Murder Actually (19 page)

 

I was eager to talk to Alex, but I was meeting my agent, Paula, at three, so I got in my car and slowly drove into Manhattan. After all the lovely country air, I welcomed the urban smells of wet asphalt, garbage, coffee and exotic food. I loved the city. All my books were set in the city, but it was the city of Midwestern legend: Magnolia cupcakes,
Serendipity
, Fifth Avenue, Broadway shows and picnics in Central Park. There were no homeless people screaming obscenities in my books; no graffiti, no public urination. It was so clean it almost made me feel dirty.

I was a little early for my appointment with Paula, so I wandered into an elegant boutique, my senses dulled by the hushed atmosphere and plush white carpet.

“Is there something I can help you find?”

The voice was low and musical, and I felt like I was under a fairy tale spell as I shook my head.

“I was just looking.”

“We're giving free makeovers today.” The saleslady glanced at me and then averted her eyes. “Perhaps you might like one?”

I looked down at my watch and saw I still had a half-hour before my meeting with Paula, so I followed her to the back of the store and sat down at a brightly lit counter.

“These lights are very harsh,” I ventured tentatively, but my make-up consultant, Carrie, ignored me and began arranging an arsenal of pots, tubs, cases and tubes.

“That seems like a lot of make-up.” I gave a weak laugh as Carrie studied my face dispassionately and then pulled out another bag of sponges.

“The lights need to be bright,” she said suddenly, “so I can see what I have to work with.” She peered deeply into my pores and shook her head. “It may seem like a lot of make-up, but the face is like a canvas. You wouldn't paint a canvas with just one color, would you?” As her own canvas was a study in Lautrec, I could scarcely disagree.

“Right.” She pinched my chin between two surprisingly cold fingers and began rubbing me vigorously with a sponge. I glanced out of the corner of my eye and saw a long line of women being similarly assaulted.

I emerged onto the sidewalk forty-five minutes later, feeling battered and glamorous, and glanced down at my watch.

Crap. I was late.

Paula's office was on Fourth Avenue, and I hurried past the restaurants and shops to a five-story brick walkup. I nervously greeted the receptionist, Ruth, before I was ushered into the inner sanctum. It was a luxurious space with damask curtains, dark gray walls and deep leather furniture. Paula's four basset hounds surrounded me as I sat down in a club chair, and she glanced up from her computer.

“Hello, Elspeth, I was worried I'd never see you again. You've been hard to reach.”

“Sorry, Paula, I've had some…things going on.”

“Doesn't everybody?” She reached for her espresso and took a frantic gulp. When I first met Paula she told me she only slept about three hours a night. As an eight-to-ten hour a night sleeper, I naturally pitied anyone not enjoying the same robust schedule, but I quickly learned that Paula wasn't a person to be pitied.

Paula was a person to be feared.

Paula, like any sleep-deprived workaholic machine, had a buzz of energy that terrified a meek, traditional slacker such as myself. She had three lines of thought: sales, author productivity and marketing.

“Do you want a drink?”

I'm sorry, make that four lines of thought.

“No, thanks.”

She nodded and pulled out a file. “I wanted to talk to you about the sales on your last book.”

I didn't. We both knew the sales on my last book had been abysmal.

“It's a tough market right now,” she said briskly. “People are more cautious in their spending.”

She didn't need to tell me the economy was in the crapper. I was still driving my '02 Chevy and Blue's cat food smelled better every day. I thought I'd economized in every possible way until I was reduced to buying a box of something called ‘Old World Rhine' instead of my usual chardonnay. Even Blue looked disgusted as I poured a glass, and I noticed he left his bowl of kibble half-eaten. I credit myself I only had a tiny taste.

“I'm having some problems with my latest heroine,” I said. “Her name is Tessa Oglesby.”

Paula shook her head. “Hate it. The last name Oglesby is terrible. Not sexy.”

“I guess I could make it Ogle.”

“Still bad.”

“Why do I have the feeling you aren't going to like anything I say today?”

Paula sat back and lit a cigarette. “Damn straight. I'm bitter, Elspeth. I'm a bitter, bitter woman.”

“You don't have to sound so happy about it.”

