And Finally…Thanks, Goodbye, and Bedroom Scenes

Well, this is my last post. It’s now time to pack my little suitcase, tidy up and try and leave the place in some semblance of order for Emily. Emily, I’m terribly sorry about the mess, the empty fridge, and the strange man asleep on the sofa. I also don’t know what happened to the chandelier in the master bedroom. It certainly didn’t look like that when I arrived.

I’ve had a whale of a time and want to thank you all for not going on holiday, for your comments in the backblogs, and for not petitioning to have me removed. And thanks to Sarah for persuading me to do it. I don’t know what I was worried about. So goodbye for now, and I hope to lift a glass or two with some of you at Bouchercon.

I’m going to leave the same way I came in, with something ridiculous. I toyed with the idea of telling you about The Day I sent My Mother Porn, or posting my dissertation on the 3 types of Scottish men, or even how I got locked in the loo of an abandoned building but in the end, I decided on something crime fiction related…

How To Judge A Book By Its Under-The-Covers:

When you’re in the bookstore, browsing in the mystery section, how are you supposed to tell what genre you’re choosing? Is the book with the 22nd Century crime solving chef whose boyfriend is a police detective a romance, romantic suspense, science fiction, police procedural or culinary cosy? I always think you can tell a lot from a bedroom scene (more than I want to divulge here perhaps). So that’s why you’ll always find me flicking through the pages in bookshops. I’m not looking for steamy sex (well, not in Borders anyway, but I’m open to offers), just those giveaway bedroom scenes such as these:

Romance

There was a knock on the door of my hotel room. I knew who this would be. My heart started beating fast – like a baby sparrow fluttering in my ribcage. I fluffed up my hair, touched up my lipstick, adjusted my heaving breasts and opened the door. Tarquin stood there, leaning against the door frame like a bronzed God. His Armani jacket was slung casually over his shoulder and an errant lock of hair formed a little kiss curl over his forehead. I wanted to reach out and tenderly push it back into place. He smiled at me – a smile which reached from his chiselled jaw right up to his smouldering eyes, softly caressing the contours of his exquisite cheekbones on the way up.

“Hey there gorgeous,” he said leaning close, his hot breath warming my cheek. “I’ve got something for ou.”

My eyes travelled down to the straining crotch of his tailored trousers, where his throbbing manhood lurked. I trembled. “You’d better come in then.” I said.

Suspense

There was a knock at the door of my hotel room. I jumped out of bed and grabbed the bedside lamp. Who could this be at 3am? My nerves were still on edge from the threatening phone call I’d received earlier. The voice, slightly mechanical and completely without intonation, had said “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” The receiver had gently been replaced after a few seconds. I crept over to the door and looked out of the spyhole. The corridor was empty, the lights low; the whole hotel was sleeping. As my heart beat returned to normal, I realised I had been holding my breath. I relaxed but tensed up again almost immediately. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the wardrobe door opening.

Romantic Suspense

There was a knock at the door of my hotel room which woke me up from my dream. I felt half regretful and half relieved. I felt disloyal for dreaming about Inspector Danny Trevelyan when I should be concentrating on looking for my sister, who had mysteriously disappeared three days ago.

“Who’s there?” I called out. There was no reply, just another knock. I got out of bed and walked to the door. With my hand on the doorknob I glanced out of the spyhole. There was no one there. As I turned away, puzzled, I saw the wardrobe door opening. I let out a squeak of fear and stayed rooted to the spot as a tall, handsome man stepped out of the wardrobe.

“Danny? What are you doing in the wardrobe?”

His eyes twinkled. “I came to tell you something about your sister and saw something mysterious in the wardrobe. “He shrugged. “I got locked in and didn’t want to wake you up.”

I wasn’t sure that I believed him. Was he all that he seemed? Was he even really a police inspector? But there was undeniably an element of sexual tension between us that troubled me more than anything. Well, except the mysterious disappearance of what’s-her-name of course.

Amateur Sleuth

I quietly got out of bed, leaving Sheriff Pete Mallory gently snoring. I needed to get a head start on the day, what with having to make fresh bread, pack the childrens’ lunches, finish the quilt I was handsewing for the Women’s Guild Summer Fete, and take Andrew to the school concert and Butthead to the vet. Or was it the other way round? Since the murder of my neighbour Philip Stover I had been at sixes and sevens and hadn’t been able to concentrate on anything other than trying to solve the crime, despite Pete Mallory’s insistence that I keep my pert little nose out of business that didn’t concern me.

I shook him awake. “Sheriff Mallory, do you have the key to Philip Stover’s house? There might be a vital clue there that you missed. And, by the way, you need to get up and leave before the children wake up. I’m not supposed to have a love life since my husband ran off with his secretary 8 years ago.”

