Foul Deeds: A Rosalind Mystery by Linda Moore

was in Planning, and if I remember correctly that’s how he originally described himself.”
    â€œOkay, so I manage to get him on the phone. Then what?”
    â€œYou need to convey to him that you know me and that you’d like to set up a meeting. You don’t have to say anything about delivering information. As soon as he hears my name he’ll know that’s what it’s about, if he is indeed the contact.”
    â€œSo what is it that you’re after?” Sophie asked.
    â€œHe indicated that he may have information about what happened to Peter King,” McBride offered. “He wanted me to get it that night in the parking lot, but then he got frightened off and seemingly for good reason—someone was keeping an eye on him. I might have been able to get it yesterday if I had followed him down to the archives, but three men he knew got on the elevator and I didn’t want to put any focus on a connection to me.”
    â€œOkay. Leave it with me. I’ll figure out a way to meet him. But, I have to be by myself to make the call,” she said. “It’s not just pretend, right. I have to get into it. I’ll do it tomorrow morning. I’ll let you know as soon as it’s set up.”
    I could see McBride was a little nonplussed by Sophie’s take-charge approach, but he didn’t argue.
    â€œSorry to cut this short, but I have to get to work on Ophelia’s mad scene now,” she said. “I’ll see you at rehearsal Roz.”
    That was it. We were out of there.

    Once home, I got out the card that Eloise Radner had given me for the lawyer, Harvie Greenblatt. It wasn’t five o’clock yet and with any luck I could set up a meeting with him for the following day. He was part of a firm that was notable for taking on high-profile civil rights cases and winning. No wonder he’d had a strong connection with Peter King. However, the secretary who answered said Harvie had recently left the firm and had gone to work for the Public Prosecution Service as a Crown Attorney. “We miss him,” she said, giving me his new number. When I called I got his voicemail. I left a message, mentioning both Eloise Radner and Peter King, and asked him to call me back as soon as possible.
    I went down to the kitchen to find something to munch on while working my way through the next section of
Hamlet
. The brutal Gertrude/Hamlet scene was coming up and I needed to look it over. “One egg and the heel of a loaf of sourdough. Looks like it’s a fried egg sandwich,” I said to the cat, who, in her customary style, materialized out of nowhere. She had clearly been down for her afternoon nap and was stretching, with her long fur every which way. I bent over and scratched her chin. She rubbed herself against my legs, and went and sat by her dish.
    â€œYou are endless,” I said. “Well, there are crunchies here. I promise I’ll go to the store on the way home from rehearsal.” I filled her dish and changed her water. She looked long-suffering as she chewed.
    I brought the egg sandwich to my desk and opened
Hamlet
to Act 3, Scene 4. I read through the rapid exchange between Gertrude and Polonius interrupted by Hamlet’s offstage battle cry,
“
Mother, Mother, Mother!”
Polonious then secretes himself behind the arras, and as I read Hamlet’s entrance line,
“Now mother, what’s the matter?”
the phone jangled. It was McBride.
    â€œI’m just about to leave for the airport,” he said. I could hear anxiety in his voice.
    â€œWhat’s going on?”
    â€œIt’s my son,” he said.
    â€œSomething’s happened to Alex?”
    â€œHe was on a school ski trip at Whistler and he’s had an accident. He’s being airlifted to Vancouver.”
    â€œOh my god,” I said. “It must be serious.”
    â€œI think he’s broken a bone in his leg—sounds like his