Which is exactly what I told him, as I gave him a hug.
“This is Jill Forrest,” I said, and Jill smiled at him and they shook hands. What kind of world is it, when two men hug, and a man and woman shake hands?
Tom, by the way, was five-ten, bearded, bespectacled, and a tad overweight, as befits a successful writer. I was leaner and taller and better-looking. Well, leaner and taller, anyway. He wore an off-white long-sleeved shirt and slacks; I was wearing jeans and a dark green sweatshirt that said “THE BUTLER DID IT,” if it matters, winter coat slung over my arm.
“I’ve heard all about you,” Tom said to Jill, taking in her slim figure with an appreciative smile. That figure was ensconced in a white and gray vertical-striped top and snug, black leather trousers, ball of white fur winter coat draped around her. She was a slightly snazzier dresser than me, as you have already gathered.
“I’d imagine you have heard about me,” she said. “I’ve seen Mal’s phone bills.”
Tom and I shared long and expensive phone conversations into the wee hours; friendships in the writing game often require long-distance maintenance.
“And,” Jill went on, showing Tom the ironic smile that was among the laundry list of reasons why I fell in love with her, “I’ve heard about you, too. Is it true you’ve written more books in your short life than Mal’s read in his longer one?”
“Probably,” Tom said.
Jill turned to me and squeezed my arm. “Look, I’ll get in line here, Mal, and get us checked in. You two go sit over there and insult each other for a while.”
We took her advice, settling down on a velvet-cushioned settee. Various game-players were milling about expectantly, but here and there people sat and quietly talked — Tom and I, for instance, basking in the soft yellow lighting and warm, homey atmosphere of the old resort.
“Where’s Anna?” I asked.
“She couldn’t make it this trip,” he said with a regretful little shrug.
“I haven’t seen Anna since Bouchercon,” I said. Anna was Tom’s lovely, zoftig, Oriental spouse, who’d accompanied him to the annual mystery convention, held last year in San Francisco. “Hey! Wasn’t she pregnant?”
“You really are the king of amateur detectives,” he said. “She was only six months along, and you figured that out.”
“My powers of observation are legend,” I said. “Meaning, greatly exaggerated. So, what? She’s home nursing a two-month-old?”
“Literally,” Tom said, nodding. “Normally, I wouldn’t do one of these things without her — but being invited to be part of Mystery Weekend at Mohonk is kind of an honor.”
And it was. If I wasn’t a friend of Curt Clark’s, I wouldn’t have been invited; I was just too small a fry in the mystery world to qualify. Curt, who was the latest of several top-rank mystery writers to head up the Mohonk Mystery Weekend, was “an acknowledged master of the comedy caper,” as The Mystery Chronicler had put it.
“I see you’re going to be speaking tomorrow afternoon,” he said, referring to a program he held in one hand. “On ‘Translating True Crime into Mystery Fiction.’ ”
“I haven’t seen that yet,” I said, meaning the program. “All I got in the mail from Curt was the suggested topic for my speech, and a cast list and description of my character in the mystery. Which I assume each of us playing a role got, so we could put together an appropriate wardrobe.”
“Right,” Tom said. “I play a tough private eye.”
“Typecasting,” I said.
“I guess. All I had to do was pack a trenchcoat and fedora and.38. Well, it’s a full-scale replica of a.38, anyway. How about you?”
“I play a nerd,” I said. “Sort of Pee-Wee Herman on the Orient Express. And no further comments on typecasting are necessary.”
“All I can say is, some of us are obviously typecast. Did you get a load of who the murder victim is?”
“No. I mean, from the write-up Curt sent me about my character, I gather it’s a critic.”
“It sure is a critic,” Tom grinned.
“Can I infer, then, that the role of critic is being played by some real critic?”
“You can. Care to guess who?”
“I don’t remember seeing a critic on the guest list...”
“Clark left that name off the list. He likes to play things cute, you know. That’s what he’s famous for, in those books of his — his wicked sense of humor.”
“Who, then? The only critic I can think of that anybody might want to murder is that weasel Kirk Rath.”
Tom beamed. “The very weasel in question.”
Kirk S. Rath was, at the ripe old age of twenty-seven, easily the most famous and controversial critic in mystery circles. A smug, pedantic critic (his professed role model being John Simon), Rath was the editor and publisher of The Mystery Chronicler, published out of his home in Albany. This monthly magazine, famed for its in-depth interviews with mystery writers and its scholarly, yet entertaining, articles about the classic writers of both the drawing-room and tough-guy schools of mystery fiction, had been the surprise publishing success of the mystery world in recent years. Starting as a fanzine, The Mystery Chronicler had spread to the mystery bookstores and now was circulated to several of the major bookstore chains.
More important, it was widely circulated to libraries, and was having a big impact on which mysteries got bought by the libraries themselves, which, of course, was the major market for most hardcover mysteries.
For all its distinctions, however, The Mystery Chronicler was best known for one thing: the articulate but mean-spirited, often viciously personal criticism written by smug young Kirk Rath himself. Rath was currently tied up in no less than three libel cases, all stemming from his personal attacks upon various mystery writers.
“Brother,” I said. “I don’t know if I share Curt’s sense of humor on that one. Every guest he’s invited has reason to hate Rath.”
“Including you.”
“Yeah, he’s fileted me a few times. And you, too.”
“He really hates my work,” Tom said, rolling his eyes. “ ‘Sardini also writes adult westerns. Perhaps the prolific Mr. Sardini should stick to sagebrush and sex; his private-eye “yawn” features a dim-witted detective who may be the most singularly uninteresting character in mystery fiction.’ ”
“Don’t tell me you memorize bad reviews.”
“They sear into my brain like a branding iron, as we cowboy writers from Brooklyn like to say. So... what did Rath say about you, Mal?”
“Which time?”
“Last time.”
“I don’t remember.”
“Try.”
“Umm, it might’ve been something like ‘Mallory writes fictionalized accounts of real-life cases, and this latest is his most unengaging, unconvincing mock-up of all — thin on character, weak on basic storytelling skills.’ ”
“Yeah,” Tom said. “I don’t let bad reviews get to me, either.”
Jill came over with our room key and said, “We’re on the ground floor. I’d been hoping for one of those rooms with balconies and a view, but what the hell.”