If one were going to be literally correct, Dorinda wasn’t a plagiarist. She was an impostor, however, who lay stunned on the floor while I loomed over her.
Let me amend that to stunned and furious.
She recovered quickly. “Why don’t you watch the hell where you’re going, you big oaf!” She was sitting up and describing me and my ancestry with a string of invective as fluent as it was repetitive.
“I do beg your pardon,” I said, my tone as cool as I could manage as I extended a hand to help her up. She pulled hard at me, as if trying to jerk me down onto the floor, but I easily countered that and had her up on her feet before she realized what was happening. She did not appear in the least grateful.
“Apology accepted,” she said grudgingly.
“Thank you,” I responded. Having to apologize to her for any reason irked me considerably, because I felt I was being done the far more grievous wrong. Her very presence here offended me. But I couldn’t address that just yet.
“I thought I might attend your session this morning,” I said in as placatory a tone as I could manage, “because I’m very curious to hear what you have to say about writing mysteries with a hard-boiled female sleuth.”
“I’m sure you’ll learn something,” she said coolly as she dusted off her slacks. “This is my first writers’ conference, but I feel that I have a lot to offer. My work has been so highly praised that I feel it incumbent upon me to pass along something of benefit to the wanna-bes.”
Good grief, she had nerve! I itched to throttle her on the spot. If I still had blood that could boil, this would do it. The thought that she might be going around masquerading as Dorinda, being this patronizing and conceited, infuriated me.
Dorinda continued, not having noticed the scowl on my face. “My books are transforming the genre, though I have to say, I don’t really consider myself a mystery writer.” Oh, the scorn that dripped from her voice as she spoke that word! “I read two or three mysteries before I started writing, and I realized that I could easily write something better and much more serious, even though I do use some of the conventions of the form.”
I forced myself to take a step back from her. Otherwise, I was afraid that I might do something violent. What a load of pretentious tripe! This woman had to be stopped, and soon. I might have to sacrifice my anonymity to do it but I couldn’t allow her go around spouting such stupidity and besmirching my good name, as it were, as she did so.
“I’m sure I’ll learn something from your talk,” I said, though it was a wonder she could understand me, my teeth were clamped so hard together.
She smiled knowingly at me, then swept past me on her way into the dining room.
I stood there for a moment, fuming, trying hard to get a handle on my temper. I might end up smashing something—though that would in many ways be a mercy, considering the extreme tackiness of some of the so-called objets d’art gracing the halls of Kinsale House. That collection of garishly painted figures of the royal family on a nearby table might do for a start.
Had Giles not appeared just then, one or more of those ugly little statues might have been shattered. “Simon!” he said, coming up to me. “What’s gotten your knickers in such a twist? You should see the expression on your face!”
Tersely I explained. Giles whistled. “What a cow! What are we going to do?”
“I’m going to that session and try to keep myself under control,” I said, “and I have an assignment for you. I want you to cozy up to Lady Hermione’s assistant, Mary Monkley, and find out what you can about this fake Dorinda. See if you can get a look, somehow, at any correspondence Lady Hermione might have exchanged with her. Get an address or something, if you can. I want to know who this woman is.”
Giles sighed. “I think I’d rather go stake myself out on an anthill than have to chat up that little mouse. She’ll probably faint when I get anywhere near her! ”
“I think you underestimate your abilities to charm ladies of a certain age, Giles. Just bat those thick eyelashes of yours at her a few times and speak to her soothingly in that plummy voice, and you’ll have her cooing in no time, no matter how timid she is.”
He did not seem to appreciate the levity in my tone. “If you keep asking me to do such things, Simon, I’ll have to ask for a rise in salary.” He paused for a moment. “Or perhaps I’ll have to insist on certain fringe benefits.”
“Just do it,” I said, ignoring the lascivious twist of his lips. “I’ll expect results from you before the morning is over.”
“Yes, sir!” Giles saluted and clicked his heels together. “Would you mind if I had some breakfast first?”
I waved him away, and he pretended to stalk off. Chuckling, my good humor restored, I headed upstairs to collect from my bedroom what I would need for the morning sessions.
Ten minutes later I was downstairs again, finding a seat in the back of the room where the fake Dorinda was scheduled to speak. As I waited, various conference attendees wandered in and sat down, some of them chatting, others opening notebooks and preparing to write down whatever words of wisdom Dorinda would have to offer.
Dorinda finally appeared, only about five minutes late. She assumed a position in the front of the small sitting room, which had been adapted for conference use by the addition of about twenty chairs arranged in several short rows. Dorinda stood with her back to a magnificent marble fireplace, fiddling with a sheaf of notes, which she placed on the lectern in front of her.
She did nothing to introduce herself, other than to mention her name and a couple of the titles of the books she had written. I began to seethe. This was going to be every bit as trying as I had suspected.
It quickly got worse.
“I don’t write mysteries,” Dorinda announced. “I write novels in which unexplained deaths occur, and someone—namely, my heroine—has to figure out what happened. Because of that, I’ve been branded a mystery writer, and even my publisher puts the phrase ‘a novel of suspense’ on the covers of my books.” She paused dramatically. “But what I write is serious fiction that just happens to be about crime and murder.”
