“I already tried that,” I snapped.
In a more conciliatory tone, Bobby added, “Graeme said we couldn’t see it without a warrant.Something about privacy.”
“It’s impossible,” I said.“I didn’t want a one-on-one.My God, can you imagine talking to me one-on-one?”
Fox opened their mouth, but Indira gave a little shake of her head, and Fox shut it again.
“It’s simple, then,” Indira said.“Someone else registered in your name.”
“The important thing,” Bobby said, “is that this was a mistake.”
“It doesn’t matter if it’s a mistake—”
“Dash,” Bobby said, “thekillermade a mistake.Whoever did this, they left a trail—whether it’s a fake account, or they somehow got access to Graeme’s files, or however they did it.It’s a lead.And it’s something the sheriff can follow up on.”
I took a moment, trying to let that sink in.
“Okay,” I said.
“Okay,” Bobby said gently.
“Okay,” Fox said—with anair.“Now thatthat’ssettled, I’d like to point out that your bus is leaving.”
The thought of spending the ride back with the ducklings telling me about their ongoing investigation and Spenser trying to pin me down on a release date for the next book was enough to make me shudder.
“Drink your coffee,” Indira said, patting my arm.“We’ll drop you off; we’re almost done.”
“And you can help carry things,” Fox said.“Bobby, it’s time to put those muscles to good use.Dash, you can be in charge of the trash.”
So, yeah.That’s how that went.
When Indira had offered us a ride, I hadn’t considered the fact that we’d be riding in Fox’s van—which was literally a Toyota Van (the best name ever).It was approximately forty years old.It was buff-colored, or taupe, or fawn—it was light brown, okay?Inside, it was full of cereal boxes (I was pretty sure Wheaties had been discontinued, like, twenty years ago), and garbage bags full of bottle caps, and a three-foot-tall statue of an extremely gay horse.I ended up sitting on a nest of pool noodles in the back.Bobby, poor soul, took one for the team and wedged himself in among the bottle caps.(To round out the experience, Fox’s van also smelled like clothing that had been kept in someone’s attic; a certain, um, adult substance that Fox was careful never to use around Indira; and an air freshener hanging from their rearview mirror that said either DRAGON MUSK or DRAGON MUST.) Today’s soundtrack was The Pointer Sisters.On 8-track.
“What are you going to do now?”Indira asked.
“Let the sheriff know,” Bobby said—presumably, literally in that moment, since he was composing a message on his phone.
“I want to talk to Vivienne’s former agent,” I said.“If she hates Vivienne as much as Graeme says she does, then I at least need to get a look at her.”
“Margaux?”Fox said.
“Oh God,” Indira said.“Margaux.”
“Wait, you know her?”I asked.
“That might be putting it generously,” Fox said.“She visited Vivienne a number of times.Once, Vivienne invited me to join them for dinner.I was standing there in the hall, ready to say hello.Margaux handed me her coat and her keys and asked me to make sure to park the car somewhere it wouldn’t get rained on.”
“Yikes,” Bobby said under his breath.
“She said my risotto ‘needed work,’” Indira said.
Nobody said anything for about five seconds.See, Indira is lovely and charming and sophisticated.She’s a world-class chef.She’s an accomplished business owner.And shealsohas this lock of white hair, and sometimes there’s a seriously witchy vibe.A part of me wondered if, post-risotto, Margaux had come down with a case of the, um, piles.
“So,” Fox said, “tell her hello for us.”
They dropped us in front of the conference center, and Bobby and I took a few minutes to locate Margaux.Fortunately, she was listed on the conference program at several events, one of which was starting in a few minutes—Agent Office Hours, it was called on the program, which managed to sound both pretentious and informal at the same time.
We made our way to the ballroom, which had high ceilings, numerous chandeliers, and truly hideous carpet: olive with yellow paisley.(Presumably to hide mustard stains?) Tables were set up around the perimeter of the room.Each table had one or two people sitting at it.I’d only met a few agents in the wild, but a quick glance showed me they didn’t clean up much better than most writers—one agent’s “professional” dress consisted of a red T-shirt that said I READ BOOKS.WHAT’S YOUR JOB?In front of each table—in front ofeverytable—stretched a long line of people clutching MacBooks, notebooks, book-books, and (almost always) tote bags.The room smelled like desperation and the ghost of brown gravy.
