When a trio of authors get together to co-write a mystery, truth becomes stranger than fiction — or does it?
In The Author’s Guide to Murder, out Nov. 5 from William Morrow, three authors find themselves the prime suspects in a murder investigation when a literary powerhouse turns up dead under suspicious circumstances.
Kat de Noir, a sexy erotica writer; Cassie Pringle, a Southern mom of six and cozy mystery writer; and Emma Endicott, a well-heeled New Englander who writes historical fiction, claim to have come to the Scottish Highlands to write a book together. But as Detective Chief Inspector Euan McIntosh interviews the so-called best friends, their stories about how they know the deceased Brett Saffron Presley don’t quite add up.
Because life imitates art, bestsellers Beatriz Williams, Lauren Willig, and Karen White teamed up for The Author’s Guide to Murder, which the publisher calls “a crafty locked-room mystery, a pointed satire about the literary world and a tale of unexpected friendship and romance.”
Intrigued yet? Get to know the ladies in an exclusive excerpt from Chapter 1, below.
‘The Author’s Guide To Murder’.
William Morrow
Cassie
Excerpt from police interview with Mrs. Cassandra Parsons Pringle conducted by Detective Chief Inspector Macintosh, Dec. 10, 2022
DCI: Let’s return to the nature of your relationship to Miss Endicott and Miss—er—Miss de Noir. You claim to be writing a book together?
PRINGLE: Yes, that’s right. I know it sounds a little unusual, but—
DCI: It sounds mad, Mrs. Pringle. Frankly.
PRINGLE: Well, it’s not! We have a contract and everything. From a reputable publishing house. G.P. Morrow? You can call up our editor, Rachelle Cohen — ring her up, as you say here across the pond — and she’ll explain everything.
DCI: All right. Why, then?
PRINGLE: I beg your pardon?
DCI: Why write a book together? Set on Kinloch, of all places.
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PRINGLE: [laughter] Oh, you know the old story! Three writers walk into a bar—
DCI: May I remind you that a man has been found dead, Mrs. Pringle. Levity is hardly appropriate.
PRINGLE: I’m so sorry. It’s not a joke. It really is how we met. The three of us were at a convention together a year or so ago— Bouchercon? In Las Vegas? We stayed at —
DCI: I beg your pardon. A voucher convention?
PRINGLE: [laughter] Not voucher, Boucher. Crime fiction? Anthony Boucher? He was a mystery writer, one of the greats. Haven’t you read him?
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DCI: No.
PRINGLE: Oh, you’re in for a treat. I’m surprised you’re not familiar with his work, as a detective chief inspector and everything. You know, I think I have one of his novels in my handbag here. Nine Times Nine. I’d be happy to let you—
DCI: Put your handbag away, Mrs. Pringle. This is a police interview.
PRINGLE: [laughter] Oh, right. Sorry. Anyway, the convention’s named after him. It’s the biggest thing ever. Thousands of people. Writers, fans, agents, editors. Everybody goes. As a mystery writer myself, I can’t miss it.
DCI: Yes. Tell me about your writing, Mrs. Pringle.
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PRINGLE: Oh, gosh. Where do I start? I have three different series running at the moment, each under a different pen name. Right now I’m working on the ninth book in my Haunted Farmers’ Market series — that’s set in a little town in rural North Carolina, where I grew up, lots of banjo and artisan cheeses — and the third book in my new Moggies, Mocha, and Murder series, which features a crime-solving cat who lives in a coffee cooperative outside of Seattle—
DCI: A cat who solves crimes?
PRINGLE: My readers just adore her. She’s part Maine coon. You know the breed? Or is it too American for you? Big and fluffy, with a real nose for clues. Oh, and I’m just plotting out the twelfth Little Bake Shop mystery. That’s my personal favorite. I love to bake. Do you like to bake, Detective Chief Inspector? You look as if you could use a scone or two, if you don’t mind my saying so.
