Literally Dead: Empty Nest Mysteries, #2

About Literally Dead

An Empty Nest Mystery

By Lois Winston

After her last disastrous episode as an amateur sleuth, Gracie Elliott is back. The budding romance writer has spent the past year crafting her first novel. Her hard work and determination pay off when her manuscript wins the Cream of the Crop award, a contest for unpublished writers, sponsored by the Society of American Romance Authors. First place entitles her to attend the organization’s annual conference, normally open only to published authors.

With husband Blake in tow, a starry-eyed Gracie experiences the ultimate fan-girl moment upon entering the hotel. Her favorite authors are everywhere. However, within minutes she learns Lovinia Darling, the Queen of Romance, is hardly the embodiment of the sweet heroines she creates. Gracie realizes she’s stepped into a romance vipers’ den of backstabbing, deceit, and plagiarism, but she finds a friend and mentor in bestselling author Paisley Prentiss.

Hours later, when Gracie discovers Lovinia’s body in the hotel stairwell, a victim of an apparent fall, Gracie is not convinced her death was an accident. Too many other authors had reason to want Lovinia dead. Ignoring Blake’s advice to let the police handle it, Gracie, aided by Paisley, begins her own investigation into the death. Romance has never been so deadly.

Literally Dead

An Empty Nest Mystery

By Lois Winston

Praise for Definitely Dead

An Empty Nest Mystery, Book One

Definitely Dead, the first in award-winning author Lois Winston’s Empty Nest series, is a real hoot with likeable characters and imaginative plotting that’s sure to resonate with people of a certain age. I can’t wait to see what trouble Gracie (and Blake) gets into in book two! — Suspense Magazine

Copyright

Literally Dead copyright 2016 by Lois Winston. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, locations, or events is coincidental or fictionalized.

Cover design by L. Winston

Acknowledgments

Enormous thanks to Donnell Bell and Irene Peterson for their critiquing and editing skills.

ONE

The wheels of my suitcase couldn’t spin fast enough as I pushed through the revolving door of the Crown Jewel Hotel in midtown Manhattan. Once inside the lobby, I stopped short and gazed awestruck, soaking in the writerly atmosphere. My heart pounded so fast I could hear it reverberating in my ears. Or maybe that was the din of the voices from hundreds of romance authors filling the forty-story marble and glass atrium.

My eyes bugged out as I scoped the room. Oh my God, Blake! I reached for my husband’s hand and squeezed it. That’s Liz Phillips, I released my grip on my suitcase handle and pointed in the direction of the bar off to my right. And Elise Robertson.

Friends of yours? asked my husband.

I wish! They’re two of the most successful romance writers in the world. I can’t believe I’m standing only a few yards away from them! Talk about a fan girl moment! One more superstar sighting and I just might need a brown paper bag to ward off imminent hyperventilation.

Hurry! I pulled him along, nearly tripping over my Kate Spades as I race-walked toward the shortest of several lines that serpentined from the hotel registration desk around the chic silver, white, and gray lobby.

Blake grabbed me, preventing me from executing a face plant. Then he spun me around and settled his hands on my shoulders. Lowering his head until our foreheads nearly touched, he said, I know you’re excited, Gracie, but take a deep breath. Slow down. The conference doesn’t start for several hours. You’re not going to miss anything.

I humored him by continuing at a jog instead of a sprint until I reached the back of the line. I can’t believe I’m here! I squealed, bouncing on the balls of my feet.

A year of slaving over my manuscript had finally paid off. Just think, by this time next year I’ll probably be returning as Gracie Elliott, published romance author.

Don’t you mean Emma Carlyle?

Right. Sorry. Since Blake didn’t think the stuffy old academics of the university governing board would take too kindly to a faculty wife writing sensuous romances—not that my writing rose anywhere near Fifty Shades level—I’d promised to publish under a pseudonym. Thus, Gracie Elliott would become Emma Carlyle on bookstore shelves.

Besides, aren’t you forgetting something?

Like what?

You need to sell your book first.

Leave it to Mr. Logical to burst my bubble. Yes, of course, but I’m sure I’ll have plenty of offers here at the conference. After all, I’m the winner of the Society of American Romance Author’s Cream of the Crop writing competition. That’s a huge award. You should be excited for me, Blake. And proud of my accomplishment.

I am excited for you, sweetheart, and I’ve always been proud of you. You’re the most amazing woman I’ve ever met. You set yourself a goal, and you work until you accomplish it. He pecked my cheek. I just don’t want to see you disappointed.

