Forty-eight

The astonishment on the lieutenant’s face slowly turned into another expression, one that he usually reserved for members of his squad when they produced a solid lead.

“This is interesting, Clare, what you’ve found…”

“His manuscript is due in a few weeks, so it’s probably almost finished. At the very least, a written proposal exists. See the cover letter to the contract signed by an executive named Joan Gibson? She must have something in writing about the project. Esther tells me that publishers don’t offer contracts without seeing written proposals.”

“Did you locate the manuscript?”

“No, and that’s why I think Mr. Scrib came to the coffeehouse last night in such a distressed state. I overheard his part of a conversation with his attacker. And I remember every word.”

Mike leaned forward. “Tell me again. Everything you remember.”

I closed my eyes to replay it all for Mike, the darkness of the alley and the sound of Mr. Scrib’s loud, frantic voice, declaring—

“I don’t have it! That’s why I’m here. That’s what I’m looking for!”

I explained to Mike how I’d strained to listen for a reply, but he or she was speaking or whispering at a level too quiet for me to hear. “Then Mr. Scrib cried out again—”

“It must be here. I’ve got to find it.”

“Another pause came, and then I heard—”

“NO! It’s mine. I would never give it to you! Never!”

“His words ended in a terrible choked scream. That’s when I found his unconscious body slumped against the dumpster, saw his attacker fleeing, and gave chase.”

With a deep breath, I gave Mike my conclusion.

“Yesterday, the police assumed what I’d heard were pointless rantings, part of another mental health episode, and the alley attack was the result of a random street crime. And you and I assumed the notebook he’d come back for was the one Esther was keeping for him. But after everything that I discovered today, I believe it’s more likely that Mr. Scrib knew his attacker.”

“I agree,” Mike said. “You convinced me.”

“I also believe Mr. Scrib could have been searching for another notebook, the one he was using to write his true crime book. I think he left it—or at least believed he left it—somewhere in our shop, and that’s why he came back.”

Mike frowned. “Have you found another notebook in the shop?”

“No. Not yet anyway.”

“And you really think he was writing an entire book in longhand?”

“He wrote everything else that way. And the practice isn’t as far-fetched as you’d think. Esther mentioned that C. S. Lewis composed his manuscripts in longhand and had his brother type them up for his publisher.”

“Does Van Dyne have a typist?”

“He doesn’t need one. Look—” I pointed to my phone. “There’s a paragraph in the cover letter assuring him that they have someone ready to turn his handwriting into digital text.”

Mike nodded as he reviewed the letter. “Forward whatever you have to me. I’ll talk to Detective Russell tomorrow. I’m sure he’ll want to speak with Ms. Gibson for any more background she can provide.”

“See if she’ll confirm my theory. Has Mr. Scrib turned in his book yet? I’ll bet he hasn’t. And what ‘true crime’ is he revealing? I assume it’s the actor’s murder, but I don’t know for certain.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Good,” I said. “And tomorrow I’ll do some questioning of my own. I have a brunch invitation from A. F. Babcock.”

“You do?” He looked astonished again.

“She wanted to thank me for helping her nephew out of his, uh, predicament at the hotel.”

“When are you going?”

“Eleven. The shop should be under control enough at that time of day for me to take a long lunch break.”

“And what do you hope to discover?”

“More background on Mr. Scrib and anything she can remember about the rest of the group members, including and especially that young actor who was murdered. She told me to bring a date.”

Mike raised an eyebrow. “You mean me?”

“Sorry, Mike, but after that embarrassing scene tonight with her nephew, a police lieutenant would just make her clam up. I’m bringing Esther. The girl has no filter, and I’m banking on that to give me an edge.”

“Good luck with that.”

“I’m not sure what I’ll find out. It could be a waste of my time to even question her.”

“Like I said. Welcome to my world.”

“Okay. When you put it that way…”

“Look, the case is in a holding pattern. Either Van Dyne will wake up and help identify who attacked him. Or…”

“Or that poor old man will die of his injuries.”

“If that happens, we’ll be looking for a murderer.”

“And not likely to catch them, right?”

Mike took a breath. “Let’s just say what you’re doing could be very helpful.”

“Thanks, I appreciate hearing that.”

“I mean it, Clare. You’re like those Tuscan farmers who found a way to make their salami using fennel when they couldn’t afford pepper. It reminds me of a saying we had back when I was doing tours in squad cars. If you hit a light, make a right.”

“I get it,” I said. “Sometimes, to move forward you have to move sideways.”

“Find a way to make progress. That’s what I remind the detectives on my squad, and you’ve done that here. You’ve discovered a remarkable amount of information about a man who’s basically a recluse. More than that, the kind of person who society looks down on—and too often abandons. The fact that you want to help him, that’s one of the reasons I love you. One of the many reasons…”

“It’s why I love you, too,” I whispered. “One of the many reasons.”

In the silence that followed, the gaze we shared buoyed my spirit. I could tell Mike felt the same.

“So…” he said, voice soft. “I have an idea.”

“What’s that?”

“Even police detectives know when to give their heads a rest. In fact, it’s required.”

“What do you suggest?”

Mike’s powerful body rose from his chair. “Let’s start by clearing the table.”

“And then what?”

“And then we can head upstairs and discuss what you promised to tell me.”

“What’s that?”

His blue eyes smiled. “Which half of me you imagined naked.”

“With luck, I won’t have to imagine it.”