Fifty-eight

With clicking heels, Addy escorted Esther to an anteroom and firmly shut the door.

I tried to be patient, but after pacing under Addy’s potted palms, wondering what she could be discussing with Esther, I decided to put on my coat and step outside to clear my head.

On the chilly stone portico, I breathed in the late autumn air. The sun had warmed the ground enough to melt much of the freakishly early snow, and I watched locals stroll toward the promenade—dog walkers, nannies with young children, and joggers in running shoes.

While the brunch was delicious, and the news Addy shared about her new Netflix series would surely excite Tucker, I was disappointed that I didn’t have more to tell Mike.

As much as I admired Addy as an author, I couldn’t help being disappointed by her evasiveness and her condescending view of poor Mr. Scrib. I was ready for a certain amount of arrogance on her part, but not for the level she displayed, and I couldn’t help feeling skeptical about many of her replies.

Did her memory about the writers’ group really fail? Or was she being cagey because she was guilty of more than having weaknesses for imported mineral water, Juliet roses, Cherry Clafoutis, and Daniel Boulud’s kitchen help?

Just then, I heard the sound of an electric scooter hurtling down the street. It was the Ice Woman’s associate, buzzing by Addy’s house again!

The scooter spy had swapped his Harry Potter spectacles for aviator sunglasses and kept his head down, but his receding hairline was hard to miss. I hurried down the stone steps, but he zoomed past before I could reach the sidewalk.

“Hey, YOU!”

Yelling was a futile gesture, and an embarrassing one in this uber chic neighborhood. A flock of pigeons under a tall oak tree took flight, and across the street a woman walking her Pekingese gave me a nasty stare.

As I shrugged an apology, I felt my mobile phone vibrating and was relieved to see who it was.

“Hi, sweetheart, are you still brunching?”

“We just finished, and we’re heading back to the shop.”

“I can’t talk long,” Mike said. “Miami PD has picked up a dealer we’ve been after for months. I’ll be heading down there for a few days to meet with my counterparts and assist in the questioning. If we can flip him, we’re closer to bringing down a major tranq distributor.”

“That’s good news, but I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you, too. Before I go, I have some feedback from Detective Russell. First thing this morning, he followed the lead you found with that publishing executive.”

“Joan Gibson?”

“That’s right. Ms. Gibson confirmed the book contract with Jensen Van Dyne for a true crime memoir, but she said he only submitted a general outline. He promised to reveal the specifics in his first draft, including why and how actor Ace Archer, a member of Mr. Van Dyne’s writing group, ended up dead in a vacant lot—”

“So it is about the actor’s murder! And the actor’s name is definitely Ace Archer?”

“That’s what Russell conveyed.”

“Did Van Dyne deliver his manuscript?”

“No, he hasn’t turned in the book yet. And Ms. Gibson told Russell that she has no idea who might have attacked him in your alley.”

“Anything else?”

“That’s all I have. Did you learn anything new from Ms. Babcock?”

“Not much. Addy identified the actor from an old photo. She said his name was Ace—and you just confirmed his last name is Archer.”

Just then, I heard a door slam and saw Esther on the porch, pulling on her coat. She looked upset.

“Mike, I’ll talk with you later, okay? Have a safe trip.”

“I’ll stay in touch,” he promised.

As I tucked away my phone, Esther descended from the porch and joined me on the sidewalk. Her face was flushed and twisted into an angry scowl.

“What is it, Esther? What happened?”

She shook her head and refused to talk until our car arrived. After we settled into the back seat and Addy’s brownstone receded from view, Esther finally let loose.

“ ‘You do for me, and I’ll do for you,’ ” she quoted with bitterness.

“What are you talking about?”

“Addy propositioned me! She started the conversation by telling me she could help my career as a writer. She claimed she could open doors to editors, publishers, literary agents. All I had to do was one little favor for her.”

“What favor?”

“She wanted me to hand over Mr. Scrib’s notebook, the one he left behind at the Village Blend.”

“What did you say?”

“Are you kidding? I wouldn’t betray Mr. Scrib! Not to her, not to anyone. I told her that I loathe transactional relationships. I want nothing to do with them. Not in my life or my art. And I would never sell out a friend!”

“What did Addy say to that?”

“It was weird. I expected her to lash out or try to persuade me. But she just turned her back and walked away.” Esther moaned. “What is going on?”

“What’s going on isn’t a big leap. I’m guessing Addy thinks you have the notebook that Mr. Scrib was using to write his true crime exposé.”

“But why would she want it?”

“I can think of two reasons. Either Addy wants to know what really happened to Ace all those years ago because she wasn’t there. Or she’s lying and she was there. And if Addy was there, then she could have been involved in the actor’s murder or the cover-up of moving his body.”

“Do you think Addy killed him? Do you think that’s what Mr. Scrib is going to reveal? And is that why he was attacked in our alley? Did Addy send someone to do her dirty work?”

“I don’t know, Esther. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

“You have to admit, it seems likely.”

“Maybe. But even if it is, we have no proof.”

“Well, I’m going to take a closer look at the notebook we do have,” Esther said. “Given the info Addy did reveal, maybe I can put together clues buried in all those doodles and gibberish.”

“That’s a good idea,” I said, remembering Mike Quinn’s patrol car philosophy. “ ‘If you hit a light, make a right.’ ”

“I don’t get it,” Esther said. “Right on red is illegal here. Do you want our driver to get a ticket?”

“No. I want us to continue moving forward, despite our setbacks. You want to help Mr. Scrib, don’t you?”

“Yes!”

“Then keep looking for answers. And I’ll do the same.”