;)
'Twas a dark and stormy night...the wind howled inconsolably as the rain fell in near horizontal blasts, and the Sisters in Crime gathered at the Bells Hotel. Angela Savage arrived late. Dark hair, blood red scarf, taller than me. She looked flustered...a little guilty.
"You're late, Savage." I waited for her story as I wondered if her name was more than just a way to get her attention.
"Power failure," she replied. "Stuck on a tram." An alibi of sorts, I suppose...hard to verify...no witnesses.
Later still was P.M. Newton... assured, clearly formidable, much taller than me. She came in battered, claiming to have fallen foul of a taxi door. Interesting. The dried blood and stitches on her brow a vague collaboration, and yet, I was uneasy.
Apparently the transport system was on the offensive, imprisoning and attacking writers. Coincidence...perhaps...but my gut told me otherwise.
Carmel Shute sat on my left...also living up to her name...but with a camera. I noted that she was taller than me. I let her gather her evidence...the photos could be useful when the body turned up.
Across the table was Robin Bowles, sassy, blue fingernails and a set of knuckle-dusters she called rings. Also taller than me. The queen of True Crime...she'd learned a few tricks.
Dangerous place for a girl called Gentill...but still...no body.
Also at the table, Vikki Petraitis...a school marm with an edge. Could be volatile. Not suprisingly she was taller than me.
I'd brought my sister. "Watch my back I said...but take photos of the front." She's a good egg, my sister, reliable, discreet. But cold instinct told me that we might well be out of our depth. She's not much taller than me.
Dinner arrived, mountainous proportions. I checked the ladies' room. Still no body.
We moved upstairs and had it out...the conversation was thick with murder and mirth. I was watchful. I took note of everything. They were all taller than me.
The evening drew to a close and the Sisters of Crime disappeared into the night. I was bewildered...where the hell was that body?!
About to make our own getaway, we made for the door, but Lindy Cameron barred our way. Smooth manner, short hair, somewhat taller than me...there was something clandestine about her. She made us an offer. "We'll take you home...get into the bus." She wouldn't let us refuse. The door of the bus slammed shut like a coffin lid. No witnesses other than the Sisters in Crime from the Mornington Penninsula.
"The GPS has been trying to kill me for a while," Cameron claimed, as we pulled away from the relative safety of the Hotel.
So, she was trying to cast herself as a victim, was she? I laughed ironically. A ploy...a red herring! I was on to her. Someone began to sing "The Wheels on the Bus"...Their plan was obvious...our screams would be drowned out by the musical account of the bus' journey through town. I got ready to go down fighting...and then...we were home.
My sister and I waved them away into the darkness.
"They were lovely," she said.
I nodded grimly, as clarity finally slapped me in the face. "Good Lord... I'm short."
PS: For a more sensible account of this terrific evening have a look at either Angela Savage's or P.M. Newton's blog.