A Spelling Mistake

by Nancy Warren

  I laughed. “I know, it sounds like someplace John Blake would have to sneak into and steal the horns off the devil or something. But it’s the castle on the edge of town. It’s owned by tech billionaire Lochlan Balfour.”

  For the first time, he looked enthusiastic. “Cool. I’ll definitely drop by.”

  “Be sure you do.”

  I wanted Bartholomew to at least see he was gaining some younger fans. He might be undead, but his ego was alive and thriving.

  Chapter 7

  By the time the bookshop event wound down, I was thrilled to see that all five hundred copies of the book were sold or spoken for. I even had a small list of people who’d asked that I send them the regular book when it arrived.

  I heaved a sigh of relief and only wished there were more Bartholomew Branson launches to be had because tonight’s event had done no end of good to my little shop’s bottom line.

  However, I doubted that Ballydehag in County Cork was ever going to be a highlight of the literary circuit. Still, it had been fun.

  The party then moved to Devil’s Keep, and Lochlan Balfour had managed to make the usually dark and forbidding castle seem bright and welcoming. The party was held in the huge gallery, and small groups of people stood chatting and enjoying the champagne, the scotch, the wine and hors d’oeuvres Sean and his helpers were serving. I did my best to mix and mingle myself. But I found that most of the literary types already knew each other. And most of them were talking shop.

  Candace Branson seemed a lot more comfortable with shoptalk than I was. I supposed in the time she’d lived with her husband, she’d come to know the book business pretty well.

  I knew Bartholomew was watching. I could feel his intense gaze. I hoped he was enjoying himself even though he couldn’t party with his fans. Everyone seemed to be having a good time, and lots of people paused to look at the various pictures of him. I overheard several sharing anecdotes about him or talking about which of his books was their favorite and why.

  The young man who’d known Bartholomew’s books so well walked in and looked around as though he couldn’t believe his eyes. It was a common reaction to first seeing Devil’s Keep. The place was amazing. It managed to marry medieval with high tech and somehow pull it off. He stood looking around, and I knew instinctively that he didn’t know anyone here so I went up to him.

  “Hi. Glad you could come.”

  “Hi. This is quite a place.”

  He glanced down at his grubby jeans and boots. “Sorry, I forgot my tux in Cleveland.”

  “That’s okay. Any fan of Bartholomew Branson’s is welcome. I forgot to ask your name.”

  “Tristan Holt.”

  “I’m Quinn Callahan. But you probably knew that.” We shook hands anyway. “What brings you to Ballydehag?” I asked. “I’m guessing you didn’t fly all the way in from Cleveland just to buy a book that couldn’t even be signed by the author.”

  “I did fly here for Bartholomew Branson, but that’s a long story.”

  It flickered across my mind that maybe this guy was undead and, through some vampire network I knew nothing about, had managed to make contact with a writer he admired. I looked at him objectively. He was certainly pale. It’s hard to explain, but once you’ve been around enough vampires, you get a sense of their inner, extraordinary strength. Tristan Holt just looked way too much like a normal American guy in his twenties who probably spent too many late nights studying or playing video games.

  “What do you do in Cleveland?”

  “I’m a writer.”

  Ah. Now it made sense. “You want to be a thriller writer?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Well, I hear there’s an opening.”

  I had to stifle my giggle. I doubted Bartholomew could hear what we were saying, but he’d be so hurt if he thought I was laughing at him behind his back.

  “The bar’s open,” I told him. “Help yourself.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” And he headed off towards a table where Irish whiskey was being lavishly poured. Naturally, most of the publishing executives were already tucking in. Perhaps Tristan Holt could strike up a conversation with one of the agents. Though he’d have helped his cause if he’d cleaned up a bit.

  While I was watching Tristan, Lochlan walked up and said, “You must have invited that scrubby chap. I certainly didn’t.”

  “He’s a fellow American. Seems to be a Branson fan. You don’t mind, do you?”

  He shook his head. “You can invite anyone here you like.”

