by Joan Hess
“You’re one of the featured speakers at the Farber College mystery convention,” I said. “You’re in the right place. On Sunday we’ll make sure you get on the flight back home.”
“Are you quite sure?”
“Absolutely.” I waited until she’d stirred her tea and taken a sip. “I adored your last book, Ms. Knoxwood. Until the last scene, I was so sure that the vicar had dumped the ground-up foxglove in the port that I would have bet money on it. I never for a moment expected the nanny to have done such a thing.”
“Nannies are so unreliable, aren’t they?”
For a fleeting second, something flashed across her face that made me wonder if she was highly amused with me. Before I could properly assimilate it, however, she gave me an engaging smile.
“Is there any hope I might have a bit of milk,” she asked, “and a lump or two of sugar?”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
I returned with the desired items, but Dilys did little more than rattle a teaspoon in her cup and show me photographs of her grandchildren and her dogs.
After ten minutes of cooing in admiration, I glanced up at the clock. “If you don’t mind waiting here, I’ll meet Walter Dahl at the gate.”
Her amiable expression vanished. “Walter Dahl is part of this? Why wasn’t I warned? He was very rude to me at the fan convention in Portland.”
“Didn’t you receive a copy of the program?”
“I may have,” she said, staring at the sodden teabag on her saucer. “I do not examine everything that’s sent to me. The IRS in particular is always making demands, but my husband deals with them. I most definitely was not warned that Walter Dahl would be here. It might be best for me to take the next flight home.” She tilted her head and gave me a sharp look. “Have we met before, Ms. Malloy? There’s something very familiar about your name.”
I was at a loss to respond. After a moment of deep-seated bewilderment, I said, “What happened at the convention?”
Her eyes filled with tears. “He was rude, and he embarrassed me. I am sorry that he finds my books vapid and without literary merit. I’ve put three children through college thus far, courtesy of my ‘fluffy little works,’ and started a trust fund for my grandchildren’s education. As far as I’m concerned, Mr. Dahl can stick a dahlia up his arse!”
Chapter
3
Three down, two to go, I told myself as I handed Dilys a napkin and headed for the gate as the screechy P.A. system announced the disembarkation of passengers from the next flight. For the record, the Farberville municipal airport has precisely two gates, and all passengers enter the terminal through one doorway.
I was wondering if I’d recognize Walter Dahl among the incoming drove when I heard a man in a black turtleneck shirt, khaki shorts, distressingly translucent calves, and politically correct sandals say, “You must blame your ignorance on your parents, my dear young thing. No one should be allowed to achieve puberty without a thorough grounding in the deconstruction of Henry James.”
With a curt nod, the speaker dismissed a woman who seemed less than grounded and clearly more eager than he to end the conversation. He was well over six feet tall, distinctly cadaverous, with what hair he still had pulled back in a dull brown ponytail, a wisp of a goatee that clung irresolutely to his chin, and a gold stud in his left earlobe. For a brief moment, I wondered if the last was his link to the mother ship.
“Mr. Dahl?” I said as he went past me.
To my regret, he stopped and looked back at me. “And you are . . . ?”
“Claire Malloy. I own the bookstore that’s supplying books for the conference. Circumstances have obliged me to meet the authors at the airport. I hope you had a pleasant flight.”
“There is nothing pleasant to be experienced on a vehicle that might best be described as a lemonade can with wings.” His eyes flitted down my admittedly lithesome figure, then met mine. “A bookseller, you say? Have you read my books?”
“I’m familiar with them, Mr. Dahl. Did you check any baggage?”
“Luggage, Ms. Malloy, but not baggage. I make it a point to shed excess baggage before it burdens me. As a child, I was physically abused by my stepfather, who saw me as a threat to his tenuous grasp of masculinity. As an adolescent, I was tormented by bullies whose primary interests were drugs, alcohol, and glassy-eyed whores. My first wife came home one day with a depiction of Satan tattooed on her breast. Within a week, she left me for a biker. My second wife was a painter known locally, if not as a hot commodity on international circuits, for her depictions of wolves, one of which bore a remarkedly similar likeness of me, if you observe the facial structure from a distance. My third wife—”
I held up my hands. “I was just thinking we might want to collect your—ah, luggage. If you don’t mind waiting for a few minutes, I have one more author to collect. After that, I’ll take the three of you to the inn so you’ll have some time to unwind before the reception.”
