Jonathon shook his hand. “I recall your name from the program. You also write murder mysteries.” He didn’t miss the appreciative gleam in Mike’s eyes.
Phil nodded enthusiastically. “I’m on the fourth book in a series.”
“Though whether he writes them is debatable,” Teresa muttered under her breath.
Phil flashed her a scowl but quickly schooled his features. “I’m really looking forward to the festival. It’s the first time I’ve attended one.” He retook his seat.
“And we’re glad to have you.” Heather beamed. She smiled at the petite woman next to him. “You must be Melody Richards.”
Melody returned her smile. “It’s my first literary festival too. I’m quite excited. It’s going to be—”
“When you’ve done as many conventions and book signings as I have,” Teresa interjected, “it gets to be old hat, especially when you meet so many fans. Although I don’t suppose you have that problem, do you, dear?”
Jonathon blinked, as did a couple of the seated guests. He threw Mike a puzzled glance, but Mike gave a quick shrug. Apparently, he found Teresa’s behavior as bewildering as Jonathon did.
“I’m not late, am I?” An elderly man with thinning white hair joined them.
“Not at all,” Jonathon said warmly. “And you are…?”
“Professor Lionel Harcourt.” He extended his hand and gave Jonathon’s a vigorous shaking. “I would have been here earlier, but my taxi was delayed for some reason.”
Mike smiled. “There aren’t that many taxis in Merrychurch, and I’d bet they’ve been kept busy this evening.” He held out his hand. “Mike Tattersall, professor. We’ve never met, but I’m aware of your reputation. I used to be in the Met.”
Professor Harcourt beamed. “Oh, how wonderful. An ex-colleague.”
“Hardly that, but I did hear you giving evidence in several trials.”
He chuckled. “I may have done that on a few occasions.”
“Nice to see you again, Professor.” Teresa gave him a polite, tight smile.
Professor Harcourt reciprocated with a courteous nod. “Ms. Malvain.” He glanced around the table, smiling. “Well, this is delightful.” He pulled out a chair and sat down. “So how many other people at this table are authors?” Phil and Melody raised their hands, and Professor Harcourt beamed again. “Since my retirement, I’ve become an avid reader. I look forward to chatting with all of you.” He sighed. “You have no idea how many times I’ve been approached by publishing companies with a view to writing about my career as a forensic pathologist, but I’m afraid I have no such aspirations. I don’t know how you writers do it. I used to hate writing my reports.” The professor peered at Fiona. “Your face is familiar. Where do I know you from?”
“I run the Teresa Malvain Fan Club.”
He nodded. “That’s it. Your picture is on the site.”
“You’re a fan?” Mike appeared surprised.
“Certainly. I love a good murder mystery. Not that authors get it right all the time.” His eyes sparkled. “But I’ll talk more about that at the festival.”
“What’s that, Ms. Malvain?” One of the guests pointed to a large book sitting on the table next to Teresa’s place setting.
She patted it. “That is my notebook. It goes where I go, and with good reason. When you have a memory as cluttered as mine, it pays to write everything down.”
“Isn’t that what phones are for?” Melody inquired. “I just make a voice recording if I get an idea.”
Teresa’s smile was nothing more than a stretching of her lips. “Which is all well and good, but can we rely on technology? Batteries run out. Phones stop working. As Mark Twain said, ‘The dullest pencil is better than the sharpest memory.’ Which is why my notebook never leaves my side. One never knows when inspiration will strike, when a new idea for a book will suddenly flash into one’s mind.”
Melody Richards cleared her throat. “You shouldn’t believe everything you read on Twitter. Mark Twain didn’t say that—it’s actually a Chinese proverb. ‘The faintest ink is more powerful than the strongest memory.’” Her smile matched Teresa’s perfectly.
Teresa’s eyes flashed, but she said nothing. Mike’s gaze met Jonathon’s, and he mouthed ouch.
The waiters appeared, armed with the starters, and for a while the conversation dried up a little as the guests ate. Yet more waiters circled, pouring wine.
Beside him, Heather nudged Jonathon. “This is wonderful,” she said quietly.
“I’m glad you like it,” he replied warmly. She seemed more relaxed than the previous evening, thankfully, although she kept glancing in Teresa’s direction, the faintest frown in evidence.
Jonathon could understand that. There was an atmosphere around the table, and he had no doubt as to what—or rather, who—had caused it. He made a mental note to discuss it with Mike later that night.
“I’m sure you must get asked this all the time,” Mike began, looking at Teresa. “Where do you get your ideas from?”
Teresa wiped her lips with her napkin and sat back in her chair. “You’re right. I do get asked that a lot.” Polite laughter rippled around the table. “Do you know what the hardest part of my job is? Weaving plot lines. And I’ll let you into a little secret.” She leaned forward conspiratorially, and Jonathon was amused to watch most of the people seated around her mimicking her action. “I hate writing plots.”
Chuckles broke out at this, while waiters collected plates and whisked them away.
“But isn’t that part and parcel of being a murder-mystery writer?” Fiona inquired.
Teresa shrugged. “Yes, but I’m basically a lazy person. Besides, I don’t have to come up with new ideas all the time.” She flung out her arm. “There’s a rich vein out there in the real world. Cold cases. Real cases. One has only to find them.”
“But then… it’s not original.” Mike was frowning.
“Oh, I don’t write all my books based exactly on real-life cases,” Teresa remonstrated. “In fact, I’ve only ever done that once. Or should I say, I’ve planned to do that. Isn’t that right, Professor?” Before he could respond, she plowed ahead. “I do a lot of research into police cases. In fact, sometimes I feel my research is more thorough than the original investigation.”
“The police might disagree with you on that point,” Mike muttered. He took a sip from his wineglass and leaned back, regarding her thoughtfully. “Let me ask you something. Supposing in the course of your research, you turn up something that the police missed. Maybe there was a miscarriage of justice. Maybe they got the wrong man. What would you do? Would you have a moral obligation to share it with the police? Because if they reopened the case, it would be all over the media, and there goes your book.” He tilted his head to one side. “Or would you just write it and be damned, letting the criminal walk free?”
Jonathon knew Mike well enough to know he wasn’t happy about the latter. He regarded Teresa with interest, awaiting her response.