to Rick. "Have you been here every day?" I asked him.
"Just about." From out on the street, we heard the sounds of an ambulance siren. Help was on the way, and if these paramedics were as efficient as the ones who'd come to help me the day I bonked my head on Gus Scarpetti's mausoleum, I knew they'd get Rick loaded onto the ambulance and to a hospital in no time flat. If I was going to learn anything from him, I had to do it fast.
"Has anybody been messing with these flowers?" I asked.
"Anybody? How about everybody?" The ambulance pulled up, and two paramedics jumped out. They hadn't turned off the siren, and I hurried closer to Rick because I didn't want to miss a thing he said. "Everybody who?"
"All those crazy Merilee Bowman fans," Rick said. "They keep coming by, snipping flowers. You know, taking souvenirs."
"And you took pictures of them while they were doing it?"
"Sure. Some of them. Not that any of the photos are worth anything. I just thought, you know, that I might be able to do a little freelance business. That there might be some newspaper somewhere that might want to do a piece on how crazy fans can be." Rick gave me what was almost a smile. "Lucky thing Miss Bowman never did show up, huh? When that creep took my camera, he didn't get any pictures that were valuable."
I wish I could have been as sure as Rick was that the assault at the Bowman memorial didn't net the mugger anything important, but no matter how many times I tried to work it through in my head, I always ended up exactly where I'd started: It all seemed just a little too convenient. The flowers had been messed with.
Rick took pictures of the folks messing with the flowers.
Rick's camera was missing.
Of course, though my logic was flawless and my reasoning impeccable, none of it meant squat. At least not to me.
And none of it did diddly in terms of proving that Merilee Bowman was not the author of So Far the Dawn , either.
And that—I reminded myself—was what I was supposed to be doing.
"But of course it was difficult."
Merilee's voice seeped through my consciousness and interrupted my train of thought. I looked across the TV studio to the set where she was being interviewed. This afternoon's appearance was a first of its kind, according to Ella. On our way downtown to meet up with Trish and Merilee, Ella had pointed out that Merilee was as shy as a spring violet and had only agreed to this interview because it was an opportunity to publicize the SFTD museum, and thus help with the fund-raising. That afternoon Merilee was resplendent in a red silk suit. Her silvery hair was swept up and away from her face. Since she was sans picture hat, I had the opportunity to take a good look at her for the first time.
If I squinted and used my imagination, I could see the resemblance between Didi and Merilee. Both their eyes were blue. Both their complexions were flawless.
But that was pretty much as far as my imagination was able to take me. Sure, at seventy-seven, Merilee was years older than Didi, who, according to her headstone, had entered into her not-so-eternal rest at the tender age of twenty-four. But even without the added years, it was hard to believe the two women were related.
Didi's figure was lush; Merilee was as skinny as a green bean.
Didi's lips were full; Merilee's were thin, and even the coating of scarlet lipstick she'd slathered on before the cameras rolled couldn't keep her mouth from looking like a slash against her pale face. Didi was the liveliest dead person I'd ever met. She was bubbly and friendly and sometimes even funny. Merilee was none of those things. Sure she was elegant. Hell, she had money, and money could make even the plainest woman look like a queen.
But underneath it all—the silk and the diamonds and the ego that knew no bounds—that's exactly what Merilee was—plain. A plain little librarian who was obsessed with the Civil War and who just happened to have written the world's most famous
"Just about." From out on the street, we heard the sounds of an ambulance siren. Help was on the way, and if these paramedics were as efficient as the ones who'd come to help me the day I bonked my head on Gus Scarpetti's mausoleum, I knew they'd get Rick loaded onto the ambulance and to a hospital in no time flat. If I was going to learn anything from him, I had to do it fast.
"Has anybody been messing with these flowers?" I asked.
"Anybody? How about everybody?" The ambulance pulled up, and two paramedics jumped out. They hadn't turned off the siren, and I hurried closer to Rick because I didn't want to miss a thing he said. "Everybody who?"
"All those crazy Merilee Bowman fans," Rick said. "They keep coming by, snipping flowers. You know, taking souvenirs."
"And you took pictures of them while they were doing it?"
"Sure. Some of them. Not that any of the photos are worth anything. I just thought, you know, that I might be able to do a little freelance business. That there might be some newspaper somewhere that might want to do a piece on how crazy fans can be." Rick gave me what was almost a smile. "Lucky thing Miss Bowman never did show up, huh? When that creep took my camera, he didn't get any pictures that were valuable."
I wish I could have been as sure as Rick was that the assault at the Bowman memorial didn't net the mugger anything important, but no matter how many times I tried to work it through in my head, I always ended up exactly where I'd started: It all seemed just a little too convenient. The flowers had been messed with.
Rick took pictures of the folks messing with the flowers.
Rick's camera was missing.
Of course, though my logic was flawless and my reasoning impeccable, none of it meant squat. At least not to me.
And none of it did diddly in terms of proving that Merilee Bowman was not the author of So Far the Dawn , either.
And that—I reminded myself—was what I was supposed to be doing.
"But of course it was difficult."
Merilee's voice seeped through my consciousness and interrupted my train of thought. I looked across the TV studio to the set where she was being interviewed. This afternoon's appearance was a first of its kind, according to Ella. On our way downtown to meet up with Trish and Merilee, Ella had pointed out that Merilee was as shy as a spring violet and had only agreed to this interview because it was an opportunity to publicize the SFTD museum, and thus help with the fund-raising. That afternoon Merilee was resplendent in a red silk suit. Her silvery hair was swept up and away from her face. Since she was sans picture hat, I had the opportunity to take a good look at her for the first time.
If I squinted and used my imagination, I could see the resemblance between Didi and Merilee. Both their eyes were blue. Both their complexions were flawless.
But that was pretty much as far as my imagination was able to take me. Sure, at seventy-seven, Merilee was years older than Didi, who, according to her headstone, had entered into her not-so-eternal rest at the tender age of twenty-four. But even without the added years, it was hard to believe the two women were related.
Didi's figure was lush; Merilee was as skinny as a green bean.
Didi's lips were full; Merilee's were thin, and even the coating of scarlet lipstick she'd slathered on before the cameras rolled couldn't keep her mouth from looking like a slash against her pale face. Didi was the liveliest dead person I'd ever met. She was bubbly and friendly and sometimes even funny. Merilee was none of those things. Sure she was elegant. Hell, she had money, and money could make even the plainest woman look like a queen.
But underneath it all—the silk and the diamonds and the ego that knew no bounds—that's exactly what Merilee was—plain. A plain little librarian who was obsessed with the Civil War and who just happened to have written the world's most famous
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