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Chapter Sixteen

The Game Is Afoot!

I n the stillness, that single creak took on a disproportionate weight. And when Miranda looked to the stairs, she saw the publicist standing frozen in mid-step, staring back at her with a feigned smile.

Awkward.

“Oh. Hello, Miranda. I didn’t know you were here.”

It would appear that, instead of going to bed, Sheryl Youngblut had decided to creep out of the B&B. She had her jacket on, was carrying her boots.

Miranda smiled up at her. “We were just leaving.”

“We?”

As Sheryl descended the stairwell, the presence of Officer Holly and Deputy Andrew was revealed.

“Holly has been posted here for the night,” Miranda explained. “But Andrew and I shall be on our way shortly. It has been a long and difficult night.”

“A police presence? Here at our B&B? Why?” Sheryl asked, as disingenuously as possible.

“Why?” asked Officer Holly, redundantly it was presumed. “Take a moment. I’m sure you can figure it out.”

“Oh, but I’m sure Fairfax won’t come back. And even if he does, he’s hardly a risk.”

Switching to Full Officer Mode, Holly said, “Ma’am, we have reason to believe that Mr. DePoy was involved in the death of Kane Hamady, and as we have not been able to ascertain the current location of Mr. DePoy, you are advised to stay indoors, with your door locked and the window closed, for your own safety. ”

“I only wanted to step out and not have a cigarette. I quit smoking years ago, but when I’m under stress, the old yearning comes back.”

Bringing in a pot of Sleepy Thyme tea and biscuits for the police officer, Geri was surprised to see one of her guests. “Oh, Miss Youngblut, you’re still up! Is everything okay? Are the pillows too firm? Too soft? Too many?”

Distracted by Geri’s relentless hospitality, Sheryl said, “Pillows are fine, everything is fine, I was just—I was stepping out, only for a moment.”

“I would advise against that,” said Officer Holly.

Miranda, sitting down on the sofa nearest Holly, scooted over and patted the cushion next to her. “Come, Sheryl. Sit, sit. Geri has made tea. We can talk. You seem distressed.”

Defeated, Sheryl placed her boots by the door and joined them, still in her jacket even though she was going nowhere.

“It’s been a long day,” she said, and on this the others agreed.

A very long day indeed.

Geri poured the tea, and Sheryl said, with a weary weight, “One author dead, another on the lam, and a third who is currently tramping about in the snowdrifts of Canada.”

“Lawrence Block still hasn’t shown up?”

A tired shake of the head. “Was last seen on his way to Gladstone, Manitoba. Happy Rock , I told him. In Oregon!”

Miranda laid a sympathetic hand on Sheryl Youngblut’s arm. “You need an assistant, dear. It’s too much on your shoulders. I know I would be lost without Andrew.”

“Thank you,” said Andrew.

“Oh, but it’s true, darling. It absolutely is.

” Regret came to Miranda’s eyes. “I remember the many personal assistants I had during my time on TV, how monstrous I could be. I never appreciated them.” Then, with sudden resolve: “You need to contact your employer. SR Promotions, is it? Tell them—nay, demand of them—that they hire you an assistant. Someone to share the burden.”

Sheryl’s gaze welled with tears. “You don’t understand.

I am SR Promotions! There is no one else.

It’s just me. I’m fighting to keep my head above water, and there is no one to throw me a lifeline.

I’m on my own. SR Promotions? It’s a one-woman operation.

Might as well be my name!” She closed her eyes, held her head in her hands. “It’s just me.”

“But it’s not you. It’s a company, and anyway,” said Miranda, “if it really were your name, it would have been S Y Promotions.”

She looked up, confused. “SY?”

“Your name—Sheryl Youngblut. If it were your initials, it would be SY. What does SR stand for?”

“Uh, nothing. Nothing in particular, just random letters.”

“And Middlemist Marketing?” asked Miranda. “The other company named on the poster. They hired you?”

“In manner of speaking.” Sheryl’s voice grew soft. “I don’t really have a close relationship with them.”

Another creak on the stairs, heavier, less clandestine than Sheryl Youngblut’s, was followed by the clump, clump, clump of—

“Ms. Stobol!” said Geri. “Won’t you join us? We’re having refreshments.”

“Booze?”

“Tea.”

“Ah.”

The stocky Ms. Stobol settled herself into the settee across from Miranda. “Couldn’t sleep. Was thinking about our old friend Kane.”

“Nigel, you mean to say.”

They turned to look at Officer Holly.

She said, “When I checked his pockets, when I went through his wallet for ID, it seems Kane Hamady was his pen name. His real name? Nigel Hawthorne III.”

