Invitation to a Killer, page 1
Contents
Cover
Also by G.M. Malliet
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Epigraph
Part I
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Part II
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Part III
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Epilogue
Also by G.M. Malliet
The St. Just mysteries
DEATH OF A COZY WRITER
DEATH AND THE LIT CHICK
DEATH AT THE ALMA MATER
DEATH IN CORNWALL *
The Max Tudor mysteries
WICKED AUTUMN
A FATAL WINTER
PAGAN SPRING
DEMON SUMMER
THE HAUNTED SEASON
DEVIL’S BREATH
IN PRIOR’S WOOD
Novels
WEYCOMBE
Augusta Hawke mysteries
AUGUSTA HAWKE *
* available from Severn House
INVITATION TO A KILLER
G.M. Malliet
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First world edition published in Great Britain and the USA in 2023
by Severn House, an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd,
14 High Street, Edinburgh EH1 1TE.
Trade paperback edition first published in Great Britain and the USA in 2023
by Severn House, an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd.
This eBook edition first published in 2023 by Severn House,
an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd.
severnhouse.com
Copyright © G.M. Malliet, 2023
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. The right of G.M. Malliet to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0664-0 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0825-5 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0824-8 (e-book)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Once again, heartfelt thanks to my agent, Mark Gottlieb of Trident Media Group, and to Joanne Grant, Carl Smith, Natasha Bell, Martin Brown, Sara Porter, Piers Tilbury, and more – all the publishers, editors, copyeditors, marketeers, publicists, and designers who help make this writing journey so pleasant and worthwhile.
And as always, to Bob.
‘Anyone who tries to write a memoir needs to keep in mind that what’s interesting to you isn’t necessarily interesting to a reader.’
—Mitch Albom
PART I
ONE
I hoped more people would show up for my funeral than showed up for my book signing that cold October night in Old Town.
Mind you, it was cold and threatening icy rain, besides. But that was the forecast for midnight. My signing was timed for eight p.m. when the dinner crowd should have been starting to leave the nearby restaurants, on the hunt for entertainment. There being no live shows in Old Town, I was it for entertainment. And apparently, I wasn’t enough.
My name is Augusta Hawke and I am a writer. I have killed approximately forty-four people over the course of nineteen books. That’s one person for each year I’ve been alive. It seems less disturbing when I do the math that way. When I spread out the deaths over time.
These are of course fictional deaths. An occupational hazard for a mystery writer.
I’ve been at this murder game about twenty years, and apart from an early flirtation with the idea of becoming an artist, writing was the only thing I ever wanted to do. My first effort was a mystery book, as they’re called in the US – a crime book elsewhere – and I’ve been writing them ever since, turning out novels at the rate of one per year. I don’t write books that are gory; I shy away from those books even in my personal reading. Ditto books that feature cases solved by cats, goldfish, or zoo animals.
I would probably sell more books if I were more interested in plasma and pain but I’m not. I am an admirer of Agatha Christie and I like to think my appreciation for her is reflected in what I write. Agatha surprises me every time, even on rereading her stories.
I’d never met a villain I didn’t like, at least in theory, but then again, I hadn’t until that cold night met Calypso Moore – Callie, to her friends. She was married to a well-known lobbyist who in any other part of the world could walk about unrecognized but who was in these parts what passed for a celebrity – one of those people known to operate the levers behind the curtain of everything to do with commerce and politics, a Wizard of Oz hired to get things done, a gun for hire working for whatever side would pay the highest price.
On short acquaintance with Callie I would come to wonder that she seemed to have so many friends, but a powerful lobbyist’s wife is of course as sought after as the lobbyist. She is assumed to be the power behind the throne, and an easier target to get to.
I also wondered how many people had been coerced into friendship with her, despite her good looks and surface charm. By coerced I mean threatened or blackmailed. But I’m getting ahead of my story.
At my book signing, Callie helped by being one-third again the size of most of the women in the audience, giving the room the illusion of being fuller than it was. She was strikingly beautiful, shaped like a work of religious art from a long-forgotten tribe of hunter-gatherers, and wonderfully dressed in clothes worth stealing to a burglar with good taste. I was in my usual jeans, sweater, and jacket, with a plaid black-and-purple scarf looped rakishly (I hoped) around my neck for a spot of color and to disguise my emerging wattle. The design clashed with the pattern of my sweater, but I hoped people would write it off to artistic choice. Some days it’s a delicate balance between looking like a cracked bag lady or a creative writer, but generally I aim for somewhere in the middle.
