Page 1 of A Very Bookish Murder (Ally McKinley Mystery #3)
ONE
Snow might still have been lingering on the mountaintops in the Western Highlands of Scotland, but further down the valley in the sleepy village of Locharran, the earth had sprung to life once more, with wildflowers blooming in the warm sunshine, and, best of all as far as Ally McKinley was concerned, guests !
The great British public were on the move again after the soggy, unsettled Easter weather, and Ally had reopened The Auld Malthouse B her friendship with Magda, the earl’s wife; and, not least, her friendship with the earl himself, Hamish Sinclair.
Ally and her old malthouse had done well last year, and she was determined to build on that and make it the best little B this year it’s Locharran.
They have lectures, writing exercises, et cetera, with the ultimate aim of becoming published authors. You know the sort of thing?’
‘Not really,’ Ally admitted.
‘It’s an excuse to join up with other like-minded women and have a holiday at the same time. Every year they invite a published author to join them to lead the workshops and share their wisdom, and the star of the show this year is Jodi Jones.’
‘I know Jodi Jones’s books! I’ve read several,’ Ally exclaimed. ‘And I love them – they’re very racy.’ She paused. ‘I have one double and two twin-bedded rooms. Will that do, do you think?’
Desdemona nodded. ‘Jodi’ll need a room to herself, of course, and the other four will share the other two rooms.’
‘Where do you come into all of this?’ Ally asked, looking at Desdemona quizzically.
‘Jodi and I knew each other at university, along with Penelope,’ Desdemona replied.
‘Jodi went on to study literature and became a successful writer, while I concentrated on my art. Penelope read history, but it was always horses and rich, aristocratic men that really interested her! But we’ve all stayed in touch.
There are thirteen in the group altogether, and the others will be staying at the Craigmonie Hotel, where the writing retreat will be taking place, but they didn’t have enough rooms for them all. ’
‘Thirteen?’ Ally raised an eyebrow. ‘I hope that’s not going to be an unlucky number!’
‘Nonsense!’ said Desdemona. ‘Of course not.’
The ladies had duly arrived on the Sunday evening.
Jodi Jones, the well-known writer, was a tall, attractive woman in her sixties, with a long scarf draped artfully around her neck.
The leader of the group, Penelope Fortescue-Rawlins, was a hearty woman with a very loud voice and a very upper-crust accent.
Then there was Joyce Williams, also tall, white-haired and intense; along with Millie Day, fiftyish, small and mousy in appearance; plus Brigitte Atkins, who was French, married to an Englishman and, in her forties, considerably younger than the others.
Prompted by Jodi and encouraged by the others, it was this little group that invited Ally, on their first evening together, to join them at the Craigmonie Hotel the following afternoon to see what their group was all about and to listen to Jodi’s first talk.
And so, at precisely five minutes to three that following afternoon, Ally found herself amidst thirteen women of various shapes and sizes, only five of whom she knew slightly.
Callum Dalrymple, the manager of the Craigmonie, had allocated them the Garden Room, which was a comfortable size for a dozen or so people and had a wall of glass doors looking out onto the garden, towards the river.
She’d picked up a leaflet which listed all the ladies, where they came from and what they wrote.
Her own five had proved to be ideal guests so far, all having settled for continental breakfast and leaving tidy rooms, much to the relief of Morag McConnachie, Ally’s cleaner.
Morag lived in the village with her husband, Murdo, who was the postman, and between them, they knew all the gossip and goings-on in Locharran.
Before Ally had time to study the list in detail, Jodi arrived with clipboard and notes, calling out, ‘As Ally McKinley is our honoured guest, she must sit in the front row.’ There followed some applause, although eight of these women hadn’t the faintest idea who she was.
Ally, having hoped to remain inconspicuous at the back, was now persuaded to move forward and found herself next to a slim, pretty woman with red hair and an Irish accent.
‘You’re goin’ to enjoy this,’ the woman prophesied.
Jodi was attired in a blue linen maxi dress, with a very beautiful long, blue-and-green silk scarf around her neck. What was it about this woman and her scarves? Ally wondered. It must obviously be her signature look, she decided.
‘We’d also particularly like to welcome Della Moran,’ Jodi continued, ‘who is new to our group and has come all the way from Northern Ireland.’ She indicated the red-haired woman next to Ally. More applause.
Everyone had pens, notebooks and eager expressions. Ally had never thought about writing and wondered if this experience might possibly convert her.
‘God, I’d kill for that scarf!’ murmured Della Moran.
