"He didn't even mention he was going to interview her," sniffed Magretta.
"In all fairness, would you have expected him to mention it?" asked St. Just.
Magretta's look said all that needed to be said about her expectations. She sighed theatrically.
When St. Just later read the review more closely, he wondered what Magretta had done to the man to provoke such a response. It was even worse than the bits Magretta had been able to bring herself to read aloud. Swope had indulged himself in a lengthy harangue about the dying mystery market, a setup for subsequent paragraphs that cast Kimberlee Kalder in the role of publishing's darling, one who had come up with a "bright, fresh slant that threw open the mullioned doors and windows and let some much-needed air into the cloying atmosphere of the stately home murder, not to mention the tedious predictability of the woman-in-jeopardy novels of Magretta Sincock."
St. Just looked across the room to Kimberlee Kalder, that darling of publishing. She wore a low-cut blouse in her signature pink, this time with a white skirt so tight he could practically read the fabric care instructions through the material. At one point, Lord Easterbrook came over to offer obeisance. Kimberlee, nodding her elegant, narrow head, again seemed to take this as her due.
St. Just watched, thinking thoughts about absolute power and corruption.
____________________
A tour of Edinburgh Castle had been scheduled for that afternoon, mainly for the bored spouses of conference attendees. The writers quickly dubbed it the Desperate Spouses Tour. Nonetheless, during an endless session on "Where Have All the Profreaders (sic) Gone?" Portia had decided to sign on, and at the appointed hour she boarded the waiting coach.
She called Mrs. Elksworthy over as she came down the aisle, indicating the free seat next to her. Ninette was already seated opposite, fixing her makeup. It seemed many had the same plan of escape. Of the people from the castle, only Edith Brackett, technically a spouse, was not on the spouses' tour. St. Just also was missing, Portia noticed. Jay Fforde, walking down the aisle with Kimberlee, loudly informed the coach in general that he had had to get away from "those lunatics, springing at me from every corner"-one unpublished author, it seemed, had literally followed him into the men's room, waving a manuscript.
" And, it was a female author."
Mrs. Elksworthy, waiting until Jay and Kimberlee were safely past, asked Portia, "How old do you think Kimberlee Kalder is?"
"I'm never good with ages," said Portia, "especially when it's someone younger." She took her program from her purse and looked up Kimberlee's biography under "K."
"She can't be more than twenty-seven or -eight. It says here she wrote a column for the Sheffield Bugle before the column was picked up by the City-Central. I remember reading the City-Central column-a bad habit, like chewing gum. Anyway, somehow that led to a job with Belle de Jour magazine. It was there she began writing a book. She denies Latte is a roman a clef, but I don't know whom she thinks she's kidding. The rest, as they say, is history."
"Indeed," murmured Mrs. Elksworthy. "To be the golden girl. I wonder, though… is it a blessing or a curse?"
"I suppose I'd like to try it for a week and find out."
Flipping through the program, Portia next happened upon the biography of Magretta, accompanied by a photo easily twenty-five years out of date.
"This is interesting," she said. "Magretta worked for the Sheffield Bugle at the start of her career, the same as Kimberlee."
"Kimberlee must have come along years later, though," said Mrs. Elksworthy.
"Hmm."
Portia had stopped by the booksellers' stalls that morning and bought several books; one was by Magretta Sincock. She'd stood in line to have it signed, in a show of solidarity against the Quentin Swope interview. As the coach began its climb up Castle Hill, she flipped past Magretta's scrawling black signature to the last chapter of the book. After a few minutes, she dropped it in her lap. The secretary had committed the murder, and Portia realized Quentin was right-the secretary had been the culprit in an earlier Magretta book. Could she have deliberately set out to reproduce the success?
Portia had also given in to curiosity and bought Kimberlee Kalder's book. She began skimming, then reading it more slowly. The first chapter was lively, written in a captivating, rapid-fire, youthful voice. It was indeed full of text messaging and obsessive ponderings about weight and shoes and men, and was calculatedly aimed at the world's twenty-or-thirty-somethings. But it was polished and assured. Portia found it hard to believe it was Kimberlee's first novel.
