“They would register dogs for a show - genuine dogs - but then they’d show up with some of their human members in cages, wearing collars, and try to take them into the ring. And then there were the anti-hunting protests, when the members dressed up like deer and went running through the woods.”
“I remember that,” I said, recalling a newspaper shot of the earnest protestors, wearing synthetic fur ponchos and headgear topped with giant papier-mache antlers.
“Apparently your veterinarian friend left the group after a hunting protest that ended in a very unfortunate shooting incident.”
“Really,” I said. I could feel adrenaline starting to wake me up. “Do you think it could be another murder?”
“No one was killed, dear,” Mother said. “But your friend was shot… in the derriere. And instead of taking him to the hospital right away, the other protestors tied him to the hood of their Volvo and drove around town honking for several hours. He was quite put out, and they had a parting of the ways. I gather he’s become much less radical - shortly after that he joined the ASPCA and applied to veterinary school.”
Mother grilled me for details of what Doc was doing now, and then signed off, presumably to relay his current whereabouts to Aunt Cecily. I made a note to share her information with the chief, next time I saw him. Would his history as a radical animal-rights activist make Doc more plausible as a murder suspect? Probably - after all, Ted had only two legs.
After that flurry of excitement, my energy level dropped again. I actually dozed off at the switchboard at some point in the morning and woke up to find Luis shaking my shoulder.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” I said, although I noticed that I didn’t sound fine; I sounded cranky. Realizing that only made me feel more cranky.
“Here,” Luis said, handing me a diskette.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“The collected works of Anna Floyd,” he said, glancing around to make sure no one was there.
“So I was right,” I said. “It is a pseudonym for someone at the office.”
“Bet you can’t guess who,” he said with a Cheshire Cat smile.
“What’s-his-name,” I said. “One of the therapists, the mousy little guy. Dr. Lorelei’s husband.”
“You knew all along,” he said.
“I suspected, but I didn’t know,” I said.
He shook his head.
“How’s the other research project going?” I asked.
“More slowly,” he said. “I assume you’d rather not tip off whoever runs the porn sites that someone’s checking them out.”
“You assume right,” I said. “Just let me know when you have something.”
He nodded and left.
So now I knew who the Bodice Ripper was, I thought as I stuck the diskette into the computer and began checking the files Luis had copied.
I found copies of letters to and from publishers - fairly big publishers, I presumed, since I’d heard of them. Complete drafts of two of the books I’d seen in print. And a file that was clearly the first half of another novel.
I couldn’t think of anything else I could do while stuck on the switchboard, so I began to read the unfinished book.
Which turned out to be rather interesting. You found out in the first chapter that the heroine, a typical blond, statuesque Anna Floyd kind of gal, was already married to a mousy, bespectacled man who greatly resembled Anna’s usual heroes. But the wife was bored with him - she was contemplating having an affair with a sexy neighbor who’d been flirting with her. A sexy neighbor who, the reader quickly deduces, might well be the local Jack the Ripper or Hannibal Lecter. Was the heroine so mesmerized by Sexy Neighbor’s pecs and cleft chin that she couldn’t see fava beans and a nice Chianti in her future? Or had I heard so many analyses of real and literary serial killers from Dad that I suspected the worst from Sexy Neighbor long before most people would?
Eventually, even the heroine began to have a few nagging doubts about Sexy Neighbor - though of course she paid no attention to her intuition, probably because doing so would bring the book to a screeching halt about one hundred pages short of the minimum required length. Still, having read three of Anna’s books, I figured I didn’t have to worry about the heroine. Sure, she’d let Sexy Neighbor lure her to his den of iniquity, but Mousy Husband would turn up just in time. He would burst on the scene, eyes flashing, and save her from certain death, or a fate worse than death, whichever Sexy Neighbor intended to come first.