“Friday Fiction” series: “The Novelist,” Part Two…
Let’s all give a shoutout of support for all American veterans and their families today! Whatever your politics are, our veterans don’t receive nearly the support they deserve. And cheering them on in some parade isn’t enough! Too many are struggling economically, even fighting homelessness and physical handicaps as consequences from their service to our country. “I thank you for your service” doesn’t do it. We should all pressure the politicians to enact and support the veterans programs! Write them ASAP.
[Note from Steve: It’s been a while since I’ve posted some short fiction. My only excuse is that short stories and novellas are like dashes and intermediate races, and I’ve been running a few marathons by writing and publishing several novels, notably finishing the “Esther Brookstone Art Detective” series and three novels from the new “Inspector Steve Morgan” series. I think this one turned out rather well—you can tell me what you think by commenting or by using my contact page at this website—and it tells readers a little bit about how I prepare to write my novels as well! Enjoy.]
***
The plate number led them to a hire-car agency. The saloon had been leased by John Smythe, a name that could be an alias. Neither the abductor nor the abductee matched any records on HOLMES after their facial recognition program was applied. Either the blow-ups of the stills from the video were too grainy, or the man and woman’s faces weren’t in the police database.
All that was after they talked to the publican at the posh pub.
“He met her here,” the corpulent bloke had said. “Weren’t regulars, but upper crust like most of our guests. He bought her drinks, but they hit her fast, like. He said something about taking her home.”
The date drug? Earl had thought. That would seem to confirm an abduction. But for what purpose? Did the abductor run an escort service? Porn podcast? He didn’t look sleazy enough to be someone in the sex trade looking for new “recruits.” Ransom? No mispers cases had been reported.
Sally had also noted that the woman’s abductor, if that was what he was, acted and looked more sophisticated than the average scrote.
“I’m going to run the program again, this time examining society pages.”
“Sure. Go ahead.”
Earl figured that would be a waste of time but wouldn’t take Sally too long. In the local broadsheet, the society pages often became only one page, unlike in the big-city papers, London’s in particular. He got busy querying other police departments on whether they had any similar cases. Away from the big cities, getting things up on HOLMES could take a while. In particular, they could have open mispers cases still not posted.
But Sally had success. John Smythe was Mr. Daniel Clarke, the PA for the district’s MP. Was he acting alone or for his employer? Earl checked and discovered that the MP was in London at the time of the abduction, so the answer to his question was indeterminate. A trip to the MP’s local residence was required.
***
The estate was large but not gated. It was nearer Penrith than where the shooting had occurred; the posh pub was even nearer. They pulled into and around the circular drive and parked in an area where maybe carriages had parked at the end of the 1800s; but the house had probably seen many improvements since then, some in poor taste as far as Earl was concerned. He spotted some huge AC units on one side. Not a bad idea, he thought. Summers are often scorching now. Worse down south—another reason to retire in the Lake District. He supposed heating upgrades had also occurred, their effectiveness dependent on redoing a lot of insulation and caulking.
How much does it cost to run this place? Like many MPs, Sir Richard Bixby was probably out of touch with the common man and more interested in ensuring his spot among the privileged elites. But he still needed to get people’s votes every so often!
Sally must have been having similar thoughts because she said, “I believe we’re going to be visiting with the upper crust, Guv.”
“Don’t worry about it, lass. An MP puts his pants on just like I do. Let me handle the toff.”
They walked to the foreboding front door, really two large oaken ones. He leaned on the bell, hearing it echo within the mansion. A maid came to the door, not a butler.
He flashed his warrant card. “Inspector Earl Wilson and Sergeant Sally Hill from Penrith PD, madam. We would like to speak to MP Richard Bixby or Mr. Daniel Clarke, if you would be so kind.”
She frowned, took his warrant card and examined it, and returned it. She then looked disparagingly at Sally. “The master is in London doing the people’s business. I will have to see if Mr. Clarke is here. Please wait.” She slammed the door shut.
“Does she have a right to be so snooty?” Sally asked.
“She’s not comparing us to herself, lass; she just knows we aren’t in the MP’s social class. Don’t worry. Our Mr. Clarke probably doesn’t win her approval either. Servants are often snooty and also very protective of their toffs. They’re paid to be that way.”
“No wonder aristocracy’s a dying institution.”
“The aristocracy can’t die out fast enough for me. That includes that whole lot of Windsors, of course.”
Five minutes later, the door opened. This time it was an old butler. He barely glanced at the warrant card. “Follow me, officers.”