  Andrew Milsom walked over then, holding a glass of whiskey, which he raised to Lochlan. “That’s a fine whiskey you’re pouring strangers.”

  Lochlan laughed. “What’s the point of having the means if you don’t use them?”

  “I like the way you think.” Then Andrew turned to me. He was around fifty and the most eligible middle-aged bachelor in Ballydehag. Not that he had a lot of competition. At least, not among the living. “And what a fine evening for you, Quinn. I’d say you’ve made a few euros tonight.”

  “I did.”

  Lochlan walked away to greet a new arrival. He was an excellent host.

  “You also helped put Ballydehag on the map,” Andrew went on. “Brilliant idea having the collector’s edition dust jacket.”

  I laughed and then leaned closer. “You cannot tell a single soul what I’m about to tell you.”

  He raised his eyebrows at that. “I’ve heard plenty of deathbed confessions, believe me. Any secret you’ve got will be safe with me.”

  I suspected that was true. He was solid, dependable. A man you could trust. So I told him the whole story of the horrible spelling mistake. He enjoyed it as much as I’d known he would, laughing heartily. “What a good job the poor author’s dead. Or it would have killed him.”

  My laugh was a little too hearty. “You’re right.”

  I saw that he was still carrying his copy of Bartholomew’s new book. “Are you a fan?” I couldn’t recall that he’d ever bought a thriller in my shop. “Or supporting the local economy?”

  “This is the biggest event we’ve had in Ballydehag since the church steeple was struck by lightning. I didn’t want to miss it.”

  “The steeple looks great now, though, doesn’t it?” I said, not without pride. Between us, Karen Tate and I had donated a couple of valuable objects that helped raise most of the money to repair the old steeple.

  He nodded. “Aye, it does. I thought it would be years before they raised enough money, but there was an anonymous bequest.”

  “That’s nice.”

  He looked uncomfortable. “People think it was me. But it wasn’t. More likely it was Lochlan Balfour, who could buy all of Ireland, I should think, if he’d a mind to.”

  Nobody guessed the money had come from me and Karen, which was fine by both of us. I shrugged. “You heard what Lochlan said. He’s got the means. Maybe he decided to use it for the good of the town.”

  He glanced over at Lochlan, who was busy talking to somebody. “Perhaps.”

  I thought we’d better move away from that subject, so I asked him if he’d done any fishing lately.

  “I’m planning a weekend away. Going to Scotland for some fly-fishing.”

  Well, that sounded thrilling.

  I’d sort of run out of conversation when there was a ruckus.

  “How dare you?” Candace Branson shrieked. I glanced over, as did everyone present. Tristan Holt was standing in front of her, close as though they’d been having an intimate chat. While we all stared, she slapped him in the face with her open palm, nearly backhanding Philip Hazeltine in the process. He’d been standing to the left of her. “You get away from me!” She sounded half hysterical. Her American friend, Irving, came rushing up to her side and, since the whole room had suddenly gone quiet, he said, “This kid’s had way too much to drink. He made a pass at Candy. Get him out of here.”

  Lochlan couldn’t live the billionaire lifestyle without having security, and two burly-looking
guys in black suits appeared like magic. Tristan raised his hands as though in surrender. “I’m going,” he said and then turned tail and headed for the exit, closely followed by two shadows.

  Well, that was disappointing. He’d seemed like a nice guy, too. Lochlan sent me a glance as though thinking about rescinding my standing invitation to invite anybody I wanted to his castle. I didn’t really blame him.

  There was a minute or so of awkwardness, and then, the way a pond’s surface gets still again after a stone has been thrown into it, the party was soon rolling along as though Tristan’s bad behavior had never taken place.