“It's all I've got.
Whatever you are, be a good one
, isn't that what Lincoln said?” Paula paused and eyed me regretfully. “I'm afraid the culinary/romance genre is oversaturated. We need something new, something fresh, a fun new voice.”

I had been hearing this for years, so wasn't unduly concerned.

“What about mysteries?”

I nearly fell over. I could almost feel Ms. Weebles at my neck, her breath hot and fishy. “What about them?” I ask warily.

“Have you ever tried to write one?”

“I write about romance, not murder.”

“What is your affection for romance? On a scale of one to ten.”

I remembered my battles with Tessa and realized my love for the genre was waning. “I would say six.”

“And how about mysteries, where do they rank?”

“I'd give them a low two.”

She pounced. “See, that's a difference of only forty percent!”

Since she knew I was a liberal arts major, I considered her rapid deductions both cruel and unnecessary as she continued. “We can bridge that gap, Elspeth, in the name of self-interest. We can really capitalize on these murders in All Hallows.”

“How?”

“You can start writing mysteries! Well, romance/cozy mysteries, we call them Ro-Co-Mos in the biz.”

I eyed her suspiciously. “You just made that up.”

“So? It's catchy.”

“I don't like mysteries.”

Paula snorted. “It would be just what you're doing now, only throw in a dead body or two. Maybe three, but never more than three bodies for a cozy. Other than that the rules are simple: no gratuitous violence, no coarse language and no explicit sex scenes. It should be a piece of cake for a writer like you. I was thinking a whole line of dessert Ro-Co-Mos starring a new female protagonist. Someone feisty and independent with a mean streak, readers love flawed characters, but not too flawed, she can't be a lush or anything. And it would help if she had a cozy hobby, like knitting or baking or scrapbooking. If you can throw in a love triangle it would be icing on the murder cake.”

I sat back and considered. What difference did it make what I wrote as long as I was writing? But suddenly it did make a difference, a very big difference. Suddenly I was blindingly angry. I had given eight years of my life to this woman, to this genre. It was the longest, sustained relationship I'd ever had with anyone other than my mom. And what was my reward? A request to sell my soul at forty percent? I shuddered and wished I had taken her up on that drink.

“Well, you think about it,” she said, putting out her cigarette in an overflowing ashtray. “You mentioned teaching a writing class the last time we talked. Anything ever come of that? All publicity is good publicity.”

The teaching class in reference had been a brainstorm from Julia: a series of special lectures in creative writing featuring romance novelist, Elspeth Gray.

“I'm thinking about it,” I said.

“Enough thinking, Elspeth, it's time for doing!” To illustrate her point she lit another cigarette.

I sighed and wondered if taking up smoking would be considered proactive at this point in my career, then remembered I couldn't afford it. “I just wanted to let you know that I'm going to be a little behind on my deadline for
The Cupcake Chronicles
.” I said.

“Do what you can and then do a little more. By the way, I've signed a friend of yours.”

My heart sank. “Bootsie Spright?”

“That's the one. That girl certainly has a dirty mind. It's greatly appreciated around here. Paranormal erotica is hot right now.”

“Isn't it always?”

Paula gave a bark of laughter and waved me away. “Go. Write. Prosper.”

“Thanks, Paula.”

“And remember what I told you about those mysteries! I know you can do it; you are such a talented writer…multi-versatile…selfless…devoted…

…by the way, are you dating someone? I noticed you're wearing make-up.”

Her final shout came a moment too late. I'd already closed the door and was headed to the elevator.

 

 

 

Since divorcing Grant, I'd been on a handful of first dates.

Second dates…zero.

Either there was something wrong with them or something wrong with me. For instance, the podiatrist from Woodley had a nervous tic. All I could picture was the two of us in bed together and him having one of his crazy twinges. Timed just right, it could've been mind-blowing; at the wrong moment…disaster. Then there was the grabby economics professor whose application of the ‘acceleration principle' in relation to his dinner expenditures and my output was fundamentally flawed. Then there were the riff-raff, the losers, the emotional lagans and derelicts; at my age the dating pool seemed little more than a lap pool of dirty, tepid water.

So when I met Edgar Archer, I was understandably optimistic.

And immediately wondered what was wrong with him.