They saw a bit of the mansion’s interior as they wound through some halls, ending up at the entrance to a study. It contained one large desk and a much smaller one. Seated at the smaller, Earl recognized Daniel Clarke, the man from the video file. He stood and walked towards them. “Have Dora bring a tea service, James. We must treat our guests properly.”
“Yes sir.”
James left them alone with the PA, who gestured towards a half circle of four comfortable chairs arranged around a huge fireplace. “Please have a seat.” They did. “What brings you to Bixby Manor, officers?”
Sally placed the stills taken from the video on the small table at the center of the half-circle. “We matched your image here to one in our local broadsheet. Who’s the woman, Mr. Clarke?”
“Someone who could give the honorable Mr. Bixby a lot of negative publicity. She’s Eleanor Bixby, the MP’s wife. They’re going through a rough patch right now.”
“I see,” Earl said. “So you were sent to collect her at the pub and avoid the negative publicity?”
He shrugged. “I’m the PA for both the MP and his wife. He wasn’t here, so he had me act for him. That’s part of my job, Inspector.”
“Am I right in suspecting you used some GHB, ketamine, or rohyponol to ensure her cooperation?”
“Why would you ever suspect that? Eleanor and I are friends. She was drunk, but she came willingly.”
“Doesn’t look like she came willingly to me,” Sally said.
“You’ll have to prove that, Sergeant.” Clarke stood. “I think we’re done here.”
“You forgot the tea,” Earl said. “And we’ll need to talk to Mrs. Bixby.”
“You may assume the tea is only for me, and she’s not here either.”
“Where is she? Will she return soon? We can wait.”
“She’s also in London. When there are official galas, she usually accompanies the MP. I believe this one is sponsored by King Charles III. It’s a fund raiser for some of his pet environmental causes, so there are some political trappings to it. I’ll ring the maid who will show you out.”
“The royal brush-off,” Earl said to Sally once behind the wheel of their EV from the carpool. “I wonder if the MP treats all his constituents in such a boorish manner.”
“He’s hiding something, Guv. Eleanor Bixby seemed to be drugged and wasn’t going with him willingly.”
“Agreed. But is whatever Clarke is hiding sufficient motivation for murder? That remains to be seen. We have one more person we can query.”
“Who’s that?”
“Whoever leads the MP’s security detail while he’s in London. I know a fellow who does that for the PM. He’ll surely know who’s doing it for the honorable Richard Bixby. Sometimes it’s all about who you know, Sally.”
“Indeed. And it’s more important to know who does the real work and not the lazy politicians. Why don’t you call your informant now?”
Earl looked at his watch. “No time like the present.”
***
The PM was now a member of the Labour Party, but Harry Rawlins, the head of his security detail, knew the head of Tory Bixby’s security detail. He suggested that Earl call him after hearing about the case of Declan Flaherty’s shooting.
“Sam Jenkins is a good bloke. Mention my name because he’s not likely to give you any information about Bixby otherwise. Make sure he knows you’re a copper too. He hates the media.”
Earl laughed. He’d met Harry in the Royal Navy. Both had been much younger then, eighteen-year-old lads who had no idea about what they were going to do with their lives at the time.
“Was he a navy man too?”
“Army. Some traditional Scottish regiment, if memory serves. We’re still drinking buddies even with that and working for MPs from different parties, of course. Sam went to Peel too, worked in the Met for a while, and then resigned to go into the security business. Better hours and better pay. You know the story.”
“Let me have his mobile number. I’ll give him a call.”
Earl chatted with Sam for a few minutes about their adventures at the Peel Centre, policing, and the security business. He then got serious. He first explained what had happened to Declan again. He then asked, “We have a few leads gleaned from the novelist’s own notes. One we’re considering relates to your MP.”
“That old toff getting his lily-white hands dirty, is he?”
Earl explained what they’d seen on the video. “We queried Clarke about it. He said she had too much to drink.”
“Could be. She’s a wild one, that woman. But maybe not, ‘cause I doubt a few drinks would shut her down. Eleanor’s about fifteen years younger than my boss, and there are rumors she’s having an affair with someone. That someone could be Clarke. Lots of opportunity for those two to get it on, I dare say.”
“But why would Clarke want to kill Flaherty?”
“Maybe there’s more going on, and Clarke thought Flaherty knows more than he does.”
Earl thought a moment. “Has your MP Bixby hired a PI to follow either Clarke or his wife?”