  I knew the schedule, and at the pre-appointed hour of nine o’clock, Giles Montague, Bartholomew Branson’s editor, looking very dashing in a dark suit, stepped up to the raised stage that had been erected in the room, took the microphone and asked for everyone’s attention. The chamber orchestra stopped playing and we all turned, sipping our drinks and waiting for the speech. He began by thanking everyone for coming. “Like all of you, I was thrilled to read every new Branson novel. I was especially privileged to be one of the first readers.” He talked about A Killer in His Sights and how much he’d enjoyed working with Bartholomew Branson. I had no idea whether his words were sincere or not, but I knew how much the author upstairs would value them.

  Giles spoke for about ten minutes, reminiscing about his years working with Bartholomew. He had a humorous anecdote to share about a confusing incident with a cab and getting lost while he and the author were attending the Frankfurt book fair. We all laughed dutifully. Once more, he thanked everyone for coming. There was polite applause, and then just as people were about to go back to their interrupted conversations and the orchestra was about to strike up again, Candace Branson walked up onto the stage.

  This wasn’t on any schedule I’d seen, and by the look on Giles Montague’s face, he was a bit shocked too when she held out her hand for the microphone. Being a polite Englishman, what could he do? He passed it to her.

  I didn’t like the look of this.

  She took his place and said into the microphone, “I’m sure I know most of you, but for those of you who don’t know me, my name is Candace Branson. That’s right, Branson. I had the honor to be Bartholomew Branson’s wife and his literary partner for all the years of our marriage.” She stopped to dab the corner of her eye with a fingertip.

  “As Giles said, it’s terribly tragic that we lost this major literary talent, but I also lost my heart. I lost my Barty.”

  I hoped she would get on with it, because her beloved Barty would not be very pleased to have her take the limelight away from his launch.

  She said, “But I have a surprise for all of you. Something I know will bring some light into the sadness of losing him.”

  I hadn’t noticed that she’d brought her handbag up with her until she reached into it and pulled out a thick sheaf of pages with a rubber band around the middle. Oh, I was getting a bad feeling about this. Instinctively, I cast a nervous glance around and caught Lochlan already moving toward the stairs that led to where Bartholomew was watching his party on closed-circuit TV.

  She waved the thick pile of pages in the air. “I am thrilled to announce that when I was going through my beloved, and sadly departed, husband’s things, I discovered a previously unpublished manuscript.”

  Chapter 8

  There was a stunned silence around the room, and then Giles turned to her and said, “I beg your pardon?” He didn’t sound exactly happy with her news. I supposed he didn’t like being blindsided. “Did you say you were in possession of an unpublished manuscript by Bartholomew Branson?”

  “That’s right,” she said, looking smug. She waved it under his nose. “It’s called All Fall Down.”

  People began to move towards her, and then from above came a terrible sound. It sounded like growling and snapping of teeth. Lochlan was running towards the stairs. I ran too.

  “What is that?” Candace asked, nervously looking up.

  Lochlan, halfway up the stairs, turned back and said, “Don’t worry. It’s just my dog. Carry on, I’ll take care of it.”

  By the time we’d gotten to the top of the stairs, Bartholomew was being held back by Thomas Blood, a strapping vampire who’d been a colorful scoundrel in the sixteen hundreds, and three other strong vampires, and he nearly broke away from them. Lochlan Balfour, however, was an alpha vampire if there was such a thing. He stood over the author and said, coldly, “Go back inside.”

  Bartholomew Branson’s face was contorted with fury. His teeth bared. Being human, I instinctively took a step back. He had bloodlust in his eyes.

  It took all of them, including Lochlan, to force Bartholomew back into the room where he’d been watching the launch party. Lochlan led the way into a deeper part of the castle where the aggrieved author could yell and scream all he liked and not be heard outside of the thick walls of the turret. I knew this because this was where they kept Thomas Blood when he was being difficult.

  Bartholomew paced back and forth. “I’ll kill her.”

  “Am I correct in assuming there was no unpublished manuscript?” I said.

  “Of course not. Everything I’ve ever written has been published.”

  “Where did she get that manuscript, then?”

  “I’m too angry to think.”

  Oscar Wilde strolled in, looking happier than he had all day. “I can tell you how she did it.”

  We all turned to look at him.

