I was in a black mood. I was planning to pack for the June tour for my seventh Dead-End Job mystery, “Clubbed to Death.” I had a wardrobe like a new widow: Black jackets. Black blouses. Black pants. Black is the traditional color for author appearances. It’s supposed to make you look serious. Sophisticated. Maybe even slimmer. Plus, black doesn’t show the minor smudges travel adds to the pale colors. Black should be perfect for a touring author. But not when you’ve been shaken like a martini at 30,000 feet, for three days in a row. Put yourself in my (black) shoes: You are flying to your fourth tour city in four days. Now it’s 4:30 a.m., and your media escort will be outside your hotel at five o’clock to drive you to “Good Morning, Festus,” a major TV talk show. You flip on the bathroom light, pry open your eyes, and the bags under your eyes are a perfect match for your black outfit. Someone has stolen your face and replaced it with your Aunt Marie’s – the one who talked about her operations at dinner. There isn’t enough concealer in Texas to help you. It’s time to abandon…