She put the book aside as the coach neared Edinburgh Castle. The magnificent castle, like an enormous ship beached on a rock, was at the moment cast in bronze by the pale glow of the sun. It once had housed the muddle-headed Mary, who had given birth there to James VI before her life of bad choices was extinguished by the executioner's axe.
"You go on, dear," said Joan Elksworthy. "I should have realized-my legs won't be able to take that climb."
So Portia made her way alone up the Esplanade and to the Portcullis Gate, where she escaped for a moment the stinging wind that swirled around the Castle ramparts. Pausing at a small iron wall fountain identified as the Witches' Well where over three hundred women accused of witchcraft had been burned at the stake (plus ca change, thought Portia), she came eventually to the Upper Ward, the main part of the Castle in medieval times. It still housed the tiny, Norman St. Margaret's Chapel.
From the ramparts Portia gazed out on the magical view: New Town to the north, spread far below between the Castle and the Firth of Forth, and to the east, Old Town, a maze of winding streets below roofs that, from her eagle's nest, appeared no larger than postage stamps.
A somber tour of the War Memorial, and then Portia headed back to the coach, haunted by the photographs of too many too-young faces.
A sudden fall of shadow caused her to look up. The heavens were now threatening a storm, with swollen gray clouds rolling in against a darkening sky. The sun seemed to bob like a fluorescent orange ball on the horizon, and the wind whispered of either rain or snow. The grey-yellow sky was like a bruise. It put Portia in mind of paintings she'd seen of nuclear winter.
Thunder rumbled in the distance as she scurried back to the coach, just missing the first drops of what proved to be a major storm.
The night looked set for quite a bit of drama, thought Portia. She voiced the idea of skipping the awards dinner, thinking the time better used on writing or reading. But Mrs. Elksworthy persuaded her to go.
And the night was filled with drama, only of a kind Portia couldn't have imagined.
IT WAS A DARK AND STORMY NIGHT
"I think I can fairly speak for everyone when I say, 'Thank God that's over.'"
It was just nine o'clock and the dinner had ended. Annabelle was sprawled in one of the leather chairs in front of the library fireplace with its serpentine grate, studying the effects of lambent firelight on her glass of brandy. There had been a bit of a crush to get to the bar, as the writers had quickly drunk all the wine allotted them at dinner by Easterbrook.
"The old skinflint," was Annabelle's comment. "Some awards dinner. Hard enough to get through the speeches drunk, let alone sober."
The Dalmorton staff had transformed the barrel-vaulted dungeon-slash-dining room for the event. Three large tables replaced the smaller individual ones, an arrangement Portia thought amounted to putting all the zoo animals together in three cages. She wondered if Lord Easterbrook knew the kind of tension he might be creating by singling out one writer from his list. Most awards, after all, reflected some kind of vote. This was simply a private reward that might have been handed over privately.
Several local Scottish dignitaries, including the local mayor, had been collected for the festivities, arriving importantly in a limousine from Edinburgh. Quentin Swope, wearing a tuxedo T-shirt, had also somehow wangled an invitation, along with Rachel Twalley.
Once again in keeping with sod's law, St. Just ar
rived in the dining room too late to secure a seat next to Portia. This night she was dazzling in a long, blue velvet dress; she had smoothed her hair into a gold net at the nape of her neck, and a blaze of sapphire earrings dropped nearly to her shoulders. She looked, he thought, like a chatelaine from another century. He took a seat between Mrs. Elksworthy and Annabelle, who wore something long, dark, and drapey that could have been called into service as a burkha. Donna Doone trotted in several minutes late, wearing a bugle-beaded red dress that made her look rather as if she'd just escaped a Victorian bordello. The Bracketts arrived last, Tom ordering his wife into the chair next to Annabelle. For the next hour, as Tom worked his way steadily through the courses, he spoke to no one. At one point Rachel tried to volley some pleasantry in his direction, to which Tom-after an appraising, up-and-down stare-did not reply.
