Murder Actually Read online

  “Grant will never make you happy, Elspeth,” she cautioned. “He’s too good-looking.”

  I blithely ignored her advice. Of course Grant was good-looking! I wasn’t going to wake up every morning next to someone with a face like a shovel. But as time passed I started to see what she meant, and the series of flirtations that characterized our marriage quickly began to wear me down. I’d moved back to All Hallows after our divorce, determined to devote myself to chastity and work. So far I’d only accomplished the former.

  I looked down again at the cover of The Cheesecake Diaries, but my absorption in the cover was interrupted by a voice at my elbow.

  “Picture time!”

  I turned to greet the editor of the All Hallows Gazette, Crispin Wickford, just as a bright flash obscured my vision.

  “Elspeth Gray.” Crispin pronounced my name like it was treacle, his voice rich and unctuous as he shook my hand. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, and I’m looking forward to this reading. Your books are exactly the kind of thing readers of the Gazette enjoy, so free of any real conflict.”

  It was hardly the type of review to grace the New York Times: readers of Ms. Gray will rejoice in another offering that provides little in the way of actual conflict... but I realized Crispin was observing me with an air of pleased expectation.

  “Thanks, Crispin. I’ve always thought the unexamined life was underrated.”

  He eyed me a moment and then his expression cleared and he laughed. “Exactly. We don’t all need to torture ourselves, do we? There are plenty of writers out there trying to do that: Chekhov, Meyer, James…” his voice trailed away uncertainly and then rebounded with new strength. “Mother always said that if you look for trouble you’re sure to find it.”

  In his case I was doubtful. Crispin had devoted his entire life to the All Hallows Gazette, and I wasn’t sure who’d gotten the raw end of the deal. The Gazette, as Crispin was fond of pointing out, was a family-owned paper. Founded by Crispin’s great-grandfather, William Wickford, in 1937, its gentle contents had altered little over the years. From the Mouths of Babes still featured witty offerings from gifted offspring and children’s letters to God; Poetry for the Soul offered local talent or lack thereof; and The Way We Were specialized in reminiscences, or as some people unkindly suggested, gripes from senior readers who objected to whippersnappers, hooligans and hobbledehoys.

  I endured another flash and tried to smile. I held out little hope for the outcome; my pictures in the Gazette always made me look slightly deranged and added at least fifty pounds.

  “I’ll need to interview you later.”

  “Sure thing, Crispin, I’m not going anywhere.”

  He nodded. “Yes, I know.”

  A low rumble of thunder announced the approaching storm, and Crispin opened the door to Inkwell and ushered me inside. Inkwell Books was the former All Hallows gristmill, and its three floors were crowded with books, lithographs, and old prints in a maze of reading rooms, alcoves and nooks. The book reading was on the first floor, and I gently pushed past the sundresses and raincoats to the podium at the front of the shop.

  The owner of Inkwell, Charlotte Whipple, saw me coming and bustled over. “I’m so glad you’re here!”

  “Did you think I wouldn’t come to my own book reading?”

  She laughed, but I thought she sounded relieved. “The thought crossed my mind. I know you’re something of a recluse. Rose and Sabrina told me sometimes the only way they know you’re still alive is when you call for your cat.”

  Great, I thought. I’m the crazy cat lady. I could almost hear Blue purring in satisfaction.

  “Thanks again for agreeing to do this,” she continued. “I wanted to go over a few things with you before the rest of the guests arrive.”

  Charlotte pulled me towards the podium and prattled on about the time limit on my question and answer session. I didn’t have the heart to tell her my whole presentation was going to take twenty minutes, tops, and that was if I read with my Tennessee Williams drawl.

  Jasper Ware sauntered through the door and approached us. I saw him glance at the cover of The Cheesecake Diaries and snicker.

  “Are you going to read us some naughty bits, Elspeth?”

  “I’ll be reading from chapter one, which describes how my heroine, Marin, becomes a pastry chef.” If it sounds boring it’s because it is. There’s no titillation in chapter one.