“Not that I know. Aye, Clarke might have thought your victim was a PI, but your question’s still relevant. I don’t know Clarke that well—he stays in your area for the most part—but it would seem that killing a PI is going a bit too far.”
“Mrs. Bixby is there with your MP. Do things seem normal between them? No obvious barneys between the husband and wife?”
“Old Bixby’s barneys mostly occur with other politicians, even Tories. His life is politics. He’s lost a rag with several MPs and basically slandered the PM on the floor, arguing that crime is out of control everywhere, for example.”
“Good campaign theme, I suppose. Um, maybe that’s why the missus has someone on the side. He doesn’t have the time or energy to fulfill his duties as a husband.”
“Oh, she’s important for his public persona, so he coddles her. She’s a lovely ornament he can show off at state functions. They’ll both be dressed to the nines at the King’s gala, I assure you. In fact, she and the old Queen Consort get along rather well. Whether that’s a political asset for Bixby is questionable, of course. The whole royal family is mostly irrelevant now and not so popular.”
“What’s Eleanor’s background?”
“I can send you information on both the MP and his wife, all London-oriented and not that relative to Penrith. That part’s on you. You might spot something that’s relevant to your case all the same.”
“Thanks. That might help. And, if you think of anything else, let me know. When I’m in London some time, we should throw down a few pints with Harry.”
“Sounds like a plan. Good luck on the case.”
***
Neither Sam’s information nor the local information readily available on the area’s MP and his wife were enlightening, though. While Earl went on to other items they’d noticed in Declan’s notes, Sally dug deeper into the local records.
She went to Earl’s office to bring something to his attention. She waited patiently until he got off the phone.
“Well, that kills two other leads,” he said. “We might have to return to have a chat with that publican to see if he can remember how many drinks Eleanor actually had. I’m still betting Clarke spiked them.”
“Maybe. I found something interesting. Richard and Eleanor got married only ten years ago. Her maiden name was Clarke. She’s Daniel’s cousin. I suspect she got him the PA post.”
“And, unless he’s committing incest, he’s not her lover. We need to find out if she really has one, and, if she does, who he is. Our friendly publican at The Roadside Inn might be able to answer both questions.”
“How so?”
“Daniel met her at the pub. Suppose she was a regular there and was waiting for someone else?”
“You have a devious mind. Clarke could have gone there to prevent anything embarrassing to occur for his boss. Or maybe she was already there with her lover.”
“So her cousin could have been playing the role of a PI. If we go back earlier into that video record, we might find her real lover.”
“He might have been waiting for her. The publican could tell us that. If we get any sort of description from him, we can then find him in the video record, whenever he arrived. Let’s go.”
“I was going to do lunch, Guv.”
“In our canteen?” She nodded. “Come on. I’ll wager that the pub has a much superior menu, and our business will motivate the publican to be forthcoming. My treat.”
***
The pub was busy with its early upper-crust lunch crowd, but not that busy. The publican sat at the table with them after bringing them some promising meat pies and two ales.
“Aye, that woman was here waiting quite a while. Then this one bloke shows up, and I thought he was going to have a go at her right there. Marra, there was a lot of heavy panting, hugs, and kisses. But they sat, and they ordered drinks. The bloke gets a call on his moby and dashes out, leaving her upset. Half hour later, the second bloke makes an appearance, the one who took her away. They had some angry words, and then the drinks hit her, I guess.”
“Did the second man doctor her drinks?” Earl asked.
The publican frowned and shrugged. “Wasn’t paying a lot of attention, Inspector. Nights are a lot busier. Every toff around the area loves this place. I figured the first bloke was the new boyfriend, and the second the jealous ex. But what do I know? I stay out of those things as much as possible unless someone gets rowdy.” He flexed his biceps. “Then I can even step in myself.”
“Can you describe the first bloke?”
The publican stole a chip, scrunched up his face, and pondered the question. “Saw more of him than the second, I ‘spose, but I keep the lights dim at night. Actually, come to think of it, he left via the backdoor, the exit nearest the car park. Seemed in a hurry, like. Anyways, I saw his mug clearly then.” He ran a finger from between his right eyebrow and right ear, down the cheek, and to the chin. “Old pale scar there on the side of his face. Bushy eyebrows he had, hair thinning a bit, big ears, wide eyes. Didn’t note the color.”
“That’s a good description, sir, especially the scar,” Sally said. “How tall was he?”
“About your height, lass. Wiry and muscular too. Dressed in a checkered jacket with decorative patches on the elbows. Could have been a schoolmaster, I suppose. Doubt he was giving the lady lessons in maths, though. More likely reproductive biology.”
