"So, we agree," St. Just said, "the Dearest Darling to whom this is addressed is here at the conference, but she is asking him-or rather, agreeing-that he should make himself scarce and pretend they don't know each other well-at least, in front of the wrinklies and 'him.' I have to say she seemed quite taken with Jay Fforde and made no secret of it."
"Right," said Moor. "And it sounds as if she's cheating on someone else by seeing Jay. Someone here at the hotel?"
"We should be so lucky," said St. Just. "That would narrow the field considerably. Let's see…" He began ticking off the list on his left hand. "There's Winston Chatley and B. A. King. Now, Winston is a compelling personality. I've noticed he's attractive to the ladies, despite the fact he resembles an Easter Island statue. My sense is that women trust and like him. So I suppose he's a possible. And B. A. King is a good-looking man in a going-to-seed kind of way, if otherwise repellent. She might have considered him a diamond in the rough, but it's a real stretch. Besides, I overheard her quarreling with him. Lord Easterbrook-I'm not sure… he's far older, but a May-December romance isn't completely out of the question. She might see forging an alliance like that as some kind of career enhancer. Then there's that reporter chap-highly unlikely, I would say, unless she thought he could come in useful to her somehow. He's near her in age, but Kimberlee was, in her way, eons older in terms of savvy. Tom Brackett?-an impossibility, on the surface, at any rate. He's well off, or so I gather, but she's well off-er, if you follow-or, she was. Also, he's married, but I see his personality as the real deterrent for a young and attractive woman like Kimberlee.
"Then, of course, there's Jay Fforde, the most likely suspect-very polished looking, very soigne, very much the Head Boy type. But I suppose they're all possibles, some more than others."
"Then again, there are the men attending the conference who are staying in town rather than here at Dalmorton," said Moor. He held up a conference brochure he'd retrieved from the dresser, using his handkerchief, and flipped it open to the center. Together, the two detectives peered at the list of authors in attendance. There were at least seventy-five masculine names.
"There's no list of attendees," St. Just pointed out. "Just the authors. So I'm not sure what good this will do us. There are far too many people involved for us to interview them all."
"And today was the last day of the conference, anyway," said Moor. "We certainly can't tell over two hundred people not to leave town. Well, we could, but most of them would never listen."
Sergeant Kittle, emerging from Kimberlee's bathroom, where he'd been taking notes on the contents, said to the other two men, "So this Kalder woman writes a letter. How was she going to deliver it? By mail? That makes no sense if the conference ended today."
"My guess is-if she weren't just writing to hear herself 'think'-she was planning to hand it to him clandestinely," said St. Just. "It would add to the cloak-and-dagger drama of the whole thing. In fact, the more I think of it, that's exactly what I think she'd do."
"Which means…" said Moor.
"Which means whoever it is may be at the castle."
"Or may be at the conference, where she was going to slip him the note today."
"Right." St. Just sighed. "Back to square one, aren't we? Although… would she bother with a note today, with the conference over at noon? What would be the point of that? It seems more likely the intended recipient was here. Clandestine, romantic skulking around the castle-a candlelit castle, as it happened; she would have loved that-passing notes on a Saturday night… slipping a note under someone's door… that I can see her doing."
"I wonder what interrupted her writing the note."
"I wondered that, as well," said St. Just.
Inspector Moor asked, "Had you noticed her being extra friendly with any one man at the conference?"
"She was friendly with most of them," said St. Just. "More so than with the women, I'd say. Kimberlee liked to be admired, and she didn't shy from creating opportunities for admiring male glances." He shook his head. "The thing you must realize is that I know almost nothing about her-or about any of the rest of them, for that matter. In her case, it is because I didn't actively seek her out. She was very much the keenly ambitious type of female of which I, personally, am terrified. What little I do know is from her little biography in the program you're holding there."
DCI Moor flipped to the relevant page. After a moment's reading, he summarized it for St. Just.