  “She listened to the screechings of a family of baboons and wrote it down.”

  Bartholomew was so full of fury, he looked happy to have somebody to fight with, and he launched himself at Oscar Wilde. Luckily, four strong vamps pulled him off before he could do any damage.

  “So you’ll have another book published posthumously,” I said, trying to put a good face on things.

  “But I didn’t write that book. That harridan must have hired someone.”

  I stared at him. “Like a ghostwriter.”

  “That must be it.”

  “Let’s hope it’s a ghost with some semblance of literary talent,” Oscar chimed in.

  We all ignored him. Even Bartholomew. “That woman ruined my life. Now she’s ruining my afterlife. This is a disaster. I have a posthumous manuscript of my own I’m working on,” he said. No wonder he was angry. How many undiscovered manuscripts could one dead author have?

  I wasn’t a big drinker, but Lochlan Balfour’s Irish whiskey was indeed smooth, and after the shock of discovering there was yet another posthumous manuscript, I really needed a drink.

  “What are we going to do?” I asked.

  Bartholomew was so enraged, he couldn’t even string words together coherently. He just made sounds that I imagined an angry, rabid dog might make. There was a lot of snapping of teeth and foaming at the mouth.

  Lochlan managed to remain cool. “We will, of course, attempt to stop the publication of a novel that you clearly didn’t write.”

  I was a bit confused still. “Why would she do it? You’re absolutely sure you didn’t have an old manuscript lying around somewhere?”

  “Of course not. It’s like saying to a mother, ‘Are you sure you didn’t have another child that you forgot about?’ An author doesn’t forget his literary creations.”

  I glared at Oscar, and he shut his mouth again.

  “But what’s in it for her?” I asked. Candace did not strike me as a woman whose main interest was her ex-husband’s literary fame.

  “Money, of course,” he snapped.

  “Bartholomew, is it possible you never changed your will after you got divorced?”

  He looked sulky and uncomfortable. “I was in the prime of my life. I thought I had years to go before the grim reaper snatched me away.”

  “But she’s your ex-wife.”

  “She’s also my next of kin. There is no one else. Parents are dead, no brothers and sisters, never had any children.”

  “So if she comes out with a pos
thumous Branson novel, she’ll make a killing.”

  “She’ll make a killing on this one too.”

  I was curious about something. “Then why are you putting so much effort into writing a new book? You’ll only be giving your ex-wife more money.”

  He looked sheepish. “I don’t write just for the money. I love to write, Quinn. I don’t want to disappoint my fans.”

  I didn’t even turn my head this time. I just held up a single finger in Oscar Wilde’s direction.

  Lochlan said, “I’ve got to go back downstairs, as I’m hosting this gala. Quinn, you’d better come too.” He stared at Bartholomew. “You will stay here. We will work on this problem together, do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  We went back downstairs to find that Candace was the center of an excited group. Philip Hazeltine and Giles Montague were in a corner, talking softly. No doubt it was being in an old castle that made me fanciful, but they reminded me of disloyal courtiers plotting to overthrow a king.

  Still, the atmosphere was more party than political coup. Sean’s food was a big hit, as was Lochlan’s whiskey. However, my pleasure in the evening had been ruined. I’d become grudgingly fond of Bartholomew, and I didn’t like the way this evening had turned from triumph to finding out his conniving widow was using his death to make a buck.

  I stayed until the last guest left, then followed Lochlan back upstairs. I was worried about Bartholomew.

  By this time, it was after midnight. The author had calmed down, but he still appeared agitated. “Guys, I need to get out and get some air.”

  We all looked at him sharply. He threw his hands up. “What? I’m not going to do anything. I just need to clear my head. It’s been a shock.”

  Lochlan said, “Francis and Allan, go with him.”

  “What? Now you’re going to treat me like you treat Thomas Blood? What do you think I’m going to do, try to steal the Crown Jewels?”

  “No. I think you might go and see your ex-wife. And that would be disastrous.”

  “Well, I’m not. I promise.”