The Readaholics and the Gothic Gala (2 page)

Mary hugged Francesca and told Constance, “
Simply
lovely to see you again.”

While I was wondering if her emphasis on “simply” was a sly dig at Constance or if that was how all authors talked, she took the gorgeous man's hand and said, “Everybody, this is my brother Lucas.”

We all chorused, “Hi, Lucas,” as if we were at an AA meeting.

He flashed a brilliant smile that dispelled the broodiness. “Nice to meet you all.”

“There's quite a crowd out there already,” Mary said, apparently delighted. She had a way of talking that made every sentence sound like it ended with an exclamation point. “Scads of people waiting to meet us and hear about our books. This is going to be such
fun
!”

Strike three . . .

G
emma propped open the doors on the stroke of ten o'clock. As excited book lovers poured in, the three authors took their seats at the panel table. The photographer snapped photos nonstop, first of the authors and then of the surging crowd. The fans were primarily women, but there was a sprinkling of men among them. Husbands, mostly, I thought. They settled into the folding metal chairs Al and I had set up earlier, with help from the rental company owner. Gemma, fairly vibrating with excitement, welcomed everyone and launched into a description of the Celebration of Gothic Novels and the day's events. She thanked me for organizing the day, and insisted I come forward to take a bow. When I did, I noticed my Readaholics friends sitting together in the back row. Kerry Sanderson, the town's part-time mayor, patted the empty chair beside her, making it clear they'd saved it for me.

When I tuned back in to Gemma, she had finished talking about Victoria Holt's eight different pen names, and was reminding everyone that Mary Stewart had been born Mary Florence Elinor Rainbow and allegedly started writing stories at the age of three. So much for my ruminations about names being fate. Someone
named “Rainbow” should have been writing children's lit or New Agey stuff. Gemma went on a bit too long with the biographies for my taste, but the audience seemed interested in details about the original Mary Stewart's degrees and ectopic pregnancy; Phyllis Whitney's birth in Japan, early life in Asia, prolific writing career, and death at 104; and Joan Aiken's work as a librarian for the United Nations. I noticed that the panelists seemed less so, with Francesca Bugle fidgeting with her pen and Mary Stewart the Living surreptitiously checking her phone under the table.

“And now it's time to introduce our panelists, who really need no introduction,” Gemma said, pushing her glasses up her nose. “It is my very great privilege, my honor, to introduce three of the—no,
the
three most exciting authors of gothic novels working today.” She read each author's biography, mentioning Constance's Berkeley education and early writing success, Francesca's hardscrabble childhood, and Mary's stint as an international-caliber junior tennis player. She then led the audience in a round of applause. Constance Aldringham inclined her head graciously, Mary Stewart twiddled her fingers in a little wave, and Francesca Bugle said, “Glad to be here.”

During the clapping, I sidled around the standing-room-only crowd and slid into the chair Kerry was saving for me.

“Nice turnout,” Kerry whispered with an approving nod. She sat erect, back not touching the chair, her short brown hair recently trimmed, low-heeled pumps planted on the floor. She wore a mulberry-colored suit,
so I knew she considered herself to be here in an official capacity as Heaven's mayor. “Wish I could get this many people to come to my town hall meetings, but I guess city ordinances about roosters, and tweaks to the town's IT contract, aren't nearly as interesting.”

I grinned. From Kerry's other side, my best friend, Brooke Widefield, leaned forward, her mink-dark hair spilling over her shoulders, and said in a low voice, “Speaking of interesting, who is
that
?” She gave a discreet nod of her head.

Without even looking, I knew she was motioning toward Lucas Stewart. “Mary Stewart's brother,” I whispered back.

“Yummy.”

A woman in the row ahead of us turned and frowned, so we guiltily shut up. I contented myself with waving to Lola Paget, who sat on Brooke's right. She pushed wire-rimmed glasses up her nose and smiled at me, before giving her attention to the panel.

“As the panel's facilitator,” Gemma said, half-turning to look at the authors, “I wonder if you could explain the elements of a gothic novel to our audience. Mary, would you like to start?”

