The Paper Detective. E. Joan Sims
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knee high boots, so you don’t have to wear panty hose.”
“Good idea. Maybe that will keep me sane.”
“Relax, Mom. Even your hair looks good. Naturally curly covers a multitude of sins. Have a ball, Cinderella!”
Chapter Eight
Bert Atkins arrived right on time driving his Jeep wagon, a beat-up version of Watson. I said goodbye to Cassie and Mother as if I were going to the gallows and picked my way carefully down the walk. Somewhere in the back of my mind I was sure I would make a complete and utter fool of myself before this trip was over. I didn’t want to start out by falling flat on my overdressed behind in the snow.
By the time we were out of Rowan Springs and on the road to Nashville, Bert had succeeded in putting me completely at ease. He was cheerful and easygoing and kept the conversation strictly on the matter at hand.
“So Leonard looks like me now that I shaved my beard?”
“You’ve read the books, what do you think?”
He laughed.
“How many men do you know who are really aware of their looks?’
I didn’t want to say that I didn’t really know that many men, but instead I asked, “How come you knew what to wear?”
“That was easy. In Bodies in the Boneyard, Leonard buys a tweed jacket and wool turtleneck to wear to dinner at some rich dame’s house. The jeans were my idea. Mainly because I don’t have anything else anymore.”
“I know what you mean,” I said under my breath.
“What did you say?”
“You heard that? How come?”
I turned and looked at him.
“I don’t see a hearing aid, but you’re wearing one, aren’t you?”
He grinned and glanced over at me.
“Did I tell you I like your hair?”
“When did you get it?”
“The hearing aid? Oh, I’ve had it for a while. I just never had much occasion to use it.”
“I should think being worried about someone sneaking up and killing you would be enough of an occasion!”
“I have Murphy for that. He’s all the ears I need at the cabin.”
“You put a lot of trust in a dog that sleeps so much.”
Bert laughed again. I could tell he was enjoying himself. I relaxed a little more.
“So, pretty much all I know about Leonard is he’s supposed to be a real detective writing about his own exploits. Tell me how you get the ideas for his stories. I’m sure that will be one of the questions they’ll want to ask.”
“You’re probably right. And the answer is complicated but simple at the same time. The ideas come from everywhere. I read a lot, mostly scientific journals. You’d be surprised how much goes on in the world of academia that can be translated to mysteries. But Leonard’s latest had a different birthplace.”
“Where?”
“In a pawn shop in Morgantown. My laptop computer was stolen last year. I got it back but it was, er,…out of commission. Cassie bought me another one. She saw it in the window of the shop one day when she was over there with Danny. The price was low enough for her to be able to write a check on the spot. It was my birthday present.”
“I asked how you got the ideas for stories, not what you wrote them on.”
“But that’s just it. When I turned on the computer, I found all this funky personal information on the hard drive. At some time, the power had gone off and the information on a disc had been saved to a backup file. Whoever owned the computer probably wasn’t even aware it was still there. I’m sure he wouldn’t have sold it if he had known. The stuff was too revealing.”
“Laptops are the most frequently stolen item nowadays. Whoever pawned it wasn’t the person who owned it; I’d be willing to bet on it.”
“I hadn’t thought of that, but you’re probably right. Anyway, there were private letters, business statements, even a love poem, all waiting to be read. With a little imagination it was easy to weave a story around them. I changed the names, of course. I don’t want anybody else suing me. I had enough of that last year. But the computer wrote the book in more ways than one.”
“Where did you get the idea for The Neighbor from Hell?”
“Pretty much from something that actually took place in our family. That’s another story that ended up writing itself.”
“Things seem to happen around you, don’t they?”
“You make me sound dangerous,” I laughed. “I’m no femme fatale, that’s for sure, but I guess you’re right. Ever since I came back home, life has been very interesting.”
Pam was waiting downstairs in the hotel lobby when we arrived. She was all decked out in one of her “hey look me over” outfits.
“Wow, Pam,” I said as I gave her a hug, “chartreuse suede and crimson satin?”
“Isn’t it divine, darling?” she answered with a wink. “And take a gander at the back.”
She turned around and glanced coquettishly over her shoulder as she slowly lowered the suede bolero jacket. The shiny red satin blouse underneath was backless and revealed a tiny tattoo on her left shoulder. At first I thought it was a mole, but when I looked closely I saw eight little legs and the red hourglass.
“Wouldn’t Cassie just love a tatt….” she began.
“Pam, I swear I’ll hack you up in pieces so tiny they’ll never even find that spider if you…”
“Okay, okay. Spoil sport! But it looks great on me, huh?”
“Let’s just say it suits your personality.”
Bert had let me off in front of the hotel and parked the car himself. When he came in the revolving lobby door, I pointed out his tall, lean figure to Pam.
“Oh, but Paisley, he is yummy!”
She turned and watched me closely as Bert walked over to join us.
“Um hum,” she whispered.
“Um hum, what?” I hissed.
“Um hum, you’ve got it bad, that’s what.”
“Pam, if you don’t behave yourself…”
In an instant, Pamela turned on her business mode. She shook Bert’s hand politely when I introduced them, then guided us expertly through the crowded lobby to the penthouse elevator.
“I’ve reserved a conference room on the top floor. The gal from Pen and Ink is waiting up there for us. I also took the liberty of ordering a light luncheon. I do hope you like grilled salmon, Bert.”
She took his arm as they entered the elevator and left me to follow in their wake. From that point on, I was a fifth wheel.
Pen and Ink had sent a thirty-something, six-foot-tall, blonde bombshell with the brain of an Einstein and the vocabulary of a James Joyce. Blondie was provocatively posed and waiting as the elevator opened directly into the executive conference room. A silver knit dress slithered over every curve from her shoulders to her calves, and from the way the dress was molded to her body, it was obvious to one and all that she considered undergarments to be unnecessary. Short platinum curls framed her high Slavic cheekbones, and her almond-shaped grey eyes gazed indolently at Bert from under artificially thick eyelashes. Bert was entranced.
My former best friend aided and abetted Blondie all the way. Pam fed her lines and plots from books that I had slaved and sweated blood over, and together they coaxed and encouraged