Crime and Publishing: Luxe paperback

I spoke into my phone to send a reply to Bree, then looked up with a start as my head slammed into the roof of the car.

“I may be blind, but I’m pretty sure we’re no longer driving on a road.”

“Relax, gorgeous.” The world’s foremost criminal mastermind leaned over the wheel as the tiny electric car bumped down a terrifyingly steep slope. “I am in complete control of this vehicle.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I muttered as we lurched to the side, our wheels spinning on the slick ground beneath us.

“Arf!” Oscar rested his head on my knees and placed his paw on my arm, trying to calm me down.

Calm? What was calm? I hadn’t been calm since the day I received the letter inviting me to the famous Meddleworth House Crime Writers Retreat – but that was more due to excitement than my current state of terror for my life. I finished my first manuscript a few months ago and I’d been reading and rereading it, trying to make it perfect. That and wandering aimlessly around Nevermore Bookshop, running my fingers along the spines of my favorite books and imagining my own work joining their ranks.

I, Mina Wilde, former fashion designer, bookstore coowner, mystery solver extraordinaire, vampire-slayer, lover of three fictional men, and blind girl about town, was on a mission to become a published author.

Hopefully.

If I could impress Hugh Briston this week.

Hugh Briston was the managing editor of Red Herring Press and the expert on British crime writing. One word from Briston to the literary community would make or break a crime writer. I wanted him to make me.

Which was why I was so desperate to impress him on the retreat. My three boyfriends decided to come along to Meddleworth House to keep me company. When I would be busy in the daily writing and critique sessions, Morrie would be at the spa getting scrubbed, wrapped, and rubbed. Heathcliff would be in the library glowering at anyone who dared disturb his calm. And Quoth would be taking a painting class in the art studio, getting ideas for his own gallery, and chatting with the (hopefully) friendly local ravens.

They’d been almost as excited about the trip as me, which was why Morrie in his infinite wisdom decided that he would finally go and get his driver’s license so he could drive us to the estate in style. He was so proud of his new car – a cute little Nissan Leaf – but so far we’d all refused to get inside with him on account of the stack of speeding and parking tickets that have darkened Nevermore’s letterbox since he got it.

But Meddleworth was in the middle of nowhere in Yorkshire, so we didn’t have a choice. We crammed the four of us, our overnight bags, my laptop and Braille note, Quoth’s art supplies, and Oscar into the tiny car and set off with a due sense of trepidation.

The drive had been relatively uneventful so far, but that might have been because I was sitting in the front seat and I no longer had enough vision left to see how fast we were going or how many near misses we had. But even I knew that when Morrie declared, “This is a shortcut to the manor,” and turned down a steep dirt track, we were in trouble.

“Morrie, there’s a river,” Quoth’s voice trembled from the backseat, where he was balancing a box of paints in his lap. “You’re driving us directly into a river.”

“Good.” I heard Heathcliff turn a page in his book. “If I drown, I won’t have to listen to any more of Mina’s playlist.”

“This is Lydia Lunch’s Queen of Siam album,” I shot back. “It’s highly influential for combining jazz with punk—”

“To create junk?”

Morrie laughed.

“You’re such a heathen,” I glowered over my shoulder at him. “What do you want to put on next, then? Some Madrigal Singers? Kate Bush screaming about your dead girlfriend—”

“Guys, the river!” Quoth’s voice wobbled.

The car bounced over something hard and launched into the air. I cried out as we jiggled several times, kicking up river stones as we hurtled toward doom.

“Don’t worry,” Morrie said with way more confidence than he should possess at this moment. “The guy who sold me this car said it could go anywhere. We’ll be fine.”

“Did he say it had sails?” Heathcliff asked in a bored voice. “Because you should unfurl them now.”

Oscar whimpered as the car hit the ground again and juddered over the rough earth. I became aware of the roar of moving water somewhere nearby. I leaned down and punched the button to raise my window.

“Morrie, are you sure this is the right way—”

“Hold your breath!” Quoth yelled. “We’re going in!”

“Relax,” Morrie grumbled. “Everything is !—”

His words cut off with a yell as the car plowed into a raging river.

Nevermore Bookshop Mysteries
Book 1 - A Dead and Stormy Night
Book 2 - Of Mice and Murder
Book 3 - Pride and Premeditation
Book 4 - Memoirs of a Garroter
Book 5 - Prose and Cons
Book 6 - A Novel Way to Die
Book 7 - Much Ado About Murder
Book 8 - Crime and Publishing
Book 9 - Plot and Bothered
Novella - How Heathcliff Stole Christmas