have been Duff herself.” I briefed Anika on our exploits at the CIMC.
She leaned back and closed her eyes as she processed the information. “Very interesting. Good to see that my son is joining in. Deming was kind of a stuffed shirt before you two got together.”
“Are you disappointed—about Duff I mean.”
Another laugh and headshake. “Not at all. Remember, I worked in the fashion industry where backbiting is an Olympic sport. Flaws and minor imperfections make a person more intriguing—unless they get her killed.”
With that sobering thought, we gathered our things and headed for Duff’s memorial.
THE CEREMONY WAS a quiet and respectful tribute to a life lived in the shadows. The university worship center was aggressively non-denominational, a nod to pantheism in all its many forms. Even though I knew that Duff Ryder was less innocuous than she appeared to be, the event moved me. Sonia was front and center, subdued but gorgeous, greeting the crowd with faux smiles and crocodile tears. Fess Paskert shook hands all around, typecast for his role as mourner-in-chief.
Anika and I chose a back pew in deference to our brief acquaintance with the deceased. Another outlier, Lieutenant Phineas Keegan, soon joined us. When he saw me, he raised one blond brow but remained silent. After the ceremony ended, he angled his body to block our path.
“I need to speak with you, ladies.” He nodded respectfully to Anika but gave me the fisheye. “Let`s find a spot with some privacy, shall we.”
It was more of a command than a request although he couched the words in smiles for Anika’s sake. Unbeknownst to him, we would have joined him without the macho act. Keegan played right into our plans.
“What`s this all about?” I asked.
“Just tying up loose ends.”
I`d heard that dialogue on every third-rate cop show ever made. For originality, it ranked with “sorry for your loss.”
Keegan motioned to a seating area near the fireplace. In another obvious ploy, he nudged us toward the sofa, saving the straight-backed wing chair for himself.
“You`re a writer, aren`t you, Ms. Kane?” Keegan trained his baby blues on me in a hard stare.
Anika answered for me. “She certainly is, Lieutenant. As I mentioned before, Eja is a very fine writer.”
“Good. Maybe she can help me out.”
Keegan reached into his briefcase and removed a folder. I steeled myself for a trick of some sort, and he didn`t disappoint.
“Your books have racy things in them, don`t they? Sex scenes.” His tired Colombo act was starting to annoy me. According to the Cambridge PD website, Philip Phineas B. Keegan was a graduate of Boston College, a Jesuit institution with rigorous academic standards.
I kept my voice calm and my smile ready. “Some intimacy, but it hardly qualifies as erotica. Not even soft porn. What`s your point?”
Keegan flipped open the folder and dropped it face down on the coffee table. “I`d like your opinion on this. It may be a motive for murder.”
I knew what I would find in that folder. Anika stared straight ahead, blinding Keegan with her smile as she played her part in the drama. I reached for the prop, and out tumbled a bound version of Worm in the Apple. I read the title and placed it back on the table.
“Well? Anything look familiar?” Keegan was literally chomping at the bit. In his younger days he had probably been an inveterate cigar smoker.
“I`ve never read this book before, just an excerpt with the same title that was on the Internet.”
He rubbed his hands together, relishing his role as ringmaster. “Help me out, Ms. Kane. Give me—what do you writers call it—a synopsis. You know, `just the facts.`”
Great. We were trapped in an old Dragnet scene with Joe Friday. Keegan must lead a boring life hunkered down watching ancient police dramas.
“Are you auditioning for a book club?” I asked him. “I have no idea what this thing says. You can`t copyright book titles, Lieutenant. The text
She leaned back and closed her eyes as she processed the information. “Very interesting. Good to see that my son is joining in. Deming was kind of a stuffed shirt before you two got together.”
“Are you disappointed—about Duff I mean.”
Another laugh and headshake. “Not at all. Remember, I worked in the fashion industry where backbiting is an Olympic sport. Flaws and minor imperfections make a person more intriguing—unless they get her killed.”
With that sobering thought, we gathered our things and headed for Duff’s memorial.
THE CEREMONY WAS a quiet and respectful tribute to a life lived in the shadows. The university worship center was aggressively non-denominational, a nod to pantheism in all its many forms. Even though I knew that Duff Ryder was less innocuous than she appeared to be, the event moved me. Sonia was front and center, subdued but gorgeous, greeting the crowd with faux smiles and crocodile tears. Fess Paskert shook hands all around, typecast for his role as mourner-in-chief.
Anika and I chose a back pew in deference to our brief acquaintance with the deceased. Another outlier, Lieutenant Phineas Keegan, soon joined us. When he saw me, he raised one blond brow but remained silent. After the ceremony ended, he angled his body to block our path.
“I need to speak with you, ladies.” He nodded respectfully to Anika but gave me the fisheye. “Let`s find a spot with some privacy, shall we.”
It was more of a command than a request although he couched the words in smiles for Anika’s sake. Unbeknownst to him, we would have joined him without the macho act. Keegan played right into our plans.
“What`s this all about?” I asked.
“Just tying up loose ends.”
I`d heard that dialogue on every third-rate cop show ever made. For originality, it ranked with “sorry for your loss.”
Keegan motioned to a seating area near the fireplace. In another obvious ploy, he nudged us toward the sofa, saving the straight-backed wing chair for himself.
“You`re a writer, aren`t you, Ms. Kane?” Keegan trained his baby blues on me in a hard stare.
Anika answered for me. “She certainly is, Lieutenant. As I mentioned before, Eja is a very fine writer.”
“Good. Maybe she can help me out.”
Keegan reached into his briefcase and removed a folder. I steeled myself for a trick of some sort, and he didn`t disappoint.
“Your books have racy things in them, don`t they? Sex scenes.” His tired Colombo act was starting to annoy me. According to the Cambridge PD website, Philip Phineas B. Keegan was a graduate of Boston College, a Jesuit institution with rigorous academic standards.
I kept my voice calm and my smile ready. “Some intimacy, but it hardly qualifies as erotica. Not even soft porn. What`s your point?”
Keegan flipped open the folder and dropped it face down on the coffee table. “I`d like your opinion on this. It may be a motive for murder.”
I knew what I would find in that folder. Anika stared straight ahead, blinding Keegan with her smile as she played her part in the drama. I reached for the prop, and out tumbled a bound version of Worm in the Apple. I read the title and placed it back on the table.
“Well? Anything look familiar?” Keegan was literally chomping at the bit. In his younger days he had probably been an inveterate cigar smoker.
“I`ve never read this book before, just an excerpt with the same title that was on the Internet.”
He rubbed his hands together, relishing his role as ringmaster. “Help me out, Ms. Kane. Give me—what do you writers call it—a synopsis. You know, `just the facts.`”
Great. We were trapped in an old Dragnet scene with Joe Friday. Keegan must lead a boring life hunkered down watching ancient police dramas.
“Are you auditioning for a book club?” I asked him. “I have no idea what this thing says. You can`t copyright book titles, Lieutenant. The text
Similar Books