"From near Northampton originally, read business at Cambridge-there's a surprise- wrote a weekly gossip column for a small newspaper in Sheffield. From there to London, where I gather she was a bit of a Sloane Ranger. Worked at what I'd call a rich girl's job in the fashion magazine world… followed by a novel, followed by riches beyond anyone's wildest dreams of avarice, I'm sure. It says here she 'lives in London and New York.' Either one alone would break any normal person's piggy bank."
St. Just nodded. "I understand there's a lot of money involved. No starving artist, she. Who inherits, I wonder?"
"I'll get my team on the inheritance angle. She might have a solicitor somewhere. We might also ask, whom did she injure? To whom was she a threat?"
"What do you say we get her agent up here and see what she knows?"
Sergeant Kittle was dispatched to fetch Ninette Thomson from downstairs.
The two inspectors continued walking about the room, dangling the occasional frothy item of women's clothing at the tip of a pen or pencil. Then St. Just said:
"It is rather odd, now I think of it: Kimberlee didn't give the impression of someone with heirs, but we all have heirs, don't we? Somewhere up or down the 'line' there is a bloodline. In the case of Kimberlee, though, so much was manufactured, so much for show. I wonder if she had parents still living, people who will mourn her?"
"What I wonder is if the boyfriend was someone in that Latte book," said Moor.
St. Just shrugged. "A possibility. What, are you saying you've read her?"
"Absorbed her, more like. Remember-four teenage daughters at home, all wanting to work in the fashion industry. Not a doctor or lawyer or accountant in the bunch, worse luck."
"Or policewoman. Hmm. I had heard the book was in the nature of an expose…"
"No, more like a roman… roman…"
" Roman a clef?"
"That's it, yes. Real people disguised as fictional people."
"That could make the wrong type of person angry, if they didn't appreciate the way they were portrayed," said St. Just.
"Very," said Moor.
St. Just noticed he was still carrying the romance novel.
"It's a low priority, I'm sure, but have someone find out if Leticia-Anne Deville is a pseudonym for one of these writers here."
They heard muffled footsteps outside the door.
"Let's see if this agent of hers knows where at least some of the bodies are buried."
PRACTICING TO DECEIVE
They met Ninette Thomson in the deserted hallway. St. Just, who had spoken with her during the conference only briefly, took a moment now to assess the woman. Of medium height and build, she wore a leopard-skin tunic over black stretch pants, and ballet slippers. She was probably somewhere in her late forties to early fifties, but with an unnatural tautness to her skin and fullness to her lips that spoke of aggressive and frequent cosmetic intervention. As a result she looked not so much younger than her years but like a goldfish wearing hoop earrings. Her thick hair was dyed blue-black and cut in a geometric shape St. Just associated with Dusty Springfield and the go-go sixties. Her heavily kohl-lined eyes harked back to a similar influence.
Not a tear or snuffle disturbed the makeup. She posited the almost obligatory question of those interviewed in connection with a murder-"Who could have done this?" she asked in a rhetorical manner-and then seemed ready to get down to brass tacks.
"You were Kimberlee Kalder's agent, we are told," said Moor.
Ninette nodded, setting her thick fringe in motion.
"And for how long had you shared this relationship?"
"It was about two years ago she submitted her novel to me, asking me to represent her. There's a day I'll never forget. Let me tell you straight off: Some called Latte a flagrant piece of mind-numbing crap. So it was-to those of a certain age. I also knew from the first moment I saw it that it would be a hit. It was a nervy book, a fast read, a fun escape: just what the public will plunk down twenty quid for. A diversion."
"And written by a woman with model looks thrown into the bargain," said St. Just. "There's no question she did write her own books?"
That set the fringe swinging like a beaded curtain.
"Have you been listening to the tittle-tattle of jealous minds, or was that just a trial balloon? I know Kimberlee seemed too good to be true, somehow, but I'd stake my life the writing was hers. Oh, I had to hire a freelance editor to clean up the manuscript a bit. There was a tremendous energy to what she wrote, but she wrote quickly and she could be a bit sloppy as a result."