It had to be something: insanity, adultery, bigotry, bigamy all floated through my brain. When Mom told me about Olivia Archer I thought maybe I'd found his flaw, but I wasn't sure if homicidal impulses were inherited and at my age it was a risk I was willing to take.

I wanted to look sexy for our date but there were strict limits to self-expression in All Hallows. I finally decided on black lace, too elegant for the Remington Tavern but nice enough I could keep my self-respect. I applied a little more lipstick than usual and could almost hear my mother's voice telling me I looked like a dime a dance. My hair looked nice, it took a bit of a curl, and I slid my feet into a pair of leopard-print pumps, my only descent into whimsy.

Edgar arrived promptly at seven and as I opened the door he held out a large bouquet of yellow roses. “These are for you.”

They were beautiful. No one had ever given me yellow roses before. I put them in a vase and grabbed my purse. A cool breeze hit us as walked down the road from Point Savage to High Street, and I pulled my wrap little tighter around my shoulders.

“Cold?” Edgar asked. His voice was very husky as he pulled off his jacket and draped it over my shoulders.

We passed by Rose and Sabrina's, and I could hear the sound of music from the first floor. I glanced into the window of the drawing room and saw Rose and Father Foy engaged in what almost looked like a tango. I looked up at Edgar to see if he'd noticed but his attention was fixed on the dark road ahead.

“Thanks again for my book.”

My voice broke the silence and he jerked his head up as if in surprise. In the dim light I could see the gleam of his teeth as he smiled.

“You're welcome. I apologize again for just stopping by. I hope I wasn't interrupting anything.”

“Absolutely not,” I said firmly. “My ex-husband was just getting some dating advice.”

“It's nice you have such a friendly relationship.”

“Yes. I suppose so.”

We arrived at the Remington at half-past seven and I saw the restaurant was comfortably deserted except for a few couples at the back. It looked as though we would soon have the place to ourselves.

“Hello, Elspeth.”

I almost groaned as I heard Grant's voice at my elbow, and saw that he and Ainsley had stealthily approached us from behind.

“Hello, Grant, hello, Ainsley.” I said. “Edgar, you remember my ex-husband, Grant Besh? This is his fiancée, Ainsley Adams.”

We shook hands.

“Why don't we all sit together?” Grant suggested.

Ainsley shot him an angry glance, but he seemed not to notice and soon we were all rather too cozily ensconced in a small table next to the fire.

There are few occasions more awkward than an impromptu dinner with your ex-husband, his fiancée, and a man whom you might be interested in pursuing, and as I picked up the menu I wondered which dish could be prepared the fastest. The pan-fried trout, which should only take a few minutes, or the vichyssoise, which had always seemed to me the height of laziness, even for someone with my low standards. The others apparently did not share my concern: Edgar ordered the cassoulet and Grant and Ainsley both opted for the coq au vin.

As our drinks arrived we raised our glasses uncomfortably.

“What should we drink to?” I asked the obvious question.

“Let's drink to new beginnings,” Ainsley said coyly.

Yuck, I thought. Like some kind of self-help mantra. We dutifully raised our glasses and I took a large drink of my wine. It was going to be a long night.

Edgar turned to Grant. “So, Grant, what do you do?”

“I'm a professor. I teach Law and Literature.” He pronounced every syllable of the latter, drawing it out to Lit-er-a-ture.

“And you, Ed, I understand you're a shopkeep?”

“Edgar owns Archer Antiques,” I corrected coldly.

“An antique store,” Ainsley exclaimed. “Well aren't you lucky? I've always thought it would be fun to own an antique store.”

“Yes, it's always been a dream of mine. I practised law for a while but realized it was just not for me.”

“Me, too!” I exclaimed. “I just couldn't stomach the Socratic Method.”

“Isn't that what an investigator uses, Elspeth?” Grant asked smoothly.

“I suppose so, but there usually aren't forty people watching me when I question suspects.”

“You get used to people watching you, eventually,” Ainsley turned to Edgar and smiled. “I'm in television.”

“Are you?” h
e asked politely. “What do you do in television?”

“I'm a news reporter. I work for Channel Six. I'm covering the murders here.”

“Ainsley won
Best New Face
in local news last year,” Grant put in.

