I was working the night shift on the literary beat when a voice purred from the darkness: “Hey, lover man, know where a girl could find a little ... action? Between covers?”
Out stepped a swell-looking babe with a figure like John Grisham’s last advance and a Lisa Scottoline paperback tucked under her arm. One look at her roadmap of curves, and the soymilk in my mochaccino turned to foam.
“You’re in luck, sugar puss,” I said, releasing the spell-check on my Office 2.0. “The mystery lovers’ conference is bringing in muscle from out of town. You know Donald Bain, the guy who writes the Murder, She Wrote whodunits? And Robert Dugoni, who penned those David Sloane courtroom thrillers? And Bill Bass, that forensics guy who knows where the skeletons are buried at the Body Farm? They’re over at the Hutton Hotel, waiting for others to show up. That mug Steve Womack’s gonna be packing local heat any second.
"But it could get ugly, crumbcake. There’ll be a crime scene to examine. Parties. Book signings. Trivia contests. Plus they’re going to be talking character development, and pitches, and … agents. It’s no place for a lady.”
Her voice was a prostate exam with a glove full of feathers. “I’m not a lady,” she cooed. “I’m a mystery fan.”
Full three-day registration is $170; for more info, see killernashville.com.