He arched his eyebrows. “So I am nothing but a fare in this mass transit scheme?”
He was lucky he wasn’t a target in a mass slaughter scheme. “This is the first year of the Murder Comes to the Campus conference, Mr. Dahl,” I said. “You must excuse us if everything is chaotic. The organizer, Sally Fromberger, is in the hospital. The rest of us are doing our best to keep things moving smoothly.”
I led the way to the carousel and left him staring at it, his arms crossed and his scowl more than adequate to provide him with ample breathing room. The protagonist in his books was a psychology professor, which is what I seemed to think he had been at some point. He most certainly looked like the sort to mercilessly harass students and staff alike; it was not difficult to imagine him flustering Dilys—or convincing his first three wives to live in trees and survive on shredded monkey meat.
I peered out the main entrance to make sure no tow truck was coupling itself to my car, then returned to the gate as passengers began to disembark from a plane only slightly larger than a lemonade can. I wasn’t worried about recognizing Allegra Cruzetti. Her emerald eyes and cascading black hair had graced the covers of several entertainment magazines. I’d caught the tail end of an interview on a morning talk show in which she’d sounded bemused by her sudden plunge into the limelight. Bemused, but not displeased.
I eventually spotted her in the doorway of the plane, signing an autograph for a cabin steward. She was wearing her trademark scarfs and a billowy silk dress that had expended the energies of many an Asian worm. Her unrestrained hair hung to her waist, and even from fifty feet, I could see her swirly eyeshadow and scarlet lipstick.
Wondering if she considered herself a celebrity, and therefore entitled to behavior worse than Walter Dahl had exhibited thus far, I waited uneasily as she came into the terminal.
“Ms. Cruzetti?” I said. “I’m Claire Malloy.”
She clasped my hand. “It’s kind of you to invite me to the conference, Claire. From what I could see from the airplane, this looks like a lovely little town. I’m looking forward to spending a few days here.”
Relieved, I said, “You’ll have to remember that this is our first year, so there may be problems. Sally Fromberger had a medical emergency and can’t be with us. She’s the type who likes to do everything herself. At the moment, the other members of the committee are deciphering her cryptic notes and dividing duties.”
“I’m so sorry to hear about poor Sally,” Allegra said as we headed toward the carousel. “I never spoke to her in person, but my publicist at Paradigm House found her to be very enthusiastic.”
“I’ll bet she did,” I said under my breath.
As we went past the café, I saw Dilys morosely toying with her teabag. Walter was not in view. I assumed he was either in the men’s room or out by the curb, haranguing fellow travelers. Moderating the panels might be more difficult than I’d anticipated, I thought as Allegra and I waited for the carousel to shudder to life. Sherry Lynne, Dilys, and Allegra might allow themselves to
be bullied, but Laureen Parks had not hesitated to insist on getting her way at the Azalea Inn. It might be prudent to put Walter at one end and Laureen at the other, although verbal pugnacity did not require proximity.
“Do you know the other authors?” I asked Allegra.
“Laureen and I sat at the Paradigm table at the American Crime Writers Alliance banquet just last week. She made a point of congratulating me after the ceremony, despite never having been so much as nominated herself. Sherry Lynne and Dilys were at a conference in Phoenix; we had lunch with our editor, and later, drinks and gossip in my suite. I’ll have to admit I hadn’t heard of Walter Dahl until I read about him in the program book. I haven’t had time to read for pleasure since I started college. After law school, I joined a firm where associates were expected to put in seventy hours a week.”
“When did you find time to write your book?”
She lapsed into what sounded like an oft-repeated response. “Two years ago my parents died in an accident on the freeway. I took a leave of absence to deal with their affairs. I started the book as a way to maintain my sanity—and sobriety, for that matter. Before I realized what was happening, the characters took over and insisted I tell their story. It sounds rather psychotic, doesn’t it?”
