PRAISE FOR THE BOOK CLUB MYSTERIES
“Smart, fast-paced, and fun . . . [an] appealingly clever protagonist and her witty group of Readaholics, who dissect great books while solving an intricately plotted murder that kept me turning pages late into the night.”
—New York Times bestselling author Kate Carlisle
“Laura DiSilverio hits it out of the park . . . engaging characters. Beautiful setting. Readers will be enchanted.”
—New York Times bestselling author Carolyn Hart
“Witty, fresh, and thoroughly engaging, Amy-Faye Johnson and her Readaholic friends will leave you wanting more in this engaging new mystery series.”
—national bestselling author Sally Goldenbaum
“A very enjoyable debut . . . [an] evenly paced mystery that quickly became a page-turner, as the unfolding drama was hard to put down.”
—Dru’s Book Musings
“[DiSilverio] shows a masterful grasp of detail. . . . The mystery unfolds at the perfect pace and has a climactic and satisfying ending.”
—The Qwillery
“Mystery lovers of both classic and current cozies will love this. . . . It is fast-paced, witty, and intelligent, with likable characters and a lovable, loyal protagonist, Amy-Faye.”
—Open Book Society
“An enticing plot with an eccentric cast of characters that is sure to please the reader . . . fantastically written.”
—A Cozy Girl Reads
OTHER MYSTERIES BY LAURA DISILVERIO
The Book Club Mystery Series
Book 1: The Readaholics and the Falcon Fiasco
Book 2: The Readaholics and the Poirot Puzzle
The Mall Cop Mystery Series
Book 1: Die Buying
Book 2: All Sales Fatal
Book 3: Malled to Death
The Swift Investigations Series
Book 1: Swift Justice
Book 2: Swift Edge
Book 3: Swift Run
OTHER MYSTERIES BY LAURA DISILVERIO WRITING AS ELLA BARRICK
The Ballroom Dance Mystery Series
Book 1: Quickstep to Murder
Book 2: Dead Man Waltzing
Book 3: The Homicide Hustle
WRITING AS LILA DARE
The Southern Beauty Shop Series
Book 1: Tressed to Kill
Book 2: Polished Off
Book 3: Die Job
OBSIDIAN
Published by New American Library,
an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
This book is an original publication of New American Library.
Copyright © Laura DiSilverio, 2016
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Obsidian and the Obsidian colophon are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
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eBook ISBN 9780698165816
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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For book club members everywhere. Your love of reading
and the way you connect with others to share that love
inspire me and give me hope for the world.
Contents
Praise for the Book Club Mysteries
Other Mysteries by Laura DiSilverio
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
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
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
About the Author
Chapter 1
Normally, when I’m surrounded by books, I’m in a state of bliss. Today, I could feel a headache coming on. That wasn’t the books’ fault; no, it was a by-product of dealing with the people who wrote them. I’d never had much contact with writers. Barring the one signing I went to some years ago in Boulder, where the author entertained the small audience with humorous stories about writing his police procedurals and life in Wyoming, I didn’t think I’d ever met a writer. I’d blithely assumed they’d all be something like the Boulder author—affable, entertaining, happy to interact with fans. First wrong assumption . . .
I’d discovered the hard way that attending an author signing bore no resemblance to organizing a multiple-author event. When Gemma Frant, owner of Heaven’s only bookstore, Book Bliss, had hired me to put together a “Celebration of Gothic Novels” to coincide with the September birthdays of her favorite twentieth-century gothic authors, I’d jumped at the chance. What could be more fun than organizing an event focused on books? After all, I’d grown up in a house with more books than dust mites, with a mother who was a librarian. I had read voraciously since sounding out my first Dr. Seuss book, and would just as soon have gotten on a plane or gone to a doctor’s waiting room naked as without a book. Five years ago, I’d started the Readaholics, the book club currently reading du Maurier’s Rebecca in honor of this event. It’s one of the most widely read gothic novels of all time, after all. So, I’d figured any event that revolved around books had to be fun, right? Second off base assumption . . .
I’d had fun decorating Book Bliss for today’s activities and I smiled with satisfaction as I scanned the effect I’d created. Thinking “gothic,” I’d borrowed the Heaven High School theater department’s backdrops from last year’s production of Dracula. They depicted a spooky stone castle, complete with painted bats and sickle moon. Arranged in a semicircle behind the signing table, the flats gave the bookstore an appropriately eerie air, I thought. I’d added to it by having my friend Lola Paget, who owns Bloomin’ Wonderful, the best nursery in a five-county area, rent me some potted trees, which I’d clumped together near the door to make it feel like customers were entering a forest. Once the signing was over, Lola and her crew would relocate the trees to the Rocky Peaks Golf and Country Club, which was hosting tonight’s gothic-themed costume party. My assistant, Al Frink, had put together a sound track for the event, downloading music from the sound tracks of Dracula, The Phantom of the Opera, some Hitchcock flicks, and Sweeney Todd. It was all gothic and atmospheric and I was hugely pleased with myself and Al. Gemma was oohing and aahing, while the photographer I’d hired was taking dozens of photos that would go on the store’s and my Web site and Facebook page.