They got through the rest of the meal, their aimless chatter and industry gossip magnified by the room's vaulted roof. When the waiters began bringing coffee and dessert, Rachel Twalley rose and began reading from her prepared welcoming speech, which bore an uncanny likeness to her opening remarks at the conference. The evening bore all the hallmarks of the usual interminable awards dinner, in fact, until Lord Easterbrook stood to announce it as his pleasure "to honor Kimberlee Kalder for writing the best debut novel Deadly Dagger Press or any other publisher has seen in decades… or perhaps, ever. Kimberlee Kalder came from obscurity" (here a dark frown creased the perfection of Kimberlee's brow) "and rose quickly to become the brightest star in the Deadly Dagger galaxy" (the frown disappeared, and the mouth widened in a catlike smirk). "To prove how highly we honor our successful authors, I am pleased to present Kimberlee this evening with a bonus cheque for thirty thousand pounds."
A collective gasp came from every corner of the room. Portia remembered it later as more a howl of outrage, but that may have been Magretta's contribution to the chorus. Kimberlee rose from her chair, dressed in what looked like a white satin slip, and gave an unconvincing show of surprise followed by a long thank-you speech that managed to thank no one or smooth any feathers. Midway through, Tom Brackett walked out, followed by Edith.
When it was over, Portia turned to Mrs. Elksworthy.
"Whew. I don't know about you, but I could fancy a brandy."
"I could fancy several. It might stimulate my thinking on how I might have spent my bonus cheque if one had ever been offered. Bonus cheque -whoever heard of such a thing?" Joan Elksworthy's cheeks held a high color, her face an angry expression.
St. Just, who had been sidling up on the pair from behind, planning his ambush, was just about to seize the moment when Rachel Twalley approached.
"Would you both like to join us for a drink?" Portia asked.
St. Just nodded as Rachel said, "I thought you'd never ask. A quick one, though, and then home to my husband. Really, sharing a table with Tom was the last straw for me tonight. That man is so spiky. I can see why he writes spy novels. Not a word out of him, even under torture."
"He really was a spy once, wasn't he?" said Portia. "That's always been the scuttlebutt."
"If you told me he'd spied for the Russians and they'd refused to let him defect to Moscow, it wouldn't surprise me. Anyway, I heard him inform Edith just now that they were meeting someone in the sitting room, so let's take over the library."
The library was fashioned in the style of a gentleman's drinking club, all wing chairs and roomy, rumpled sofas, with shelves of crumbling leather-bound books lining the walls. It was sited next to the sitting room at the end of a long hallway, past display windows of clothing, sporting goods, and high-end souvenirs. The library contained a service bar, which was technically in operation twenty-four hours a day, or until the last guest was rendered unconscious, whichever came first, which had made it a natural meeting place throughout the conference. One seating group centered round a wood-burning fireplace; another was clustered near a panoramic window offering a far-ranging view of the castle park. Individual chairs with side tables dotted the corners of the room. Faded Persian rugs were strewn about the vast floor.
Their party, which grew to include B. A. King, Ninette, and Winston-Donna Doone having returned Cinderella-like to her castle duties, with a promise to join the group later-ran into Magretta at the door to the library, waving a sheaf of stationery headed with the Dalmorton crest.
"I'm taking a drink up to my room to work on my new novel." Her eyes glistened dangerously. "Research, you know. Some of us have to work for a living."
She cantered off on high heels, green shawl billowing like a sail behind her.
"What's there to research?" wondered Annabelle. She threw back her shoulders, and, puffing out her considerable chest, mimicked: "Details, details! Verisimilitude is of course important! But people are the same in every age, don't you think? It's the-universality-of the naked human condition, its tawdry hopes and blind ambitions, that I por tray in my books." Laughing guiltily at Annabelle's pitch-perfect imitation, the group began placing orders with the bartender. There was some muttered grumbling that Kimberlee-and Lord Easterbrook-should pick up the tab.