A woman standing near us gasped. “Are you”—she held up a hardback book—”Allegra Cruzetti? I couldn’t help noticing your resemblance to the photograph on the cover. You are, aren’t you?”
Several other people swung around to stare at her. I wasn’t sure if I should lower my shoulder and prepare to tackle encroaching fans, but Allegra beamed at the woman.
“Would you like me to sign your book?” she asked. “It’s always such a thrill for me to see my book in someone’s hands.”
I decided she had the situation under control and went to look for Walter. I checked the hallways, listened outside the men’s room for his voice, and made sure he wasn’t stalking around the parking lot. I gave up and went back to the café, where I found Dilys scattering shredded tea leaves on the tabletop and utilizing her fingertip to draw what looked unnervingly like hex signs to me.
I sat down across from her. “Have you seen Walter Dahl?”
“No,” she said. “Are we ready to go?”
“Almost. Please wait here for just a minute or two.” I returned to the carousel, expecting to find Allegra surrounded by autograph hounds. The only person there was a thick-set man cursing into a pay telephone.
Little Bo Peep seemed to be losing her sheep at an alarming rate.
However, Allegra had not disappeared into the ether on an outbound flight, but was instead washing her hands in the ladies’ room. “I always feel grimy when I get off an airplane,” she said as she noticed me. “You’d think I’d be used to it by now, after a thirty-five-city tour. What was worse were all the people who insisted on hugging me, kissing me, and coughing in my face. My editor ordered me to get a flu shot before I started the tour, and I have a prescription for antibiotics in my purse. A twentieth-century amulet, I suppose.”
“You didn’t seem to mind the fans by the carousel.”
“I force myself to do it. I’ve never been an outgoing person, which is why I specialized in appellate briefs at Harvard Law School.” She folded a paper towel and tossed it into a trash can. “Shall we go?”
I led her to the café and settled her down with Dilys, who seemed reasonably agreeable. While they exchanged pleasantries, I took a final, futile look for Walter, then picked up their suitcases and herded them out to my car.
“Are you no longer a Paradigm author?” Allegra asked Dilys as I drove out of the airport.
Dilys sighed. “Paradigm published my last six books, but a the moment I’m between houses. I really would like to settle down and go to work on my next Miss Palmer. I have an idea, but without a contract and a deadline, I am sadly lacking in motivation.”
Allegra, who’d insisted on sitting in the backseat, leaned forward. “I hope you won’t be offended if I ask why you left Paradigm.”
“It was for the best,” said Dilys, her voice melodious but tinged with irritation. “You, on the other hand, must be rather fond of them. Very few Paradigm authors merit a full-page ad in The New York Times and an extensive tour. The only place they ever sent me was to a mall bookstore in a town twenty miles from where I live. They paid mileage. I believe it came to three dollars and change.” Her head fell against the back of the seat. “If you don’t mind, I’ll close my eyes for a few minutes.”
I glanced at Allegra’s face in the rearview mirror. She was gazing out the window as if enchanted by the gas stations and used car lots, but her expression was that of a cat with a bloodied baby rabbit between its paws.
When we arrived at the Azalea Inn, Dilys and Allegra detoured into the sitting room to examine an elegantly carved credenza. I continued to the sun porch.
Lily Twiller’s expression was more like that of a cat treed by a pack of feral dogs. “Is Attila another of your authors?” she demanded. “Should I prepare for an onslaught of Huns?”
“Is Mr. Dahl here?”
“Oh, yes,” she said, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling. “He came in a taxi fifteen minutes ago. He didn’t like the wallpaper in the Rose Room, or the color scheme in the Lilac Room. I was about to suggest that the basement might be suitable when he decided to take the Petunia Room. I did the interior decorating myself, and all of my guests have found their rooms charming. No one has ever described the unique window treatments as ‘grotesque and garish.’ If Mr. Dahl prefers a prison ambiance, I’m sure some cheap motel out by the airport can provide it for him!”
