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only there wasn’t any humor in it. “That’s his classic approach. He singles somebody out for praise, builds ’em up over a period of time and, then, when he deems ’em too big for their britches, tears ’em down. Rath giveth, Rath taketh away. He’s a Frankenstein who comes to resent all the monsters he’s created.”
    “Your metaphor stinks, Mallory,” Flint said, in a friendly way. “It’s Rath who’s the monster.”
    The table next to us was where Curt Clark and his wife Kim, an exaggeratedly pretty, rather
zoftig
brunette, were seated; so was another of the guest writers, my old friend Pete Christian, author of so many fine books on mystery movies. Curt rose and came over to check us out, apparently having overheard Rath’s name mentioned.
    “Am I forgiven yet for inviting your Rath?” Curt asked us, eyes atwinkle, leaning in between Mr. and Mrs. Flint. “And that’s a pun, ladies and gentlemen.”
    “Aren’t puns a capital crime in New York state?” Flint asked.
    “I wish a bad pun were
all
that Kirk S. Rath was,” I said. “It’s easy for you to take this lightly, Curt. I’ve never seen him give
you
a bad review.”
    Curt shrugged. “I don’t much care. I don’t read reviews.”
    “Really?” I asked.
    “Not more than three or four times,” he said. “How do you like the food? It’s not fancy, but there’s plenty of it.”
    Jack Flint smiled up at Curt and said, “Do you always answer your own questions?”
    “Do I? I don’t think so.”
    Tom Sardini tore himself away from his strawberry shortcake long enough to say, “And where
is
the ever-popular Mr. Rath?”
    “He’s already eaten,” Curt explained. “The dining room’s been serving since six o’clock, and it’s almost eight now.”
    “He wasn’t on our bus,” Jack said.
    “Or ours,” I said.
    “He drove up in his own car,” Curt said. “Have you ever met Rath?”
    The question seemed to be posed to me, so I answered it: “Yeah, a couple of times. He was at the last couple Bouchercons, and I ran into him at an Edgar Awards dinner a few years back. He was nasty, but he lacks sting when he isn’t in print. Strikes me more as immature and... well, naive, than anything else.”
    “
I’ve
never met him,” Jill said. “And I’m dying to.”
    Curt checked his watch. “Well, you’ll get your chance in twenty minutes. That’s when the game begins, downstairs in the big parlor. I know drawing-room mysteries ain’t the style of you hardbitten private-eye writers, but just do your best to fit in.”
    Curt smiled and returned to his table, while a waitress set my strawberry shortcake in front of me. The berries were blood-red and juicy. Jill was already working on hers. Even the thought of Kirk Rath couldn’t kill our appetites.

4
    Outside the dining room, Pete Christian caught up with us. Pete was a warm, enthusiastic man, an eternal precocious kid wrapped up in a slightly stocky, vaguely disheveled, middle-aged package. In his rumpled Rumpole-of-the-Bailey suit, he looked like the lone survivor of a town hit by a tornado—a survivor whose only comment was, “What wind?”
    “Mal,” he said, eyes dancing behind dark-rimmed glasses, moustache twitching with his smile, “it’s so good to see you. I’ve been meaning to call.”
    We shook hands and patted each other’s shoulders and grinned at each other.
    “Jill, this is Peter Christian. He wrote that book on the Charlie Chan movies I loaned you, remember?”
    “That was a terrific book,” Jill said, pumping his hand.
    “Are you a mystery fan?” Pete asked her, pumping back.
    “Not really. But I always liked Charlie Chan movies on the late show, when I was a kid.”
    “My dear, you’re
still
a kid, but a kid with very good taste. I think Sidney Toler’s underrated, don’t you?”
    “Definitely,” she said. “But then I even like the Roland Winters ones. I like all those old movies.”
    “Well, then you’re in luck; I’m in charge of the