‘Me too!’ agreed Ally. ‘It’s really beautiful.’ She looked sideways at Della. ‘And it would look great on you with your red hair.’
Ally had had auburn locks herself at one time, but the approaching grey now necessitated some expensive highlights and lowlights. Nevertheless, a fabulous scarf like that would make a very eye-catching addition to her wardrobe.
Jodi cleared her throat, waved her pen in the air and began to talk.
She spoke eloquently about writing in general, about her online critiques for aspiring writers, and about publishing and publishers, that ultimate aim.
All went well for about forty minutes until Jodi began to speak about original ideas.
‘It’s so important you come up with some new ideas, something original that no one else has thought of. ’
Suddenly Della, the red-haired Irish lady, stood up and shouted, ‘That’s all very well, Jodi Jones, but I am here to accuse you of downright plagiarism! Your latest novel, Love Bites , is almost a replica of my book, Crossed Swords , which was published four years ago!’
For a moment, there was a horrified silence, then mayhem ensued.
‘Nonsense!’ some of the women called out.
‘Jealousy!’ shouted some others.
‘No,’ said Della firmly, ‘if you bothered to read these books, you’d see exactly what I mean.’
‘Don’t be so bloody ridiculous,’ Jodi said. ‘You’re grasping at straws, Della Moran. Just because my book sold and yours did not !’
Everyone was on their feet now, the class in chaos, but no one was able to stop Della Moran, who was still in full flow. ‘Everyone who read my book has commented on how you copied my story! Everyone !’
‘We haven’t come all this way to hear you two arguing,’ Penelope shouted in her clipped, authoritative tone, coming round to stand between Della and Jodi.
Jodi, breathing heavily, called out, ‘Let’s take a coffee break, everyone.
Miss Moran here has, for reasons of her own, disrupted this class with her ridiculous claims. We all need to calm down and’ – here she consulted her watch – ‘I suggest we reconvene in twenty minutes at four o’clock.
’ With a look of pure hatred at Della, she turned and marched out of the room.
Now everyone was on their feet, voices raised, questioning, horrified. All attention was focussed on Della Moran, who, far from being in any way repentant, was standing in front of the group where Jodi had just been.
‘She copied my bloody plot, and the only reason I’m here today is to expose her for what she is. And how many other authors’ plots has she stolen? I’m here to tell you that this is what she does !’
There were gasps all round. Of belief or disbelief? Ally wondered.
‘No, no, she writes great books!’ someone said.
‘I love her books!’ said someone else.
At this point, two waiters came hurriedly in, looking a little bemused, with pots of tea, coffee and biscuits. There was a rush towards both the refreshments and the ladies’ room, everyone chatting animatedly and excitedly.
It was one of her guests, Joyce Williams, who nudged Ally. ‘I bet you didn’t expect things to be this lively,’ she said.
Ally certainly hadn’t but, not having read Della’s book, was in no position to comment.
Slowly, everyone began to gravitate back towards their seats, balancing cups and saucers, waiting expectantly for Jodi’s return and, hopefully, some more exciting revelations.
But after fifteen minutes there was still no sign of Jodi.
Ally reckoned she’d probably gone through to the bar for a stiff drink, and who could blame her?
They waited and they waited. Della was still surrounded by some excited women and appeared to be in her element.
‘This is the woman who’s charging you a fortune to come up here, mainly to flog her own bloody books and which are full of other people’s ideas because she hasn’t got any of her own! ’ Della said, loudly and clearly.
Ally decided this might be a good time to make her escape. She could make the excuse that she was checking on Jodi’s whereabouts, and then slip quietly away.
‘I’m going to check on Jodi,’ she called out to Joyce, who was standing nearby with Penelope and Millie next to the biscuits. ‘I have to say that this has been more interesting than I could ever have imagined!’
They giggled. ‘I bet she’s having a drink in the bar,’ Joyce said, echoing Ally’s thoughts. ‘I’ll come with you.’
Ally first glanced into the bar to see if Jodi had opted to go there, but there was no sign of her. She then pushed the door of the ladies’ room open, followed by Joyce, but the place appeared to be empty. There were four cubicles, but one was closed with an ‘Out of Order’ sign hanging on the door.
‘She’s hardly likely to be in there!’ Joyce said.
Nevertheless, Ally gave the door a push because it didn’t appear to be locked and, just at first, it wouldn’t open. There seemed to be some obstacle behind it. When, with much effort, she, together with Joyce, succeeded in pushing the door half open, they saw the cause of this impediment.
There, in a heap on the floor, with that beautiful scarf bound tightly round her neck, was Jodi Jones.