  Jasper was disappointed but quickly rallied. “You know, Elspeth, I don’t usually take on any mentoring projects, but I’d be willing to make an exception in your case. Even published authors can benefit from an experienced ear, especially from someone who knows what to listen for,” he smiled in a superior way and then bent his head towards mine. I caught a heavy whiff of Aqua Di Gio and whiskey as he continued. “We’d make a great team.”

  “Jasper!” Violet’s nervous, high-pitched voice sounded from behind us and he whipped his head around to glare at her.

  “What is it, Violet?” he barked.

  She handed him a small slip of paper. “This came for you in the mail. It’s marked ‘urgent’, so I thought you’d want it right away.”

  Jasper took the paper and glanced down at it briefly. “That’s fine, Violet. I’ll see you later.” He turned back to me and ran a finger down the length of my arm. “Now, where were we?”

  “Well, Jasper,” a jolly voice boomed. “I didn’t expect to see you here tonight. I know you don’t like to hear any voice but your own. “

  I’d never been so grateful to see a real estate agent. “Alex,” I exclaimed, “how lovely to see you, and Coco. Thanks for coming.”

  Alex Ware was Jasper’s younger brother and ran the only real estate agency in All Hallows, Ware Realty. Alex was a shorter, stouter version of his brother, with bushy blond brows, blond hair and the distinctive Ware nose. He was handsome, affable, and often drunk.

  “Yeah, this is going to be great,” he said warmly. “Where’s the booze?”

  I shook my head. “Charlotte is waiting until after the presentation.”

  “You could have some cheesecake,” his wife suggested helpfully, and I saw him flash her a look of irritation.

  Alex’s wife, Coco, fancied herself something of a social fixture. She ran the Junior League, served as president of the local chapter of the D.A.R., and was a trustee of Essex University. Coco always looked like she’d just stepped out of Coldwater Creek, and made me feel slightly guilty for not accessorizing.

  “Elspeth, it’s so exciting to be here.” Coco sounded like she was talking around a mouthful of lemons, and her expression wasn’t much sweeter. I couldn’t imagine she was a fan of my books, but thought maybe romances were a guilty pleasure for her, like watching Honey Boo Boo or eating Ben & Jerry’s straight from the tub. The images cheered me considerably and I smiled at her and Alex.

  “Yes,” Alex said. “It’s nice to hear from someone other than Jasper. Anyone would think he was the only person who ever wrote a book.”

  Jasper let loose one of his braying donkey laughs. “It’s true I like to share my gifts, although I’m afraid my genius takes a special kind of intellect to be fully appreciated. I’ve been working on my new bestseller, The Killing House Rules. I’ve killed off most of the female characters and it’s improved the plot considerably!” He leered at me. “I was just telling Elspeth we need to get together to compare writing notes. As you all know, I’ve been asked to do a few literary events.”

  “I could never aspire to your level of production, Jasper,” I said smoothly. “But since Charlotte asked me to do a reading I felt it would’ve been churlish to refuse.”

  “That’s right,” Charlotte hurried up and beamed at us in a rather terrifying way. “I’ve been trying to get Elspeth ever since she moved to All Hallows. I think it’ll be worth the wait. Won’t it, Elspeth?”

  I murmured so
mething noncommittal under my breath as Charlotte hustled the newcomers towards their seats.

  Jasper turned and took one last look at me. “Feel free to picture me naked, Elspeth, if it helps you talk to the crowd,” he whispered.

  I shuddered and turned away. I couldn’t think of any exercise less conducive to public speaking. I watched Jasper help himself to some cheesecake and saw Sabrina Elliott turn around and scowl. Jasper and Sabrina had been engaged once, but he’d left her at the altar to marry the much younger, and richer, Nora Brecht. Jasper and Sabrina maintained an open animus that I envied, and I saw Rose turn and whisper something to Sabrina. I imagined them like the witches in Macbeth, cackling over a smoldering cauldron as they prepared their next Jasper curse.

  “Careful or your face will stay that way.”

  I smiled as I heard the voice at my elbow, and Julia smiled back.

