Crouching Buzzard, Leaping Loon

say he hadn't bit everyone yet, and also had struck out a few times. It'll take time to figure out what some of the abbreviations mean, but only about half of them were actually paying blackmail, I think.“

“So if they're not paying blackmail, maybe once we know who they are we can strike them off the suspect list.“

“No,“ I said. “Once we know who they are, I think we need to pay particular attention to the ones who wouldn't pay.“

“Why, if they didn't care enough about whatever secret he'd uncovered to pay blackmail?“

“Maybe someone cared too much, and didn't trust Ted to keep quiet, even with the blackmail. Maybe someone didn't pay because he planned to kill Ted. We need to worry about that, too.“

“I am worried about it,“ Michael said. “What's with this 'we' stuff, anyway? I'm in California, and can't exactly be much help, and you shouldn't be doing this anyway.“ *

“I'm crushed. I thought you shared Dad's admiration for my amateur sleuthing skills.“

“I do. I think you've uncovered some important evidence here,“ he said. “But if you're right, and Ted was killed because he was blackmailing someone, what makes you think that same person will react calmly if you unmask him as the killer? Or her. Don't take any chances. You need to turn that printout over to the police.“

“I will, of course,“ I said. “Tomorrow morning.“

“Good.“

“After I've made a copy of it.“

“Oh, good grief.“

I sighed. It was too late, and I was too tired for yet another argument over my taking too many chances.

“Michael, don't worry so much,“ I said. “I'm not going to confront someone and accuse them. I'll let the police do that. But I'm certainly in a better position than they are to try to figure out the real names of the people on the list. I'm there at Mutant Wizards all day.“

“What if some of the people on the list aren't at Mutant Wizards?“ he countered. “Ted did have a life outside the office, right?“

“Not in the last six months he didn't,“ I said. “And anyway, even if all the suspects aren't from Mutant Wizards, we know the killer was there Monday. I know who was there Monday, and I have a lot better chance of catching them off guard than the police.“

“Just don't take any foolish chances,“ he said. “Sneaking around the office in the middle of the night is not a smart thing to do.“

“Don't worry – I'm not feeling suicidal,“ I said. “I'm not going to do anything but try to identify the rest of the people on the printout.“

“Yeah, right.“

He didn't sound as if he believed me.

“And find out who Ted's landlord is, of course,“ I said. “If he rented the place, I'm more than half-convinced he was supposed to be some kind of caretaker until they could settle the estate and sell it.“

“You know, that's not a bad idea,“ Michael said. “You should definitely concentrate on the landlord angle. See if the place is for rent or sale.“

“Michael, were you paying attention when I described that house?“

“I gather it was a little run-down, but what's wrong with a place that needs a little fixing up?“

“A little run-down? It's a wreck!“

“So it'll need a lot of fixing up,“ he said. “We can handle it.“

“It's Invasion of the Body Snatchers, and you must be the pod Michael,“ I said. “It can't possibly be the real Michael, Mr. 'Neither one of us has time to bother with all that,' who refused to even consider that nice but run-down farmhouse last summer. The farmhouse was in mint condition compared to this place.“

“That was last summer,“ Michael said.

“And you've grown more reasonable?“

“More desperate,“ he said. “Just check it out, will you?“

I closed my eyes. The place was way too big, and probably way too expensive, and I couldn't even imagine what it would look like without Edwina Sprocket's possessions crowding every inch of it. But something about Michael's voice told me it wasn't the right time to bring up any of that.

“Don't get your hopes up. Everyone in town knows the place is vacant, you know.“

“Just check it out, okay?“

“Okay.“

When would I have time? I wondered. Maybe I could get Dad to do it.

After saying good night to Michael, I got ready for bed. I fussed with the ancient window air conditioner until it deigned to produce the occasional puff of cold air. And then I crawled into bed, but for a little while, I lay there, staring at the printout some more, looking, in vain, for more inspiration.

“Tomorrow,“ I said, and turned out the light.

But tired as I was, sleep seemed to retreat the second I put my head on the pillow. After tossing and turning for a few minutes, I decided that if I was going to have insomnia, I might as well get something done. I turned on the bedside light and looked around.

I picked up Living Graciously in a Single Room and began flipping through it. Like most of the decorating books Mother had given me in the last few months, it was long on pretty and short on practical. But still, I liked decorating books. I could easily have lost myself in all the eye candy if the pictures hadn't kept reminding me of Ted's murder.

Looking at one strikingly minimalist room, I found myself murmuring, as usual, “Nice – but where on Earth do they put their stuff?“ And then found myself mentally back in the midst of Mrs. Sprocket's stuff. Had I searched her house thoroughly enough? I assumed Mrs. Sprocket had no connection with the murder – but what if she did? Another death within a few months of Ted's – was there anything suspicious about it? Was anything suspicious happening around Mutant Wizards in March or April, when Mrs. Sprocket died? Apart from the first appearance of Nude Lawyers from Hell, nothing that I knew of. I scribbled an item on my to-do list to ask Rob when he first began to feel something was wrong around the company. And another to ask Dad to check out Mrs. Sprocket's death. It wouldn't be hard for him, by now he and the local medical examiner were probably playing poker together.

The book contained one section all about creative space dividers. Mother had bookmarked that section, so my first reaction was that we needed to bring her up to see the Cave; apparently nothing else would convince her that we were not in need of creative ways to divide space. We just needed more space. Not to mention the feet that to judge by the examples in the book, its author considered space dividers creative only if they were made of strange and expensive objects that included lots of sharp poimts and dust-catching crannies. I wondered what the author would think about Ted's copier-box dividers. Probably too practical to rank as creative. And Ted's basement lair certainly didn't qualify as gracious one-room living. And exactly how had Ted snagged his living quarters? Was he really renting them, or just acting as caretaker for Mrs. Sprocket's heirs? Was there some way I could find out? And – I tossed Living Graciously in a Single Room aside. Obviously it wasn't going to keep my mind off anything. Instead, I picked up the romance books I'd brought back from Ted's secret stash. I began browsing through them, half reading, half skimming.

They weren't deathless prose, but they weren't badly written, either. And while Anna Floyd, whoever she was, had definitely found a single plot and was busy running it into the ground, I did find her plot a little more to my taste than the ones in the romances some of my aunts devoured.

All the heroines were tall, assertive blond women. Not conventionally beautiful or in the first flush of youth, but still compellingly attractive, to judge by the number of gorgeous men chasing them. But – and this was the part that interested me – in all three books, the actual heroes were not the gorgeous guys. They were shy, mild- mannered, bespectacled, studious chaps, oddly appealing despite their outward goofiness or scruffiness.

Not that the silly heroines noticed this right off the bat; they would dismiss the heroes as uninteresting wimps and spend most of the book drooling over the most buff, square-jawed, perfectly groomed and dressed stud in sight. Who invariably turned out to be a villain, of course, once the heroine made the mistake of boarding his luxurious private yacht, flying to Vegas on his personal Learjet or, in the case of the historical novel, showing up for what was supposed to be a respectable house party attended by a trio of widowed aunts as chaperons, only to find