Super-bankable, way-hot movie star Nadia Wentworth has found her dream role: the all-powerful, eternally beautiful Kali-Ra, Queen of Doom--one of pulp fiction's most famous characters. Even better, no one stands between Nadia owning all the rights to the Kali-Ra novels. As far as Nadia's assistant, Melanie, can tell, Kali-Ra's creator, dissolute 1920s novelist Valerian Ricardo, left no heirs. So it seems that no power on earth can stop the return of Kali-Ra--or prevent Nadia from gaining untold profits and worldwide mega-stardom. . . .That is, until a cast of mysterious characters descends on Nadia's exotic Beverly Hills mansion--putting the level-headed Melanie in a scenario weirder than anything even she's ever seen. Nick Iversen, Valerian's great-great-nephew from Minneapolis, wants the truth about his dubious heritage. The writer's wacked-out widow, Lila, hungers to spread the "divine power" of his words and control his new fortune on the earthly plane. Haplessly sleazy lawyer Quentin Smith is out to claim the profits of Kali-Ra for his unscrupulous employer. And the mysterious Callie might have a more sinister connection to Valer

PROLOGUE

Valerian Ricardo selected a cigarette from the gold Cartier box with his initials in diamonds, fitted it into his ebony and silver holder, and strolled onto the balcony of his villa overlooking the Côte d'Azur. A tall, slim man of thirty-five, he had a strangely dissipated face for one so young. His fine brown hair was well oiled and combed flat against his egg-shaped skull, and he wore a maroon silk dressing gown over his white silk pajamas. His manservant, Lucien, proffered a lighter, and Ricardo gazed out over the Mediterranean. "It's too dammed bright," he said, retreating back to the dim recesses of the house.

He had really overdone it this time, he thought. Four or five cocktails with the duchess, then all those giddy debutantes and of course the cocaine, which never failed to energize and invigorate -- that had been fine. But he'd had to go on and indulge later in copious amounts of opium more powerful than he had ever experienced, and Valerian Ricardo had experienced plenty.

He let out a world-weary sigh. At least, he thought, the drug had produced the desired result, a fantastic dream that could be swiftly tailored into one of his enchanting tales. It had been at least three months since the last book had been published, and if Valerian Ricardo was to continue living as he had become accustomed to living -- indeed, as he deserved to live -- he had better deliver another one by the week after next at the latest.

Eagerly, he rushed to his bedside and seized his leather-bound notebook. In the early hours of the dawn he had jotted down the main scenes, and there was certainly enough there for a real corker of a yarn. Thank God he had written it down, because now the details were hazy.

"Hero runs through thicket, pursuing naked girl with jeweled navel. Branches scratch his flesh." Good.

"Dagger. Cabochon emeralds and rubies. Plunged into bosom of sleeping woman in gossamer-fine negligee." Fine.

"Evil criminal mastermind, once a respectable member of society, now disgraced, directs his empire from a fetid tropical island, sending his minions to do evil." All right.

"Beautiful villainess disguised as serving girl." He'd done that one before but it never failed.

"Various people bound with stout ropes and locked in closets, etc." Okay.

But surely there was more! There had to be! The dream had been very well plotted. Better than anything he'd ever done in the previous twenty or so books.

Ricardo turned the page. Here were a few more jottings but they were less legible. He managed to make out "family secrets revealed," "lovers united," "all resolved," and "the end."

Disgusted, he flung the notebook down. There had been so much more in his dream! He must remember it all. And by next Tuesday at the latest.

Lucien coughed discreetly. "Has monsieur forgotten that Miss Nadi is coming to luncheon?" he asked, before leaving the room.

Oh yes. Vera Nadi, the screen vamp who had taken the villa next door. Last night she had lain beside him on the sofa, inhaling the magical fumes which had produced this wonderful novel, the details of which he had now, maddeningly, forgotten. As the hookah gurgled, she had charmed him with reminiscences of her harem childhood in Constantinople. She had been the daughter of the sultan's favorite, a proud beauty who later escaped to America with the young Vera.

 

"A writer with a quirky, but assured style, someone who takes light entertainment seriously. . . . Beck is a charming storyteller with a lively sense of humor."

 

"K. K. Beck knows how to combine mirth and murder."

 

"Beck tells a story with a compelling narrative drive."

 

"Beck is a mystery writer with a splendid gift for spinning out a story that catches up the reader, with a mesmerizing fascination for plot and character that stands her in the company of the Agatha Christies and Conan Doyles of the mystery tradition."

 

"Beck writes in a wry and appealing style."

 

K. K. Beck is the author of fourteen books, including We Interrupt This Broadcast, Cold Smoked, Electric City, and Amateur Night. She lives in Seattle with her husband, crime writer Michael Dibdinn, and her three children.

 

The Revenge of Kali-Ra by K. K. Beck
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