Portia De'Ath had spent the afternoon in her room, going over her notes for her work in progress. The castle's romantic setting so far wasn't helping as she'd hoped. She'd devised a plot of what had seemed at the moment of inspiration to be devilish ingenuity. In execution, it was turning into a sea of red herrings.
But it was seven the next time she looked at her watch. She'd missed the start of the cocktail hour and would have to rush to change for dinner. She emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later in a fusion of steam and lavender scent, wrapped in one of the hotel's plush white terrycloth robes. Quickly, she slipped into a travel-proof black jersey, accenting it with gold jewelry at her neck and ears, and headed downstairs.
At the Dungeon Restaurant, festively decorated with weapons and suits of armor, she was briskly led by a hostess to a table for two near Tom Brackett and his wife-too briskly for Portia to stop her. She had encountered the pair at a previous conference and had spent much of the time wishing she could kidnap Edith away from the man.
Her agent Ninette Thomson, this night foreswearing her usual animal prints and leggings in favor of a simple black dress, joined her moments later. Portia now realized that at another nearby table sat her disappearing travel companion, Kimberlee Kalder, and a handsome blonde man whom Ninette introduced-rather frostily, thought Portia-as Jay Fforde, agent. Ninette treated Kimberlee to an accusatory glance that could have done service as a steak knife. Kimberlee smiled sweetly back, scanning both women with expertly kohl-lined eyes. If Kimberlee remembered abandoning Portia at the train station-in fact, if she remembered her at all-it was clear that now she only had eyes for Jay Fforde.
Ninette and Portia studied the menu, eavesdropping the while. Kimberlee seemed to be the topic of several muted exchanges going on around them. Heads also kept turning in the direction of an unremarkable woman who sat alone, wearing an unfortunate dun-colored polyester dress. Portia finally recognized her from years of seeing her photo in bookstore advertising displays-Annabelle Pace. Annabelle, who wrote tales about an oversexed forensic pathologist-Canadian, Portia rather thought. Despite the fact the author's research on forensics had been criticized as laughably slipshod at best, the books generally lingered several weeks on the best-seller lists. Although, Portia realized, she hadn't seen the name Annabelle Pace in those lists for some time. Annabelle was looking decidedly ill and drawn-far older than her publicity photos, at any rate.
Other people recognizable as conference attendees began straying in, including Magretta Sincock, dressed now in a peculiar green the color of decomposing celery. Thankfully she had left any matching hat in her room. She stood surveying the restaurant, apparently captivated by its barrel-vaulted ceiling. Portia had a suspicion she was holding this pose until most of the diners registered her presence. She also suspected Magretta was waiting for one particular pair of eyes to notice her. When Kimberlee Kalder finally did look up, Magretta did a staged double-take and danced across the room, gushing hallos, a wizened but game Peter Pan. If Magretta had hoped politeness would demand she be invited to sit, it was a short-lived hope. The pair gave her a dismissive, chilly greeting and resumed their conversation under her nose.
A somewhat subdued Magretta nevertheless threw back her shoulders and marched over to Tom Brackett's table, a move Portia doubted was any more inspired. Her effusive greeting did not include Tom's wife, although it was possible Magretta didn't actually register the woman, who had an eerie ability to blend into the walls.
"I am so pleased to meet you at last," Magretta warbled. "I am…" and she drew herself up to her full five feet, in heels, "… well, as of course you must know, I am Magretta Sincock. It is odd, is it not, that two such famous writers have never met?"
Tom put down the knife with which he had been sawing at something and surveyed the little hand being offered him, as if he had never seen such a thing before. He extended one large paw in Magretta Sincock's direction, then suddenly seized the hand tightly, holding it in a grip until Magretta let out a little squawk and began, ever so slightly, to buckle at the knees. Finally, silently, he released her. Magretta Sincock stood wavering, stoically masking the pain. The other diners exchanged alarmed glances, no one quite knowing what to do. Kimberlee Kalder laughed.
"Well, best be off," Magretta said at last, in a bright, strangled voice, her face nearly as red as her hair. "I've so enjoyed our little chat." Bowed but unbeaten, she walked, slightly staggering, over to Annabelle's table, where a similar performance was repeated, minus the wrestling match. Annabelle took her hand gingerly and asked her to join her, "one star of yesteryear to another."
"Oh, God. Don't remind me," said Magretta, flapping a napkin into her lap.
"I suppose it's marginally better than calling us washed-up has-beens…"
"Not by much. Wait until I get my hands on that loathsome little toad of a reporter." She paused. "I hear you're just back from Iowa."
"Kansas or Iowa or some where. Goddamn publicists. I've seen bigger crowds at a salad bar."
"Been there," said Magretta. "Just me, three store clerks, and a homeless man who tried to follow me back to the hotel."
"Who is your publicist?"
"B. A. King," said Annabelle.
"Ah," said Magretta.
"I wonder what Tom Brackett's doing here anyway," Annabelle said after a moment.
"He doesn't have to come, that's certain. He seems to get plenty of publicity without leaving home."
"It would probably be better for his career if he stayed put, actually. I doubt he'd have as many fans if they'd seen his performance tonight with you."
Surreptitiously, Magretta shook out her still-aching hand. But her resentful gaze slid over not to Tom, but to Jay and a simpering Kimberlee.
"I see the world hasn't changed since I was a girl," said Magretta.
"How so?"
Scarcely bothering to lower her voice, Magretta said:
"It's not whom you know, but whom you sleep with."
"Roger that."