[brief silence]
DCI: So you’ve written a great many books, Mrs. Pringle. Why take the trouble of writing one with two other women?
PRINGLE: Why, for the fun of it! Writing is so much more fun when you do it with your best friends.
DCI: Best friends? That’s how you characterize the relationship among the three of you?
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From Left: Beatriz Williams, Karen White, and Lauren Willig.
HarperCollins Publishers
PRINGLE: Oh, yes. Very much so. We’re like long-lost sisters. We bonded instantly. It was the third day of the conference. We were all a little burned out. You know how it is. I was sitting at the bar, nursing an Irish coffee, my usual, and I happened to notice this glamorous woman two stools down, nursing a double bourbon. That was Kat, of course. Then Emma marched up and ordered something called a French 75, and I just had to ask her what was in it — I’ve had this idea for a series of murders at one of those champagne cellars in France, I mean just think of all the fun research — and we all got to talking and realized we were just meant to be friends. I think we talked all night. We missed the big dinner and the awards presentation — none of us was nominated, sadly; that’s one of the reasons we were drowning our sorrows — and at some point, I don’t remember when, one of us was talking about how lousy it was to go on book tour alone, you know, nobody to talk to except all those medical device salesmen trying to hit on you at the hotel bar. We said to each other, wouldn’t it be so much more fun to tour together? And I said — at least I think it was me, I’m afraid we’d all had a little too much to drink at that point — I said, well, we should write a book together! And then our publisher would pay for our girls’ trip — I mean, book tour. And our bar bill.
DCI: That’s it? For the free drinks?
PRINGLE: Well, and the money, of course. But mostly so we could have an excuse to get together again. So we ran into my editor the next day — Rachelle was there at the convention with us — and said we had this brilliant idea to write a novel together. She laughed us off at first, naturally. I mean, what a crazy idea, right? But then we came back a month later with a real book proposal. It’s called Fifty Shades of Plaid —
DCI: Fifty Shades of Plaid?
PRINGLE: [laughter] Isn’t it brilliant? Back when Emma was doing the research for The Unsinkable Prunella Schuyler — that’s her latest novel — she came across the story of the unsolved murder of the laird of Kinloch Island. I’m sure you’ve heard of it?
DCI: [pause] Refresh my memory, if you will.
PRINGLE: Why, Naughty Ned, of course. The orgy master himself. Poisoned during a house party in the autumn of 1900. It was just perfect for us — a sexually charged historical murder mystery. Best of all, it’s set in Scotland!
DCI: Best of all? Why do you say that?
PRINGLE: Because we all love Scotland so much! We’re huge Outlander fans. Have you read Outlander?
DCI: No.
PRINGLE: Watched the series on television? Telly, as you call it?
DCI: No.
PRINGLE: Och, aye! [laughter] That’s my Scottish accent. Pretty good, isn’t it? Listen to this. [sound of clearing throat] You’ve got to crrrross the bridge to get to Ballykissangel! What do you think?
[brief silence]
DCI: I’m afraid that’s Irish.
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Tuesday, December 6
Three days before the murder …
At first, Cassie thought the narrow, placid face that poked into view over the back seat of the Land Rover, right between Kat and Emma, belonged to some kind of stuffed animal.
A Scottish prop, to delight Kinloch’s guests as they drove from the ferry to the castle.Then the mouth opened and took the end of Emma’s ponytail between its teeth. Cassie turned forward and stared out the windshield to the road unraveling among the shadows ahead. “Um, Mr. MacDougal? Did you know there’s a sheep in the back of your vehicle?”
The driver grunted. “Och, aye. That would be Beatrice.”
“She’s eating Miss Endicott’s hair.”
A noise of dismay came from the back seat. “Oh my God. It’s a sheep!”
“Well, that explains the smell,” said Kat.
