Murder Actually (2 page)

 

I left my house around a quarter to six and hurried down the boardwalk. I lived on Point Savage, a mile-long peninsula connected to the town of All Hallows by an ancient walkway. Angry dark clouds clustered over the Hudson and the air was thick and sultry with the coming storm. The views from the top of the hill were impressive, and I paused to admire the busy crowding of sloops, schooners and dinghies in All Hallows Harbor before continuing the quarter-mile downtown.

All Hallows had been established in 1757 and the history was so thick you could spoon it on toast. Washington Irving slept here, Dolly Madison visited on holidays, and Edgar Allen Poe was jailed for public intoxication. Nathaniel Hawthorne used the town as a setting for his early stories and Longfellow met with the Fireside Poets at Lovejoy's Pub. I walked past Burial Rise, where Goody Croft was hanged as a witch and cursed the ground with thorns and thistles, and then past the more socially acceptable St. Anne's Church, with its sprawling graveyard spread at strange angles into the center of town.

Inkwell Books was wedged between Bickleton the butcher and a junk shop called Flotsam and Jetsam, which specialized in old maps, teacups, and driftwood art. Across the street were Sweet Annie B's Tearoom and the offices for the
Gazette
. Further down, before High Street ended at the Hudson, was the All Hallows police station in a handsome building of biscuit-colored sandstone.

The front bay window at Inkwell Books featured a display of my work, and I paused to observe the cover of
The Cheesecake Diaries.
The scene showed a busty redhead draped ecstatically over the arm of a bronzed man in a white lab coat. Her eyes were rolled up in her head, like a shark, and her thick lips parted invitingly. I shook my head and mentally chastised the artist for making her look so easy.

For the most part, I don't identify with my heroines. I have, for instance, never fainted in an elegant heap. I've never blushed in maidenly modesty at a compliment and I've never, ever felt my bosom heave. My bosom, such as it is, remains utterly heave-less.

I don't identify with my heroes, either. They're all generous, selfless, patient and, after meeting the woman of their dreams, thrillingly monogamous. In short, all the qualities that have been lacking in the many men I've dated, and the one man I married, Grant Besh.

When I announced my intention to marry Grant, my mother, who'd been nagging me on an almost daily basis to find someone and settle down, suddenly became wary of the whole institution. She became a Greek chorus of warnings, omens and portents, and her stories of young women ending their days in wedded bliss changed to tales of infidelity and abuse.

“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
Gazett
e 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 something 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.”