Marino was staring off at the bookcase, his meaty face flushed. Slowly turning uneasy eyes on me, he said, "What else you know about this book she was writing?"
"Only what I've said, that it was autobiographical and possibly threatening to Harper's reputation," I replied.
"That's what she was working on down there in Key West?"
"I would assume so. I can't be certain," I said.
He hesitated. "Well, I hate to tell you, but we didn't find nothing like that inside her house."
Even Wesley looked surprised. "The manuscript in her bedroom?"
"Oh, yeah." Marino reached for his cigarettes. "I've glanced at it. Another novel with all this Civil War romance shit in it. Sure don't sound like this other thing the doc's describing."
"Does it have a title or a date on it?" I asked.
"Nope. Don't even look like it's all there, for that matter. About this thick."
Marino measured off about an inch with his fingers. "Got a lot of notes written in the margins, about ten more pages written in longhand."
"We'd better take a second look through all of her papers, her computer disks, make sure this autobiographical manuscript isn't there," Wesley said. "We also need to find out who her literary agent or editor is. Maybe she mailed the manuscript to someone before she left Key West. What we'd better make sure of is that she didn't return to Richmond with the thing. If she did and now it's gone, that's significant, to say the least."
Glancing at his watch, Wesley pushed back his chair as he announced apologetically, "I've got another appointment in five minutes."
He escorted us out to the lobby.
I couldn't get rid of Marino. He insisted on walking me to my car.
"You got to keep your eyes open."
He was at it again, giving me one of the "street smart" lectures he had given me numerous times in the past. "A lot of women, they never think about that. I see 'em all the time walking along and not having the foggiest idea who's looking at 'em, maybe following 'em. And when you get to your car, have your damn keys out and look under it, okay? Be surprised how many women don't think about that either. If you're driving along and realize someone's following you, what do you do?"
I ignored him.
"You head to the nearest fire station, okay? Why? Because there's always somebody there. Even at two in the morning on Christmas. That's the first place you head."
Waiting for a break in traffic, I began digging for my keys. Glancing across the street, I noticed an ominous white rectangle under the wiper blade of my state car. Hadn't I put in enough change? Damn.
"They're all over the place," Marino went on. "Just start looking for 'em on your way home or when you're running around doing your shopping."
I shot him one of my looks, then hurried across the street.
"Hey," he said when we got to my car, "don't get hot at me, all right? Maybe you should feel lucky I hover over you like a guardian angel."
The meter had run out fifteen minutes ago. Snatching the ticket off the windshield, I folded it and stuffed it in his shirt pocket.
"When you hover back to headquarters," I said, "take care of this, please."
He was scowling at me as I drove off.
3
Ten blocks away I pulled into another metered space and dropped in my last two quarters. I kept a red MEDICAL EXAMINER plate in plain view on the dash of my state car. Traffic cops never seemed to look. Several months ago, one of them had the nerve to write me up while I was downtown working a homicide scene the police had called me to in the middle of the day.
Hurrying up cement steps, I pushed through a glass door and went inside the main branch of the public library, where people moved about noiselessly and wooden tables were stacked with books. The hushed ambiance inspired the same reverence in me as it had when I was a child. Locating a row of microfiche machines halfway across the room, I began pulling up an index of books written under Beryl Madison's various pen names and jotting down the titles. The most recent work, a historical novel set during the Civil War and published under the pen name Edith Montague, had come out a year and a half ago. Probably irrelevant, and Mark was right, I thought. Over the past ten years, Beryl had published six novels. I had never heard of a single one of them.
Next I began a search of periodicals. Nothing. Beryl wrote books. Apparently she had not published anything, nor had there been any interviews of her, in magazines. Newspaper clips should be more promising. There were a few book reviews published in the Richmond Times over the past few years. But they were useless because they referred to the author by pen name. Beryl's killer knew her by her real name.
Screen after screen of hazy white type went by. "Mab-erly," "Macon," and finally "Madison."
There was one very short piece about Beryl published in the Times last November:
Novelist Beryl Stratton Madison will lecture to the Daughters of the American Revolution this Wednesday at the Jefferson Hotel at Main and Adams streets. Ms. Madison, protegee of Pulitzer Prize-winner Gary Harper, is most known for historical fiction set during the American Revolution and the Civil War. She will speak on "The Viability of Legend as a Vehicle for Fact."
Jotting down the pertinent information, I lingered long enough to locate several of Beryl's books and check them out. Back at the office, I busied myself with paperwork, my attention continually tugged toward the phone. It's none of your business. I was well aware of the boundary separating my jurisdiction from that of the police.
The elevator across the hall opened and custodians began talking in loud voices as they went to the janitorial closet several doors down. They always arrived at around six-thirty. Mrs. J. R. McTigue, listed in the paper as being in charge of reservations, wasn't going to answer anyway. The number I had copied was probably the DAR's business office, which would have closed at five.
The phone was picked up on the second ring.
After a pause, I asked, "Is this Mrs. J. R. McTigue?"
"Why, yes. I'm Mrs. McTigue."
It was too late. There was no point in being anything other than direct. "Mrs. McTigue, this is Dr. Scarpetta…"
"Dr. who?"
"Scarpetta," I repeated. "I'm the medical examiner investigating the death of Beryl Madison…"
"Oh, my! Yes, I read about that. Oh, my, oh, my. She was such a lovely young woman. I just couldn't believe it when I heard-"
"I understand she spoke at the November DAR meeting," I said.
"We were so thrilled when she agreed to come. You know, she didn't do much of that sort of thing."
Mrs. McTigue sounded quite elderly, and already I had the sinking feeling this had been the wrong move. Then she surprised me.
"You see, Beryl did it as a favor. That's the only reason it happened. My late husband was a fnend of Gary Harper, the writer. I'm sure you've heard of him. Joe set it up, really. He knew it would mean so much to me. I've always loved Beryl's books."
"Where do you live, Mrs. McTigue?"
"The Gardens."
Chamberlayne Gardens was a retirement home not far from downtown. It was just one more grim landmark in my professional life. Over the past few years, I'd had several cases from the Gardens and virtually every other retirement community or nursing home in the city.
"I'm wondering if I could stop by for a few minutes on my way home," I said. "Would that be possible?"
"I think so. Why, yes. I suppose that would be fine. You're Dr. who*"
I repeated my name slowly.
"I'm in apartment three-seventy-eight. When you come into the lobby, take the elevator up to the third floor."
I already knew a lot about Mrs. McTigue because of where she lived. Chamberlayne Gardens catered to the elderly who did not have to rely on Social Security to survive. Deposits for its apartments were substantial, the monthly fee steeper than most people's mortgages. But the Gardens, like others of its kind, was a gilded cage. No matter how lovely it was, no one really wanted to be there.