Was that a twinkle in Alice’s eye? “It would be so much better if you called her.”
They parted as friends after an amazing meal and good conversation.
But instead of calling Michaela, he decided to wait.
It might be good to let her sweat a little.
Chapter Seven
It surprised Troy to no end that Michaela didn’t call him first thing Friday morning to find out how the date had gone. By noon, an agonizing need to hear her voice swept over him. But Troy understood patience and determination, and he had the willpower of an Olympian. It struck him by midafternoon that Michaela had probably called Alice. But if that were so, why wasn’t Michaela calling him to say she was working on setting him up with someone else?
But it was Friday, and Troy didn’t have time to ponder the situation. Tonight was Mathilda Sullivan’s book signing, and Troy had to drive up to the city in the midst of San Francisco rush hour because he had to get the scoop.
Without giving Fernsby any forewarning, Troy arrived at the venue half an hour before the signing was scheduled to begin. The store sat just off Union Square, and the line was—shocker—around the block. Good God, it was massive, people shuffling forward in groups of two to five. There had to be at least five hundred people here. How the hell was he supposed to find Fernsby?
As Troy walked along the line to the front, wanting to get a peek inside, he found his quarry. Second shocker of the night—the man was first in line, wearing his usual staid black suit. Fernsby didn’t know the meaning of casual dress, not even for a book signing.
Before even saying hello, Troy burst out, “What the hell time did you get here? Oh-dark-thirty this morning?”
Fernsby’s stern façade didn’t crack one bit as he drawled, “I didn’t arrive until noon, sir.”
The man had been standing here for over six hours?
Troy leaned in close to murmur, “Didn’t you even get out of line to take a leak?”
Fernsby tipped his head back to look down his long beak of a nose at Troy. “You should know by now, sir, that my control is legendary.”
Troy was struck by the fact that he’d never seen Fernsby even go into the facilities, not ever. Maybe he could hold it all day and only went at night.
Then Fernsby said, “Pray tell, sir, what are you doing here?”
Troy had nothing to hide. “I’m like a dog with a bone, Fernsby. I had to know what was up with you.”
Fernsby raised one mildly irritated brow. “It’s a book signing, sir. I would have told you if you’d asked.”
Troy gaped at him. “But I did.”
Fernsby tapped his temple. “I have a mind like a steel trap, sir. I would recall that.”
Troy couldn’t help coming back at him. “Then your steel trap didn’t spring.”
Their discussion was cut off abruptly when the guy behind Fernsby said, “No cuts in line.”
This time, Fernsby didn’t need to tip his head back to stare down at the man, a chunky guy with round glasses and flushed cheeks. “This gentleman is not cutting in line. He’s not even buying the book.” Then he cold-shouldered the man and said to Troy, “Isn’t that correct, sir?”
Troy shrugged guiltily. “I hadn’t planned on it.” Then he let a wide smile stretch across his face. “I’ll borrow your copy.”
Fernsby gazed at him with a look that said, Think again if you don’t want to come to blows over it.
Wow. The man actually seemed territorial.
Then Fernsby said, “Mathilda Sullivan is the best mystery writer of her time, perhaps surpassed only by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.”
“Sherlock Holmes,” Troy said.
Fernsby rolled his eyes in answer. But then, Troy hadn’t been asking a question.
But he couldn’t help asking the question that had been burning a hole right through his brain cells. “Do you know Mathilda Sullivan? I mean, her detective is named after you.”