Edgar smiled. “Congratulations. The murders have really put us on the map, haven't they? Most of my customers want to hear all the gruesome details.”

Ainsley gave a superior smile. “Well, it's a big story for such a sleepy little town.”

“I guess I'm old-fashioned,” Edgar turned to me apologetically. “I'd rather our town stayed sleepy.”

I smiled back. “So would I.”

“That means you'd be out of a job, Elspeth, or at least out of your part-time job.” Grant turned back to Edgar. “Did you know Elspeth writes romance books?”

Edgar grinned again. “So I've heard.
A small academic audience
, isn't that right?”

“Yes. I define academia very loosely.”

“I have to confess, I have a bit of a sweet tooth. I'd love to try one of your recipes sometime.” He looked at me hopefully and I did some rapid calculations regarding Julia's baking schedule.

“I think I could arrange that,” I said. We grinned at each other and I noticed Grant scowling from the other side of the table. Ainsley looked bored and glanced down at her watch.

The rest of the meal was consumed by rather awkward conversation about shark week, allergies, and real estate prices. We finished the dessert course in silence and then Edgar stood up abruptly and offered to escort me home. Grant half-rose, but whatever he intended was forestalled by the restraining hand on his arm from Ainsley.

“It was nice having dinner with you both,” she said coolly.

Edgar and I made the short walk back to my cottage in silence. I turned at the door and faced him in the moonlight. “Will you come in for a nightcap?”

“Thanks, that would be nice.”

We went inside and I poured brandy into two snifters. He followed me into the living room and then gently took me by the shoulders. He tasted like bacon and brandy. Yum.

“I've never been on a first date with an ex-husband before,” he murmured, his nose somewhere beneath my right ear.

“Me neither.”

“It was interesting.”

We settled back on the couch and he picked up his glass. “Tell me more about yourself. Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

I shook my head. “How about you?”

“One younger brother who is a major pain in the ass.”

“What does he do?”

“Last I heard he was in marketing, but he moves around a lot so I'm not sure.”

“What about your parents?”

He cleared his throat. “They're in Albany.”

“You said your family vacationed here when you were younger?”

“Yes, they had a cottage near Tenley.”

“Why did you stop coming?”

“Circumstance,” he said shortly and put down his glass. “Look, Elspeth, there's something you need to know about my family.”

“Yes?”

“We're a little…eccentric.”

I thought about Mom and her Christmas gift to me last year: sock monkey hand warmers. “All families are a little weird.” I said.

He laughed, but his expression was uneasy. “Not like this. There's something you need to know about me…”

I held my breath.

“…and I wanted you to hear it from me before you heard it from someone else.”

I reached out and touched his arm. “Edgar, you don't have to talk about it if you don't want to.”

“No, I have to tell you, it's about my family, more specifically, my mother…”
A loud knock at the kitchen door interrupted us again and I jumped up apologetically.

“I'm so sorry. I swear I'm never this popular.”

I wrenched open the door, eager to tell Julia that her timing sucked.

But it wasn't Julia, it was Grant. He had the grace to look sheepish as he handed me a cheap, black umbrella. “You forgot this at the restaurant.”

I returned his look with exasperation. “I didn't have an umbrella and this isn't mine.”

“Oh, well, sorry,” he craned his neck around to see behind me, but I kept the door firmly in place. “I guess I'll just get going then. Ainsley is waiting for me at the hotel.”

“Good idea. Tell her I said goodnight.” I closed the door in his face and turned back towards the kitchen. Edgar had followed me and stood in the doorway, an inscrutable expression on his face.

“I think I'd better get going, Elspeth.”

“So soon? Are you sure you can't stay for another drink?”

He stood looking down at me a few seconds and then kissed me softly.

…on the cheek.

The first date kiss of death.

“Edgar, you have to believe me, Grant and I are…we're really nothing, he just…”

“You don't owe me any explanations, Elspeth. I'll call you.”

He walked out into the night and I leaned up against the kitchen door. I felt like crying, and as I caught sight of the umbrella I hurled it across the room. Blue curled around my ankle and I picked him up and buried my face in his sweet fur. There was a lot to be said for the love of an animal, even if he was just buttering me up to get my left-overs.

That's when I decided Tessa Oglesby needed a cat.