Monty, you’ve been a dear friend and a faithful reader, so I thought I’d better explain this to you, so that you’ll understand. I can’t let my work be used to provide Malcolm and the Bimbo with sports car and spandex money. It would be like turning Cass into a hooker. So I’m afraid that my work in progress will be the last Cass Cairncross novel. When I turn this book in, I’ll be out of contract, and I’ll tell them I’m through. I’d rather go back to teaching sophomores about semicolons than pay blackmail to Malcolm.
Thanks for being such a great audience, both for Cass and for me. I’m sorry it has to end this way, but it was me or Cass-and either way, she’d be gone, so I figured this was a compromise on self-destruction. I hope you find another gumshoe to love. Try Kinsey Millhone.
With all best wishes,
Laurie and Cass
367 Calabria Road
Passaic, New Jersey 07055
Dear Ms. Gunseclass="underline"
Forgive the delay in my response to your heartfelt letter of last month, but just after receiving it, I discovered that I had tasks to take care of in a distant city, and I could not spare even a moment for correspondence. Hence the delay. I was working on a job much reminiscent of my old profession, and while it felt good to be back in action, I must say I’m getting a little old and short of wind these days. Glad to be retired. But this was a labor of love.
So, now that I have returned, I am answering your letter as my first priority, even before I tend to the shocking condition of my unweeded and unwatered calla lilies and dusty miller plants, the erstwhile showpieces of my little garden. Nature waits for no man, Ms. Gunsel. But as distressing as I find my neglected botanical friends, the news of your plight upset me even more. Perhaps that is mere selfishness on my part, since I value Cass Cairncross far above calla lilies, and I would not want to lose the pleasure of her fictional company for such a shabby reason as the greed of that arrogant creep, your former spouse.
Let me just say that things tend to work out for the best, and I trust that you will see your way clear to continue your wonderful writing career. Sometimes people reap their just rewards, if you get my drift. Good people are allowed to keep doing good work, and bad people are stopped in their tracks. That’s my philosophy, anyhow.
So, your letter notwithstanding, I will continue to wait for the next Cass Cairncross novel, and the next…
Wishing you all the best,
M.V.
Laurie Gunsel
Mr. Monty Vincent
367 Calabria Road
Passaic, New Jersey 07055
Dear Monty,
Thanks for your letter. I have finished the Cass Cairncross novel that I was working on when I last wrote to you, and I’m about to take off for Spain to begin my research on the next one.
Yes, there is going to be a next one. I am in the process of signing a new contract with Meadows & Hall for two more Cass Cairncross books. They’re very excited about the deal, and they promise TV advertising, a coast-to-coast tour, and a half-page ad in The New York Times! It’s a wonderful break for me, and I’m glad that I could accept it.
Of course, the circumstances under which I’m able to accept are sobering. I think you summed it up best when you said that sometimes “bad people are stopped in their tracks.” There is no longer a lawsuit pending about the Cass Cairncross novels, because-I can’t think of any delicate way to put this-Malcolm and his new wife are dead. Apparently, it was an act of random urban violence, perhaps a robbery. At least the police have no suspects and no leads. According to the news reports, Malcolm and Kristi were in their room at the Atlanta Hyatt, when someone entered through the door (with a passkey?) and shot them as they slept. They were both shot above the left ear with a 9mm. Glock, killing them instantly. In Malcolm’s case a roll of toilet paper was placed under his chin and unrolled to the level of his waist.
The police questioned me, of course, because of the lawsuit, but it happened over Labor Day weekend when I was in Charlotte at the mystery conference, so my alibi was the rest of the nine A.M. paneclass="underline" Joan Hess, Sharyn McCrumb, and Carolyn Hart (“Southern Mysteries: Mayhem, Malice, and Mirth”). I told the investigators that I knew nothing whatsoever about the incident, and could not help them in any way. Of course, I issued a press release from my publishers’ publicity department saying that I regretted violence of any sort against anyone, and that even though Malcolm and I had our differences, he was a respected member of the legal profession, and I was sure he would be missed.
So, rather unexpectedly, all the domestic hassles are over. Now I’m going to Spain (with an indignant Diesel in the cat carrier) to try to regain my composure and to wait for the furor to die down. Publicity is nice, but I don’t want my personal life on A Current Affair. (Book sales are up, though.) There seems to be a lot of new interest in me. I even got a letter from a publisher asking if I’d consider ghostwriting the autobiography of hit man Vinnie Montuori, now in the federal witness protection program and living somewhere in obscurity under an assumed name. But I said I didn’t do nonfiction, and anyway I’d be too busy writing the adventures of Cass Cairncross, and I hoped they’d understand.
So, anyway, Monty, you won’t hear from me again anytime soon. But I’m taking a laptop with me to Spain so that I can work on the new novel. If all goes well, it should be out next summer. When the book comes out, I’ll be sure to send you a signed copy, Monty. I owe you one.
Gratefully yours,
Laurie Gunsel
THE MONSTER OF GLAMIS
HRH THE PRINCESS OF WALES
BALMORAL
AUGUST 1992
My dearest Wills,
Mummy has a longish letter to write you, although you won’t get it for years and years, as I’m going to leave instructions with someone clever whom I really trust. Not Robert Fellowes! He may be your Auntie Jane’s husband, but he is also “Brenda’s” private secretary, and to me he is neither kith nor kind! (I realize that you will be reading this years from now, so you may not know that “Brenda” was the magazine Private Eye’s name for HM, your Granny. I think I shall continue to call her that in this letter. Much safer really.)
I thought I’d better put all this down so that you’ll know what happened, in case there’s something you can do when you become King. I do hope you will believe what I tell you in this letter, and investigate the matter very, very carefully yourself. Courtiers cannot be trusted to tell you the truth, Wills! It is most important.
This week at Balmoral seemed the best time to write an account of what happened. Heaven knows there’s nothing else to do here in the wilds of Scotland! I can’t think why Queen Victoria ever wanted to buy it, but apparently the madness was hereditary, because her descendants adore the place. Every morning everyone goes out with their beastly guns, stopping at noon to gobble sandwiches, and coming back at teatime caked with mud. Once they actually asked if I wanted to go with you boys and act as a beater, frightening the little birds out of the hedges. I said I thought not. I can be quite stubborn when I choose, you know, Wills. Anyhow, it’s damp and dreary outside, and even more dreary inside, with nothing to do but work on jigsaw puzzles and listen to that family go on about their horses’ ailments. No one will miss me, because I never say anything anyway, so I came away to write to you.