Strangled Prose by Joan Hess

Author:Joan Hess [Hess, Joan]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

EIGHT

I sat on the sofa and brooded for a long time. Mildred murdered by someone I might know. My erstwhile lover with a decidedly ugly blot on his record. My daughter withholding information from the police. Most likely the information had nothing to do with high school pranks or library fines. As distasteful as it was, I had to admit that Caron might know something about Mildred’s death. It was one thing to hope I wouldn’t be imprisoned for the crime; I certainly wasn’t going to allow it to happen to my offspring, in spite of her proclivity for melodrama.

It seemed like the moment had come to stop wandering about aimlessly, motivated by nothing more than vague curiosity. Neither Inez nor Caron was apt to tell me whatever they felt was so vital, but perhaps I could find out myself. One step ahead of Lieutenant Peter Rosen, who might not feel the stirrings of maternal instincts.

I went into Caron’s room to see if the Azalea series had indeed been discarded. The designated bookshelf, normally decorated with scented candles and plastic flowers, was empty. It had even been dusted, which was not only a miracle but also an act completely alien to her character. Caron is not a sanitary soul; she could scrape up the material under her bed and submit it as a science project. And win a blue ribbon.

I found the books in the trash can in the kitchen. Delicately digging through the damp coffee grounds, I took the books out, wiped them off with a paper towel, and spread them across the kitchen table. There were twelve, but the final opus, Professor of Passion, was not among them.

I left them and went to my bedroom. My copy, still half-read, was on the bedside table. Derek glinted at me, but I put my mug on his face and sat down on the bed. This copy had come from the carton behind the counter. The one I had purchased, complete with purple flourish, had vanished sometime during the reception. Not a tragedy of any magnitude, but annoying.

Almost everyone at the reception had bought one of them, peer pressure being as potent in academic circles as it is in junior high schools. There had been one on my desk at one point, I remembered with a frown, but it too had vanished. I wondered if there was any way to count up the copies that had been sold—or if there was any reason to do so.

A peculiar thought entered the mental muddle. I had been honored with the first copy of the damn thing, and everyone who came into the Book Depot had been awarded a similar honor. But Maggie Holland had been clutching a copy as she marched across the sidewalk at the head of the demonstrators. Minutes later she had stormed in to take the center ring. Where had she gotten her copy?

Nancy Drew did not garner fame by sitting on her bed wrinkling her forehead. I went downstairs and knocked on Maggie’s door.

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