Why would I be disappointed? You just said I always accomplish my goals, didn’t you?

Yes, but some goals take longer than others. Did winning this contest guarantee you a publishing contract?

No, but—

The win gives you the opportunity to attend this writing conference, nothing more. Let’s keep everything in perspective, okay?

Fine. But you’re going to eat those practical words of yours by the end of these three days.

I’d love nothing better than to see you prove me wrong.

We inched our way up in line. Notice anything odd? he asked above the cacophony of conversations around us.

I glanced up at my husband, then around the massive lobby. Odd? Although this was my first writing conference, I’d attended my share of business conferences and conventions over the years. Prior to the industry downsizing that outsourced my job as a fabric designer overseas and left me jobless and pension-less, I’d spent many hours cooling my Kate Spades and Christian Louboutins in long, slow-moving hotel check-in lines. Not really.

It’s a veritable estrogen brigade here, Gracie!  My normally unflappable husband suddenly looked like the clueless hero of a fish-out-of-water romance novel.

I did notice several women eyeing Blake. Nothing new there. Heads always turn when we enter a room, but never in my direction. Women always zero in on Blake, especially widows, divorcees, and campus coeds. With the exception of his shock of silver hair, my middle-aged husband could pass for Hugh Jackman. I needed Wolverine claws to fend off some of the more aggressive ones. Most of them probably think you’re an agent or a publisher, I said. And that I’m your assistant, I added to myself.

Not that I have low self-esteem. I’m simply bowing to the obvious. I’m not bad looking, just your average middle-aged woman—average height, average figure, average brown hair. My one outstanding feature is that I have one green eye and one blue eye, like Gracie Allen, which is what first caught Blake’s attention. He was researching early nineteen-fifties television at the time, and I reminded him of the late comedienne in both looks and mannerisms. Except Gracie Allen was acting. My sometimes harebrained, scatterbrained nature is ingrained in my DNA.

Blake, on the other hand, is so far above average, he resides on another planet in a galaxy far, far away—an invitation-only planet reserved strictly for celebrities and guys who resemble celebrities.

My husband speared me with The Look, the expression he reserves for those times when I ramble to the tune of my own off-key, off-kilter symphony. Are you sure we’re at the right hotel? This looks more like a Mary Kay convention than a writing conference. Where are all the men?

I see men. I motioned around the lobby. Two reservation clerks behind the desk, one at the concierge station, three bellhops—

"You know what I mean. Male authors."

I rolled my eyes. My husband might be brilliant when it comes to his own field of expertise—twentieth century culture and counterculture and its influences on the media—but he obviously knew nothing about twenty-first century romance fiction, a field dominated by women. I shrugged. At the thriller writers and sci-fi writers’ conferences?

She’s right, said someone behind us. Very few men write romance.

Blake and I turned to face the woman who belonged to the voice and who had obviously been eavesdropping on our conversation. She sported a chestnut pixie haircut streaked with silver and a smattering of fine laugh lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth.

OMG! I recognized her immediately. A third romance superstar, and this one was standing right behind me and speaking to us! My jaw flapped open and closed several times before words spilled out. Finally, I said, You’re Paisley Prentiss!

She held her hand out to me. Guilty.

I grabbed her hand in both of mine and gave it an enthusiastic shake. I’m a huge fan! I’ve read all your books.

Thank you. And you are?

Gracie Elliott.

She smiled, her laugh lines deepening as she extricated her hand. First-timer?

Did I have a bright red neon Romance Writer Wannabe sign flashing above my head? Is it that obvious?

She cocked her head toward Blake. Husband?

I nodded. Blake Elliott.

Paisley chuckled. Dead giveaway. Most of us leave our spouses at home. They tend to get in the way of our fun.

Blake shot me The Look.

I wanted him here to see me accept the Cream of the Crop Award, I said.

Congratulations. I remember my first contest win. It was very exciting.

Did you sell your book as a result of winning a contest? asked Blake.

Heavens, no! Writing contests are a way for writers to gain feedback and hone their skills. They rarely result in anything beyond that.

Really? My heart plummeted to my toes. But won’t I meet agents and editors here? Shouldn’t they want to read my book?

Some might, but don’t give up hope if no one does.

But—

She placed her hand on my upper arm. It’s a process, Gracie, usually a very long process. I wrote for ten years before I sold my first book.

"You? But you’re Paisley Prentiss. Your romantic comedies are a constant fixture on the New York Times bestseller list."

