Who doesn’t love a good diva character? I’m not talking about opera singers; I mean the other kind. That precious, over-the-top, self-important, preening, domineering, mean-spirited piece of work, oblivious to her own pomposity. That irrational, above-it-all prima donna who is ridiculously ridiculous in her wants and desires and is in dire need of a major reality check. The one completely unconcerned with how she plays to a crowd, the one who shames, belittles and needles for sport. The one who makes enemies. That one.
There have been many divas depicted in fiction—in the workplace, on the stage, in all walks of life, really, but when I looked around for an idea for the third book in my Cass Raines Chicago mystery, I decided I’d take a shot at creating one of my own. I’d make her a boss, and I’d make her seriously bent.
Enter the great (in her own mind) Vonda Allen, the publisher of her own pretentious magazine, a Chicago celebrity, smooch friends to all the glittery people. Vonda’s a snake with her eyes set on her own media empire. She’s a real pill, queen of all she surveys, the boss from Hell, and somebody wants her deader than a doornail.
When she begins receiving threatening letters penned in red ink and flower bouquets without cards attached, she hires Cass and her ex-partner Detective Ben Mickerson to guard her. HER, not her staff. Vonda doesn’t care about staff. Tsk. Tsk. Just like a diva. Threats and pretty flowers, of course, soon give way to dead bodies falling everywhere. But that’s crime fiction for you; somebody’s gotta die. It’s a great story setup, and it was fun breaking up all that diva swish with a little murder, mayhem and stalker action.
As I was writing What You Don’t See, it put me in mind of all those other fictional divas, those pampered pusses with delusions of grandeur, and all those stealthy, twisted stalkers who watch from the shadows scaring the socks off their targets, or worse. Diva v. stalker. Stalker v. Diva. Clash of the Titans!
Side note. If you’re thinking I went too far with Vonda, that no one could possibly act as she does, HA. I actually based her on a real person, so Vonda’s eighty percent scary human, twenty percent scary writer brain. Well, maybe forty sixty.
Anyway, here are eight books that feature either high priestesses of haughtiness you love to hate or stealthy stalkers who’ll have you sleeping with the lights on, checking your locks ten times a night and nailing your mailbox shut.
The Wisdom of Eve, Mary Caswell Orr
Fading diva meets crafty diva on her way up. This short story turned play turned film, All About Eve, turned musical, Applause, is a real page-turner. Aging stage actress, Margo Channing, who’s tap-dancing hard trying to hold on to her fame, beauty and exalted position as the Queen of Broadway, is slowly outmaneuvered by a young up-and-comer, Eve Harrington, who set her sights on Channing’s spot, hopping from secretary/assistant to understudy to star while Margo watches herself get eclipsed. Diva checkmate.
The Devil Wears Prada, Lauren Weisberger
Weisberger takes diva boss to a whole new level in this one. Miranda Priestly, the bone-chilling editor of Runway magazine, strikes fear into the hearts of those around her, especially Andrea Sachs, the new kid on the block, fresh out of college, clueless to the ways of divadom. But Sachs quickly learns to swim in the fast-paced, brutal world of high fashion, only to discover that it’s not all that great. Priestly, eyes narrowed, is enough to shrivel a reader’s liver.
Stardust, Robert B. Parker
Spen-sa! This one finds our cool breeze Boston PI, Spenser, working security for a spoiled, drugged-out, bitchy TV star, Jill Joyce, who is convinced somebody’s out to get her. That could be true, or Joyce could just have imagined the whole thing, she’s just that unstable. But as it happens, Spenser soon finds actual evidence that someone’s out to punch Joyce’s ticket, but before he can wrap it all up, somebody dies. Won’t spoil it. Classic Parker.
Gone with the Wind, Margaret Mitchell
Scarlett O’Hara, spoiled, entitled, flighty, insipid at the start of the book, but like a tea bag, stronger the longer she steeps in misery and drama. As God is my witness, I’ll never be hungry again! Even near-starvation, financial ruin and a war couldn’t knock the self-centeredness out of fiddle-de-dee Scarlett, but at least no one tried to take a potshot at her.
Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?, Henry Farrell
Depending on how you look at this one, it could be considered suspense, thriller or horror. Two aging Hollywood stars, one a former child actress whose limited talents and short-run career petered out around the age of ten, and the other, more substantial, who’s on the verge of experiencing a bit of a revival, much to the other’s distress. Sisters. One crazy as a bessie bug (Jane), the other confined to a wheelchair, and in a whole lot of trouble (Blanche). Jane, unable to let the past go, desperate to regain her glory, teetering on the verge of insanity, or over the verge, depending on the encounter. Old lady Jane dressed like Shirley Temple, ringlets and all. Eek. Two thumbs up on the diva scale.
Eleven on Top, Janet Evanovich
Stephanie Plum, fed up with being a bail enforcement agent, ventures out to find her next gig, but somebody’s after her big time. Her car’s firebombed, she’s firebombed. It could be an old enemy, one who’s funeral home she burned down inadvertently, but whoever he or she is, they’re keeping the pressure on. Stephanie’s fighting for her life, and the struggle is hilarious, but real. Funny series.
The Bad Seed, William March
Eight-year-old serial killer. Rhoda Penmark could be considered both a baby diva and a stalker. A two-fer. Outwardly the perfect child, Rhoda is a total psychopath who wants what she wants when she wants it. She’s Vonda Allen pint-sized, smiling the surface, polite, seemingly refined, and underneath a gnarled mess of mental instability. Cross Rhoda at your own peril, and don’t let her size fool you. Impressive body count. Nice twist at the end, too.
Your Heart Belongs to Me, Dean Koontz
No one’s creepier than Koontz (book wise, not personally. I don’t know the man). In this one, Ryan Perry, young guy, living his life, suddenly needs a heart transplant, which he soon gets. A while later, feeling better than he has in a long time, he begins to get weird gifts in the mail with a message on it “Your Heart Belongs to Me.” Creepy. Turns out the woman sending the messages and the gifts, is a full-on doppelganger for his heart donor. Creepy doubled. And this twisted sister, apparently, now wants the heart back. Mic drop. Well played, Koontz, well played.
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