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Writing a book is a way for television journalists to distance themselves from the ranks of the TelePrompTered hairdos--the "twinkies," as Linda Ellerbee calls them. Ellerbee, a Texan, began her career in Houston, where her irreverent approach to office routine was not appreciated. The CBS station in New York City was delighted to have a witty, outspoken reporter on its staff, and sent her out to cover general-assignment and humaninterest stories. Eventually, she was given the chance to operate heavier machinery at NBC. She wrote for and co-anchored Weekend and NBC News Overnight, feature- journalism shows that were mostly seen in off-peak viewing hours. Yet Ellerbee seems to have had a prime time. "And So It Goes" is a breezy collection of anecdotes about covering the news both soft and hard: the circus as well as political campaigns (because she was dressed in jeans and a parka, George Bush mistook her for a network electrician). Ellerbee talks tough about the shortcomings of her profession and salty about sex and sexism at the office. The saline reporter with a whim of iron is not a pose. This month she spurned NBC's best offer to head for greener paychecks on other channels.
DEAD ROMANTIC
by Simon Brett
Scribner's; 192 pages; $13.95
Madeleine Severn, a beautiful 37-year-old schoolteacher who has been saving her virginity for the perfect moment of bliss. Bernard Hopkins, a shy but compelling middle-aged man whose wife is incurably ill. Paul Grigson, a nervous teenage boy infatuated with the teacher. From this triangle, Simon Brett has shaped a chilling psychological mystery. His cunning tale opens on the discovery of a gruesome murder, with details of the victim and perpetrator withheld. It soon develops that both must be part of the triangle, but Brett defines his characters so that any combination of killer and prey seems possible. That is a neat trick, but it is also a persuasive metaphor for Brett's underlying theme: that most of mankind is tortured by dark impulses and that chance plays a major role in determining which people actually commit crimes.
SILK LADY
by Gwen Davis
Warner; 427 pages; $17.95
Miranda--a blond Venus with overbite--and her older lover are found murdered. He is wearing shoes by Bally; hers are red leather Charles Jourdan. Anyone who thinks the cause of death is more important than who made the footgear has missed the point. With flashbacks, overheated sex scenes and brand names, Gwen Davis announces her arrival in the high-rent district of Judith Krantz and Jackie Collins: "A riveted audience at Elaine's, a heavy-breathing browsing crowd at Rizzoli's." Forget serious. The hollandaise sauce from La Cote Basque that Miranda pours over her lover, the custom-made sex apparatus that gets hoisted up the side of Watergate South because it is too big for the elevators--this is the stuff of Great Trash. In addition, there are herbal wraps at Elizabeth Arden and pokes at perfume ("Bunyan could see his obituary . . . Asphyxiated by Giorgio. Hardly fair, after he'd given up amyl nitrate"). The socially crucial pass in review: Donald Trump shows up in yet another novel. And the patrons of Le Cirque. And the Annenbergs. By now, if this were a just world, they would all be earning royalty checks.
TAMING A SEA-HORSE
by Robert B. Parker
Delacorte, Lawrence