  “Maybe if it did Jasper Ware would stop hitting on me,” I said.

  We both laughed and I immediately felt better. This wouldn’t be too bad if Julia was there to bail me out.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” I said. “I need some protection tonight.”

  “If he keeps it up Jasper will be the one needing protection. I can’t believe the way he treats Nora! Last week he told me he’d sign a book for me…or anything else I wanted signed.”

  “According to Nora he’s just a misunderstood artist.”

  Julia snorted. “I didn’t have any problem understanding him, and I made sure he understood me when I told him to suck it.”

  Our conversation was interrupted by an excited screech from the door. “Elspeth! There you are! Why didn’t you respond to my friend request on Facebook?

  I sighed and turned to greet the newcomer. “Hello, Bootsie.”

  Bootsie Spright was my Biggest. Fan. Ever. She was twenty-seven years old, with a face like a Kewpie doll and doggy, soulful eyes. Bootsie was gushing, eager, and always willing to give me unsolicited advice about my work: “Wouldn’t Breakfast and Bed have been better if you had more people in bed…” “Of course, I haven’t had anything published yet, but one agent told me he’d never read anything quite like my work…” “Have you considered taking your work in the fantasy direction, maybe a magician with a sweet tooth…” - all interesting suggestions, but hardly the type to interest my fans. They want love, conflict, satisfying resolutions, and recipes for Red Velvet Cake Truffles (Love Takes the Cake, Arabica Books 2009).

  “I just loved, loved, loved The Cheesecake Diaries!” Bootsie burbled. “It was wicked awesome! Penny Sparling told me the plot was a little too much like your third book, Gingerbread Gambit, for her taste, but I told her she wouldn’t know good writing if it bit her in the you-know-what. Anyone who’s read your books knows you’re a true original! Of course, the love scenes were a little similar; did you know you made both the heroes dark-haired, blue eyed and deeply tanned? But I can appreciate that attraction is always a matter of personal taste, and if that’s who you want in bed so be it! I told Penny we weren’t all attracted to skinny, freckled men like her Paul.”

  “Thanks for defending me, Bootsie,” I said dryly.

  “No problem! I hope to be a published author some day and I hope I can take criticism with your degree of sangfroid. By the way, did you get a chance to read my new chapter?”

  Bootsie was in the habit of emailing me bits of steamy, fleshpot erotica which I tried not to read before meals.

  “I didn’t,” I hoped my tone conveyed regret rather than relief as I continued. “I’ve been so busy with my deadline I haven’t even had time to read the paper.”

  Crispin held up his camera. “Don’t say that, Elspeth, there’s always time for the Gazette. Now, how about a picture for the Out and About page?”

  Before I could respond, Bootsie grabbed me tightly and beamed. I endured the bright flash and tried to remember if my good side was the right or left.

  “How’s the news business, Crispin?” Bootsie asked.

  “I can’t complain.”

  We heard a snicker and turned to see Jasper Ware approach us, trailed closely by Violet.

  “Since when?” Jasper demanded. “I heard you’ve been rock bottom for three years now.”

  Crispin’s brows snapped together in an angry frown. “You know how the economy is going, Jasper. There are ups and downs in any business.”

  “I wasn’t aware of too many ‘ups’ for the Gazette, but I have a few ideas on how to drum up some business. Local news is fine in small doses, but it’s a snooze, and then you have all that kid stuff and old people crap. People are looking for something sensational…some scandal they can sink their teeth into. Take it from someone who understands the buying public.” He let out another donkey bray.

  Crispin hunched his narrow shoulders and pushed up his glasses. “Are you suggesting the Gazette become some cheap, sordid tabloid?”

  Jasper laughed again. “Not cheap,” he boasted. “But with a change in format and the right social media I guarantee your old paper will be turning a profit within a year.”

  Something flashed across Crispin’s eyes for a second, something dark and dangerous, but before he could respond our attention was captured by a loud announcement from Charlotte.

  “Everyone take a seat, please. I’d like to get started.”

