Edited to Death (17 page)

“Oh, hi, Mrs. Fiori,” she said. “How’s your son?”

“He’s fine,” I said shortly. “I was just wondering, did you take the call from his
school?”

“No,” she said. “It was the hostess, I think.”

“May I speak with her?”

“Sure.” She paused. “Is anything wrong?”

“No, no, just some confusion, I think.” I pray, I said to myself.

The hostess answered promptly. She was sure about the message, she’d just relayed
what the caller said.

“She asked for me?”

“Not she, he. The guy even described what you had on. He said it wasn’t really an
emergency, but he knew you’d want to get to school as soon as you could and he was
sure you didn’t mind your lunch being interrupted.”

“Thanks.” I put the receiver down and turned to Mrs. Schwab. “It was a man who called.”

She shook her head. “Well, that narrows things down a bit. Joe Connolly, the art teacher,
is the only possible suspect. He knows Josh and I sometimes ask him to track parents
down in an emergency.”

“Can I talk with him?”

“As it happens, I already did.”

“He didn’t call?”

“He says he didn’t.”

She touched my hand. “Can I get you a cup of coffee? You look a little shaky.”

“Thanks.” With a cup of coffee steaming in front of me, I pulled the phone over to
check in on Zach. He was fine, the school director assured me. “Sorry to bother you,”
I said, as I felt my heart slow. “We had a little confusion at Josh’s school and I’m
just being neurotic.” I hung up and called the office.

Gertie answered. “Maggie? How’s Josh? Andrea called to tell us what happened.”

“He’s fine,” I said. “It was just a mix-up. But I’m a little too creeped-out to leave
him and head back to the city. Listen, is Glen there?”

“No, he’s not. Oh, wait, I hear him coming down the hall.”

Glen came on the line. “Hi, Maggie. Are you fine, now? Josh, too?”

I sighed. “Josh is fine. It was a false alarm. I think someone was playing a trick
on me—and I don’t much like it.”

“Are you worried?”

“No, not really.” I thought for a minute. “Well, I guess I am. I mean, I’ve been sitting
here stewing about it and the only thing I can figure out is somebody didn’t want
me to keep my date with Moon.”

“You were seeing the Inspector?”

“Yes,” I said impatiently. “Remember he called? He’s got Quent’s file on that mystery
story.”

“Want me to send a messenger for the file?”

“No, I sent Andrea and Calvin.”

“Ah,” he said. “Clever idea.”

“When Andrea comes back to the office, ask her to call me,” I said.

“I’ll do better than that,” said Glen. “I’ll bring the file by your house tonight.”

“Oh, Glen, I can wait.”

“No, no. I want you to look at the illustrator Linda’s considering as a substitute
for Orlando anyway. She wants to place a call to his agent tomorrow. He works in some
remote farmhouse in eastern Montana. No phone.”

“Couldn’t she find someone more difficult? Speaking of artistic types, I had a little
chat with your friend John Orlando today.”

“Maggie, he’s not exactly my friend. I believe he and Quent were friends. Went to
school together, or something.”

Mrs. Schwab tapped on the door. I waved her in. “Well, then,” I said impatiently,
“wouldn’t he have gone to school with you, as well?”

“In a way,” he said. “Different years, you know.”

“I’ve got to run, Glen. I’ll see you tonight, if you’re sure it’s convenient to come.”

“It’s fine, Maggie. I’ll stop by about eight-thirty. I’d like to read my little ones
a story first.”

By now, it really was too late to go back into the city, so I assuaged my guilty feelings
by stopping at the market and planning a better-than-usual weekday dinner. When Michael
walked in the door, he let out a cheer and headed directly for the kitchen. I was
at the stove stirring risotto.

“I think I like you having a regular job, ‘
cara
. I knew as soon as I opened the front door this wasn’t Anya cooking. What is it?”

“Risotto with artichoke hearts and mushrooms.”

Michael slipped his hand under the hair on my neck and massaged.

