think.
It was easy to figure out how the burglar got into our house. He or she had no problem there; this being safe, small-town America, or so we'd thought, we often didn't even bother to lock our doors at night.
The burglar's other activities were harder to fathom, though. My desk drawers had been thrown open, and my papers were strewn around; but other than that, the burglar hadn't touched anything in the whole house. Not even Andrea's purse, which was lying in plain view on the kitchen table. The only thing he'd stolen, so far as I could tell, was my day pack.
Why in the world would the burglar want my day pack?
I considered the bizarre possibility that someone stole the pack because they'd seen me carrying Penn's magnum opus inside it. But if that's what they were after, why didn't they just open the pack, see there was nothing in it anymore but a couple of Disney videos, and then toss it aside?
Unless...
What if Babe Ruth enters the study just at the exact moment when the burglar finds my pack—but before he's had a chance to look inside it?
Highly unlikely.
But wait a minute. I gritted my teeth against the pain in my head. Wha t if the burglar heard Ruth com ing, dove behind my desk to hide ... and that's when he suddenly sees my pack, or hell, even lands right on top of it. Because last night, like most nights, I'd left my pack on the floor at the far end of the desk, by the wall. Which meant it was partially hidden, I realized. So the burglar dives on top of my pack, figures out what it is, and grabs hold of it as Ruth enters ...
Okay, maybe. I guess it was possible . But why? Who would want Donald Penn's literary oeuvre badly enough to burglarize my house, terrorize my child, and bust my head open?
I considered all the people who'd shown an interest, positive or otherwise, in The Penn's writing: the Mayor, Judy, Rob, maybe Madeline, Gretchen, Bonnie and her fellow artists. Could the burglar have been Steve the Novella Man, hoping to find some good stuff written by The Penn that he could pass off as his own work? Or Rob, in a fit of insane artistic m ania, desper ate to set up that exhibit at Madeline's? Maybe Judy Demarest, wanting to make sure I didn't double-cross her and give The Penn's literary pearls to a downstate newspaper? Or some overly dedicated editor from Simon & Schuster, up in Saratoga on vacation, who'd overheard me talking to Judy on the street and thought maybe she could steal herself a bestseller?
Frankly, it seemed equally likely that the burglar had opened my pack, found our rented copy of Mighty Ducks 2, and decided he must have that video at all costs.
My increasin gly deranged musings were inter rupted when the telephone rang. I jumped. So did Dave. It was three a.m. I grabbed the phone.
Before I could speak, a voice boomed out at me, "Seven fifty! Seven fucking fifty!"
What the hell—? I was so scared and pissed off, I started shaking. "What do you want?! Who are you?!"
"I'm your guardian angel, kid! I just got you an extra two-fifty grand!"
My mind reeled. B y now I'd figured out it was An drew, my agent, but I hadn't the foggiest what he was saying to me. It was like he was speaking Swahili. Maybe I really did have a concussion. "Andrew, what in heaven's name are you talking about?"
"Mutant beetles, kid! They're hot!"
Mutant beetles. It all came back to me with a rush. I groaned. "Look, do you have any idea what time it is?"
"Hell yeah, I've been working on this deal all day, baby! Awesome, huh? So you gonna thank me or what?"
I hung up the phone and poured myself another shot of Jack Daniel's.
The next morning, or rather, later that same morn ing, I woke up with a splitting headache, whether from concussion or ha ngover I didn't know. But I fig ured either way a cup of coffee couldn't hurt.
I stepped carefully downstairs, avoiding sudden movements, and came upon Gretzky in the living room putting on knee pads. "Daddy, let's play hockey!" he crowed, delighted to
It was easy to figure out how the burglar got into our house. He or she had no problem there; this being safe, small-town America, or so we'd thought, we often didn't even bother to lock our doors at night.
The burglar's other activities were harder to fathom, though. My desk drawers had been thrown open, and my papers were strewn around; but other than that, the burglar hadn't touched anything in the whole house. Not even Andrea's purse, which was lying in plain view on the kitchen table. The only thing he'd stolen, so far as I could tell, was my day pack.
Why in the world would the burglar want my day pack?
I considered the bizarre possibility that someone stole the pack because they'd seen me carrying Penn's magnum opus inside it. But if that's what they were after, why didn't they just open the pack, see there was nothing in it anymore but a couple of Disney videos, and then toss it aside?
Unless...
What if Babe Ruth enters the study just at the exact moment when the burglar finds my pack—but before he's had a chance to look inside it?
Highly unlikely.
But wait a minute. I gritted my teeth against the pain in my head. Wha t if the burglar heard Ruth com ing, dove behind my desk to hide ... and that's when he suddenly sees my pack, or hell, even lands right on top of it. Because last night, like most nights, I'd left my pack on the floor at the far end of the desk, by the wall. Which meant it was partially hidden, I realized. So the burglar dives on top of my pack, figures out what it is, and grabs hold of it as Ruth enters ...
Okay, maybe. I guess it was possible . But why? Who would want Donald Penn's literary oeuvre badly enough to burglarize my house, terrorize my child, and bust my head open?
I considered all the people who'd shown an interest, positive or otherwise, in The Penn's writing: the Mayor, Judy, Rob, maybe Madeline, Gretchen, Bonnie and her fellow artists. Could the burglar have been Steve the Novella Man, hoping to find some good stuff written by The Penn that he could pass off as his own work? Or Rob, in a fit of insane artistic m ania, desper ate to set up that exhibit at Madeline's? Maybe Judy Demarest, wanting to make sure I didn't double-cross her and give The Penn's literary pearls to a downstate newspaper? Or some overly dedicated editor from Simon & Schuster, up in Saratoga on vacation, who'd overheard me talking to Judy on the street and thought maybe she could steal herself a bestseller?
Frankly, it seemed equally likely that the burglar had opened my pack, found our rented copy of Mighty Ducks 2, and decided he must have that video at all costs.
My increasin gly deranged musings were inter rupted when the telephone rang. I jumped. So did Dave. It was three a.m. I grabbed the phone.
Before I could speak, a voice boomed out at me, "Seven fifty! Seven fucking fifty!"
What the hell—? I was so scared and pissed off, I started shaking. "What do you want?! Who are you?!"
"I'm your guardian angel, kid! I just got you an extra two-fifty grand!"
My mind reeled. B y now I'd figured out it was An drew, my agent, but I hadn't the foggiest what he was saying to me. It was like he was speaking Swahili. Maybe I really did have a concussion. "Andrew, what in heaven's name are you talking about?"
"Mutant beetles, kid! They're hot!"
Mutant beetles. It all came back to me with a rush. I groaned. "Look, do you have any idea what time it is?"
"Hell yeah, I've been working on this deal all day, baby! Awesome, huh? So you gonna thank me or what?"
I hung up the phone and poured myself another shot of Jack Daniel's.
The next morning, or rather, later that same morn ing, I woke up with a splitting headache, whether from concussion or ha ngover I didn't know. But I fig ured either way a cup of coffee couldn't hurt.
I stepped carefully downstairs, avoiding sudden movements, and came upon Gretzky in the living room putting on knee pads. "Daddy, let's play hockey!" he crowed, delighted to
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