as Johnson or Smith.”
“More like as common as Sipcowski.”
Who, not having heard any of that, told us, “You three will need to stay here until the police interview you—I’ll keep you posted as to when. They’ll want to see the body first.”
And the security chief left us alone again.
Violet turned to me. “You said Tommy was murdered. That he was stabbed. With a . . . knife?”
“No. He was stabbed in the chest. With a pen.”
Her eyes grew large. “A pen ?”
“Yes, dear,” Mother responded, leaning forward to see past me. “A gold pen. Rather expensive looking, and probably fountain style, as that sharp tip would be helpful in performing the act. It’s one of your awards, isn’t it?”
Violet’s hands flew to her mouth. “Oh, my God,” she said through splayed fingers.
Mother’s lack of tact had been a tactic. Everybody was a suspect now, except Mother and me. And Tommy.
Mother asked Violet, “You were missing one of the awards, weren’t you, dear?”
The woman nodded slowly. “Yes, one was stolen. The writer’s award. And it is a pen. Tommy was looking into the theft.”
Mother shrugged. “It would appear he found it.”
“ Mother! ”
Violet stood, took a step toward Mother, and, eyes flashing, looked down at her. “How dare you treat Tommy’s murder so . . . so lightly !”
I reached out and took the young woman’s forearm. “Violet . . . my mother doesn’t mean any offense, really. It’s just her way of dealing with death. Tommy’s death.”
Mother said gently, “I am sorry, my dear. I was very fond of Tommy. We had many a lively conversation on Skype. And you needn’t worry—I’m going to do everything within my power to bring his killer to justice!”
Violet, returning to the chair, said archly, “You’re kidding, right?”
“I don’t kid about murder. I may not go into hysterics when I encounter a dead body, child . . . but about murder , I do not kid.”
“Isn’t investigating this . . . this crime the job of the police?”
“It has been my experience,” Mother returned, “that the boys in blue are extremely efficient when it comes to parking tickets, speed traps, and school presentations on the dangers of drugs. Murder investigation requires a more expert touch.”
“Mother,” I said quietly, “this is not Serenity. And the NYPD isn’t the Serenity police department, either. We should leave this to the professionals.”
“I’ll take that under advisement, dear.”
“Advisement? Whose?”
“Why, my own, of course.”
Once again, Robert came through the curtain, told us that the forensics team had arrived, and that Detective Cassato would be with us shortly. That name again. And he went back out.
I whispered to Mother, “ Could it be Tony? Could it?”
Mother whispered back, “Courage, dear.”
How that was supposed to help, I had no idea.
It had been two months since I’d heard from Tony—he’d been calling from a pay phone (talk about antiques!) at some undisclosed location, maybe left over from when Dick Cheney was vice president.
I sat on the edge of my chair, eyes fixed on the gold curtain, anxiously awaiting . . . would Tony appear?
And when he did, when it was him, I sprang to my feet, my heart jumping to my throat and pounding like a triphammer.
Then I froze.
Frowned.
Squinted.
The man looked like Tony, but different —younger, not as barrel-chested, his hair more pepper than salt. He was neither in uniform nor the business suit of a plainclothes officer, rather in a navy NYPD jacket, unzipped to reveal a blue shirt and navy tie. Black slacks and black shoes completed his ensemble.
But he spoke in the same clipped New York accent as Tony, in a voice that might have been Tony’s.
“I’m Detective Cassato,” he said, looking the three of us over.
I was still standing there taking in this almost-Tony when Mother asked, “By any chance, Detective, are you related to one Anthony Cassato, a.k.a.
“More like as common as Sipcowski.”
Who, not having heard any of that, told us, “You three will need to stay here until the police interview you—I’ll keep you posted as to when. They’ll want to see the body first.”
And the security chief left us alone again.
Violet turned to me. “You said Tommy was murdered. That he was stabbed. With a . . . knife?”
“No. He was stabbed in the chest. With a pen.”
Her eyes grew large. “A pen ?”
“Yes, dear,” Mother responded, leaning forward to see past me. “A gold pen. Rather expensive looking, and probably fountain style, as that sharp tip would be helpful in performing the act. It’s one of your awards, isn’t it?”
Violet’s hands flew to her mouth. “Oh, my God,” she said through splayed fingers.
Mother’s lack of tact had been a tactic. Everybody was a suspect now, except Mother and me. And Tommy.
Mother asked Violet, “You were missing one of the awards, weren’t you, dear?”
The woman nodded slowly. “Yes, one was stolen. The writer’s award. And it is a pen. Tommy was looking into the theft.”
Mother shrugged. “It would appear he found it.”
“ Mother! ”
Violet stood, took a step toward Mother, and, eyes flashing, looked down at her. “How dare you treat Tommy’s murder so . . . so lightly !”
I reached out and took the young woman’s forearm. “Violet . . . my mother doesn’t mean any offense, really. It’s just her way of dealing with death. Tommy’s death.”
Mother said gently, “I am sorry, my dear. I was very fond of Tommy. We had many a lively conversation on Skype. And you needn’t worry—I’m going to do everything within my power to bring his killer to justice!”
Violet, returning to the chair, said archly, “You’re kidding, right?”
“I don’t kid about murder. I may not go into hysterics when I encounter a dead body, child . . . but about murder , I do not kid.”
“Isn’t investigating this . . . this crime the job of the police?”
“It has been my experience,” Mother returned, “that the boys in blue are extremely efficient when it comes to parking tickets, speed traps, and school presentations on the dangers of drugs. Murder investigation requires a more expert touch.”
“Mother,” I said quietly, “this is not Serenity. And the NYPD isn’t the Serenity police department, either. We should leave this to the professionals.”
“I’ll take that under advisement, dear.”
“Advisement? Whose?”
“Why, my own, of course.”
Once again, Robert came through the curtain, told us that the forensics team had arrived, and that Detective Cassato would be with us shortly. That name again. And he went back out.
I whispered to Mother, “ Could it be Tony? Could it?”
Mother whispered back, “Courage, dear.”
How that was supposed to help, I had no idea.
It had been two months since I’d heard from Tony—he’d been calling from a pay phone (talk about antiques!) at some undisclosed location, maybe left over from when Dick Cheney was vice president.
I sat on the edge of my chair, eyes fixed on the gold curtain, anxiously awaiting . . . would Tony appear?
And when he did, when it was him, I sprang to my feet, my heart jumping to my throat and pounding like a triphammer.
Then I froze.
Frowned.
Squinted.
The man looked like Tony, but different —younger, not as barrel-chested, his hair more pepper than salt. He was neither in uniform nor the business suit of a plainclothes officer, rather in a navy NYPD jacket, unzipped to reveal a blue shirt and navy tie. Black slacks and black shoes completed his ensemble.
But he spoke in the same clipped New York accent as Tony, in a voice that might have been Tony’s.
“I’m Detective Cassato,” he said, looking the three of us over.
I was still standing there taking in this almost-Tony when Mother asked, “By any chance, Detective, are you related to one Anthony Cassato, a.k.a.
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