“What a little homemaker. Why is it that Scandinavian cooking can’t smell like this?”

“I don’t think reindeer fat compares very favorably with olive oil,” I said.

Michael moved to the refrigerator. “You can’t leave the pot, right? Have to keep stirring?

“Right.”

“Well, then, here’s a glass of wine for you.” He handed it over with a flourish, “and
one for me.”

He sat at the scrubbed and scarred pine kitchen table, cleared Zach’s crayoned airplane
fantasies out of the way, and loosened his tie. “So tell me. Now that you’re a fulfilled
and gainfully employed woman, tough day at the office?”

I frowned.

“That good, huh?”

“No, it was fine. But something weird happened.”

As I explained, Michael’s grin faded.

“I don’t like it, Maggie,” he said.

“I don’t either. I mean, maybe it’s some silly misunderstanding—but maybe it isn’t.”

I turned the heat down on the risotto. “I keep thinking there must be something in
that file. Glen’s bringing it by after dinner.”

“Maggie, whoever didn’t want you to see the file knew exactly how to stop you. That’s
what I don’t like.”

“What do you mean?”

He gestured impatiently. “One, he knew Josh’s name. Two, he knew you’d jump like a
rabbit, that you worry about Josh’s sensitive digestive system. Three, he knew where
you were having lunch.”

A little buzz went off in my head. “And four,” I said turning from the stove. “He
knew what I was wearing today!”

“He did?”

“Yes. The hostess who took the call said he described what I had on.”

“That’s a lot of people. Everyone at your office, Anya, the kids,” he paused. “Me.”

“It wasn’t you, Michael.”

“How do you know?”

“You’d never use the kids to keep me from doing something. You’re too superstitious.
You’d think that was tempting fate.” I gestured in the air, like his mother, “
Mal’occhio
! Evil eye.”

He laughed. “You’re right.” He sobered. “Really, Maggie, who else knew what you had
on?”

“I don’t know. That’s what I keep asking myself.”

“Unless,” said Michael, “someone at your office—who saw you all morning—let someone
at the school know.”

“That’s pretty conspiratorial,” I said. The idea of a
Small Town
plus Webster School cabal seemed both sinister and ridiculous. When in doubt, eat.
I tasted the risotto.

“Let’s gather the mob. This is done. Just get the salad out of the fridge, would you?”

I spooned the risotto into my Aunt Sadye’s rose-rimmed casserole. For her, it had
held brisket and noodles, good
shabbas
food. For me, it was just as likely to hold what Michael called EC (ethnic cooking)
or takeout.

Michael caught my arm as I kneed the swinging door open from the kitchen into the
dining-room. “I’m not kidding. I don’t like this one damn bit. Let’s talk after dinner.”

But after dinner, there was cleanup, baths, a story for Zach, and Josh begged for
a game of checkers. When Glen rang the doorbell and was established in the living
room with coffee, Michael summoned me into the kitchen.

“I’m going to let Anya put the kids to bed, Maggie,” he said. “I want to sit in on
this conversation.” He sounded proprietary, lawyerly and cranky. I raised my eyebrow
at him. “Loosen up, Michael. I’m not a client.”

“Good thing,” he muttered under his breath.

While Michael cleared the last of the dinner clutter, I looked through the substitute
portfolio Glen brought. “Looks fine,” I said. “Go ahead and have Linda give the agent
a ring.”

“Good. I still think Orlando would have been a grand choice, but it’s up to you.”

“I’m sorry, I just don’t agree, Glen,” I said.

“Well, then,” he said brusquely, “let’s get on with it.”

Glen glanced up as Michael came in. “Sorry to intrude,” said Michael. “But I’m feeling
just a little freaky about the mix-up this afternoon. It seems as if somebody didn’t
want Maggie to get her hands on this file.”

Glen fished a manila file out of his briefcase. “Here it is. I can’t imagine what’s
so dangerous in there.”