"So there's no question of Latte being ghostwritten, anything like that? No jealous ghostwriter seething in the background, thinking he or she should have been paid more?"
"No question at all. Of course it's not unheard of for an established author at some point to let his image be used while someone else does the actual work of writing his books."
"And in this case?' St. Just prompted.
She looked him straight in the eye, a panda peering from the bamboo forest.
"In this case, no. She wasn't established, for one thing. Just trust me on this, and don't let that girly ditz-brain act of hers fool you. She liked giving the impression that deciding whether to wear strappy heels or flats was the day's biggest decision. But she has-had-a mind like a computer. She knew what she looked like; she knew what she had going for her, and she wasn't shy about using it to her advantage. So what? She wrote a book calculated to the last comma to hit its target market, and it did."
"Which was?'
"Roughly, Sloane Rangers and those who aspire to similar status. Every girl out there who imagines she's going to dabble in PR or design leather handbags or write children's books and finally end up at the altar of St Paul's, hanging on Prince William's arm. And more than a few middle-aged ladies who daydream the same."
"I see." He stole a glance at Moor, who was nodding.
"My daughters all wanted a flat in Chelsea after reading it. As -as they would say- if."
Ninette was nodding vigorously again.
"You see? Harmless fantasy-well, one imagines it's harmless-but it hit a real nerve. There have been imitators since, but Kimberlee Kalder got in first."
"I do see," said St. Just. He turned to Moor as if to indicate the floor was his, but Moor, with a wave of his hand, abjured.
St. Just thought a moment. "Would you say she had rivals?" he said at last.
"I would say she had enemies."
At St. Just's encouraging look, she went on:
"Not that she went out of her way to harm people. It's just that for Kimberlee Kalder, no one existed but Kimberlee Kalder. It was a style that, shall we say, took some getting used to."
"Really."
"I'll tell you who loved her, though," Ninette continued. "Lord Easterbrook. Not in the romantic sense, of course. In the sense that she saved his bacon. I wonder what the poor man is going to do now."
"I imagine you will miss her for much the same reasons," put in Moor.
"Quite," she said. "A real money earner, she was, and now she's gone…"
St. Just waited in vain for the prospect of financial loss, at least, to start the waterworks, but Ninette spoke with an ethereal detachment, as if the topic were quite remote from anything surrounding her life. Still, he knew that shock could manifest itself in exactly such a way. The reality could take days, weeks, even months to sink in.
"So," St. Just said, "tell me about our host here, Dagger Press."
"What about it?"
"Specifically, what can you tell me about Easterbrook, the man who brought us all here together?"
Ninette examined a cuticle before answering, then looked at the policemen in turn. The sound of Sergeant Kittle's taking advantage of the pause to flip to a new page in his notebook seemed to unsettle her.
"Well, the publishing house itself began as a rich man's hobby-eighty, ninety years ago. Possibly it was even meant to fail, as some sort of income fiddle. But Lord Easterbrook's grandfather hadn't counted on the Golden Age of mystery writing kicking in right about then. He made a ruddy fortune instead."
"So Easterbrook inherited a going concern," said St. Just.
Ninette nodded. "And married a wealthy woman. Never hurts to have backup insurance, does it? Anyway, fast-forward to the present day, where the market is glutted but still writers crank out novels like sausage links. An apt analogy that," she added. "I must remember it. Anyway, the field is lucrative for some but, frankly, it's getting crowded with too much of the same old thing. Kimberlee turned out to be the breath of fresh air the whole show needed. She was a born publicity machine and quickly established a 'persona.' She also had the instincts of a natural actress, where most writers are naturally shy. Wasn't it Agatha Christie who said she took up writing so she wouldn't have to speak in public? That's true of most writers."
"But not Kimberlee," said St. Just.
" Not Kimberlee," she said. "God, no. The woman was born with a microphone in her hand. Lord Easterbrook needed a personality more than he needed another author, and with Kimberlee he got that in spades. What can I say? Publishing is a strange business."