The other occupants of the room were the usual blend of young aspiring authors and old aspiring authors with the occasional genuine bibliophiliac thrown in – those who read purely for pleasure despite the increasing cost, without a thought of trying to write a book themselves. I am intrigued by this kind of person. To me it’s like studying to be a doctor and getting the degree but never wanting to practice medicine.
Still, it was getting harder and harder to persuade an intelligent reading public to part with thirty-some dollars plus tax for a hardback book, even one signed by yours truly, paperbacks and eBooks having come to dominate the market. That books – good and bad, enlightening and scandalous – should be tax-free is a truth self-evident to all.
Despite the crowd – hardly a throng as I’ve made clear – Callie stood out. There was something about the guarded way she surveyed the room before choosing a place to sit that reminded me of an FBI agent I had briefly dated. Phil’s paranoia had been the end of ‘us,’ among other of his faults I won’t go into except to say they included installing spyware on my computer. That’s a big minus in the trust-building department, but this was the type of white-collar guy one met in the DC area, and it helps explain why I’m single and mostly looking to stay that way. At restaurants Phil would feel compelled to clear the men’s room of Russian mobsters or whatever he thought was lurking in there before we could take our seats.
I did see a familiar face or two in the crowd, and one of those faces took me by surprise: Old Town Police Detective Steve Narduzzi, whom I had met during a criminal investigation into my neighbors’ whereabouts – a case I had been instrumental in solving, if I do say so myself. Inspired by this successful foray into real-life crime solving, I’d signed up for Virginia’s sixty-hour private investigator course, passing all the tests and learning more than I’d ever wanted to know about unlawful search and seizure. What I planned to do with the license was anyone’s guess, but I’d had the certificate framed and it now hung on my office wall. It was a case of, ‘If you build it, they will come.’
His vitals, as I’m sure Narduzzi would call them: 6 ft, 180 lb., dark brown hair, and green eyes. He was basically a younger version of Chris Meloni, the actor, which is not a terrible condition to be saddled with. His sidekick from when I had first met him was not there, so it didn’t look like official business. I doubted if Sergeant Bernolak was a big reader anyway.
I wondered fleetingly if he was there because he had come to believe I was after all guilty of something or other (I may have tested a few boundaries in solving his crime for him), but in answer to my little wave he gave a reassuring nod before settling back in his chair, crossing his arms, and waiting expectantly as if for the Christians to be dragged into the Roman Colosseum. Honestly, it was hard to guess what he was doing there. I knew he had a wife somewhere in Del Ray, a few miles as the crow flies from the bookstore. Eight at night struck me as the kind of time for him to be off duty; tucking children into bed, if applicable; and starting to wonder which horrible aspect of World War II was playing out on the History Channel.
The bookshop owner waited until the latecomers were settled before launching into a brief introduction. Chester Lewis was a true friend who had supported me from the early days. Even if there had been just three people in the audience, all of them blood relatives, I would have done my bit as though millions were watching. Short, spare, bespectacled, and balding, Chester looked the kind of man who had been born in the aisles of a bookstore. His mother had owned the shop before him.
‘I feel after so many years, local mystery author Augusta Hawke needs no introduction. She lives mere blocks from this store and has graced us many times with her presence when her yearly book is published. This latest is number nineteen’ – here he turned to me for confirmation, and I nodded, although I wasn’t sure myself – ‘and continues the saga of a team of intrepid crime hunters in the Dordogne. With no further ado I give you your neighbor and friend and mine, Augusta Hawke.’
Smattering of polite applause, with Narduzzi smiling broadly and clapping louder than anyone. Clap clappity clap! He looked like a proud parent at a child’s ballet recital, inordinately glad that all that special tutoring and investment in embroidered tutus had paid off. I stood (rather embarrassed now by the attention and hyper-aware of his eyes on me) and launched into a description of the plot of my newest book, a plot which even to my own ears sounded wholly contrived and absurd. I was always stunned people didn’t seem to notice this. Of course, detectives spent half their time trapped in basements or attics or huddled in trees in the French countryside surveilling the bad guys! The main protagonist of these stories was the ever-resourceful Caroline, and although I had not intended it to happen, she had turned out to be the brains of the team of police investigators. Sadly, the member of the team with whom she had most to do was her boss, a Gallic chauvinist who was essentially a buffoon.
