Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 148, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 900 & 901, September/October 2016
- Автор: Дивер Джеффри, Эллин Стенли
- Год: 2016
- Язык: английский
- Год: Penny Publications
- ISBN: 0013-6328
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 148, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 900 & 901, September/October 2016». Краткое содержание книги:
With that, they left to sit on panels, sign books, or meet with their editors or agents.
By the time the awards banquet drew to a close that evening, Lieutenant Steinbock despaired of ever finding Avis Arthur’s killer. Her fan club had come up empty, no one on that seventh-floor hall had seen anything suspicious last night, and Dexter Bumgartner had a solid alibi — poker until midnight with two noir writers, two literary agents, and one of the local organizers, who had given him a lift to his brother’s home in Bethesda where he had spent the night.
Steinbock didn’t have much hope for forensics or DNA evidence. If the killer was one of those longtime friends, the ones who had made that frivolous pact so many years ago, there would be no unimpeachable proof. They had been in and out of each other’s rooms all weekend, so stray hairs or clear fingerprints or lipstick-stained wineglasses would mean nothing.
The conference would end at noon tomorrow. People would head to the airport or train station or retrieve their cars from the hotel’s garage and scatter to the four winds.
Avis’s friends gathered in Room 607 shortly after the bar closed. At the banquet, they had managed to give such heartfelt tributes to their murdered colleague that more than one fan wept openly to think there would be no more Triple Threat novels. Never again would her sleuthing triplets solve murders while exchanging witty ripostes as light and airy as a basket of buttery croissants.
For over thirty years, the five friends had kicked back in one of their rooms, away from their fans, to hold a postmortem of the current conference, to share industry gossip, to compete over which of them had received the most outrageous plot suggestions over the last few days or signed the most books. This year, the remaining four were in Morna’s room to raise a glass to Avis.
An ice bucket with champagne sat on the coffee table alongside a plate of crackers and cheese and two of the six major awards given out that night.
Suzu had won for best novel of the year and Nanette had won best short story. It was a bittersweet evening. All were nearing the end of their careers, and who knew how many more times they would meet at these conferences? Morna and Nanette both had high blood pressure, while Dodie and Suzu had their own private health issues that they didn’t talk about. Nevertheless, there was laughter as they remembered the early years of traveling together on a shoestring, of epic battles with bitchy editors and chauvinistic male reviewers. There were tears as they recalled how Avis had organized a week-long retreat to Hawaii when one of them lost a husband to cancer and another a son to war in Afghanistan the same month.
But there was no denying that Avis had possessed a dark side too. She had an inflated ego, did not take criticism lightly, and could be insanely jealous of any success the others enjoyed.
“She would have been livid that you two won tonight,” said Dodie, settling the beaded fringes of her evening gown. “She was short-listed in both categories too, wasn’t she?”
“I’ll be honest,” said Suzu. “I won’t miss her mangled French or the way those damn triplets always said Quel dommage! every time they stumbled over a body.”
Morna topped off their champagne glasses. “Or how she thought her books were so much more literary than ours.”
“Or the way she found fault with every restaurant we ever ate in,” murmured Nanette. She cut a small wedge of Brie and leaned back into the couch cushions. “So! Which one of us killed her?”
Dodie looked shocked, but Morna was amused. She took another sip of champagne and drawled, “Preemptory defense, Nan?”
Nanette tucked a strand of russet hair behind one ear and smiled. “You know my methods, Watson. They do say that offense is the best defense.”
“I suppose any of us could have,” Suzu said slowly. “Although if it were me, I’d have done it years ago. The first time she claimed that I had leaked one of her catering plots to that other cozy writer — what was her name? The one that won an Agatha with a similar plot. You remember. She wrote two books set in a pastry shop, won the Agatha, and then got dropped by her publisher.”
“Don’t look at me, ducks,” said Dodie. “I can barely remember my own name, never mind someone from twenty years ago.”
There was a sudden awkward pause.
Dodie held out her glass for more champagne. The beaded fringes of her sleeve rustled softly in the dead silence. “Don’t pretend you haven’t noticed.”
“Oh, Dodie,” Nanette said helplessly.
Because, of course, they had noticed.
“Luck of the draw,” Dodie said. “And I’ve had six years longer than my mum, so no tears.”
Morna leaned over to hug her and the others gave her gentle pats. “How can you be so brave?”
“What’s my choice, ducks? It’s been bloody wonderful, though. I shall miss knowing you.” She gave a rueful laugh. “Well, no, I guess I won’t. According to my doctor, I probably shan’t remember any of you in another year or two. I’m starting to fade in and out and he doesn’t think I should try to fly by myself anymore.”
She downed the last of her champagne. “Do stop looking so glum. I don’t want it to end like this. This isn’t a wake.”
“Actually it is,” said Morna. “For Avis. Remember?”
She lifted the champagne bottle from the ice bucket and saw that it was almost empty. “I say we order another bottle,” she said and called room service.
“Put it on my tab,” said Dodie. “Room... Room... Oh, bollocks! What’s my room number?” She reached for her evening bag and pulled out a small notepad she had begun using to augment her failing memory.
“Never mind,” said Suzu. “Put it on mine, Morna. Room 312. And an order of French fries too.”
“In honor of the triplets?” said Dodie. “Quel dommage!”
They laughed and the evening turned normal again as they waited for room service.
“One thing,” said Morna in her soft Southern accent. “You don’t have to tell us if you don’t want to, Dodie, but do you remember why you killed Avis?”
Dodie’s hazel eyes widened. “Me?”
“Nanette said you were coming up to my room for aspirin, but you never got here, did you?”
“I told you. I remembered I had some in my toiletries bag.”
“No, honey.” Morna’s voice was sad. “You mixed up the room numbers, didn’t you? This is Room 607, Avis was in 706.”
The others held their breath, remembering all the many times Dodie had transposed telephone numbers, addresses, and yes, room numbers too.
She started to deny it, then gave a what-the-hell shrug of her shoulders.
“Avis opened the door and she was thoroughly ticked that I had interrupted her train of thought just when she was writing the denouement.” Dodie was a good mimic and they could almost hear Avis’s exaggerated pronunciation of the term. “When I asked where you were, she realized that I’d muddled the room numbers and she said it was no wonder I couldn’t keep my plots straight. I should have left right then, but I was suddenly completely fed up with her endlessly superior airs. I said that she was the one who couldn’t tell the difference between foreshadowing and fair play and that she’d stolen her last plot from Agatha Christie and was stupid enough to think no one would notice. She slapped me, and it made my head hurt so bad that when she turned her back on me, I simply grabbed both ends of her scarf and pulled. And then I just kept pulling and pulling until—”
There was a knock at the door and Suzu jumped up to open it. The waiter entered with a bottle of champagne, a fresh bucket of ice, and a covered plate, which he set on the coffee table, then departed with the empty bottle and melted ice.