Sally smiled and glanced at Earl; he nodded. Declan Flaherty had been dressed in a similar casual sportscoat. Was the novelist lying to them? Was he Eleanor’s secret lover? Earl had wondered why the London author had come all the way to the Lake District to find a setting for a new novel.
Back in their pool car, he said to Sally, “Either we have a case of mistaken identity, lass, or Declan is Eleanor’s squeeze on the side.”
“Declan has no scar,” she said. Both knew that a bit of actor’s makeup could hide that, though. But wouldn’t that have been removed at the hospital? “And if your second guess were true, he’s been misleading us all this time. I can’t believe that.”
“One never knows, lass. In any case, I’d bet Clarke took his cousin home and then went back to find the first feller. He found Declan instead, assuming they’re not one and the same.”
“We need to find that first feller then,” Sally said with a smile, “assuming he’s not Declan. Any ideas about where to start?”
“Aye. We’ll get our police artist to take the publican’s description and turn it into something we can circulate. He can work with the publican. Probably ideal if he goes to the pub. Ale really goes a long way to inspire an artist.” He chuckled.
“If the publican says the result is a good likeness, I’d suggest running it through facial recognition first.”
“You can do that with a drawing?”
“We can try.”
***
“Sixty-seven percent correlation? What does that mean?”
Sally had just told him about the results produced by the facial recognition software. “A facial image can correlate with several faces in HOLMES. All other ‘hits’ were twenty-percent and lower. Only Michael Greene gave sixty-seven percent, a high probability that he and the first man who met with Eleanor at the pub are one and the same person.”
“We’ll have to go over the security videos again.”
“He’s not in them, but there are several blind spots for both the street cameras and the ones in the car park. We got lucky with Clarke.”
“Maybe because he’s not a wanker like ‘Little Mike’ Greene, who’s probably a lot more experienced at not appearing on surveillance cameras.”
“Seems like you know the gentleman.”
“Nae gentleman, lass. He’s a wanker whose fingers are from clean. Into all kinds of trafficking, from smuggled goods to drugs and human beings. Maybe Eleanor suffers from the ‘highwayman syndrome.’”
“What’s that?”
“In the old days there weren’t so many bodice rippers.” He saw her expression. “Romantic or erotic novels written for lonely women. They dreamed about being abducted by some flamboyant highwayman, a wanker who robbed from the rich daring to ride on the king’s highways.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“I can’t explain the popularity of those novels today otherwise. That trashy Fifty Shades shite sold millions. I bet old Declan also throws enough romance into his novels to appeal to those readers. Every lonely housewife watches those serials on telly for the same reasons. The average bloke buried in his work expects his wife to take care of homelife—children, breakfasts and dinners, buying clothes, and so forth. And don’t look at me that way. I’m not married.”
“And I am. You’re full of it.”
“Can you look at Little Mike and tell me he’s not a more interesting bloke than Richard Bixby, who looks like some embalmed toff from the Victorian age with those muttonchops?”
She smiled. “Okay, you have a point. But Declan Flaherty has that flair too.”
“Confess that to your husband, lass, just to see how he reacts.”
She turned red. “I think we’d better go visit Mr. Greene before I commit inspectorcide.”
***
They found “Little Mike” Greene in a warehouse he owned in the Penrith suburbs. There was an office up a flight of stairs that looked over the warehouse’s main floor. A burly bodyguard, led Sally and Earl to that office.
Greene waved at the paperwork cluttering his old desk. “As you can observe, I’m a busy man. Say what you plods gotta say and then leave me alone.”
That was a comment for the two of them, but his eyes had been on Sally. Earl smiled. This wanker thinks he’s a ladies’ man.
“Were you in The Roadside Inn two nights ago with Eleanor Bixby?”
“You must know I was or you wouldn’t ask. So what?”
“Why did you decide to leave so fast? From the backdoor, to be precise.”
“Eddie, my aide who brought you up here, called to warn me that her feckin’ cousin was on his way and might cause trouble. I like to avoid negative publicity.”
“It would seem that our MP might be of like mind because you’re his wife’s lover, right?”
Greene shrugged. “That old toff doesn’t know how to treat a woman right. That’s not unusual, Inspector.”
“So you scarpered, afraid that Daniel Clarke was arriving to teach you a lesson?”
Green bristled. “I’m not afraid of her cousin. He’s a feckin’ prat. Eddie could break him into two pieces, but I could handle the pillock as well. I’ve been a scrappy fighter since I was a lad in Manchester.”
