Nice Weekend for a Murder Read Free Page A

role model being John Simon), Rath was the editor and publisher of
The Mystery Chronicler
, published out of his home in Albany. This monthly magazine, famed for its in-depth interviews with mystery writers and its scholarly, yet entertaining, articles about the classic writers of both the drawing-room and tough-guy schools ofmystery fiction, had been the surprise publishing success of the mystery world in recent years. Starting as a fanzine,
The Mystery Chronicler
had spread to the mystery bookstores and now was circulated to several of the major bookstore chains.
    More important, it was widely circulated to libraries, and was having a big impact on which mysteries got bought by the libraries themselves, which, of course, was the major market for most hardcover mysteries.
    For all its distinctions, however,
The Mystery Chronicler
was best known for one thing: the articulate but mean-spirited, often viciously personal criticism written by smug young Kirk Rath himself. Rath was currently tied up in no less than three libel cases, all stemming from his personal attacks upon various mystery writers.
    “Brother,” I said. “I don’t know if I share Curt’s sense of humor on that one. Every guest he’s invited has reason to hate Rath.”
    “Including you.”
    “Yeah, he’s fileted me a few times. And you, too.”
    “He
really
hates my work,” Tom said, rolling his eyes. “ ‘Sardini also writes adult westerns. Perhaps the prolific Mr. Sardini should stick to sagebrush and sex; his private-eye “yawn” features a dim-witted detective who may be the most singularly uninteresting character in mystery fiction.’ ”
    “Don’t tell me you memorize bad reviews.”
    “They sear into my brain like a branding iron, as we cowboy writers from Brooklyn like to say. So... what did Rath say about you, Mal?”
    “Which time?”
    “Last time.”
    “I don’t remember.”
    “Try.”
    “Umm, it might’ve been something like ‘Mallory writes fictionalized accounts of real-life cases, and this latest is his most unengaging, unconvincing mock-up of all—thin on character, weak on basic storytelling skills.’ ”
    “Yeah,” Tom said. “I don’t let bad reviews get to me, either.”
    Jill came over with our room key and said, “We’re on the ground floor. I’d been hoping for one of those rooms with balconies and a view, but what the hell.”
    “I’m just down the hall from you,” Tom said to her as he and I stood. “So my view isn’t any better.”
    “Maybe Kirk Rath’ll let us borrow his view,” I said. “No matter what floor he’s on, it’s bound to be aloof.”
    “The room’s this way,” Jill said, gesturing; she’d had enough snappy patter and milling around. “I want to freshen up before dinner.”
    We told Tom we’d see him in the dining hall, and I followed Jill around a corner, down a wide corridor, subdued wallpaper and polished woodwork all around; it was one of those endless halls like in the movie version of
The Shining
(Stephen King again—he’s everywhere) and I half expected that little kid to come pedaling his Big Wheel around the corner at us.
    But he didn’t and we finally found our room—64—and Jill worked the key in the lock, saying, “Tom seems like a nice guy.”
    “Yeah, sure,” I said. “And he’s probably written another book since we saw him last.”
    We stepped inside. The room was small—make that cozy—but it had its own polished-wood and brick fireplace with a fresh supply of firewood nearby. Our bags awaited us as well. The walls were papered in vertical stripes of yellow shades and the ceiling was high and the window looked out on a patchof snowy ground beyond which was the white frozen lake. A wooden, Japanese-style walkway bridge spanned a near section of the lake, from one ledge of rock to another, with a gazebo at midway point; the wooden bridge did not at all obscure the view of the lake, beyond which rock ledges rose, as well as towering evergreens,