“Hey,” I asked, “did Moon say where they found it?”

“In Quentin’s briefcase. They’d searched his flat, but they hadn’t rummaged round
the car yet. I guess he’d packed up his briefcase with what he needed to take to work.”

I patted the couch. “Michael, come sit here and we’ll look together.”

The file was slender, labeled, “Cock of the Walk,” and had the usual story summary
sheet stapled to the inside front cover and a few other pages. All were in Quentin’s
hand, blue ink on yellow lined paper.

We turned to the story summary sheet first. Whenever work was begun on a new piece,
Gertie began a data sheet. It carried the working title, lists of contacts, the name
of the writer assigned, a photographer or illustrator if one had been identified,
and the name of the computer file where the notes and drafts could be found.

“Did you check the hard drive?” I asked Glen.

He nodded. “There’s a file with that name, but nothing in it.”

“Someone could have erased it,” I said. “We could check the zip drive. Everything’s
supposed to be backed up there once a week, anyway.”

“And do you back everything up, Mags?” asked Glen.

“Well, no,” I confessed. “But we should check.” Glen volunteered to do it.

We scanned Quentin’s notes in silence, a list of dates and events at Cock of the Walk;
the opening, a fashion show, the new music series.

“Did Inspector Moon make anything of it?”

“Not according to Andrea. He’d just glanced at the file, and wanted to have your thoughts.
She told him what had happened, and that you would check in with him tomorrow.”

Glen reached for the file. “I’ll win that home for you, Maggie?”

“What?”

He laughed. “In County Clare, that’s what you call getting the turf home after it’s
dry so you can burn it in the fireplace.” He gestured at the fireplace. “Looking at
your fire made me think of it.”

I sipped my coffee. “Do you miss home, Glen?”

“Some, but not the life we led there. Too many people still poor who will never be
otherwise, too many rules about what you can and can’t do and think. But losing Quentin
put me in mind of other things I’ve lost.”

Just then the fire crackled, and a piece of log sizzled, sparked, and fell off the
andirons.

“I’m not sure that oak was completely dried out,” said Michael.

“Ash, fresh and green, makes a fire fit for a queen,” said Glen.

“Ahh,” said Michael, “maybe that’s what I should burn for Maggie, now that she’s Chief
and Queen at
Small Town
.”

“Michael, please,” I said, hearing something brittle creep in his voice.

Glen stood. “Well, I’ll leave you friends in peace,” he said.

I stood as well, slipping my arms around Glen for a hug.

After a moment, Glen pulled away from the hug, a look of concern in his eyes. “It’s
scary, what they’ve done so far,” he said, and, turning to Michael, “If she were my
wife, I’d.…”

“Dissuade her from this little amateur investigation of hers?” Michael finished. “I’m
doing my best. Maggie, think a little bit. They know something about you. About Josh.
About us.”

I looked at the two of them, a little smug, a little paternal, more than a little
male.

“I don’t like that part at all. But I think I might be on to something. At least,
I want to talk to Moon about it.”

“Something? Like what?” asked Glen.

“I don’t know. Just something odd I found in some letters at Quentin’s.”

“Go on,” urged Glen.

So I explained about the letter from Douglas, and about my inquiries.

“You’re a woman of resources, Maggie, I’ll hand you that,” said Glen. “But it’s hard
to see what the letter has to do with Quentin’s death.”

“So when you and Quentin were in school together, did you remember anyone named Douglas?
Or Giovanni?”

“Not Giovanni. Douglas, I knew one or two.”

“Someone close to Quentin?”

Glen shook his head. “Long ago and far away, Maggie.”

He reached for the file. Michael folded it up. “I’d still like to have a closer look.
I’ll send it along with Maggie tomorrow.”

Glen hesitated, then reached over to peck me on the cheek. “Fine. I’d better be running
along. But Maggie, I’d still think twice about playing detective. If someone—even
indirectly—threatened me through one of my children, well, I’d drop it, I can tell
you that.”