“This is impossible,” I said.
“Unlikely,” she said.“But, as it turns out, not quite impossible.”
She looked exactly the way I remembered her: hair a tasteful blond, medium length and layered and curled until it was practically a helmet; good skin; piercing blue eyes.She wore buff-colored trousers and a red silk blouse.I remembered, vaguely, reading in an interview that she wore red when she wanted to “pop” on TV.
Vivienne Carver, the Matron of Murder.
“Shall we sit?”she said and gestured toward a pair of chairs set against the far wall.When I didn’t say anything, she laughed and took my arm.I flinched, but her touch was light, almost nothing through the sleeve of my jacket.She led me across the gallery.
The phraselike a lamb to the slaughtercame to mind.
“I gave a lecture here once,” Vivienne said.“It was just an event the college put on, but back in those days, any event I did drew looky-loos.I believe I talked about the role of good and evil in mystery fiction.I suppose that’s ironic in hindsight, but let enough time pass, and almost everything is ironic or meaningless or simply tired.I solved a murder, too.There was a creative writing professor.The department secretary was in love with him.He was having an affair with another faculty member.The secretary killed her.If I remember correctly, the final piece of the puzzle had something to do with credit cards, although I have to admit, it’s been a long time.”
“What are you doing here?”And then, because I couldn’t stop the words, “You can’t be here.”
“I’m doing the neighborly thing, Dashiell.Dash.I’m saying hello.”
“You’re saying hello?”A laugh worked its way out of me—a little too high-pitched to be normal.“What is going on?What is this?Is this a nightmare?Am I having a fever dream?”
Vivienne watched me with those bright blue eyes.
“Are you here to kill me?Are you here for your revenge?”I glanced around, but for some reason, Bobby hadn’t miraculously appeared.“If you’re thinking about some sort of comeuppance—”
“Nothing of the sort!”Her voice had a kind of teasing outrage, like we were friends, and she couldn’t believe what I’d said—and wasn’t I being such a silly goose?“Dashiell—Dash—nothing could be further from the truth.I know that in the past we’ve found ourselves at odds.But what you did for my brother—that was a great kindness.”
It hadn’t felt like a kindness, though.Not to me.
“Let’s put the rest of it behind us, shall we?”Vivienne asked.
That laugh—so high it was almost a whinny—escaped me again.“Sure.Sounds great.Why aren’t you in prison?”
“A pardon,” she said with a small smile.“There’s something to be said for playing both sides of the aisle.Generous donations.A word in the right ear.That kind of thing.”
There was actually, literally, no way for me to wrap my mind aroundthat.A pardon?For a woman who had killed—God, how many people had she killed?How many lives had she ruined?
“Do you know Graeme?”She nodded across the gallery at a man with thinning blond hair, glasses, and a red-cheeked stoutness that didn’t quite make him jolly.
She waited until I said, “No.”
“You should, dear.He’s a very useful person to know.”
“Vivienne—”
“He organizes Northern Noir.”
“Vivienne, I don’t care—”
“Very accommodating when I asked to attend after registration had closed.”
“Gee,” I said.“I wonder why.”
“He does some editing—it wouldn’t hurt you to have another proofreader.Used to have a small press, Doorstopper—niche crime fiction, that kind of thing.And if you wanted someone to help you with your story structure—”
“I don’t,” I bit out.“I’m good, thanks.”
Vivienne’s smile could have meant anything.“Belated congratulations on the success of your novel, by the way.It’s wonderful.A playful engagement with the past, like your previous work.But a good story, too.A great story.And that, of course, is what people want to read.I knew you had talent.And self-published!That wasn’t an option when I was getting started, but it hasn’t done you any harm.Although Iwouldbe wary of that young man who works in television.That’s a different game, and they play by different rules—Hollywood is even worse.I’d suggest not continuing that conversation unless you have your agent with you.”
“I don’thavean agent,” I said.“That’s why I self-published.And what is happening right now?”
