Kit turned to Temple. "Romance publishers will hire a male model as an image/spokesman for a line of books nowadays. As a marketing tool, he gives all the authors' books a signature look; as a media draw on tours, he packs in readers who'd never show up for poor, unexciting us. West Wind's Homestead Man is Dwayne Rand, a Texas frontier type."
"That reminds me," Lori interjected with a giggle. "Ravenna also called Dwayne The Amazing Randy'
after that tour. Do you think she was trying to hint at something?"
Kit ignored the gossip to further educate Temple on current romance-marketing ploys. "Picture Tom Selleck with Wild Bill
Cody Lovelocks, but without the moustache. That's the Homestead Man."
"That's a tough assignment," Temple admitted, recalling her amazement at Max's rather understated ponytail. "And Tom Selleck without a moustache would be roast beef without mustard."
"No moustache," Kit said. "Sorry. Damn few moustaches for cover hunks; same reason newscasters don't wear them. Considered too ethnic."
"That Homestead Man!" Lori was continuing to gush. "He's a Dreamboat with a capital D as in Dishy.
The rumor is that interviewers on Ravenna's tour assumed they were sleeping together. Her husband heard something and came running with his forty-five. For sure the tour was abruptly cancelled."
"I heard she had a book deadline to meet." Vivian looked troubled.
"The deadline was her husband's ultimatum, believe me," LaDonna added. "No more gadding about with good-looking guys."
"I don't know why Mr. Ravenna Rivers's so worried," Vivian put in. "Half of these guys could be allergic to women. Do you know how high the percentage of gay men is among bodybuilders, dancers, actors and models, ladies? Enough that straight men in those fields get a bit defensive about their occupations."
"Sexual preference doesn't matter," Dr. Susan said authoritatively. "It's the fantasy image that counts. Look, most of these women who go crazy over the male models know it's all show and no go.
They're not expecting a relationship. It's an escape at a romance conference weekend, a goal to get an autograph or a photo taken with a cover man. Consider it a scavenger hunt."
"Hunting implies a prey," Temple pointed out. "What about Cheyenne? Any rumors about him?"
"Oh, that's such a shame!" LaDonna looked genuinely grieved. "Such a nice young guy. He was a favorite for the G.R.O.W.L. award at this year's pageant. That's the popular vote. And from what I heard, his routine would have been spectacular."
"He competed at a previous pageant?" Temple was surprised. She had figured Cheyenne for a local male stripper who was moonlighting, not a cover hunk wannabe of any seriousness.
"Sure. Last year in Atlanta."
"So some of the cover model contestants repeat from year to year?"
Lori nodded. "Just like in women's beauty pageants. It takes experience to win. Why? You don't look too happy."
"I'm not. If contestants repeat from year to year, then I assume conference attendees come back too?" They all nodded. "So we've got more potential here for relationships than I thought."
"What's so wrong about that?" LaDonna was defensive. "Sure, there are regulars, both onstage and off. Most of the same authors return every year too. It's our annual chance to chat and back-pat. This is a very mutually supportive field."
"And mostly female," Temple said. "Except for a few good men. And a very few tagalong husbands.
Yet the authors are rivals as well as colleagues. Then add the heightened competition of the pageant.
Like I said, this isn't just an annual convention, it's a traveling carnival of relationships. And I don't have to tell you romance writers what relationships can be in real life as well as in fiction."
"Murder," Vivian said slowly, nodding her head. "They can be murder."
The four conspirators left two by two, apparently convinced that there was less reason to hide their joint outing on the return cab ride.
"We'll say we were doing the Strip," Lori said.
Temple was reflective as Kit bid each one good-bye with thanks and promises of getting together later at the conference.
"Well?" her aunt demanded, scrambling to dig out and light a Virginia Slim. "Hey, don't look at me like that. This is a smoking section. I just refrained while the others were here."
"Why do people do to their relatives what they wouldn't to friends?"
"They expect relatives to understand." Kit's hands had frozen midway to her mouth, slender cigarette in one and upright, poised lighter in the other. "I can wait."
"No, go ahead. I owe you something for gathering the clan."
"What did you think of them?" Kit muttered through the act of inhaling.
"Great sources--do all writers gossip so much?"
"It's not gossip, it's networking in self-defense. Writers are isolated, yet we live and die by the publishing industry. So we grapevine like mad. Writers are also proud, so we tend not to reveal what we get for our books when the pay is stinky. When the advances get to the big time, everybody knows."
"It looks like I should talk to some of these writers with axes to grind. Any advice?"
"Just pass yourself off as a national media person and they'll slit their writers' wrists and let the ink run out. Not even bestsellers get enough attention."
"You were quiet during the gossip session."
"I listen, but I don't dote. We need to know what's going on for our own protection, but I don't enjoy hearing about other people's woes and throes. I can do all that stuff to the characters in my books. I did notice something when I came in a couple days ago, though."
"Did it involve Cheyenne?"
"How did you guess?"
"I listen, but I don't dote."
Kit stabbed her half-smoked cigarette out in the ashtray. "I did notice some cozy conferences between the deceased, as we say on the Perry Mason set, and the pageant hostess."
"The pageant hostess?"
"Yup, an anchor team of he/she emcees the event, reading unrehearsed witticisms with iffy timing.
The host team changes from year to year, depending on where the conference is held, so there's no ongoing relationship between hosts and contestants to worry about. But I could have sworn that there was history between Cheyenne and this babe."
"Do you have the name, rank and serial number of the 'babe'?"
"A Hollywood type, naturally, Los Angeles being just a hop, skip and plane trip over the state line. So-called actress, once. You probably never heard of her, or saw her in anything, and can count yourself lucky. A real B-movie mama. One Savannah Ashleigh."
Chapter Interlude
Ah, Sweet Mystery of Hystery
A laptop computer was such a tidy, nonthreatening machine.
Its small empty screen seemed especially easy to fill This made writing like walking--one step, one word, at a time, and you could see yourself getting somewhere. The reward . . . ah, maybe an award.
Maybe a fat book contract and a river of royalties.
Anybody could write a romance.
The writer lifted poised hands above the keyboard like a musician about to throttle the Lost Chord out of an organs resisting throat--it helped knowing how to type--and glanced at a stack of paperback novels on the hotel desk. The well-thumbed covers curled, making the hero's hands seem to rest audaciously higher than usual on the heroine's bared thighs.
That was the image to keep! All those steamy covers to inspire the all important "sensual scene" that the Loves Leading Amateur contest required as the test of true romance.