Dead by Any Other Name by Sebastian Stuart Page B

smoke and said, “New Paltz.”
    â€œYou got it. Does tonight work for you?”
    â€œYeah.”
    I hung up, went into my office/storeroom and went online to find Collier Denton’s phone number. I basically hate going online—the whole world is suddenly at your fingertips. I can barely handle the ten feet in front of me, the last thing I want is the whole goddamn world. Shopping online is a freakout. I once went looking for kitchen drawer pulls and with each click I found myself sucked further into a special rung of cyberhell populated by ten trillion kitchen drawer pulls—and each pull could be enlarged and viewed from different angles. I ended up—my head one pull away from exploding—ordering these absurd undulating purple-and-orange striped pulls, and when they arrived I was so ashamed that I left them on the front stoop of the animal shelter thrift shop after dark.
    But finding a phone number I could handle. And Denton was listed. While pop visits were my preferred M.O., I wanted to be sure I wouldn’t be greeted by a slammed door. After all, judging from his response to Octavia he was in a pretty foul head these days.
    â€œYes?” the affected baritone drawled.
    â€œHi, is this the Collier Denton who was the star of The Well Runs Deep ?”
    â€œâ€™Tis he indeed.”
    â€œHi, my name is Janet Petrocelli, I moved upstate about a year ago and when I heard you were local, well, it would just be an utter thrill for me to meet you.”
    I didn’t mention that I’d never seen his show, that watching even ten seconds of a soap opera plunged me into existential despair—I always associated them with childhood sick days spent on an itchy couch in the gloomy den of whatever boozy beaten-down relative was currently putting me up. And that ominous music: Melodies to Commit Suicide By.
    â€œWell, I’m awfully busy weighing offers and reading scripts, but I suppose that could be arranged. What time could you get here?”
    â€œHow about two o’clock?”
    â€œLet me check my datebook … hmmmm … yes, two works. I have some time between my Flemish lesson and my harpsichord recital.”
    â€œYou speak Flemish and play the harpsichord?”
    â€œThe truth is immensely overrated. Do you know how to find Fleur de Moi ?”
    â€œSure do. See you at two.”
    â€œOh, one thing.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI have a special fondness for Veuve Clicquot.”
    Just as I hung up, someone rang the doorbell down in the shop. I went down to find George and Mad John outside.
    â€œCome in, guys, what’s up?”
    Mad John made a beeline for Bub, who adored him. They started up an animated coo-and-caw which a jealous Sputnik—he found Mad John delightfully smellworthy—interrupted with some fierce nuzzling.
    George was still wearing jodhpurs. “We need your help with Goat Island,” he said.
    â€œWhat can I do?”
    â€œWe want to catch the looters. That island was sacred to the Esopus Indians for thousands of years. It could turn out to be a major archeological site and these creeps are tearing it up.”
    â€œWhen the bad people dig up the magic relics, they release demons, demons that haunt us all and make bad things happen on the river and in the valley,” Mad John said. Then he started jumping up and down in place, “Gotta stop it, gotta stop it!”
    â€œIsn’t that the state’s job?”
    â€œThere’s no money for things like that these days,” George said. “ We have to do it.” When he got passionate about saving the valley I was reminded of why I loved him.
    â€œHow?”
    â€œMad John has been casing the island regularly and it seems like the looting is happening in the middle of the night. He thinks we should all go over there and spend a night waiting for the thieves.”
    â€œCould that be dangerous?”
    Mad John made a gargoyle face and said,