“Of course,” said Wanda, brusquely. “He was Nigel, but we knew him as Kane.”

“How undeniably odd,” said Miranda.

The oddity was not the name, but the numerical value attached to said name. Kane’s nemesis had been Fairfax Hughes DePoy III . What were the odds that two different authors would both be so-and-so the Third? It seemed astronomically small.

Wanda bristled. “What’s so odd about that?

Authors often use pen names, especially with series novels.

You think my name is really Wanda Stobol?

Hell, I’m the sixth Wanda Stobol so far.

We’re like 007. The players change, but the name remains.

Oh, don’t look so shocked!” she said at Officer Holly’s shovel-smacked expression.

Holly’s bottom lip was quivering with a Say-it-ain’t-so, Joe expression. “But—but I read your books when I was a little girl.”

“No. You didn’t. You read Wanda Stobol’s books.

Not mine. The series has been going since 1956.

You really think I’ve been writing since then?

I wasn’t born till 1972, so that would be a feat.

The books you read were probably written by the fourth Wanda Stobol, what’s-her-face, the teacher from Maine.

That would have been about when you were in middle school.

You think Franklin W. Dixon wrote all those Hardy Boys books?

There was no Franklin W. Dixon, only a series of ghostwriters hired by the publisher.

Last time I checked, I think there have been nine different Franklin W.

Dixons. And don’t get me started on Nancy Drew. ”

With a waver in her voice, Officer Holly said, “I won’t have it. Not another word about Nancy Drew! I named my kids George and Nancy after those books.”

Miranda was worried Officer Holly might draw her service revolver on the obnoxious Ms. Stobol.

Wanda turned to the others. “Shall I give her the bad news about Santa while I’m at it?”

But then something dawned on Officer Holly. “Wait a minute. So the books I read when I was a child weren’t written by you?”

“Nope.”

Holly beamed. “You aren’t the author of Compendium Cathy. Not the Compendium Cathy I knew and loved. When did you take over the series?”

“Number 47, as I recall.”

“Good. I’ll read my kids the Compendium Cathy books only up to Number 46,” said Holly.

“That way, you won’t enter into it.” It looked like a weight had been lifted from Holly.

It was a gentle soul, the teacher from Maine, who had shaped her childhood, and would shape her own children’s childhood, not this bitter, pill-popping boozehound before her now.

“You are absolutely right. You are not Wanda Stobol. Not the Wanda Stobol who was a beacon to me when I was young and unsure of myself. Not the real Wanda Stobol.”

Miranda recognized the mixed emotions that come from meeting someone you thought was your idol only to realize that they were, in fact, deeply flawed human beings like the rest of us and not demigods. Miranda herself had seen that look on many a fan’s face.

And now Penny Fenland joined them in the reception hall. She had come down in flannel pajamas and slippers, holding a piece of paper in her hand. She had a perturbed look on her face. “I thought I heard people down here,” she said. “Can anyone explain this?”

She held up the page. It had been ripped in half, and though she wanted to appear calm, Penny was clearly rattled by it.

“What is it?” asked Holly.

“A handwritten note. I found it under my door just now. It says virgin wolf .”

The tear in the page ran right along the end of the words.

“That was my nickname in high school,” said Owen McCune, coming down the stairs behind Penny, grinning.

“Owen!” said Miranda.

“What are you doing here?” Officer Holly wanted to know. “I thought you went home long ago.”

“I did, to get some stuff. Came in the back way,” he said.

“There’s stairs to the second floor out in the rear, didn’t want to disturb anyone by barging in the front door.

Inez had some questions about LOJIC, was thinking of joining, even though I did make it clear that our lodge is mainly bingo and potlucks, with very little worshipping of Satan and his minions.

I thought I’d drop off some of our, uh, brochures.

” His hair was even more mussed up than before, and dark lipstick was tattooed across his face like a panel in an Archie comic.

His silk sash with the tassels had disappeared.

Inez followed moments later, breezily descending the stairs as she adjusted her skirt. “A conclave!” she said on seeing the gathering below. “Summoning the forces of darkness, are we?” She seemed to suppose that any midnight gathering was, perforce, a séance of some sort.

Officer Holly came over to look at the note Penny had brought down. “Wolves and virgin forest maybe?” she hazarded. “But there are no wolves in Happy Rock. Bears up in the hills, maybe, but no wolves.”

“Bears?” said Inez, perking up. “Fanged creatures of the night?”

“Shy bruins that want to be left alone.” Officer Holly studied the handwriting, held it up for the others to see. “Recognize it, anyone?”

It had been penned in blocky capitals, as though the person writing it were trying to hide their identity.