He groaned. “Not that it’s any of your business, but the key’s in the front left pocket of my trousers. You really MUST learn to keep your pert little nose out of business that doesn’t concern you. Now, for goodness sake come back to bed and give me a kiss. It’s 3am, the children won’t get up for 4 hours. And while we’re on the subject – what the hell’s wrong with sliced bread from the supermarket, let the children pack their own damn lunches – there’s something weird about 4 30-somethings who all still live at home anyway. And another thing, the damn quilt’s already bigger than Madison Square Garden and you’ve only been sewing it for 2 weeks; Andrew can take himself to the school concert – he’s the headmaster for god’s sake, and I can never remember – is Butthead the dog or one of the children? And for goodness sake, stop calling me Sheriff Mallory – we’ve been seeing each other for 6 years and you’ve stuck your nose into 12 murders over that time.”

Hardboiled

I reached over the mysterious dame in my bed, opened the drawer of the bedside cabinet and pulled out a half bottle of whisky. I took a slug and savoured the welcome burn in my throat as it went down. I lit a cigarette, screwing up my eyes against the smoke as it curled into the air. The Venetian blinds slanted a weak light into the room, leaving a pattern of gray stripes on the rumpled bedsheets. I looked at the broad as she lay spreadeagled on the bed. “Of all the beds in all the world,” I muttered “Why did you have to walk into mine?” She was a strawberry blonde and I knew she was trouble from the moment she’d stepped into my office the afternoon before. Her jailbird boyfriend had gone on the lam but she thought he’d been fingered by The Duke’s mob of gorillas. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I’d seen her sleazeball boyfriend getting on a Greyhound bus to Chattanooga, a petite brunette hanging from his muscular arm like….well, like something really delicate that hangs from something really ugly. It’s early, I’ve got a hangover – similes and metaphors don’t come easy until later in the day. Give me a break.

So anyway, I fed her some brandy, along with some line about how a cute tomato like her could always find another sucker to take care of her and here she was – in bed with that next sucker. Her lips had lost the layers of red lipstick and looked beestung and bruised, her false eyelashes had given up the battle during last night’s exertions and one of them now lay gently on her cheek like a drunken spider, and she smelled of expensive whisky and cheap perfume. God, she was gorgeous.

Police Procedural

The phone rang. “Shit.” Inspector Alan Jeffries woke with a start and reached out over his wife’s prone body for the phone. He knocked the alarm clock off the cabinet in his haste and his bleary eyes caught sight of the luminous dial. 3am. “Shit,” he said again. There could only be one reason for the phone ringing at 3am.

“Yeah?” he said into the receiver, rubbing his hand through his hair and over his eyes, trying to force himself awake. He belched – the sour beery taste made him wish he’d just come straight home last night rather than going out for a pint with the lads yet again.

“Guv? Watters here. You’d better come down to the Docks. We’ve got another murder.”

Jeffries’ wife stirred. “Alan? It’s no good – I hate being a policeman’s wife. I want a divorce.”

Traditional Cozy

Agatha Parple opened her bedroom door with a sigh of relief. She was so glad it was 9pm and she could turn in with a nice cup of hot cocoa. This had been a hectic day – from the moment she’d walked into the dining room at breakfast and seen Colonel Arbuthnot face down in the kippers with a south American blow dart in the back of his neck, until the moment she’d assembled the household in the library and revealed that the murderer was young Fotheringham, who reminded her so much of the butcher’s son, she hadn’t stopped once all day. The sheets of her bed had been turned down by Betty, the slightly common but good hearted maid with the unfortunate habit of dropping her aitches. Agatha reached down and unfolded her nightdress from where it lay warming on the hot water bottle Lady Alexander thoughtfully provided for all her guests. Ah, surely the greatest bedtime experience anyone could ever have – the feel of toasty brushed cotton against one’s skin.

Culinary Cozy

William stirred as I opened the bedroom door and the scent of toast and jam wafted towards him. He opened his eyes.

“I thought you’d be hungry after trying to solve the murders,.” I said, “so I went downstairs and rustled up a treat for you.” I put the tray in front of him. As he ate, I went through the recipe in my head, to make sure I’d cooked it correctly:

Toast and Jam:

Take two slices of bread

Put bread in toaster

Switch toaster on and cook until a sort of brownish colour (pale

brown rather than dark brown – definitely not black)

Handy hint – when the smoke alarm goes off, your toast is done

Remove from toaster and spread with butter (or vegetable spread of

your choice)

Ladle a generous helping of jam over the top.

Serve while still warm

Science Fiction

Bob took off his boxer shorts and turned round, gazingly lovingly at his new love. Lumarella gasped in shock and drew her little pointy head back. “By Jupiter, what’s that?” she cried. “On MY planet that looks like the tool we use to stir our Grogon Juice.”

Fantasy

Legolas got out of bed in a huff. “What do you mean ‘It’s small’?” he said. “Of COURSE it’s bloody small – I’m an elf.”

Tata, and see you in the backblogs,

Donna