“Of course, Gemma. There's pretty much nothing I'd rather talk about than gothic novels.” Her voice had a little-girl quality I thought would get irritating if I had to listen to it for long. “Gothics are a cross between mystery and horror, but horror in the psychological sense, or the supernatural sense, usually, not the blood and gore horror of a chain-saw-wielding psychopath. Some early examples of gothic literature include
The
Castle of Otranto
, Austen's
Northanger Abbey
, the Brontë sisters' books,
The Turn of the Screw
, Poe,
The Hound of the Baskervilles
, and, of course,
Dracula
and
Frankenstein
. Oh, and a lot of you have probably seen
The Phantom of the Opera
, right, at least the musical?” She got some head nods. “Young, virginal opera singer, tragic ‘monster' in love with her, crumbling old opera house with a lake beneath it . . . gothic, gothic, gothic!”

Francesca Bugle leaned in to the mic. “If a story's got a governess or another young woman who for some reason or other has to put up with a tyrannical and/or tortured hero, ghosts, maybe a nun or monk, spooky houses you just know have plumbing problems, sinister servants, maybe an at-risk kid or two, and a lot of really bad weather, it's probably a gothic.” The audience chuckled.

Mary added, “There are subsets of gothic called Southern gothic—think Faulkner—where the ‘horror' is more about a decaying culture and really dysfunctional families haunted by old secrets, incest, alcoholism . . . you name it.”

I was reluctantly impressed by her answers and had to admit she knew her field, even if she sounded like Betty Boop.

Before Gemma could direct a question to one of the other panelists, a woman's voice asked from the other side of the room, “Is it true you're involved in a lawsuit over
Blood Will Out
, that someone is suing you, saying you stole the manuscript?”

Assorted gasps rose up and people craned their necks to see the speaker. I knew I recognized the voice,
but couldn't place it. Half-standing, I caught a glimpse of the questioner. I should have known: Flavia Dunbarton, a reporter for the
Grand Junction Gabbler
. I'd met her while investigating Ivy's death. One of the Readaholics, Ivy had been poisoned in May.

Gemma Frant opened and closed her mouth without making a sound, obviously appalled by the question. Mary Stewart, however, handled it calmly. “Yes, there is a lawsuit. But, no, I didn't steal poor Eloise's manuscript, if that's your next question.” She gave a little laugh. “My lawyers have advised me not to discuss the case, but I will tell you I've never even met Eloise Hufnagle.”

Gemma fluttered her hands at chest height, and tried to regain control, leaning too close to the microphone so her words boomed out and she took a startled step back. “Ms. Aldringham, you have been writing gothic novels for a very long time, even while the book world was saying gothics were out of fashion. Do you feel vindicated now that they are enjoying a resurgence?”

“I'd like to think I had a little something to do with gothics regaining popularity,” Constance said coyly. “I've had a book on the
New York Times
list nonstop for thirty-one years, except for the year I had Allyson.”

While the crowd clapped for her accomplishment, I studied the mousy girl I had thought was her assistant. Allyson was her daughter? She scrunched down in her chair, as if in guilt over having broken her mother's streak of bestsellers. She was seated at the end of a row and Lucas Stewart stood only feet away. As I watched, he put a hand on her shoulder and leaned down to whisper in her ear. Something close to a smile
trembled on her lips, and she sat up straighter. As he stepped back, her gaze followed him.

A draft brought my attention to the door, where I noticed a newcomer slip in and sidle to his right. I didn't recognize him. With crew-cut hair, pasty skin, and a burly build, and wearing jeans that were none too clean, he didn't fit my idea of a gothic-novel lover. Military, maybe? A sailor, I thought doubtfully, eyeing the short hair and the forearms and knuckles covered with tattoos. After a furtive glance around the crowded room, like a fox wanting to be sure he couldn't be cornered, he focused on the authors up front.

Constance had wrapped up her comments and Francesca Bugle was speaking about the movie being made from
Barbary Close
. “It's not a done deal, yet,” she said, “but I understand the producers are talking to Jennifer Lawrence.”

Pleased oohs and aahs rose from the crowd. Francesca's books featured what I thought of as the classic gothic heroine, the Jane Eyre type, a virginal young woman at the mercy of an employer or relative who looked a lot like Lucas Stewart, only older. Her books had spooky castles and isolated manor homes, disturbed children, sinister servants, and mysterious disappearances of the heroes' wives. Her protagonists were extremely well drawn—emotionally vulnerable, but with a reservoir of spunk. In a definitely unclassic twist, their relationships with the brooding heroes usually took a bondage-related turn. Her books had been gaining in popularity with readers looking for a more literary and suspenseful
Fifty Shades of Grey
.