  There was a graceless scramble as everyone tried to get a chair at the back of the room, and after a brief introduction I took my place behind the podium. There were about fifty people there, most unknown to me, which made my job easier.

  I read aloud the first chapter of The Cheesecake Diaries, keeping one eye on the clock above the front door. I had learned early in my career there’s nothing worse than an author who won’t shut up (see, Jasper Ware). I glanced over my audience. Violet Ambler was marking pages on a manuscript in red ink, and next to her Jasper examined his fingernails. Sabrina Elliott fanned herself with a pad of paper, while Coco Ware eyed me suspiciously as though any minute I might start enacting pornography. Crispin Wickford fiddled with his camera and Alex Ware surreptitiously pulled out a flask and took a healthy swallow. Good idea, I thought. My writing always sounded better after a few drinks.

  I finished my reading and closed the book. “I’ll take questions now.”

  This was apparently the moment Jasper Ware had been waiting for and I watched as he jumped up, his large Adam’s apple bobbing excitedly.

  “Wouldn’t you agree, Elspeth, that the romance genre is oversaturated and most authors are just using the same tired story over and over?”

  I managed to smile. “Some might make the same argument about the mystery genre, Jasper.”

  “Yes, but mysteries have a brain. I mean, have you ever tried to write a mystery?”

  I was about to respond but his raucous voice continued relentlessly. “You need to have character development of a whole group of suspects. You have to establish motive, clues, and red herrings. You have to decide if you want to stab, shoot, strangle, or poison your victim, and then find the murder weapon. Most importantly, you need to create an atmosphere that invites murder. All you need for a romance,” he made a deprecating gesture towards my book display. “Is two people and a dessert.”

  It sounded pretty good to me.

  “I don’t like mysteries,” I said.

  If there wasn’t a collective gasp, there was at least a gratifying silence.

  Jasper sat forward in his chair and stroked his chin. “Really?” his tone was incredulous. “What don’t you like about them?”

  I caught Julia’s eye and saw her shake her head slightly, but I was beyond tact. “They are trite, banal, and completely improbable. You have a dark and stormy night, a group of people brought together through some contrived event, a bloody dagger, a missing earring, and finally the brilliant denouément, where the murderer conveniently breaks down and confesses to the crime.”
r />   Jasper flushed angrily and his face settled into a scowl. The events in Deadly Harbor were eerily similar to the scenes I’d just described, and I saw Sabrina lean over and whisper something to Rose.

  “Right, Elspeth,” Jasper sneered. “And plot devices like catered weddings and bake sales are the stuff of Brontë and Austen.”

  I flushed and gathered up my notes. It was one thing for me to acknowledge my work was fluff; it was quite another thing coming from the likes of Jasper Ware.

  “Things like that don’t happen in real life, Jasper,” I said.

  “They happen more often than you think. I mean, look around you!” He gestured around the room just as another rip of thunder made a dramatic crash. “Tonight would be a perfect night for a murder. Let’s face it, you’re much more likely to be killed tonight then you are to find true love.”

  “I think certain people are more likely to be murdered than others, Jasper.” I glanced at the clock and saw I was over my time limit; I noticed Charlotte making urgent motions toward her wristwatch. “But in the interest of time, let’s agree to disagree.”

  I nodded towards Charlotte and she started to applaud, then stepped up to the podium.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to have a champagne toast for our author, if everyone could please grab a glass.”

  There was an excited babble as two young men in white jackets brought glasses and bottles of champagne from the back of the store. Although the wine was tepid and served in plastic cups, I thought it added a white-trash Gatsby-esque gaiety to the proceedings.

  “Here’s to Elspeth Gray and the success of The Cheesecake Diaries,” Charlotte announced loudly.

  While the rest of the party obediently raised their glasses, I noticed Jasper Ware smirking in a corner. The glass didn’t hit his lips as Violet Ambler approached and began gesturing towards a display that featured Jasper’s latest book. Jasper put down his drink and grabbed Violet’s arm as she made an angry sweep over the crowd. Jasper shushed her with a chop of his hand and then turned back towards me. When he caught my eye, he raised his glass in mock tribute.