“Well, that little speech should really encourage whoever it is to speak up,” Mick Slimm said tartly.
His wife aimed a suspicious stare at Krantz. “Or maybe you planned it that way to cover yourself. You’ve obviously been doing a lot of thinking about the situation.”
“Again, one would have to be witless not to think of the consequences,” Krantz snapped in reply.
“Let’s just can it,” Spike Spanner growled. “We can talk in circles and point fingers until our time is up.” He tapped a beefy finger to his chest. “I’m telling you I didn’t do it.”
“Nor did I,” Marten spoke almost immediately.
“Well, I certainly wasn’t poking around where I shouldn’t.” Maura Slimm turned to the man lounging against the arm of her chair. “Were you, Mickey?”
“It strikes me as a sucker’s game.” Mick Slimm ran a finger along a carefully clipped mustache. “Saunders was only using this case to provide a framework for whatever would happen in our sim. Who’d know which actual facts he might include — and which he would toss out?”
“I suspect our director would have been wiser to let the charade go on,” Marten rumbled, “while looking to see whether anyone used any of the discarded elements you mentioned.”
“Too late for that,” Krantz sniffed. “How unfortunate you didn’t mention that plan earlier.”
Maura Slimm continued to give the tall man a beady stare. “What I don’t see you mentioning is your innocence, Mr. Krantz.”
The icy blue eyes behind the spectacles rolled in disgust. “Oh, for heaven’s sake! Would you prefer it on a Bible?” He put a hand over his heart. “I swear I am not breaking into secret records on this case.” Then Krantz glared round the room. “I trust you’re satisfied?”
“I trust nobody,” Spike Spanner growled, spearing Matt with a look. “Especially someone who won’t take the pledge.”
Matt raised a hand. “I swear I didn’t hack into anything about the actual case behind the sim. I don’t know anything about the Haddings and the Callivants — except what my friend Leif told me.”
“Who?” Mick Slimm said.
“The Haddings?” Marten’s voice rose. “The Callivants?”
Maura Slimm nearly fell off her chair, thrusting an accusing finger at Matt. “You just gave yourself away!” she cried.
Matt hadn’t. He’d purposely thrown in the names of the true parties in this mystery, hoping to surprise a response from one of the sleuths. But the ones who weren’t exclaiming in surprise had better poker faces than Matt had hoped. He’d thrown away his advantage, with nothing to show for it.
“We know the Peytons in the mystery are a big-shot political family,” Spanner said. “That would certainly fit the Callivants, I suppose.”
“Hadding — that’s the real name of the girl who died?” Krantz sat straighter.
Matt nodded. “None of this came off the Net. I’ve got a friend who’s into society scandal. I picked his brains. The actual case didn’t happen in the nineteen thirties, the way Saunders set it up. According to my friend, the case resembles the murder of a girl named Priscilla Hadding, who died back in 1982.”
“Eighty-two?” Spanner echoed. “I was still in diapers then. Who’d remember?”
“Somebody starstruck by the social scene,” Matt suggested. He shot a silent challenge toward Krantz and the Slimms, all famed as society sleuths. Reluctantly he added Lucullus Marten as well. Most of the big man’s cases involved the rich and famous.
“Well, Newman, you shot your bolt,” Marten rumbled. “If you hoped to shock anyone into confessing, you’ve failed. All you’ve done is make yourself the main suspect.”
The whole group settled into mistrustful silence.
At last, Maura Slimm said, “If it was such a big scandal, why isn’t it better-known?”
Spike Spanner gave a snort of laughter. “I can answer that one. Hey — look at what happens to anyone who even mentions the damned case?”
Megan O’Malley held the door while Leif Anderson stood in the entryway to her house, trying to stamp off the snow sticking to his low boots. They were ankle height, but dressy — the fine leather was already soaked.
“I thought Washington had mild winters. The Brits used to classify their embassy here as subtropical.”
“About every fifteen years we get a serious snow-storm.” Megan shrugged. “Count your blessings. They’re facing a real blizzard up in New York.”
“Yeah, but back home, I’ve got the clothes to deal with this.” The snow was gone now, but his shoes squelched as he stamped on the welcome mat.
“Just take ’em off,” Megan finally said. “We’ll try stuffing them with something and putting them on a heat vent to dry them off.” She looked Leif in the eye. “I suppose I should be flattered that you’d brave this weather to come and see me.”
“Actually, it’s your folks I need to see — or rather, their library.”
Now Megan really gave him a look. “I wonder if you’ve heard of this wonderful thing called the Net. You can check out whole libraries and even buy books without leaving your house. It beats turning blue at the edges and ruining a pair of shoes.”
“I’d rather not advertise what I’m interested in,” Leif replied. “But I figure, between your parents’ books and yours, you might have some of the stuff here I’m looking for.”
“Well, you can ask my folks,” Megan said. “They’re both home. Some people have enough sense to stay out of the snow.”
Megan’s mom was a freelancer for The Washington Post, while her dad was a mystery author. Both worked out of the house — even if sometimes “work” seemed to mean frowning at the displays of the stories they were writing.
Robert Fitzgerald O’Malley seemed glad for the interruption as the kids came into his office. “Leif!” He exclaimed, turning in surprise. “What brings you out in weather like — whoops!”
His sudden movement dislodged a teetering pile of books on the table next to him. Megan and Leif helped him retrieve the fallen volumes. She wound up holding books titled The Dictionary of Imaginary Places and Modern Metallurgy. Leif had True Crimes of the Twentieth Century and The Living Sword. He held the last book up, staring at the cover. “Aldo Nadi’s autobiography!”
“That’s right,” Megan’s dad said, “you’re a fencer.”
“Not in that guy’s class.” Leif added his books to the new pile Megan was creating on the table. “I can’t figure how all this stuff comes together — but then I never expected the way you worked out Morte Siciliano, either.”
“You read it?” The novelist beamed, almost as proud of his books as he was of his children.
“Leif wants to do a little digging in the library,” Megan said.
“Certainly,” her father said.
Megan grinned. Anything for a reader of R. F. O’Malley, she thought.
“Are you looking for something in particular?” her father asked.
“Biographies, I suppose.” Leif pointed to the true crime book in the pile. “And maybe a little of that.”
“I got that from Julie. It sounds more like the journalist’s side of the stacks.” Megan’s dad rose from his chair. “Let’s go and ask.”
Megan generally tried to stay away from her folks while they were working. The little house was noisy enough, thanks to her brothers. Luckily, Mike was off doing research, and Rory, Paul, and Sean were out investigating the exotic phenomenon of snow in D.C.
Julie O’Malley, Megan’s mom, had apparently reached a good stopping point in her story when Megan, her dad, and Leif came into the living room. “Biographies?” she said when Dad passed along Leif’s request. “Most of them are over here.”