"Let me share with you an observation," said St. Just. "I can see what you mean when you indicate she was sharp, intelligent. But then she'd come out with some gushing, Valley-Girl rubbish…"
Again Ninette nodded.
"She was inconsistent. She wasn't pitch perfect. Would have been, given time. It was an act-somewhat O.T.T., if you know what I mean-and the cracks showed through the plaster here and there."
"So there was a conflict with her real character or personality," said St. Just. "I see."
Sergeant Kittle spoke up just then.
"So who was killed, her or the 'over-the-top' person she pretended to be?"
St. Just thought it an excellent question, but said nothing. Ninette shrugged.
"I imagine you have contact information for her friends or family," said Moor. "And her solicitor. Please leave the details with Sergeant Kittle-it could save us time tracking people down. Do you have anything more to add?"
"No. Just that I don't know who her solicitor was, if she had one."
St. Just picked up a very slight hesitation.
"You're certain you've nothing to add?"
Ninette sighed and wrapped her leopard-print arms tightly around her midriff.
"I may as well tell you," she said. "You're bound to hear it from one of the gossipmongers down below. Kimberlee was giving every sign of leaving me. For Jay's agency. Jay Fforde."
St. Just eyed her sympathetically. "Not a great show of gratitude there."
"You can repeat that. After all I'd done for her."
"There was no way to stop her? No contract tying her to you?"
"Of course there was, but surely you know how the law works, or fails to work, as well as I do-better than I do. I could have sued her and probably I would have won, but what would it have cost me-and not just in pounds sterling? As someone said in a different context, it would be an expense of spirit chasing after her-and very bad publicity. Kimberlee counted on me not wanting a public squabble. No. I think in the end I'd have just let her go."
"But, obviously, you weren't happy," put in Moor.
"I was gored, but I wouldn't kill anyone over it, if that's what you're implying. We rather quickly reached the 'over my dead body' stage of negotiations, Kimberlee and I, but it was just business as usual. And a cutthroat business it is. Oh, God, she wasn't…?"
"Kil
led with a knife?" St. Just shook his head.
"Thank heaven for that. I guess. Anyway, here's what you need to take away from any discussion about Kimberlee, if you want to find out who did this: In the way that a baby will think a person ceases to exist when he's no longer in the same room, so for Kimberlee most people ceased to exist when she wasn't physically with them. I found it to be… an eerie quality. Other people may have found her indifference harder to take. Her self-absorption was near-total."
She paused.
"There's one other thing I suppose I should mention."
"Yes?"
"You do realize that many of the writers Kimberlee so loved to trash were authors Jay had at some point turned down or let go."
"How do you think she came to know so much about it?" asked Moor.
Ninette turned to him.
"That's just it. I should think pillow talk was the answer. You only had to look at the pair of them. The body language, the way she hung on his every word. Or pretended to."
St. Just leveled an assessing gaze her way.
"Well, thank you," he said. "I appreciate your analysis. It might have a bearing. We'll speak again soon."
The panda eyes grew, if possible, rounder. "I have to get back to London. You can't keep us here forever."
"No, but for the time being we can and we must. Now, I need everyone to continue to stay off this floor awhile longer. Be sure the others downstairs understand that as well-they are to stay put."
The three policemen watched her go. Reentering Kimberlee's room and closing the door, DCI Moor said: "I've seen women have a stronger emotional attachment to their washer and dryer."
"So have I," said St. Just. "Strange-she seems largely unaffected on both the personal and financial levels. We saw only that little spurt of annoyance over Kimberlee's defection, but that really had to have hurt-her pocketbook, if nothing else. Maybe it's just her poker face. I understand all agents have one."
"Maybe it's Botox," said Moor. "She was anxious enough to bring agent Jay into the close circle of suspects, wasn't she? Well, what's next?"
Just then there was a knock on the door and a young constable entered, clutching a sheaf of papers-his notes from the interviews downstairs so far.
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