And once upon a time I stood here just like you—wide-eyed and hopeful—until the reality of the publishing industry smacked me upside the head. Rejection happens. A lot. Even to published authors. Those who eventually succeed do so because they don’t give up. The trick is to keep writing. Keep learning. Keep submitting your work. If you’re lucky, someday your efforts will pay off, and you’ll sell your first book.

Someday? I don’t have someday. I’m forty-seven years old and unemployed with two kids in college and a husband whose professor salary doesn’t begin to allow us to think about a comfortable retirement, let alone pay for my designer shoes and handbag addiction.

To his credit Blake refrained from saying, I told you so, but I knew he was thinking it. Instead, he wrapped his arm around my shoulders and changed the subject. So, Paisley, you say there are no male romance writers? What about all those sappy tearjerkers I’ve seen in bookstores over the years?

Which ones?

Blake thought for a moment. There’s that one about the covered bridges in Iowa. And the one where it turns out the wife has dementia. Weren’t they written by men?

Yes, but those books aren’t romances.

Blake scoffed. Of course they are.

Paisley shook her head and held up a finger. "First rule of romance: the story must have an HEA."

HEA?

Happily ever after, I informed my husband.

Those guys don’t write HEA, explained Paisley. Someone always winds up leaving or dying. Or leaving, then dying.

Blake wasn’t buying it. "So you’re saying Romeo and Juliet isn’t a love story? I believe every Shakespearean scholar in the world would disagree with you."

Love story, yes. Romance, no.

Blake shrugged. Semantics.

No, there’s a big difference. At least in the publishing world.

I yanked on Blake’s sleeve. Stop arguing. This is Paisley Prentiss. She knows what she’s talking about.

There are a few male romance authors, Paisley continued. Some write in partnership with their wives; others write on their own. But they all write under pen names.

She pointed to a grouping of chairs a few feet from where we stood and whispered, See that dumpy old guy in the baggy jeans, suspenders, plaid shirt, and cowboy hat? He’s written over a hundred historical romances as Penelope McGregor.

"He’s Penelope McGregor?" I asked way too loudly. Several heads turned in my direction—including Penelope McGregor’s. Whoops! He skewered me with a killer scowl as he used a cane to heave his massive body out of the chair. I quickly looked away, but it was too late. The intense heat of embarrassment suffusing my face pegged me as the blurting culprit.

Hard to believe, isn’t it? asked Paisley as Penelope McGregor turned her—his—back on us and with great difficulty lumbered toward the bank of elevators.

I’ll say, I muttered. Given the level of steam in her—his—books, I expected Penelope McGregor to look more like the late Barbara Cartland than an eighty-year-old version of Southpark’s Eric Cartman.

He keeps his real name a closely guarded secret, said Paisley. Rumor has it he holds some highly sensitive government position and would lose his job if his bosses ever connected him to Penelope.

He’d have to present ID to check into the hotel, said my ever-logical husband.

Paisley shrugged. I suppose he’s got some way of working around that. Besides, the hotel would never divulge personal information about a guest to anyone.

Unless TMZ paid off a desk clerk, said Blake.

Paisley considered that for a moment. I don’t think TMZ is interested in romance authors. We’re not high enough up on the celebrity food chain for them.

Through my partially obstructed view, I continued to stare at Penelope McGregor’s back as he waited for an elevator. When the doors of the elevator directly in front of him opened, an extremely tall, overly Rubenesque woman exited, nearly barreling into him. When he refused to budge, instead of stepping around him, she stiff-armed him out of her way.

Penelope McGregor lost his balance and teetered backwards, his cowboy hat flying off his head. Several people behind him reached out and grabbed hold of his arms, preventing him from landing on his rump. Without so much as a glance in his direction, the woman who had pushed him stormed toward the registration desk.

Here comes trouble, said Paisley.

Isn’t that Lovinia Darling? I asked. Even though I hadn’t gotten a good look at her face, I recognized the trademark vintage Pucci attire and platinum beehive hairdo of the most famous of all living romance authors.

The devil herself.

The crowds had thinned as people crowded into several elevators. I watched as a younger woman who had followed behind Lovinia placed her hand on Penelope McGregor’s forearm and said something to him.

Although I couldn’t hear what she said, he answered her in a booming voice that filled the lobby. You should be ashamed of yourself, always making excuses for that woman.

Heads turned in their direction. A hush settled across the lobby, making her reply audible to those of us standing nearby. I didn’t mean—

He jerked his arm from her grasp. "Save it.