I am a snob, but I always hate it when people catch me at it.
The judgment came from my friend, Jean Griffith, who had just announced to me that she read only mysteries. I sniffed a bit and allowed as how I never read them.
“Well, try this,” she said, brandishing a copy of Cover Her Face by P.D. James as if it was a sword.
So I became quite the little mystery addict. My substance of choice was cheap (when I started reading mysteries they were a mere $2.50) and Jean, like any good supplier, was full of sage advice (“Try Ngaio Marsh. The books are only $2.25 and the print is REALLY small!”)
While that was a cheap thrill, it was not nearly as important as my introduction to Robin Hathaway. (Jean worked with Bob, Robin’s husband). Robin was not yet published and was at Bouchercon to learn from those who were. On the last day of the conference Jean and I came home with Robin and feasted on cheese, crackers and wine which if you are having them with good friends constitute life’s most perfect meal.
Unfortunately, Jean died in 1997 around the time that Robin was published. Robin and I subsequently became frequent mystery conference roomies going to many Bouchercons and Malice Domestics. (or is that Malices Domestic?)
“What’s the big deal about bestiality?”
“The animal can’t consent.”
Robin wrote furiously and pushed a piece of paper in front of me.
I looked down. “They don’t have these kinds of discussions at Malice,” she had written.
Yes, I really miss Robin and am delighted to have a spot on this blog.