A hand shot up in the front row before she could expound further.
“Yes?” Dorinda said, her tone icy.
“Does this mean you’re not going to tell us how to write a mystery novel?”
“If you’ll be patient and listen to what I have to say,” Dorinda replied, “you’ll find out how to write novels. Just sit tight, and listen.”
There was a bit of muttering after that comment, and not all of it came from me. Being rude to your audience isn’t the best way to begin a lecture. Dorinda was digging the hole deeper and deeper every time she opened her mouth, and I was looking forward to pushing her into it and piling the dirt on top of her.
Dorinda stared down at her notes for a moment, then looked up and addressed her audience again. “No doubt you’ve all read my books, and you may have thought you knew what they were about. But now I’m going to analyze them for you and explain what was really going on in these books. I’m certain you’ll understand better, once I’ve used the techniques of textual criticism on my work, and you’ll see how what many have mistakenly identified as genre fiction is really something else entirely.”
For a moment, I thought I might be trapped in an alternate universe. I had written what I thought were some darn good mysteries, what I thought were more than the garden variety whodunit. But the pretentious bullshit this fake Dorinda was spouting was nothing more than that: bullshit. Maybe this was what other writers experienced when they read articles or heard papers given on their work. On one level, it was fascinating to hear the “author’s” interpretation of the work. But since I knew she hadn’t written one single word of the books she was dissecting, it was plain old bullshit.
I stood it for as long as I could, listening to her rambling on and on about tropes and themes and other such literary folderol, and finally my temper got the better of me.
I stood up and interrupted her in full spate. “This is absolute nonsense, and you know it!”
“What? What on earth do you mean?” Dorinda paused, blinking. She had been so wrapped up in her mini-dissertation, it took her a moment to focus on what she had heard and just who was saying it.
I tried to choose my words with care. “Listening to this farrago of pretentiousness you’re spouting, I’d say it’s doubtful whether you really wrote these books.”
Before Dorinda could respond, someone else spoke up. “I’ve read your books twice each, and I have to say, I didn’t get any of what you’ve been talking about out of them.”
I wanted to applaud the brave soul. I think.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dorinda said huffily, “either of you.” Then she focused on me. “Of course I wrote the books.”
“Then why have you never made public appearances before now?” I asked her. “I know that you’ve never done an official signing for your books. Why now? Why are you now out in public, talking about your work?”
“I never felt the need before now,” Dorinda said. “I thought the books would speak for themselves. But the more I read what others had to say about the books, and how mistaken they were, I decided I had to start getting out in public and talking about them, if they had any chance of being properly understood. This conference seemed like a good place to start.”
“Maybe,” I said, making those two syllables sound as insulting as I could. “But maybe you’re impersonating the real author, who chooses to remain anonymous. Maybe you’re an opportunist, and you’re hoping to get attention by pulling a stunt like this.” Heads swiveled back and forth between Dorinda and me, waiting for the next fusillade.
“I don’t know who the bloody hell you think you are,” Dorinda said, her voice rising, “and I don’t know why you should be trying to vilify and persecute me in this strange manner. If you persist in this, I shall have no choice but to ask my lawyers to take action against you.”
“Oh, really?” I said. This had actually started to turn funny. “And what would your so-called lawyers say when they find out you’re not really who you say you are? Don’t you think they’ll be a bit miffed with you?”
“Why? Why are you doing this?” Dorinda wailed, then burst into tears.
Accusing eyes turned toward me as the audience watched for my response. It was apparently one thing to argue with the woman, and another to have made her cry.
“Because,” I responded, “you are deliberately misrepresenting the work of the author who is really Dorinda Darlington. I know Dorinda, and I know that you’re an impostor.”
A collective gasp rose from the conference attendees, and almost as one, their heads swiveled back toward Dorinda. How would she respond to such a direct accusation?
The tears dried abruptly. “Well, Mr. Know-it-all, if I’m not Dorinda Darlington, who is?”
“The real Dorinda prefers to preserve her anonymity.”
“How convenient for you!”
“Why are you persisting in this charade?”
“You are the only one who insists it’s a charade!” She stamped her foot in frustration.
“Don’t worry,” I said, oozing false sympathy as I spoke. “This will all soon be over. Dorinda’s agent will be here later today, and I’m sure she’ll be happy to verify the fact that you’re an impostor.”
More muttering filled the room as the fascinated group chewed over this bit of information.
I felt a strong wave of hate emanating from the fake Dorinda. Frankly, I was surprised she hadn’t given up by now and fled the room, shedding more of the crocodile tears she had produced just moments ago.
“That’s just fine with me,” she said. “I welcome the chance to be vindicated.”
“You’re totally off your rocker,” I said hotly. “You’re a fake, and you know it. Why don’t you confess now and just end this travesty?”
“I’ll see you in hell first,” she said. She snatched up her papers and stalked from the room.