Sir Clive Pierpont adjusted his gold cuff links emblazoned with the family crest and pressed the elevator button for the hotel’s tenth floor. The doors were closing when a hand with blood-red fingernails gripped one of them. A middle-aged woman built like a fireplug barged in.
Clive focused on her frizzy brown hair and black polyester pantsuit, shiny from wear. Typical, frumpy American. Hideous hair. Hope she doesn’t try to converse. Why is she staring?
She moved closer. “I saw your picture in the brochure for the Mystery Writers’ Conference. You’re that literary agent, Clive Pierpont, aren’t you?”
“It’s Sir Pierpont to you.”
“This is America.” She thrust her hands on her hips. “We don’t use titles here.”
“Americans aren’t worthy of titles.” Clive lifted his chin and adjusted his silk tie.
She glared at him. “You’re just as snotty in person as you are in your letters.”
Clive raised an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon. Do I know you?”
“Frieda Frobisher. You rejected my brilliant cozy—called it a 186,000-word monstrosity best suited for burning.”
“Frobisher ... ah, yes, you could’ve fit three cozies in that word count. Worst writing I’ve ever read—used it as fire starter in my fireplace—lasted six months. You haven’t a clue how to write properly.”
“Shows how much you know. Friends and relatives said my novel, The Butler Didn’t Do It, was the best murder mystery they’d ever read.”
“Oh, really?” Clive sneered. “How many of them are literary agents?”
“None, but they’re avid mystery readers.”
Clive stepped out of the elevator at his floor and turned to face her. “I shall mimic your detestable writing as I slowly and stealthily creep down the ominously dark hallway to my luxuriously appointed, highly-priced suite.” He shouted through the closing doors, “Don’t quit your day job!”
Later that night, Clive was startled awake when someone injected something into his silk pajama clad backside. He blacked out before he could roll over.
“If the Devil wears Prada, her evil twin, literary agent Priscilla Penthouser, wears Chanel.” Prissy Penthouser deleted the disparaging quote a rejected author had posted on her Facebook page and checked the time on her iPhone. She tapped her Montblanc pen on the table and turned to the coordinator for the agents’ panel. “Where’s Clive? Our panel starts in five minutes.”
The harried woman glanced around the crowded room. “I called. No answer on his room phone or cell. I’ll ask someone to check the men’s room.”
“Good, I’ll have time to powder my nose.” Prissy adjusted her Chanel suit and strode into the restroom, her Manolo spiked heels clacking on the tile floor. She applied fresh red lipstick and smoothed her short, salon-styled black hair. While gazing into the mirror, she noticed a thin, gray-haired woman exit the stall behind her.
The woman squinted at Prissy. “You’re Priscilla Penthouser, the literary agent.” She held out her wrinkled, liver-spotted hand. “I’m Lily Whimple, and I’d like you to represent me. My cozy is sure to be a best seller.”
Stepping back, Prissy recoiled as though Lily’s hand was infected with leprosy. “We may not be a good fit.” She turned up her nose at her cheap pantsuit and worn sneakers. “I only represent high-end clientele.”
“My cozy is very high end. You’d love it.” She moved to block the door.
Prissy blew out a sigh. “Give me a brief description.”
“My novel, Dead Divas Don’t Sing, is a 197,000-word, twisty-turny, suspenseful, murder mystery.”
“I thought you said it was a cozy.”
“That’s right, it’s my first novel. You should pitch it to Hollywood. They’ll want to make it into a movie. We’ll be rich. What do you say?”
“Forget writing. Try basket weaving.” Prissy pushed past her and strutted out.
When Prissy entered the meeting room, an anxious conference volunteer pulled her aside.
“Top secret: Clive was murdered in his room last night,” she whispered. “Don’t tell. We don’t want to upset anyone.”
Prissy’s jaw dropped. “What happened?”
“Someone sedated him, connected a portable printer to his laptop, printed out several rejection letters he’d written, wadded them up, and stuffed them down his throat. He suffocated.”
“Oh, that’s awful!” Prissy smoothed her skirt and glanced at the wall clock. “We should begin the panel, don’t you think?”
The volunteer looked across the crowded room and sighed. “Yes, as they say, the show must go on.”
