“I've got exactly what you need, dear,“ she said.
Please don't let this be about faux finishes, I thought.
“That veterinarian of yours has quite an interesting history,“ she went on.
“Just how interesting?“ I said, uttering a silent prayer of thanks for gossip, the only thing on Earth that could distract Mother from interior decorating.
“He used to belong to one of those militant animal-rights organizations,“ Mother said. “Remember how Aunt Cecily told us about the protests they kept having at dog shows a few years ago?“
“Only vaguely,“ I said. As a child, I'd found Aunt Cecily fascinating, because she was the only grown-up who got away with talking about sex – not to mention using the word “bitch“ – at my grandmother's dinner table. But like most of my cousins, I learned to tune Aunt Cecily out once I'd reached the age where hearing about Pomeranians mating became boring instead of titillating.
“They would register dogs for a show – genuine dogs – but then they'd show up with some of their human members in cages, wearing collars, and try to take them into the ring. And then there were the anti-hunting protests, when the members dressed up like deer and went running through the woods.“
“I remember that,“ I said, recalling a newspaper shot of the earnest protestors, wearing synthetic fur ponchos and headgear topped with giant papier-mache antlers.
“Apparently your veterinarian friend left the group after a hunting protest that ended in a very unfortunate shooting incident.“
“Really,“ I said. I could feel adrenaline starting to wake me up. “Do you think it could be another murder?“
“No one was killed, dear,“ Mother said. “But your friend was shot… in the derriere. And instead of taking him to the hospital right away, the other protestors tied him to the hood of their Volvo and drove around town honking for several hours. He was quite put out, and they had a parting of the ways. I gather he's become much less radical – shortly after that he joined the ASPCA and applied to veterinary school.“
Mother grilled me for details of what Doc was doing now, and then signed off, presumably to relay his current whereabouts to Aunt Cecily. I made a note to share her information with the chief, next time I saw him. Would his history as a radical animal-rights activist make Doc more plausible as a murder suspect? Probably – after all, Ted had only two legs.
After that flurry of excitement, my energy level dropped again. I actually dozed off at the switchboard at some point in the morning and woke up to find Luis shaking my shoulder.
“Are you all right?“ he asked.
“I'm fine,“ I said, although I noticed that I didn't sound fine; I sounded cranky. Realizing that only made me feel more cranky.
“Here,“ Luis said, handing me a diskette.
“What's this?“ I asked.
“The collected works of Anna Floyd,“ he said, glancing around to make sure no one was there.
“So I was right,“ I said. “It is a pseudonym for someone at the office.“
“Bet you can't guess who,“ he said with a Cheshire Cat smile.
“What's-his-name,“ I said. “One of the therapists, the mousy little guy. Dr. Lorelei's husband.“
“You knew all along,“ he said.
“I suspected, but I didn't know,“ I said.
He shook his head.
“How's the other research project going?“ I asked.
“More slowly,“ he said. “I assume you'd rather not tip off whoever runs the porn sites that someone's checking them out.“
“You assume right,“ I said. “Just let me know when you have something.“
He nodded and left.
So now I knew who the Bodice Ripper was, I thought as I stuck the diskette into the computer and began checking the files Luis had copied.
I found copies of letters to and from publishers – fairly big publishers, I presumed, since I'd heard of them. Complete drafts of two of the books I'd seen in print. And a file that was clearly the first half of another novel.
I couldn't think of anything else I could do while stuck on the switchboard, so I began to read the unfinished book.
Which turned out to be rather interesting. You found out in the first chapter that the heroine, a typical blond, statuesque Anna Floyd kind of gal, was already married to a mousy, bespectacled man who greatly resembled Anna's usual heroes. But the wife was bored with him – she was contemplating having an affair with a sexy neighbor who'd been flirting with her. A sexy neighbor who, the reader quickly deduces, might well be the local Jack the Ripper or Hannibal Lecter. Was the heroine so mesmerized by Sexy Neighbor's pecs and cleft chin that she couldn't see fava beans and a nice Chianti in her future? Or had I heard so many analyses of real and literary serial killers from Dad that I suspected the worst from Sexy Neighbor long before most people would?
Eventually, even the heroine began to have a few nagging doubts about Sexy Neighbor – though of course she paid no attention to her intuition, probably because doing so would bring the book to a screeching halt about one hundred pages short of the minimum required length. Still, having read three of Anna's books, I figured I didn't have to worry about the heroine. Sure, she'd let Sexy Neighbor lure her to his den of iniquity, but Mousy Husband would turn up just in time. He would burst on the scene, eyes flashing, and save her from certain death, or a fate worse than death, whichever Sexy Neighbor intended to come first.
Imagine my surprise when Sexy Neighbor turned up dead. And Mousy Husband began acting… well, highly suspicious. Was this just a ploy to keep the two lovers apart for a few more chapters? Or would Mousy Husband turn out to be the real serial killer, thereby allowing the heroine to find happiness with the mousy, bespectacled but perhaps secretly heroic homicide detective who had just turned up to investigate the neighbor's death?
The husband and the homicide detective were in the middle of a duel of waspish wit and mousy spectacle polishing when the manuscript broke off in midchapter.
“Aarrgghh!“ I exclaimed. I wasn't sure which was more provoking: not knowing how the story ended, or realizing that I'd actually gotten caught up in Anna Floyd's hokey plot.
Although perhaps my interest was less related to the plot than to the question of what, if anything, it had to do with Ted's murder? Was this rather dark and brooding story really the product of the same mind that had produced the other three mildly amusing if somewhat predictable works I'd previously read? Was there any significance to the fact mat Anna Floyd was writing about murder instead of the usual abduction and seduction themes?
Most interesting of all – since all Anna Floyd's statuesque blond heroines and mousy heroes clearly resembled Dr. Lorelei and her husband, was this plot inspired by something in real life? If Lorelei was having an affair with a patient, she'd probably done a certain amount of sneaking around. And if Ted had been blackmailing her, an observant eye – say, a jealous husband – could have detected a certain emotional tension between them. What if the husband had put the evidence together and come to the erroneous conclusion that Dr. Lorelei had been having an affair with Ted? Was the book some kind of wish fulfillment? Or, better yet, a game plan? In the book, Sexy Neighbor had been bludgeoned, not strangled, of course, so the book wasn't a finished game plan. But what if the blow to Ted's throat was a bludgeoning attempt that had failed, forcing the killer to fall back on the mouse cord to finish his victim off?
I'd have to consider the husband a suspect. And decided that if he was a suspect, I should make a better effort to remember his name. I looked him up on the phone list. Dr. Glass. I'd work on remembering that. Dr. Glass whose motive, if he turned out to be the killer, would be transparent.
I was rereading passages of the manuscript, trying to figure out if the mousy homicide detective resembled anyone else around the office or if he was another version of Dr. Glass. And also looking for clues that the deceased Sexy Neighbor was intended to represent Ted. He wasn't my idea of a dream-boat, but maybe he looked that way to Dr. Glass. He was taller and younger, anyway. And perhaps his breezy attempts at charm had gone over better with Dr. Glass than they had with me.
I still had my nose buried in the book when the door opened. I glanced up to see a cleaning cart rattle into the reception area. I focused back on the screen, and then realized that there was something odd about the figure pushing the cart. I looked up at her. Her shoulders sagged in typical tired fashion beneath the usual faded blue
