Watch Them Die

Trilby. Remember that conversation?”

Seth was shaking his head. “Oh, brother. Paul Gulletti doesn’t have an original bone in his body. I wrote a paper for him on that subject two years ago. He got it published, practically word for word, in a book of film essays. The SOB put his own name on it. I’d have sued, only the book hardly made back its printing costs. It had a bunch of contributors, all these egghead film critics. Just didn’t seem worth the hassle of raising a stink with him.”

Hannah had stopped working to stare at Seth. “That’s awful.”

“Well, that’s Paul Gulletti,” Seth grunted. “He mentioned you were writing something on the Hollywood blacklist for him. Don’t be surprised if your work turns up someplace with his name on it.”

“What’s this book called, anyway?” Hannah asked. “I’m interested in reading what you had to say, Seth. Even if Paul grabbed the credit.”

He blushed a little. “Well, thanks. It’s called Darkness, Light, and Shadows: Essays on Film, published by one of those small university presses.”

“I’ll look it up in the library,” Hannah said. She was telling the truth. She very much wanted to read what Seth Stroud had to say on the subject of certain film directors and their obsessions with leading ladies.

Hannah put away the Windex and dust rag. “Paul’s kind of a sleazoid, isn’t he?” She leaned on the back counter. “The other day, when you were telling me about that Angela woman from his class, the one who was strangled, you hinted that Paul might have had something to do with it. Were you serious?”

Seth chuckled. “Not really. He’s sleazy, but he doesn’t have the guts to actually kill anyone. Ha, though if he did, he’d probably copy someone else’s murder.”

Seth laughed, then smiled at Hannah.

She stared back at him. She tried to laugh too, but she couldn’t.

“Hannah, line one is for you,” Seth announced, as they wound down from a rush. “It’s Jennifer Somebody. Says it’s personal.”

It was unusual to have a swarm of customers descend on them at three-thirty, and, of course, the phone had started ringing off the hook at just the same time. But Seth and she had sailed though it without incident. Tish was right; unless Seth turned out to be a total psycho, he was a keeper.

Both Hannah and Seth were just finished up with her last customers. She spotted Nutty Ned approaching the register, smiling at her. “Seth, can you cover for me?” she said, moving around the counter. “I need to take this call in the break room. Hi, Ned.” She bypassed him, then called back to Seth. “Give me a shout if it gets crazy again!”

Hannah ducked into the break room, stepped over to the desk, and stared at the blinking light on the telephone. She needed a moment before saying hello to Ben’s wife.

She finally picked up the receiver. “Hello, this is Hannah.”

“Hi, Hannah. It’s Jennifer Dorn calling.”

“Dorn?”

“I kept my name,” she explained. “It’s a bit easier to carry around than Podowski.”

Hannah let out a nervous laugh. “I’m sure.” She sat down at the desk. “Um, listen, Jennifer, I want to thank you for helping us—or helping me, actually. It’s very nice of you to do this for a total stranger.”

“Well, Ben asked me,” she replied. “Anyway, ten minutes ago, I got an e-mail on that account I set up this morning. It’s from W-KIRK-A-BEE-at-G-L-I-dot-web. I did a trace on that, and it’s someone named Kirkabee at Great Lakes Investigations in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. But the e-mail was sent from the Pacific Coast, according to the send time.”

“Ben was right,” Hannah said. “You are good.”

“Thanks. Are you ready for the message?”

“Yes.”

“It reads: Who the fuck are you? and it’s signed K. Woodley. That’s all, short and not-so-sweet. Do you want me to respond?”

Dumbfounded, Hannah was at a loss for a moment.

“Hello?”

“Yes, I’ll respond,” she said. “Are you ready?”

“Go ahead,” Jennifer said.

“Okay, here goes: Mr. Woodley—Someone else is following her. If you or Mr. Kirkabee —” Hannah paused. “Is that the name?”

“That’s right. Kirkabee, go ahead.”

Hannah continued. She could hear the faint clacking of fingers on a keyboard as she dictated. Jennifer was taking it all down. “If you or Mr. Kirkabee have seen this man, please furnish a description or identification at this address as soon as possible. He is dangerous. Be advised, he may be responsible for the death of Ronald Craig, and could target you next. Avoid sailing or boating. There is a high risk of sabotage to a sailboat or yacht.”

“Is that it?” Jennifer asked.

“Yes, I think so,” Hannah replied, with a sigh of relief. Yet she was still gripping the receiver a bit too tightly.

Jennifer read the message back to her. It sounded all right. With the note mentioning both Ronald Craig and the new detective, Kirkabee, by name, at least Kenneth would know to take it seriously.

“No changes? I’m about to send it,” Jennifer said.

“Go ahead. Thanks.”

“Okay, it’s sent, Hannah,” she said. “I’ll call you when I get a reply. What time will you be home tonight?”

“Around six.”

“All right. Is—um,” she paused. “Is Ben going to be there?”

“He might be,” Hannah answered carefully.

Jennifer didn’t say anything.

Hannah let out a skittish laugh. “This sure is awkward, isn’t it?”

“Ben asked me to do this for him,” Jennifer said. “That’s why I’m doing it, Hannah. I want my husband back.”

“I understand,” Hannah murmured.

“So I’m not asking any questions I don’t want to hear the answers to. I’ll call you when I get a reply here.”

“Thank you, Jennifer,” Hannah said.

She heard a click on the other end of the line.

“Darkness, Light, and Shadow: Essays on Film, edited by Brendan Leonard,” said the librarian at Seattle’s downtown branch. The wiry, middle-aged black man stood behind the counter at his computer terminal. Hannah could see the computer screen reflected in his glasses. “That’s checked out right now. Went out today, in fact.”

“Today?” Hannah asked. “Does it say what time today?”

He nodded. “About two hours ago; four twenty-three P.M., to be exact.” He started typing something. “And I’m sorry, but that’s the only copy we have in the whole system. The current due date is November twelfth. Would you like to put it on hold?”

Hannah sighed. “Thanks anyway. You couldn’t tell me who checked out the book, could you?”

He shook his head. “I wish I could help you, but I can’t.”

Hannah worked up a smile. “I understand. Maybe you could help me with something else. Does it say there in your computer when the book was previously checked out?”

With a sigh, the librarian started typing on the keyboard again. “Yes, the book was last checked out on February sixteenth of this year.”

“So—it just sat on the shelf for eight months, up until two hours ago?” Hannah said.