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MacDougal glanced in the rearview mirror. Cassie could have sworn she spotted a twitch at the corner of his mouth, but she couldn’t be sure. The air was dark and the mouth was Scottish. It was nearly three o’clock, and the sun had begun to set. At least, Cassie assumed it was setting, somewhere behind that layer of charcoal December cloud.
“Och, she’s only giving ye a wee trim, Miss Endicott,” MacDougal said. “Being as yer hair’s the color of her dinner. Here we are.”
The Land Rover heeled to the right in a spray of gravel.
“Here we are?” said Kat. “Are you kidding? There’s nothing here! Except this damn sheep.”
“Stop it!” said Emma. “That’s my hair, you beast!”
MacDougal made a growling noise from somewhere inside his esophagus and tightened his hands around the steering wheel.
Cassie squinted through the gloom. Was she seeing things, or did a light flicker somewhere in the middle of all those shadows? She glanced down at the phone clutched in her hand. No messages, not a single alert. Maybe the signal was spotty? A small island in the Inner Hebrides, you couldn’t get more remote than that.
My God, she’d made a terrible mistake, hadn’t she? Traveling so far. What was she thinking?
The Land Rover bounced from rut to rut. Another light popped out, like a distant star. A large, hulking shape emerged against the lead horizon.
“There it is!” she cried. “Look, it’s the castle! At least, I think it is.”
“I don’t see anything,” said Kat.
“I can’t see anything,” said Emma. “This animal won’t leave me alone.”
MacDougal slammed the brakes. The Land Rover jolted to a stop. From the pocket of his coat he drew a cell phone and tapped furiously on the screen.
“What’s the matter?” Cassie asked.
“Bluidy autocorrect,” he muttered. “Now, then.”
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The dark shape on the horizon blazed into light, revealing every last battlement and turret of the medieval castle that towered before them. MacDougal made a satisfied grunt, put the phone back in his pocket, and hopped from the Land Rover. Cassie opened her door and climbed out to stand on the gravel, mouth hung open. She heard the other doors open and smack shut behind her, the indignant baa of the sheep as its dinner was snatched from its jaws. The castle glowed before her like a dream. Like when she and Chip took the kids to Disney World.
“Oh my!” Cassie breathed out.
“No way, is that a moat?” said Kat.
Emma snorted. “Kids, it’s a fake, remember? I grew up in a house older than this one. Look at that stupid portcullis. Did you ever see anything less authentic in your life?”
“Oh, give it a rest for once,” said Kat. She rummaged in her handbag and pulled out a phone. “All right. Smiles, everyone.
Group selfie at the castle.”
“Do we have to?” said Emma. “Social media is so demeaning.”
“Wow. Can you say privilege?” said Kat.
Cassie glanced back at MacDougal, who tenderly lifted the sheep from the back of the Land Rover and set her on her little hooves so he could reach the suitcases. She prayed Beatrice was house-trained. House-trained! Another pang of longing pierced her gut. She’d left home in the middle of potty training Dash, her youngest. Would Chip remember to keep an eye on him? Know to look out for when Dash bent his wee knees and — well, started to wee? She looked reflexively at the screen of her phone. One bar, that was all. One stunted little signal bar and no alerts. Just the cover of her next book glowing in her palm — a fluffy tortoise cat curled around a coffee roasting machine. And the time, 3:02 p.m.
Kat called out, exasperated. “Cassie, what’s the problem? Come on, cuddle up. We’re besties, remember?”
Cassie stuck her phone back in her coat pocket and turned to join Emma and Kat, backs to the castle. She put her arm around Emma’s stiff waist and stuck a delighted expression on her face.
“Everyone say prosecco,” said Kat.
From the book THE AUTHOR’S GUIDE TO MURDER by Beatriz Williams, Lauren Willig and Karen White. Copyright 2024 by Beatriz Williams, Lauren Willig and Karen White. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers
The Author’s Guide to Murder by Beatriz Williams, Lauren Willig and Karen White is on sale Nov. 5 and available for preorders now, wherever books are sold.
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