“When you were young and working on our show, was I... was I kind?” Miranda asked, trying not to sound fretful. It was something that gnawed at her.
“You were a holy terror—with the men! The executives coweredat your ire. But for those few women on your show, especially the younger women, you were a ball-kicking ballerina.”
“Oh, thank goodness,” said Miranda. “You know, after my show was canceled, no one called. My so-called friends simply... evaporated.”
“Screw ’em,” said Penny. “If your friends weren’t there for you when times were bad, they weren’t your friends. I have something exciting to tell you! You know how my novels have always defied adaptation?”
Penny’s beloved detective, Knowlton Le Gnash, a gruff but caring French-Canadian investigator, had been optioned several times over the years by studios big and small, near and far, to no avail.
“I think this time it’s really going to happen!”
But before Penny could expand on this news, she was interrupted by the icy voice of a vampire.
“Penelope.”
Penny turned. “Hello, Inez,” she said, as pleasantly as possible under the circumstances.
* * *
SHE HAD MATERIALIZEDout of the air, it seemed, the way frost might emerge on a window pane, the crystals an omen of coldness to come.
Raven-black hair and a stark white dress with black shawl, black lipstick, and powder-pale skin, she was a study in monochrome, with clothes so voluminous it was impossible to make out her actual location. She seemed to float inside them. She had bird-like features and what looked like a teardrop tattooed under her left eye. It was actually a tiny rendition of the Eye of Osiris, protection against evil, though it made her look like a gang member who’d shanked someone in prison—apt, considering the famously morbid interest Inez had in all things gory and morose.
Other writers trafficked in murder, but none with so glum an outlook as Inez Fonio, the anointed Maven of Malice. She, in turn, had dubbed Penny Fenland “the Queen of the Cozies,” in a backhanded manner, and the nickname had stuck.
“The Pastor and the Queen,” said Inez in a flat monotone, referring to Miranda and the stately Penny Fenland.
Penny, looking down on the petite, anemic figure in front of her, said, “We’ve known each other for years, Inez. You know I don’t care for that term. I write detective novels, not cozies.”
“Puzzles,” said Inez. “Puzzles with no realistic depictions of violence. Puzzles that shy from showing the cruel finality of death. That’s the very definition of a cozy.”
But Penny refused to take the bait. “The consequences of murder are portrayed in my novels, too. I don’t shy away from it, even if I don’trevelin it like some.”
Thrust and parry.
As majority co-host of the party, Miranda decided to temper the rising tempers. “Ms. Fonio, your latest novel,The Frankenstein of Murder, is very clever. Where do you get your ideas from?”
Edgar had warned her that this was a question that irked authors, though Miranda couldn’t fathom why. Ideas had to come from somewhere, no? Truth be told, when she’d tried to read it, Miranda had thought Inez’s novel a hodgepodge of previous works. The hero was a monster sewed together from other sleuths: it had the brain of Sherlock Holmes, the eagle eyes of Auguste Dupin, the artful fingers of Arsène Lupin, the girth of Dr. Gideon Fell, the mustache of Hercule Poirot... basically any attributes of public-domain detectives.
When there was no immediate response, Miranda went for a compliment. Always a safe move in moments such as this. “I like your pendant,” Miranda said, referring to the small glass cylinder hanging around Inez Fonio’s neck. “Is that topaz?”
“Blood,” said Inez. “It’s a vial of human blood. A reminder of our mortality.”
Miranda swallowed. “Blood? Whose?”
“Mine, of course. Why would I wear someone else’s blood around my neck? What an odd woman you are.”
And with that, Inez floated off to haunt other conversations.
“Do you think...” said Penny, after the ethereal Inez had departed. “You know how authors will do something unusual at their signings. Fairfax DePoy, for instance, signs his books with a wax seal instead of a signature, as befits his historical bent. Ray Valentine draws the shape of a police badge around his signature. Well, I wonder if... Do you suppose Inez signs her books with her own blood?”
With anyone else, it would have been a preposterous suggestion. But Inez?
“Who knows?” said Miranda with a laugh. But inside, she was seething:Edgar, what were you thinking?! Inviting a ghoul like that into our home. Er, store.
* * *
IT WOULD LATERbecome known as the Reception of Death, but before the murders began it had been a fairly pleasant, if somewhat mundane, evening.