After listening to droning amateurs in afternoon pitch sessions, Prissy ordered a bottle of Montrachet chardonnay at the conference cocktail party. Distracted by conversation, she felt a sharp prick when someone bumped into her back. She assumed it was just a protruding ring on the person’s hand and didn’t bother to turn around.
It wasn’t long before she felt drowsy and excused herself. Back in her room, she kicked off her shoes while sitting in a chair facing the door and leaned her head against the wingback. Comfortable, she closed her eyes and dozed off.
She woke when she felt a sharp object pierce her neck, severing her left carotid artery. Without thinking, she yanked the Montblanc pen from her neck. As blood spurted from her wound, she spotted her executioner standing in the shadows with a small crossbow.
Veronica Vixenne greeted her fellow agents at the power table for the Mystery Writers’ Banquet. Two seats were empty. A rotund middle-aged man in a too-tight suit sat in the open seat beside her and dabbed his sweaty forehead with a linen napkin.
“Veronica, I enjoyed my pitch session with you earlier today. You’re my first choice to represent my 168,000-word international thriller, Tubing Down the Ganges. You remember me, Rupert Finch, from this afternoon?” he asked.
Veronica sighed and drained her glass of cabernet. “Yes, Rupert, I remember you.”
“My novel is a literary tour de force any agent would die for. I bet you’re glad I picked you.” He sipped a double whisky on the rocks.
Veronica flagged a passing waiter. “A bottle of Chateau Montelena 2012 cabernet sauvignon, right away, please.”
Rupert yelled, “Put it on my tab.” As he grinned at Veronica, tiny bits of dark nuts studded his teeth. “So,” Rupert leaned forward, squeezing her arm, “where should I send my manuscript?”
Veronica recoiled. “Toss it in the incinerator.”
“I thought you liked my thriller set in India.” He slumped back.
“Puhleeze, the Ganges River is a slow-moving, shallow cesspool about as thrilling as a trip to a toxic waste dump.”
Rupert’s face reddened, and he fled the ballroom. Veronica drank her wine in peace.
After the banquet, she retired to her room and savored a hot bath. She was half-asleep in the tub when she heard the door to her room open and close. “Who’s there?”
Moments later, someone entered the bathroom, plugged her laptop into the electrical outlet, switched it on, and tossed it into her bathwater.
The next morning, Detective Lou Manly looked at the portly matron in the tub and sighed. “This mystery conference is turning out to be a murder fest,” he said to his partner. “It was supposed to be a conference for writers, not murderers.”
“Three murders so far.” His partner pulled out his notebook. “I interviewed the president of the Florida chapter hosting the event. After the first murder, she found a website called PoeticJustice@AgentsWhoDeserveToDie.com, run by some guy called Freddy the Fixer. The dead agents are among those listed on the website.”
“Get me a list of all the writers who posted complaints about them.”
“They got hundreds of angry letters.”
“Match them with the list of conference attendees.”
“Already did. Only three matches.”
“Great! Round ’em up. I’ll interview them individually in a small conference room.”
After completing lengthy interviews with the three suspects, Lou stared at his notes. “They all have airtight alibis,” he said to his partner. “What are we missing?”
A foul-smelling police officer blotted with garbage stains entered the room. “Detective Manly, I found this buried in the trash.” He held up a small crossbow. “Could have been used to fire that pen into the vic. It’s been wiped clean.”
“Excellent work, Officer Santiago. Get this to the lab.” Lou turned to his partner. “I hope we’re dealing with a lone wolf.” Lou checked his watch. “The conference ends in two hours. Lock down the hotel. No one associated with the conference leaves.”
Conference attendees were held in the ballroom.
“I searched the rooms of Frieda Frobisher, Lily Whimple, and Rupert Finch,” Lou’s partner said. “Nothing.”
“Each writer has an alibi for the murder of the agent who rejected them,” Lou said.
“Yeah, but not for the other agents.”
“No reason to murder agents they didn’t know.” Lou shook his head. “I have to release them.”
When Frieda, Lily, and Rupert checked out, they had one identical room charge: a pay-per-view fee for Hitchcock’s classic movie, Strangers on a Train.