Anyway, my heroine Caroline has chosen to get through life by pretending she doesn’t notice buffoonery and not-so-subtle harassment and putdowns and by going behind Claude’s back to solve the crimes by herself. Needless to say at the end of every story, he grabs the credit for solving the case, leaving me, Caroline’s creator, to wonder if she wouldn’t one day just haul off and clock him.
This latest caper I’d based on the true story of a man living only ten miles away from Old Town proper who had buried his father in his backyard and thought no one would notice the solitary old man was missing. The son took up residence in the house, which was paid for, and was living quite high on the hog with only utility bills to worry about, getting his food from the vegetable garden (fortunately for him, he was a vegetarian) and doing odd jobs or bartering for incidentals. But the old man was eventually reported missing by a woman to whom he owed money; the son’s behavior was suspicious enough for her to call the authorities. It all unraveled from there, the son never having quite made up his mind if he should pretend his father had gone off on a road trip and never returned or had told him he was leaving to commit suicide or something. It was a sad story and the only thing remarkable about it was it took two years for anyone to notice the fresh new grave site in the garden out of which the vegetables were growing.
I summarized all this as best I could for the audience, playing up the true elements of the story and how they had woven their way into a novel about a detective in a land far, far away. Then I read aloud a random, brief passage from the stiff white pages of my newly published book. The audience always seemed to enjoy this. It must be a vestige of our childhoods when some kind-hearted adult would read us to sleep at the end of a long working day. I was generally comfortable reading and talking in front of a group like this, partly because for several years I’d been involved in amateur dramatics at a small theatre near my house.
I was so caught up in my recital I didn’t at first notice Narduzzi looking at his phone, a concerned look creasing his handsome brow. He paused just briefly at the exit to wave an apologetic goodbye in my direction, and he was gone. There, thought I, goes another sale. But in truth, of course, I was hoping he’d been there to run another case by me, stumped for clues himself. This was an unlikely fantasy, but it was mine and I owned it.
I signed a few dozen books for the audience that night – many people would order a copy from Amazon from their phones right there in the store – and then I signed seven boxes of books for the store to sell online or to passers-by in the coming weeks. That was where the real sales would kick in, but Chester was always taking a risk with this practice. Once I signed a book it could not be returned to the warehouse, and he was stuck with it until he sold it or wrote it off as a business loss. In a pinch he could have brought books to my townhouse for signing but he always said he didn’t want to bother me. This was why Chester had my undying loyalty. He had no idea how I longed to be interrupted some days, but then again, no one including me could predict those days.
I was collecting my things to leave, wondering what might be on Masterpiece Mystery!, when I noticed the beautifully dressed woman hanging back, making sure everyone else had left before approaching the signing table. She looked vaguely familiar, like someone I might have seen in the news. Not in a big movie star way but in a supporting cast way. She’d been browsing the stacks, pretending interest in a book about how to catch giant fish, which made me guess she was waiting to talk to me privately.
Inwardly I sighed. This could only be one of those persons wanting an introduction to my agent or my editor or my publisher or the entire team up there in New York because they had a terrific idea they knew would make a bestselling book and perhaps I could help them write it.
‘Hi,’ she said. She was not holding a copy of my book for me to sign so we were not off to a great start.
‘Hi,’ I said warily.
‘I was confused about the dates and I thought tonight was when Bridget Carlisle would be here.’ Bridget, for the few of you reading this who have not heard of her, which means you have been shipwrecked for twenty years on a remote island, is the bestselling author of what used to be called bodice rippers and are now called women’s romance fiction, with clinch covers suggesting a very bad date getting worse by the minute. You’ve seen the kind of thing: a man who has spent far too much time in the gym crushing a scantily clad woman to his chest. This generally happens, for reasons best known to publishers and their marketing teams, in an historical setting which varies with the current trends. At the moment Vikings were all the rage. Next year it would be pilgrims, which might present a challenge to the cover artists, since scantily clad pilgrims are generally thin on the ground.
It’s difficult for me to talk about this because Bridget Carlisle outsells me by zillions of copies on her worst day and has become a legend in the publishing industry – as well as in her own mind. We nod and smile cordially at one another with what I assume is mutual loathing when we happen to cross paths at writers’ events, but she tends to stick to the romance reader events and I to the mystery reader ones so there’s little crossover except for the panels covering romantic suspense. Think Rebecca but with fewer clothes.
