Everyone on This Train Is a Suspect

His cane was leaning on the seat next to him, and I could see now that the ornate topping was a gleaming silver falcon. He slugged from a similarly gleaming flask, produced from the inside chest pocket of his tweed jacket, often enough that I wondered why he bothered to screw the cap back on each time.

“Let’s start with you, Lisa.” Majors kicked off the interviews proper. “Your debut, the striking novel The Balance of Justice, was released twenty-one years ago. It was a worldwide phenomenon, breathing new life into the courtroom drama, and from a fresh female voice too. It’s still reprinting today! A lot of people, me included, have been clamoring for your next book. We’re set to finally get it this Christmas. Excuse my bluntness, but what took you so long?”

“Well, following up The Balance of Justice was a tricky thing.” Lisa spoke out to the crowd, and I noticed she’d put on a hint of fake radio-announcer voice. “Certain parts of that novel were maybe ahead of their time, and I think the world has finally caught up to the conversation I wanted to have about women and our rights.”

“Fascinating.” Majors had the air of someone reading ahead to the next question. “So it wasn’t the pressure of the follow-up? That didn’t contribute to the gap?”

“I get writer’s block like anybody,” Lisa said, but a little uncomfortably. “I wanted the right idea . . . but I can’t say that really influenced it. I wanted to be in the right space to publish again—writing a book is a soul-baring thing, as you’ll know. Besides, I think a good book is a good book, no matter how long it takes to write.”

“Kids didn’t derail you? I understand you’re a single mum, not long after your debut? A book baby and a real baby in the same year. Must have been tough.”

“I don’t think you’d ask a single dad that.” Lisa didn’t even bother painting on a smile. “I’d ask the other women here, but seems I’m the token guest on the panel. Shame, when we should be sticking together.”

Majors took the hint. “That’s a good opportunity to move on to our next guest. Ernest Cunningham, I guess you’re different from Lisa in a way: I don’t think anyone’s hanging out for your next book.”

This insult blindsided me, and I took a second to steady myself. “Um . . . well . . . I think people actually quite liked my first. I hope they might read another.”

Majors faked a droll laugh. “Of course, of course. I simply meant we’re all hoping you don’t have to write another book. Given what happened to you and, more importantly, those around you, the last time.”

“Oh, sorry,” I mumbled. There was a loud cough and I saw a plume of assumedly blueberry-scented smoke arise from the crowd. Beneath it, Simone tapped one hand under her chin and used the index finger on her other to trace a line across her cheek. She was telling me to look up, speak up and smile more. To an onlooker, however, it might have looked like she was slicing her finger across her neck. I forced some energy. “Absolutely, I wouldn’t wish to go through that again. Especially not for the same royalties!” Even Simone smiled at that. Relieved, I relaxed into the conversation. “I am writing though. I’m working on a novel.”

“Good luck,” Wolfgang said, in the not-quiet-enough way where his surprise that I’d heard him had to be completely faked.

“Tell me about it,” I agreed. “No one told me fiction would be this hard.”

“Harder for some,” Wolfgang said, and I realized his first comment had not been the self-deprecating alliance I’d taken it as.

“Excuse me?”

“Your book. Stranded on a mountain, a serial killer.” He wriggled his fingers as if describing a scary movie. “All very sensational. The kind of sordid stuff that sells a lot of books, I’m sure.”

“I wasn’t thinking about book sales at the time,” I said. “I was rather busy trying to stay alive.” This got a gentle laugh from the audience.

“Excellent deflection. Media training kicking in.”

“I’m sorry, are you accusing me of something?”

“Festivals welcome feisty conversation, but let’s keep things civil,” interjected our host.

“I mean no offense.” Wolfgang wasn’t even speaking to me. He was pandering to the crowd, like he was the narrator and I the hapless clown in a pantomime, righteousness puffing out of him with every word. “There’s obviously demand—that’s how a writer like you can sell a lot of books.”

“What exactly is a writer like me?” I fumed.

“A connoisseur in the fine art of pulp.” He leered. “I mean that as a compliment, of course. Different strokes for different folks.”

Majors had crumpled the top sheet on her clipboard with her anxious hands. She made a feeble attempt to regain our attention. “Okay, I think we might—”

“No, sorry. I’m curious.” I turned to Wolfgang. “What exactly makes my writing pulp and yours literature? You can’t come to a crime festival and sneer at our whole genre, when all you did was copy Capote.”

He shriveled a little at that.