Lord Easterbrook was nowhere to be seen, but Jay Fforde and Kimberlee entered, shoulder to shoulder, and quickly commandeered the view overlooking the grounds. They sat throwing significant glances at each other, backlit in a yellow nimbus cast by the castle floodlights, in a pose that invited no interruptions. Beyond this romantic tableau, Portia could see a strengthening storm whipped by wind; intermittently the room's arched and mullioned windows rattled gently, lending a constant rumbling undercurrent to the buzz of conversation. The wind stepped up its mournful chorus as it moved through the distant trees-a chorus punctuated by shrieks as it skirled through the chimneys and wound past the castle battlements.
Everyone else, including Rachel Twalley and the local dignitaries, drifted into small groupings by the fire (St. Just again lost the scrum to sit beside Portia). Before long the talk reverted to the apparently inexhaustible topic of Amazon.com rankings. And from there, Kimberlee being preoccupied safely out of hearing range, the conversation turned to the chick lit trend.
"I don't get it, I really don't," grumbled Annabelle. "What exactly is the attraction of crime stories where the heroines teeter around New York and London in stiletto heels swigging martinis and coffee with a mobile glued to their heads? Besides, I never thought a mystery could make any sense written in the first person, present tense."
"It is rather an interesting technique, though," said Winston in his deep, melodious voice, "once you stop noticing how ruddy intrusive it is." Winston sat folded into his chair, legs and arms jutting in all directions. He put Portia in mind of a grasshopper. "In comparison, how would you characterize Magretta's work? Romantic suspense?"
"Womjep," supplied Mrs. Elksworthy, leaning in to the group. "Woman in Jeopardy. As different from Kimberlee's stuff as can be imagined. All creaking staircases and shadowy figures. The heck of it is, Magretta Sincock was the lodestar in the Dagger constellation for a very long time. But-at least to hear her tell it-every word is conceived and produced only by painstaking labor. Kimberlee makes it all look too easy."
"That local reporter seems to think books like Kimberlee's are the wave of the future," said Annabelle. "Sadly, I think he may be right."
"Quentin Swope?" asked Ninette, pushing back the heavy fringe over her eyes. "I saw him just now joining Tom in the sitting room, weighted down by hair gel. Hard to imagine what Tom might have to say about chick lit."
"Hard to imagine Tom inviting anyone to join him. Harder still to imagine anyone accepting the invitation," said Annabelle.
"I suppose he's hoping for some positive publicity out of Quentin," said Winston. "And I, for one, did accept the invitation-hoping for the same, I don't mind admitting." He stood. "I should be getting over there."
"Judging by what happened to Magretta this morning, that might be a dangerous game," said B. A. King. "She should leave publicity to the professionals." He stood, shooti
ng the cuffs of his dinner jacket. "I think I'll join you, Winston. Can't hurt to know what's in the pipeline."
"I wonder," said Winston, "if the reporter isn't hoping for an 'in' to the book publishing world. If ever I saw someone likely to have an unpublishable novel in his bottom desk drawer, it's Quentin Swope."
"I rather think it's part of Edith's job to keep that type away from Tom," said Mrs. Elksworthy.
"What an odd couple they make," said Annabelle. "She and Tom."
"Without a doubt," said Mrs. Elksworthy. "The miracle is that anyone as unpleasant as Tom Brackett managed to attract a mate in the first place. And yet those two have been together a donkey's age, content to all appearances. At least, Tom seems content. Edith merely seems flattened into quiescence."
"The spy who loved me," said Winston.
"I've also heard he was a schoolteacher," said Annabelle, "which is tremendously difficult to imagine, unless it was in a juvenile detention center. And that he was an actor at one time, but I think that's a story that's become mixed up with a screenwriting stint out in Hollywood. Certainly I've heard most often he was a spy, presumably for our side."
"He was just bloody rude to Rachel Twalley tonight," said Winston. "Not to mention poor Edith. Anyone for another drink before I go?"
Portia thought Winston seemed unusually nervy this evening-unlike the mellow, somewhat melancholy self he most often projected. Probably more of the fallout from Kimberlee's award, she decided.
Donna, having just rejoined them, may have noticed the shift in mood, too. She suddenly asked the group, "Did I tell you the bar used to be part of a priest's hole? They converted it when the hotel opened."
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