Bell, Book, and Scandal

Emma Lathem, Dorothy Simpson, Gwendolyn Butler, and Ruth Rendell’s Wexford novels as well. With the exception of Christie’s Miss Marple, all of these women wrote about male protagonists with a sensibility that’s missing from tough-guy books.“
    “I’m going to like this man,“ Jane said. “The names you’ve mentioned are nearly all of my favorites. I’ve reread many of them.“
    “But Zac Zebra says all these women’s male protagonists are wimps, if not downright homosexual.“
    “You’re kidding?“ Jane asked with disgust.
    “I’ve heard him say it to whole groups of fans, many of whom walk out on his speeches,“ Felicity said.
    “Why do the people who plan the conferences agree to let him take the podium?“ Shelley asked.
    “Most of them, I suspect, think he spices up a conference,“ Felicity said. “I myself think he’s a pollutant of the usual goodwill between readers and writers.“
     
    “What about Taylor Kensington?“ Shelley asked, again consulting her brochure. “Should one of us go to her talk? It says she writes two different series and one of them has an historical setting.“
    “Taylor Kensington is a delightful woman,“ Felicity said. “Very funny, very low-key. One of my best friends in the business. She’s a trooper who has helped a lot of aspiring writers. I like her suspects, her settings, her plots, which are so well researched, but...“
    “But what?“ Jane asked. She’d recently read one of Kensington’s novels and hadn’t liked the ending.
    “She writes heroines who, at the end, stupidly go out in the middle of the night all alone to investigate suspects. In every one of her books, the woman is nearly killed for being suddenly so dumb,“ Felicity explained.
    Jane said, “I’ve only read one of her books and that’s exactly what happened at the end. The character seemed so smart all the way through, and then went out to a deserted construction site at four in the morning to meet a stranger who tried to kill her. I wanted to slap her silly.“
    “I’ll jot her name down to avoid reading, nice as she might be,“ Shelley said, scribbling a note on her brochure.
    “Who is this Miss Mystery?“ Jane said, still perusing the most recent mailing. “I’d never heard of her and she’s the only one without a picture.“
    “Oh dear. I didn’t know she was coming,“ Felicity said with slight alarm. “I should have read the last bulletin they sent. She has an Internet site where she critiques women’s fiction. She slaughters the work of newbies and e-pubs. She also puts her saber through the guts of the most successful, genuinely bestselling women writers. Struggling mid-list authors are her cup of tea. I should be grateful, I suppose, being among that group. But I’m not. She’s a lot like Zac in that she merely skims the book and mostly misses the whole point of the work. I think it’s a power thing. I’ve actually seen a couple of paperback originals who cite her in the blurbs.“
    “Blurbs?“ Shelley queried.
    “You know, those ‘I love So-and-So’s characters. They’re so vibrant.’ Signed by a well-known author.“
    “Blurbs. I’ll have to remember that. I’m a sucker for them,“ Shelley admitted. “If someone I recognize and like to read says something nice on the cover, I’ll buy the book.“
    “That’s the point of blurbs,“ Felicity said. “And it’s usually a good guide to book shopping. Avoid the book if it’s blurbed by Miss Mystery though.“
    “Why isn’t there a picture of her?“ Shelley persisted.
    “Because she comes to conferences under her own name and chums up with authors to acquire the dirt on other authors. Nobody knows who she really is.“
    “That’s sneaky,“ Jane said. “So why is she even listed in the brochure?“
    “To warn the authors that she’s around, I suppose,“ Felicity replied.
    After the waiter had interrupted to give them their bill, Shelley said, “I’d guess somebody recognizes her.“
    “Why?“ Felicity asked.
    “Because if I were to tell some stranger some deep secret of Jane’s—which I’d never do, needless to say—and later saw her report it on her website, I’d remember who I’d spilled the beans to.“
    Felicity stared at Shelley with astonishment. “Of course!“ She made a head-slapping motion. “You’re right. Some people must know who they blabbed to and about. But they don’t dare admit it.“
    “Rest assured,“ Jane said, “neither of us is Miss