“I’m sorry, Lily,” I said. “We’ll try to keep him occupied until he leaves Sunday afternoon. I don’t think you’ll have any problems with the other four.”
“Then you are wrong. I do not allow pets. Your Ms. Blackstone arrived with a cat. Cat hairs are impossible to vacuum up. The Azalea Inn prides itself on offering a hypoallergenic environment.” Her hands trembling, she picked up a brochure and opened it. “It’s guaranteed in writing. We use biodegradable cleaning supplies. The bars of soap and bottles of shampoo come from a specialty shop in California. These mystery authors of yours are pollutants, Ms. Malloy. This is my inn—not some tawdry rooming house for transients and thieves. My integrity is at stake!”
“Where is the animal under discussion?”
“I asked Ms. Blackstone to wait in the garden until you returned. Ms. Parks is keeping her company—and no doubt smoking despite my request.”
I told her that Dilys and Allegra would appear momentarily, then went out the back door. Laureen was seated on the bench where I’d left her an hour ago. Sherry Lynne sat on a nearby bench, an enormous Siamese cat draped across her lap like a moth-eaten fur stole.
Laureen gave me a little wave as I approached. “There you are, Claire. I was just telling Sherry Lynne how one of my cats came home with a broken tail last week. I was so distraught that I couldn’t write a word until my secretary brought the poor thing back from the vet’s office.”
I sat down next to Laureen. “We have a problem.”
“No, my dear,” she said, “you have a problem. I have time for a nap before the reception.” She bent down to stroke Wimple’s head, then went up the path.
Sherry Lynne looked at me. “I assume you’ve spoken to that arrogant woman. How anyone could object to a noble creature like Wimple is beyond me. I have learned, however, that those with an aversion to cats have a streak of cruelty in them. A poll of convicted criminals would most likely prove me right.”
Steeling myself, I ran my hand along Wimple’s back and snatched it away before any feline fangs could find my flesh. “He’s certainly a healthy specimen, isn’t he? How old is he?”
“He turned nine just last month. We had a little party to celebrate, with hats and balloons and a cake made of liver pate and decorated with catnip. Would you like to see pictures?”
“Maybe later,” I said as I sat down and
tried to think what to do. Locking Lily in a broom closet for the weekend would solve the immediate problem, but in that she was catering the opening reception at five o’clock and a picnic for all the attendees the next day, a new set of problems would surface. There were no motels or hotels convenient to the campus. The nearest that came to mind was a twenty-minute drive away, which meant Caron or Inez might spend most of the day carting Sherry Lynne back and forth to check on Wimple.
An iffy notion came to mind, although it might require the guile of P. T. Barnum to sell it. Pasting a bright, confident smile on my face, I said, “I have a wonderful idea, Sherry Lynne. Wimple can stay with me. My apartment’s only two blocks away, so you can visit him between panels. I can assure you he’ll receive royal treatment from my daughter and me. We love cats.”
“How many do you have?”
A tricky question. “At the moment, none. We’re planning to go by the animal shelter after the conference is over. Wimple will have his own little room with a cushion, fresh water and kibble, and whatever else his heart desires. It’s only for two days, Sherry Lynne.”
She lowered her head and in a gooey, high-pitched voice, said, “What does Wimple say? Would you like to stay with Claire?” We waited while Wimple considered this proposition, although he seemed more interested in a squirrel scampering across the grass. I was on the verge of mentioning that he could have his own portable TV set, remote control, and basic cable channels, when Sherry Lynne shrugged. “I didn’t hear any grumbling, so I guess it’s all right. Warn your daughter to be careful around him. Whenever he feels anxious, he bites. Just before Christmas, I had to have four stitches in my arm. Dimple and Doolittle are generally imperturbable, but even they have been known to go on the defensive if startled.”
“Why do you travel with your cats?”
“My fans expect it of me,” she said as she poured Wimple back into the carrier and latched the door, “and since my ex-husband left me for his twenty-year-old secretary, I find it comforting to have a loyal friend with me. I’m worn out from the trip. If you don’t mind taking Wimple with you, I’d like to lie down and rest.”