The birthday party was because all of Gemma’s favorite gothic authors were born in September. They included Victoria Holt (September 1), Joan Aiken (September 4), Phyllis Whitney (September 9), Mary Stewart (September 17), and Barbara Michaels (September 29). I had to admit it was almost eerie how many of them were born in the same month. To top it off, this September would have been Mary Stewart’s one hundredth birthday, so my go-to baker had constructed a cake decorated with icing replicas of some of the birthday authors’ covers, and crowned it with a hundred candles.
Following the birthday party and the panel, we had media interviews for the visiting authors, a high school writing contest for the authors to judge, and an auction of donated merchandise, including a collection of first-edition books by the birthday novelists. The auction was to fund a scholarship for a Heaven High School student to attend the Pikes Peak Writers Conference in Colorado Springs. Gemma had proposed naming the scholarship after du Maurier, but when the high school administrators found out that she was apparently bisexual and had had an affair with the novelist Gertrude Lawrence, they put the kibosh on naming it after her. They’d christened it simply the Book Bliss Scholarship for Creative Writing Students.
Even though gothic novels weren’t my reading material of choice, I’d heard of all of the event’s headliners: Constance Aldringham, writer of perennially bestselling gothic romances; Francesca Bugle, the midlister rumored to have a hit and a major studio movie deal on her hands with her forthcoming novel; and Mary Stewart, the much ballyhooed debut novelist. Apparently, the latter’s birth certificate name was actually Mary Stewart, although she was no relation of the gothic romance author of the same name who had been big in the genre in the 1950s and ‘60s. It made me wonder if names were destiny. Were all Mary Stewarts fated to become gothic novelists? If so, what did being named Amy-Faye Johnson portend?
Aggravation.
“I simply must be seated in the middle,” Constance Aldringham was telling my assistant, Al Frink. She rearranged the nameplates he had set on the table for the author panel that would start in half an hour. “And don’t forget to have a bottle of Perrier and fresh sliced limes at my place. Talking to fans parches me, simply parches me, and I must rehydrate. I count on you to attend to these details for me. I cannot, simply cannot, waste my creative energies on such mundane matters.” This last was apparently directed at her mousy-looking assistant, who quailed at the sharp note in her boss’s voice. Or it might have been meant for her husband, a bearded man with stooped shoulders, who had made his way to the bookshelf with World War II histories immediately upon entering the shop, and was now hiding behind a study of tank warfare tactics.
The acknowledged grande dame of modern gothic romances, Constance Aldringham was a well-preserved sixty-something who had wisely let her hair go white. Smoothed back from a wide forehead and caught up in a low chignon, it emphasized her pale skin, which was minimally lined for a woman her age. Her brows were darker, peaked instead of arched, framing skillfully made-up light blue eyes. She affected clothes in dark hues that set off her hair. Today’s dress was navy blue, sweeping almost to her ankles, and accented with a paisley silk scarf, chosen, I suspected, to obscure the slightest hint of jowls and a crepey neck.
Al gave me a “What do I do?” look, and I signed for him to let it be. We had intended to have the authors sit in alphabetical order, but if no one else complained, it didn’t make much difference if Constance sat in the middle. On the short side, wearing a sweater-vest and bow tie, and with his sandy hair recently buzz-cut, Al looked like a refugee from the 1950s, the “good kid” Mrs. Cleaver and her ilk would have trusted without hesitation. In truth, he’d been a bit of a troublemaker in high school and it had taken him a couple of years to straighten up and enroll in college. The university had matched him with me as an intern for my event-organizing business—Eventful!—a couple of years ago and it had worked out great. I’d recently asked him to come on board full-time when he graduated, and he was still thinking about the offer.
Now he straightened Constance’s name tent, gave the table skirt a twitch, and disappeared into Gemma’s stockroom, where we had parked the refreshments for the signing. I was about to follow him to set out the cake decorated with images of covers from the birthday authors’ most famous novels, when there was a knock on the still-locked front door. Gemma hurried to let in a stocky woman I recognized from book jackets as Francesca Bugle. She wore a red jacket with wide lapels that did not flatter her top-heavy figure, and a felt hat decked with red poppies.
