glancing between Alicia and Kirsten. And Wilfred had stopped stroking his beard.
“What are you doing, Alicia?” Kirsten asked.
“Just helping myself, before I head off,” she replied.
She finished the drink in one large gulp, placed the glass down and reached for her handbag.
“But... but where are you going?”
She took a deep breath. “Look, I’m really sorry, guys, I gave it a go, but this club is clearly not right for me.”
They all looked stunned, as if it hadn’t even dawned on them, and Alicia realised then that it probably hadn’t. They were so self-absorbed they hadn’t noticed the elephant in the room. A wistful look crossed Verity’s face and for a moment Alicia thought she might leap to her feet and follow her out.
“But... but what about your book?” Kirsten demanded, grabbing Alicia’s pristine copy of Oscar and Lucinda from the antique coffee table and thrusting it towards her.
“Oh no thanks, Kirsten, you’re welcome to it. I’ve got much better things to read at home.”
And with that Alicia Finlay walked out on the Monday Night Book Club, their suffocating rules and their tediously dull literature, and she returned to her inner city home where her sister was just starting work on a crispy duck stir-fry, her dog was wagging his tail maniacally, and her latest Agatha Christie novel, a well-thumbed copy of Murder At The Vicarage, was waiting, temptingly, by her bedside.
Chapter 2
“You should start a book club,” Lynette announced between mouthfuls of dripping duck and broccoli.
Alicia scoffed and Max pricked up his ears hoping the conversation had something to do with food and his mouth.
“Um, I don’t think you’ve been listening to me, Lynny, I hated the book club. I’m never going back. Why would I subject myself to a whole new one? It’s masochistic.”
“No, not that kind of book club, silly. Start your own. One totally devoted to what you like.”
“Well, that would be crime fiction and last time I looked, you don’t have book clubs about that.”
She scooped a chunk of duck from her bowl and dropped it into Max’s waiting mouth. He slunk back under the table, satisfied.
Lynette frowned at her but let it pass. “Why not?” she said instead...
If you enjoyed this excerpt, look for The Agatha Christie Book Club
from C.A. Larmer
Other books by C.A. Larmer:
An Island Lost
Killer Twist
Table of Contents
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
About the author
Connect with Me Online
Other books