“Still have connections there, do you? Which gang?”
“My business interests aren’t why you’re here. So, what’s the deal with Daniel? He’s a nobody.”
“Did Eleanor know you were heading to The Pink Hippo when you left her?”
“Sure. Told her I was going there to avoid a barney with her cousin, and if she got free of him, I’d be there. Why?”
“How long were you there?”
“Arrived there straight like.” He thought a moment. “Left The Hippo just before midnight. You do the math.”
Earl glanced at Sally; she nodded. If true, that was before Declan arrived.
“Any proof of that?”
Greene shrugged. “What part? That I was at The Hippo or at The Roadside?”
“The first. We know you were at The Roadside with Eleanor.”
“Right. Let me think. Didn’t see the publican at The Hippo. Waitress served me. Threw down two pints quick like, got bored waiting and left. She was busy then, so I left my money on the table. The Hippo is a place where no one would dare steal that, my being a well-known customer there.”
Meaning everyone there knew you’re a violent yob not to be trifled with, thought Earl. “Do you remember the name of the waitress?”
“‘Twas a new bird. Never saw her before. Nice tits, though, like you, sergeant.”
Sally turned red.
“I insist that you respect my sergeant, Little Mike. I can nick you for forty-eight hours just on principle, you know.”
“You can try.”
“Oh, not me personally. I can have a SCO19 come and take you and all your so-called aides in to be guests in our nick. From what I’ve seen of their numbers here, those cells might become a little crowded, but I wouldn’t expect you to worry too much about comfort considering what a tip this warehouse is.” He grinned. “I’d love you to call my bluff. It would give us a chance to open up some of those crates on your warehouse floor to see what’s in them. So, don’t tempt me.”
Greene shrugged. “I only mentioned her most important feature so you can find her to confirm when I left The Hippo.”
Earl left it at that. Despite the wanker’s reputation, Earl thought he was telling the truth. His attention returned to Daniel Clarke.
***
“Have you actually seen the MP’s wife recently?” Earl asked his new contact Sam Jenkins, the MP Bixby’s head of security. Sally and Earl had returned to the station from the warehouse, and he was acting on a hunch that had occurred to him while talking to Little Mike.
“Curious that you called, Earl. We’ve been informed that Lady Eleanor won’t be attending the King’s gala after all. She’s indisposed and recovering at their Penrith estate.”
“Who told you that?”
“Daniel Clarke, the MP’s PA.”
“What made you think she’d be accompanying the MP originally?”
“Clarke again. He said she’d be in London. And frankly, that’s what we expected. The old toff likes to show her off. He reminds me of that ex-American president who was always bragging about his wives and sexual prowess.”
“Only one wife in Bixby’s case; Sir Richard is a lot more faithful, it seems.” And maybe complicit in trying to keep Eleanor away from Little Mike? What a scandal that would be! Earl could see the headlines in the London rags. “Thanks, Sam.”
Earl turned to Sally after hanging up. “My hunch was spot on. I’m willing to bet Daniel is holding cousin Eleanor under duress somewhere in that large house.”
“What can we do about it?”
“A bit of subterfuge is required, my lass. I’ll get old Judge Stevens to issue a warrant so we can search for the gun used to shoot Declan. We have enough evidence to justify that. If we just happen to find Eleanor during that search, all the better, don’t you think?”
Her smile was her only answer to that question.
***
This time the butler showed them into the study, but they had to wait for Daniel Clarke. The maid brought them tea service. Sally served as mother, and that gave them enough time to hone their attack plan over a cuppa and some little biscuits.
When Daniel appeared, he said, “I can’t say I’m happy to see you again, Inspector. Did you just return here for your tea?”
“No, sir.” Earl stood and handed Daniel three sheets of paper. “A warrant to search the premises, Mr. Clarke. We have ample evidence to show you tried to kill Declan Flaherty, so we expect to find the weapon you used here, namely the one licensed to you. Forensics will be able to match it to the one used at the shooting.”
Daniel smiled, went behind his little desk, and sat. “Are you still referring to my helping my tippling cousin get home?”
“Indeed. And on our first visit, you neglected to mention that Lady Eleanor is your cousin. A bit of nepotism has occurred in this old toff’s household, it seems. That’s how you got your job here, right?”
He frowned. “I was over-qualified, Inspector, but I’ll confess that Eleanor’s recommendation probably helped. Sir Richard would do anything to please her.”
