Stained Glass by Ralph McInerny Page B

primitive. He put it back in the closet. If he had had an Edsel, he would have hung on to it, too, as in investment.
    Rebecca sauntered into the pressroom, spun her chair around by
bumping it with her hip, and collapsed. “Madeline Schutz isn’t Madeline Schutz.”
    Tetzel held up a staying hand, leaning toward the screen of his computer. His head tipped back, his eyes closed, and then, the creature of inspiration, his fingers danced on the keys for a moment and he fell back in his chair with a sigh of satisfaction. Slowly he turned to Rebecca. “Is there any pleasure keener than finishing a story?”
    â€œStill on the endangered churches story?”
    â€œYou wouldn’t believe the ramifications. How’s the ritual murder going?”
    Rebecca replied with words that ladies seldom use. “I told you. The body isn’t the body of who they thought it was.”
    â€œIt’s just as dead, isn’t it?”
    â€œYes, but whose is it?”
    â€œYou got anything here or should we go across the street?”
    Rebecca got up and hipped the door shut. Returning to her desk, she withdrew a bottle of Johnny Walter Red. Tetzel produced two foam cups, shocking Rebecca. Scotch from a foam cup? She had glasses.
    â€œYou’re getting fastidious.”
    â€œEven though I eat like a bird.”
    He let it go. Where would any of them be without Roget’s Thesaurus ? Or maybe Rebecca’s hearing was going. The thought of Rebecca succumbing to the ravages of age, tottering toward the horizon, filled Tetzel with cheer, and he accepted her scotch in the spirit in which it was offered.
    â€œDid you ever hear of the Empyrean Chronicles?”
    â€œSounds familiar,” Tetzel lied.
    â€œThey’re written by the real Madeline Schutz. Six in print, the next one already written.”
    â€œSix novels?”

    Rebecca nodded while sipping, her eyes brightly on Tetzel. It had been his boast and now it was his shame that he was writing a novel. A novel! On his hard drive, filed under ULYSSES, were various bits and pieces of what he called his novel. Why had he told others about it? What might have been merely a consoling private dream had been turned into a public failure.
    â€œScience fiction. Fantasy.”
    Tetzel snorted. “I can’t read that sort of thing.”
    A sigh of disappointment from Rebecca. “I had hoped you would interview her, Tetzel. One novelist on another, rapport, special insights …”
    Tetzel watched her narrowly as she spoke. She was setting him up, he was sure of it. Then he wasn’t sure. Did he really have status as a novelist with Rebecca? “Tell me about her.”
    Listening, Tetzel felt his imagination emerging slowly from disuse. Rebecca and the police were baffled by the apparently random use of the identity of Madeline Schutz for the body hung in the garage. The woman whose house it was, Amy Gorman—Tetzel was taking notes in a casual way—had no connection with the writer in Skokie. Nor had Madeline, the science fiction factory, ever heard of Amy Gorman. There was absolutely no direct link between them.
    â€œA dead end?”
    Rebecca nodded. “The police may fiddle around with it a bit longer, but they’re going nowhere.”
    â€œThey’ve looked into religious sects?”
    Rebecca frowned, then laughed. “Do you know what I thought you asked?”
    â€œMenteur will keep you on it.”
    â€œYou’re wrong.”
    â€œSo why should I interview a novelist who has nothing to do with the story you’re dropping?”
    â€œThat’s your hook, Tetzel.”

    Well, they had both been drinking. Rebecca certainly wasn’t stingy with her scotch, but maybe she thought offering Tetzel more justified herself having another. He shrugged noncommittally and lifted his glass. “Here’s to crime.”
    â€œTo hell with crime.”
    Tuttle breezed in but at the sight of