A man followed her, his attire making it plain he wasn’t from around here. I’d bet tonight’s paycheck he was from L.A. He wore a black linen blazer over a black silk T-shirt, slacks, and loafers without socks. Facial hair that was several days past “forgot to shave” but not quite up to “mustache and goatee” framed his mouth. I figured he worked hard to keep it at that exact in-between stage. Maybe ten years older than me—in his early forties—he had a round bald spot on the crown of his head and kept the rest of his hair cut short. A pair of trendy glasses was shoved up on his head and I wondered if they were meant to hide the bald spot.
“Gemma! Hon!” Francesca threw her arms around slim Gemma and squeezed so hard she knocked Gemma’s glasses askew. “Nice to meet you finally.”
“Thank you for joining us for our Celebration of Gothic Novels,” Gemma said in her fluttery way. She smoothed the ruffle at her neckline. “I enjoy your books so much.”
“Especially the naughty bits, hey?” Francesca winked, then drew the man forward. “This is Cosmo Zeller, president of Zeller Productions. That’s the company that’s turning Barbary Close into a blockbuster. Right, Cos?”
Cosmo slouched forward and pulled one hand out of his pocket to shake hands with Gemma. “Spot-on, Frannie. It’s going to be big. Bigger than big. Huge. I think the opening-weekend gross will beat the numbers Fifty Shades put up.” His gaze went to the smartphone in his other hand.
“He’s scouting locations, since a large part of the book takes place in a small town in the mountains. It’s really in Oregon, but Cosmo says Colorado’s been offering filmmakers a lot of incentives. We’re staying the whole week—I’m fascinated by everything that goes into making a movie.”
The photographer approached and took a photo of the duo. Francesca smiled for the camera, stood beside Gemma for another photo, and then looked around the store. Spotting Constance and her entourage, she called, “Hey, Connie, Merle, Allyson. Good to see you.”
Constance dipped her head like a queen recognizing a peasant. “Francesca.” Her husband and assistant copied her, their nods tentative, as if Constance might divorce or fire them for acknowledging Francesca.
“A little bird told me sales of your latest are way down,” Francesca said, her mobile mouth puckering into a moue of seeming concern. “Is it true Oubliette Press isn’t picking up the option on your next book?”
Constance sent her an icy look from narrowed eyes. Before she could reply, Francesca laughed heartily, and sailed toward me, hand out. “I’m Francesca Bugle. And you are?”
“Amy-Faye Johnson. I’m the event organizer.”
We shook and my fingers tingled when she released her grip.
“Bang-up job you’ve done,” she said with a decisive nod that set the poppies on her hat bo
bbing. “Love the castle.” She gestured toward the painted flats. “I’ve never been to Heaven before, but it’s a nice-looking little town you’ve got here. Love that B and B, the Columbine.”
I’d managed to get all the writers and their various relatives and hangers-on into Heaven’s most exclusive B and B, the Columbine. In fact, they’d taken over the whole house for the week. Francesca and Cosmo were staying to scout for movie locations, Constance Aldringham and her family were taking advantage of the free accommodations and lovely surroundings to have their first vacation in eight years (or so Constance had told Gemma), and Mary Stewart was using the charming inn as a writing retreat.
“I’m ready for a change of pace,” Francesca said. “Just turned in a manuscript, so I’m in no hurry to get back to Winnetka. It was twenty-two degrees there when I left yesterday. Felt more like December than September. Brrr.” She gave an exaggerated shiver. “Scouting for movie locations will be fun.”
“I hope you enjoy—” But before I could finish, she was turning away, introducing herself to Al as he came out of the stockroom bearing the birthday cake decorated with frosting replicas of some of the birthday authors’ books.
“That is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” Francesca exclaimed. “Who is the genius that did that? I’ve got to get a cake like that for my next book launch. I can just see the cover of Never Again, My Lovely done up in buttercream and fondant. The mist, the seascape—it’ll be gorgeous.”
I gave her one of the baker’s cards. She was tucking it into the structured purse hanging from her elbow when there was another knock, Gemma unlocked the door, and a light voice said, “I’m not late, am I?”
We all turned to look at the willowy young woman glowing on the threshold. The sun shone through her white dress—my mother would have insisted on a slip—and set her red hair on fire. Pleased that we had been struck dumb by her entrance, Mary Stewart the Living (which is how I differentiated between her and the author of Madam, Will You Talk?, the Merlin trilogy, and other books I’d enjoyed when I stumbled on them as a college freshman) glided into the room and shook hands with Gemma. Behind her, one of the most handsome men I’d ever seen carried in a box and set it on a table. I couldn’t help but think that he was a gothic hero come to life, tall, dark, and brooding, with full lips that would have landed him a men’s cologne commercial if he was an actor, and springy black hair that I knew would feel crisp if I ran my fingers through it.
The Readaholics and the Gothic Gala Page 1