“Even overlooking a young lover because Bixby couldn’t do his husbandly duties? Little Mike probably manages that in spades.”
“How dare you slander my cousin!”
“Stuff it, Daniel.” Earl turned to Sally. “Do you agree, Sergeant Hill, that yon wanker doth protest too much?”
She smiled and winked at Daniel. “I’d think a neglected spouse looking for some excitement in her boring life isn’t as egregious a crime as attempted murder. What’s your opinion, Mr. Clarke?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Earl took over the interview again. “You followed Little Mike to The Pink Hippo, but he’d already left by the time you arrived. The man you shot, Declan Flaherty, looked like Little Mike, especially in the dark, and you mistakenly shot Declan. You’re not a professional assassin, Daniel. You should have confirmed that your target was indeed Little Mike, and you should have policed your fag butts and shells after the shooting. I expect we’ll find the gun that fired them in this house. Hence the warrant.”
Daniel reached into a desk drawer, pulled out a gun, and pointed it at them. “I think this is the gun you might be looking for. Yes, I made a mistake, but it’s not what you think. I knew Mr. Flaherty; I’m a fan of his novels, in fact. So is Eleanor. At the end of each one, he publishes notes describing how his observations in the real world motivate him to pen the novel. He saw me hustle Eleanor into the hire-car.” Daniel waved the gun. “He was the target, you fools! I don’t give a damn whether Little Mike attends to Eleanor’s sexual needs. He helps her cope with a loveless marriage where she’s only the old toff’s ornamental bauble.” The smile he flashed towards them was brimming with insanity. “But you won’t be able to pass that information to the CPS now, will you?”
“The Crown Prosecution Service might wonder about the warrant,” Sally said.
“Eleanor and I will be somewhere in Europe by that time. We take care of each other.”
Earl was thinking about how to distract the madman—his gun hand was shaking now, probably more in anger—when the study’s door was flung open. Eleanor Bixby entered. “You fool! James told me who your visitors are. What the hell are you doing? You’re ruining everything!” She was dressed in a silk robe that did little to hide her curves. She pointed an elegant finger at Daniel. “It wasn’t enough that I got you the PA position here. One that you obviously didn’t deserve!”
“Madam, please,” Earl said, “let us handle this situation.”
But the warning came too late. Daniel turned the gun on his cousin and shot her.
That’s when Earl launched himself at Daniel just as he turned the gun on himself.
“You’re not going to avoid a trial in Crown Court, you bastard!”
***
Both Daniel Clarke and Eleanor Biggs nee Clarke received prison sentences; his was longer. She would get some special treatment because she was paralyzed from the waist down, and she hadn’t tried to kill Declan Flaherty, after all. Earl was surprised when Flaherty showed up in his office six months later. He accepted the proffered coffee and smiled at Sally.
“I would have thought you’d never return to the Lake District, Mr. Flaherty,” Earl said, “considering all that happened.”
“Initially, my thoughts led in that direction. But what a story! Daniel got the scandal he wanted to avoid, and Eleanor is paying for her betrayal of the old MP.”
“Who had to resign,” Sally said, “even though he was a victim like you.”
“But not shot at. I just came from visiting Eleanor in prison. She filled in a lot of blanks about what occurred. You two did some good policing, I dare say. I never got to ride around with you either.”
“Don’t tell me you’re going to use what happened in a novel?” Earl said.
“Probably not. I was curious about getting Eleanor’s side of the story, though. I don’t give a damn about the MP. In a sense, he caused the whole situation. When will old men learn that they can’t prove their virility to voters by acquiring a young bride? That usually leads to problems. All that is a theme in another novel already, so I’d have to change things a lot to use Eleanor’s story. What I’ve learned is that I should be careful with the end notes in my novels. I know fans like them, but they led Daniel Clarke to jump to conclusions.”
“I’m sure your readers won’t mind,” Sally said, batting her eyelashes and smiling.
***
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The “Inspector Steve Morgan” trilogy. Okay, readers, I know you probably missed Cult of Evil, what could have been the perfect creepy book for a Halloween gift; or you forgot about Legacy of Evil being on your to-be-read list. Fear the Asian Evil, Book Three in the series, is now published, so don’t miss that one. In fact, the entire trilogy would make the perfect holiday gift for yourself or for any avid reader among your friends and relatives. That’s many hours of entertainment for about twelve bucks! All three, including the new novel, will be available wherever quality ebooks are sold, just not on Amazon.
Around the world and to the stars! In libris libertas!
