"I want your impressions of Kimberlee," St. Just said a few minutes later to a duly summoned Annabelle. "How did the other writers seem to like her?"
The contrast with Portia could hardly have been greater-Portia with her clear eyes and skin, indicators of rude health-and of a clear conscience? The opposite, at any rate, of the woman who sat before him now, a woman who seemed to be turning more parchment-like, her hair more drained of color, by the day.
"Oh, fine, fine. Great," said Annabelle. "Kimberlee was… hmm. Were you asking for an accurate assessment?"
"I was."
"Well, then. She managed to piss off everyone who came in contact with her, high or low. I was the least surprised person in the world when I heard she'd been killed. Well, second-least surprised, after the killer."
"Yes, but I'm trying to get at the 'why.'"
"Well, can you blame them, really?" Annabelle tugged idly at her stringy, nondescript hair, finally giving up and pushing it messily behind her pierced ears. "A lot of these authors really sweat blood, fine-tuning each sentence again and again. Then along comes this little trixie who sort of vomits it up on the page-and makes a zillion pounds for her 'efforts.' It was bound to cause bad feeling among this crowd. You know, I heard her tell Magretta, 'I've never read Agatha Christie.' I swear, I thought Magretta was going to faint. Kimberlee really did give the impression she could barely read and write."
"Stupid is so often a perfect cover," murmured St. Just. "Who were her readers, do you think?"
"I don't know." Annabelle shrugged. "The same people who care, 24/7, what Paris Hilton gets up to? I mean, it really beats me. But you know, in fact, now I come to think of it…"
Her voice trailed off, her gaze fixed on the room's ceiling medallion.
"Yes?" he prompted patiently.
"It's just that…" She returned her attention to him. "Now I come to think of it, I wonder why she bothered. Why she was here at all. To boost her name recognition? Gilding the lily, surely. To lord it over the rest of them? More likely. I suppose that's the answer. Kimberlee never did anything, from what I could gather, that didn't involve the entertainment or furtherance of the career of Kimberlee Kalder, author."
"You knew her well, then? I thought you'd just met her on this trip."
"Knew her well? Oh, Lord, no. Just by reputation, you know. I may have met her in passing at one or two dinners or conferences before her career really took off. Most of us spend a certain amount of time on the circuit-one has to, these days. Also, she made her name rather infamous on a few mystery listserves for her blatant self-promotion. There were some anonymous postings about how fascinating and brilliant her book was-those postings were definitely suspected by some to have come from Kimberlee herself. Quite forbidden, that kind of thing. Got herself tossed off a few lists, I'd imagine. But I didn't know her personally. No. No, indeed. I choose my friends more carefully than that."
Funny, thought St. Just. The sudden claim to passing acquaintance. That was common in a murder case, of course. People either didn't want to know you at all, or they decided they'd always been your bosom buddy, once you were dead. The truth might be anywhere along that continuum.
He took a final sip of his coffee. It was cold now. He pushed the cup to one side.
"What was the topic of conversation after I left the library that night?"
"Much the same as when you were there. The usual stuff, which is why I don't recall it in detail. That and a few drinks-not good for the memory."
"Give me some examples."
"Oh, writers talking about platforms and hits and listserves and blogs and grogs and meager royalties."
"I thought all writers ever talked about were sales and royalties. Please don't tell me what a grog is."
"Yes, still, as in the good old days, meager royalties. Some things don't change. And it's a group blog."
"I still don't know what it is. But hits-I do know what hits are. That used to be a term reserved for Mafia types."
"Coincidence?" she said, smiling. She had a not-unattractive smile. He shifted in his chair.
"Kimberlee used to work in journalism. You aren't familiar with her from that time?"
She shook her head.
"I first became aware of her when she wrote for that fashion rag. She caused a publishing storm at the time that caused the magazine to drop, for the moment, its heated debate over whether metallic blue eye shadow really deserved such a bad reputation. This time, Kimberlee was rumored to be writing a tell-all about Easterbrook and his authors," she said.
"So I've heard…"
"In fact, Kimberlee told Jay, I think it was, that the night before the awards dinner, she had put most of the finishing touches on the only copy of her manuscript and would be mailing a disc next week."
So, thought St. Just. Where there's a disc there must be a laptop. Where the devil was it?
"Mailing it to whom? Jay? Or Ninette?"
"I didn't ask."
"Blackmail?" he asked. "Do you think that was her game?"
"Could have been, but would she really need the money? I doubt it-not unless she had a well-concealed drug or gambling problem. The power? Maybe. Much more likely. But if we can indulge in speculation, word on the street, if you want to talk blackmail, is that it was Tom Brackett who was blackmailing Easterbrook-to get more publicity and promotion for his books. If I got wind of that bit of news, Kimberlee certainly would have."
"Any basis to this speculation?"
"Tom gets nearly all the publicity out of Easterbrook, in comparison with the rest of us. Just take a look at that showy four-color ad for his latest book, in the conference program. Since when does a piece of dreck like G-Man Ranger Danger warrant that kind of splashout?"
"I thought he was a popular author."
"Well, yes, he is-but with a lot of help from Easterbrook. That's what is odd, you see. It's not as if he's writing either great literature or great entertainment. It's not as if he has a personality, for pity's sake. It's hard to see why Easterbrook would back him at the expense of the others. Winston and Portia, for example, are far better writers, and far more personable. Even Magretta: Magretta writes-or maybe wrote, is a better word-popular entertainment, and God knows she knows how to put on a show."
"Like Kimberlee Kalder."
"Yes."
"Only Kimberlee Kalder did it better."
"Yes."
"And you?"
"What about me?"
"How would you rank your work?"
"Entertainment, well forgotten within a decade. I have no illusions, Inspector. It's a job like any other, and it beats waitressing. There's something else-you've heard by now Kimberlee had some kind of tiff at the conference with B. A. King, haven't you?"
"How did you come to hear of it?"
"The rumor mill, of course, Inspector. But I thought nothing of it. No one can stand B. A."
"So I gather," said St. Just. "Now, you told the police you were in the library from after dinner until the body was discovered."
"Yes, I was with Mrs. Elksworthy. Portia De'Ath was also with us-both before and after we lost the lights. Well, they were all with us at some point, really."
"Mrs. Elksworthy remained with you the whole time?"
"Except for a brief visit to the powder room. Very brief."
"What time was that?"
"I've no idea. I suppose we'd been talking for an hour since dinner."
"And you remained in the library."
"That is correct. I assure you Mrs. Elksworthy had no time for… what you are suggesting."
"You were seen talking with Kimberlee earlier that night. What was that about?"
She cocked her head, puzzled, then said, "In the hallway, you mean? I'd forgotten about that. Actually, I was popping into the ladies and she asked me if I had a blank CD she could have. I couldn't oblige her-I'm still stuck in the stone age, using floppy discs. I guess she wanted to make copies of her magnum opus."
He sighed. The more he learned, the more puzzled he became.
"Well, if you think of anything further-"
"Inspector, when are we going to be allowed to leave?"
"A matter of hours rather than days, I would say."
He stood, giving his spine and shoulders a stretch. It seemed like days since he'd slept and exhaustion was creeping in-wearing cleats, apparently.
"Days? Good heavens, man. I have a plane to catch."
"And I, a murderer."