After another twenty minutes of back-and-forth with the panel, Gemma turned to the audience and said, “And now our authors will be happy to take questions. Anyone?” She craned her neck and swiveled her head before pointing to a woman two rows ahead of me who wanted to know where the authors got their ideas.

I stood and hustled over to where Al Frink was keeping an eye on the refreshments, knife ready for cake slicing when the panel wrapped up. One hundred candles ringed its perimeter. The three authors were jointly supposed to blow them out when I rolled the cake on its mobile cart into the center of the room. “Let's start lighting,” I told Al.

As a flame sprouted from the lighter's tip, a man's voice asked, “How do you all choose your pen names? Why use pen names, anyway?”

Glancing up, I saw that the question came from the jeans-clad latecomer. A sharp intake of breath from the panel table made me turn my head, but I couldn't tell who had reacted to the man's presence.

“I'll take this, shall I?” Mary said with a bright smile, pulling the table mic closer. “‘Mary Stewart' is not a pen name. It is the name given to me by my parents. I've been asked about it so often, I should carry a copy of my birth certificate with me.” Laughter from the audience rewarded her droll remark.

“Sometimes an author's real name is simply too hard to pronounce, or too common,” Constance offered, “so the author uses a pen name.”

“Or the real name doesn't fit the genre,” Francesca
said. “I mean, who's going to read a romance written by someone named Ralph Mudd?”

Amid more laughter, Al and I hastily lit all hundred candles. “I hope this doesn't cause a conflagration, boss,” he said in a low voice.

“A bonfire,” I countered, “and don't call me ‘boss.'” I had once helped him study for a vocabulary test and now we one-upped each other routinely with vocabulary words.

“An inferno,” he said, just as Gemma called for a final round of applause. During the hubbub, Al and I rolled the cake into position in front of the panelists' table. Gemma, face pink with excitement, reminded everyone of the auction at two o'clock, the writing contest winner announcement at three, and the costume party at six, and led a rousing chorus of the birthday song. The three guest authors circled the cake and blew out the candles with loud whooshes. Al started slicing as audience members got to their feet, stretched, and began milling around, some descending on the authors and others forming a straggly line to get cake and punch.

I helped Nate, the audio guy, coil up the cords from the microphones and put them in a box. “Two o'clock at the high school,” I reminded him.

He merely nodded, hefted the box, and left, leaving me to ponder yet again the irony of a man who spoke as little as possible being in the business of amplifying and recording others' words. Turning, I bumped into Merle Aldringham, who had exchanged his tank book for one on the effect of airpower in the Vietnam War. Up close, he was taller than he'd seemed, at least six
feet two, and smelled pleasantly of bay rum. I said, “Excuse me,” and got a surprisingly nice smile in return, half-hidden behind a mustache and beard, both showing more silver than the dark blond hair on his head.

“Don't worry about it,” he said in a soft voice. “It's—oh, my God.”

For a moment, I thought I'd crushed his toe or something, but from the way he was staring over my shoulder, I realized he wasn't reacting to my klutziness. I turned to see what had caught his attention as he exclaimed, “Maudie!” and elbowed me out of the way to sweep my friend and fellow Readaholic Maud Bell into a bear hug.

“When I saw Connie was coming, I wondered if you'd be here,” she said, planting a kiss on his lips while I watched in astonishment. Goofy little smiles played around both their mouths and they gazed into each other's eyes in a way that told me they had History with a capital
H
. I cleared my throat.

Maud laughed, crinkling the skin around her eyes, and reached out a hand to draw me closer. She was only a couple of inches shorter than Merle Aldringham and in her early sixties, like him. Wearing her usual henley shirt and multipocketed camouflage pants, she exuded health and vigor; no one would have been surprised to learn she made her living as a hunting and fishing guide during the good weather.

“Amy-Faye Johnson, Merle Aldringham. We go way back.”

“I got that impression,” I said drily.

Maud laughed, completely unembarrassed, but Merle looked around and I suspected he was checking to see if his wife was within earshot. “Connie and Merle and I were quite the threesome during our Berkeley days,” she said.

I squelched the urge to wonder what kind of threesome.

“We met in a class on the politics of revolution. Remember, Merle? The teacher—what was his name?”