Speak of the Devil (42 page)

“ ‘The Twelve Days of Christmas,’ ” she said in a low voice. “The path to madness.”

I scanned the faces. There were thirteen girls and seven boys. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a folded newspaper clipping. It was from the
Post
. It was the lead story from the day after Margaret King’s body had been found by the jogger in Prospect Park.

The story included the photograph taken of Margaret King when she was in her early twenties. Dirty-blond hair. Slightly upturned nose. Large, dark eyes.

“There,” I said, indicating a caroler about halfway up the tree. She was one in from the end. Margo looked back and forth between the newspaper photo and the caroler.

“That’s her.”

I nodded. “Grace Maynard.”

“How did you find out?”

“How do you think? I’m not a shoe salesman, remember?”

“Right. Of course.” She took the clipping from me and looked at it once more. “Margaret was already a mother when this picture was taken.”

“Grace would have been around three at that point.”

She handed the clipping back to me, and I put it back in my pocket. She looped her arm through mine and shivered. We rode out the rest of “The Twelve Days of Christmas,” five golden rings and all. It turned out to be the final carol. At the conclusion, the small gathering of onlookers applauded. The conductor thanked us, and the carolers began coming down from the tree.

“She doesn’t know a thing, does she?” Margo asked.

“About her mother?”

“Or about her father.”

“If you were her parents, what would you do?”

Margo was silent a moment. Finally, she said, “I’m thinking I’m glad I don’t have to figure that out.”

Grace Maynard was goofing with the boy who had been standing next to her. They wielded their flashlights like sabers and were engaged in a mock swordfight. In his enthusiasm, the boy stumbled and nearly fell from his perch. A man in a huge fur hat standing next to me called out, “Come on, Lucius! Be more careful, will ya?”

Grace Maynard shined her little flashlight over at him. “It was my fault, Mr. Tuck! I’m sorry.”

“Let’s go,” I said.

I looked back just once as Margo and I headed for the street. Grace Maynard was chattering excitedly to a man and a woman. Her breath was popping from her mouth in bursts. Margo and I paused at the corner as a string of available taxis went by.

Margo looked up at me. “None of them good enough for you?”

“I thought maybe we’d walk some more. It’s starting to snow.”

I hadn’t even noticed it until I’d said it. It was a very light snow. It could have almost been mistaken for ash.

“Where do you want to walk, big guy?” Margo asked. “Just around and around in circles?”

I thought about it. I couldn’t say it sounded like a bad idea.

Word on the street is that it’s tedious to hear writers or actors or other such types giving gushing thanks to their agents. Well . . . too bad, this guy’s earned it. My great thanks to Richard Pine of Inkwell Management—Mr. Cool—for his steadfast confidence in my work, his aplomb under fire, and his wise counsel and assistance while I was working on this book.

In addition, I want to thank Jonathan Karp for taking Richard’s calls in the first place and for championing my book so powerfully at Random House. Likewise Gina Centrello (she of the astonishingly good taste) for all her enthusiastic support. And of course my shrewd and skillful editor, Mark Tavani, for bossing me around just the right amount in the name of getting it as right as right can be.

I’ve also received immeasurable support and guidance before, during, and after the writing of this book from Kadam Morten and the great loving crew at the Chakrasambara Buddhist Center in Chelsea. Everyone should be so fortunate.

RH

Richard Hawke resides in New York City. This is his first novel. Visit his website at www.RHawke.com.