A Malicious Midwinter: Mt. Abrams Mysteries, #5

Chapter 1

No one famous had ever been born in Mt. Abrams.

Now, there are probably a million towns and cities in the world where no one famous has been born, and the residents of those towns and cities probably gave the fact no thought at all. But in Mt. Abrams, it’s rather a sore spot. The Historical Society in particular spent a lot of time grumbling. Their reasoning was that Mt. Abrams was such a unique place to live that surely someone who had been raised there had absorbed some of that specialness and gone out and done something amazing in the world.

So, the search for a Famous Son spilled over a bit, which is why when I casually mentioned at the monthly Garden Club meeting that I knew B.G. Riley, several crossover Historical Society folks took an interest.

B.G. Riley is pretty famous, Lynn Fahey said, coming up to me after the meeting.

I nodded. Yes. She’d been on the New York Times bestseller list over a dozen times, and the television series based on her Precinct Eleven books is still going strong.

Mary Rose appeared from thin air. I didn’t realize she was a woman. I mean, well, B.G.?

I shrugged. She thought it would be easier to get published if people thought she was a he. Hard-boiled crime books and all.

She would be wonderful for our library program, Mary Rose continued.

What library program? I asked, although I should have known better.

Lynn beamed. We’re working with Carol to bring in some writers to talk about their books. It’s been rather difficult getting responses. But since you know B.G. Riley personally, maybe you could put in a good word for us? It’s to benefit the Historical Society after all, and aren’t you and Carol good friends?

I was trapped. I hadn’t even wanted to come to the Garden Club meeting. What could they talk about in October? Winter mulching, in case you really wanted to know.

I’m Ellie Rocca, freelance editor of mysteries and thrillers, single mom, and occasional snooper into things I should stay out of. I also tend to open my mouth to say things I shouldn’t, which was why, on a freezing February morning, I was waiting at the Lawrence train station for B.G.Riley and her assistant. I was also praying that the oncoming nor’easter would hold off long enough for Beth to give her talk,for the Historical Society serve their tea and cookies and feel good about themselves, and for my obligation to bring a little fame and glitter to Mt. Abrams to be fulfilled before we suffered from some blizzard-related disaster.

Mt. Abrams had a reputation for being a sleepy little community where nothing ever happened.

Those of us who lived there knew better.

Beth Graves Riley looked exactly the way you would expect an A-list mystery writer to look. Her dark hair was perfectly done, make-up flawless, and her dark fur coat brushed the tops of her high-heeled boots. We had never met. Our relationship had been built on emails and phone calls, but even if I hadn’t seen her author photo dozens of times, I still would have been able to pick her out. The usual crowd getting off at the Lawrence train station did not smell of Shalimar and money.

I waved. Beth, hello. Great to meet you at last.

She beamed and swept me into a long hug. Ellie, my dear woman, you’re so young! I expected some tiny gray-haired librarian type. She waved a hand behind her. And this is Glory.

Glory was her personal assistant. Glory Rambeau. I had long ago given up trying to imagine people based on their names, but Glory Rambeau had conjured up quite a picture. Glory in person was a bit of a letdown. She was short and obviously underweight to the point of scrawny, even wrapped in a dark, puffy parka, the hood of which was pulled up over her purplish hair. She gave me a quick smile as she shifted an overstuffed tote bag from one hand to the other. I reached to help, but Beth swatted at my hand.

She’s young, she can handle it, Ellie. I try not to pamper her too much, Beth said. I don’t suppose there’s anywhere I can get a quick drink? The train ride over was a horror.

Yes, there was a place for a quick drink. Zeke’s was right across the street from the platform. But…the train ride was a horror? It was less than an hour from Penn Station in New York City and had arrived on time. How bad could it have been? And then there was the fact that it was not even eleven in the morning.

But who was I to argue? She was doing this for me, as a personal favor, with no fee involved, so we crossed over to Zeke’s, which had just opened for lunch, and settled into a booth.

She ordered a martini, straight up, with Bombay Sapphire gin. Then she slipped her mink off her shoulders and sighed. I can’t believe after all these years… Ellie Rocca at last.

We really hadn’t known each other all those years. She had approached me five years ago to re-edit her backlist, with an eye to self-publishing. Her star had been falling at the time, her two previous books had failed both critically and financially, and her publisher had not renewed her contract. After working on four of her old titles in a whirlwind eight months, she handed me a new manuscript, so fresh and surprising I suggested she give her old editor a call. But she’d had it with what she called the ‘stuffy Old Guard’ and wanted to go ahead on her own. It became a bestseller. So had the two books that came after. She called me her lucky charm and sent me checks in her Christmas cards.

As a freelance editor, I knew what my skill set was, and her newfound success wasn’t because of anything magical I had done. Something in the very style of her writing had changed. It was energized and her thinking was way outside the box. But I was willing to take the credit if it came with cash.

I had ordered coffee. Glory huddled in the corner next to me, a glass of seltzer gripped so tightly in both hands I wondered who she thought was going to steal it away from her.

Thanks for doing this, Beth. I know that Mt. Abrams would not normally be a stop on your book tour, I said.

She sipped her drink tentatively, nodded in approval, and took a few robust sips. Well, Ellie, I’m not exactly in the big leagues anymore. She sighed and gazed lovingly at her empty martini glass. One does what one can.

Next to me, I felt Glory stiffen. You’re making plenty of money, she said in a quiet voice.

Beth finished off her drink, looked around for a waiter and signaled for another. "Yes, but where’s the People magazine interview? The spot on Good Morning America?"

I told you, Glory said, her voice getting smaller. We need to hire a publicist.

Beth glared, then switched on a smile as her drink was delivered. Maybe you need to get better at your job, she said, with forced sweetness. She looked at me. So what are we doing again?

Well. There’s a catered luncheon at the library at one with the Mt. Abrams Library Association, and right after that you have your event, about an hour to talk, Q&A, and copies of your books will be available to sign. Then there’s a tea and cookies thing for the crowd, and you should be heading back home by the four-twenty train.

Beth downed her second drink in a single gulp. Tea? And cookies? What about wine and cheese?

Ah, well… I glanced