said. "Who'd expect such retribution from a sweet and genteel lady?"
When Franklen smiled her face cracked into a thousand pieces. "Don't underestimate the resolve of Gray Power," she said. "At page 438 of Dame Agatha Christie's Autobiography, she suggests we use such people as human guinea pigs in research experiments. Tea, Chief Superintendent?"
Ushered into the living room where he was left alone to wait while Franklen was in the kitchen, DeClercq wondered if she was playing with him. PD. James slyly wrapped in Mickey Spillane.
The parlor was as crammed and cluttered as Holmes's and Watson's study. The sofa and overstuffed armchairs had doilies of Belgian lace, one with a cushion on which sat a suspicious Siamese cat. The overmantel and several tables scattered about the room displayed a complete collection of Coronation mugs, including one for Edward VIII who was never crowned. A portrait of Queen Elizabeth commanded the far wall, beneath which hung separate photos of the Prince and Princess of Wales. From marks on the wallpaper Robert deduced the pictures of Charles and Diana had recently been moved farther apart. What held his attention, however, was the gallery facing French doors that led to an English garden. Seventy-four headshots, all autographed.
"Very impressive," DeClercq said when Franklen returned. He helped her wheel in a tea trolley spread with fine bone china, a silver pot in a crocheted cozy, and enough Eccles cakes, scones, and crumpets to feed Special X.
"The one of Conan Doyle is my favorite. He signed it just before his death in 1930. Dame Agatha autographed hers when I had tea at Greenway in Devon. Of the moderns, I'm partial to Dick Francis and Ed McBain. I'm thinking of buying a dozen more cats and naming them after the Boys of the 87th Precinct."
DeClercq sat down beside Miss Marple, a feline Joan Hickson.
"The Queen drinks Poonakandy. Will that do?" Franklen asked. She passed the Mountie a delicate forget-me-not cup. Nodding, he munched a blueberry scone with clotted cream.
"So?" the old lady said. "Whom have you chosen for me?"
"Inspector Zinc Chandler," DeClercq replied.
Pleased, Franklen put down her cup and rubbed her hands. "What a surprise! A high rank when I expected a Corporal. The guests will certainly have their work cut out to win the money."
"Money?" DeClercq said.
"Fifty thousand dollars. Did you not get my letter detailing what's occurred?"
"I've been out of town. It must be on my desk."
"For goodness sake," Franklen said, pushing the trolley at him. "Gorge yourself while I explain the luck we've had. When the auxiliary planned the auction to aid the hospital, I hoped my Mystery Weekend would fetch a thousand dollars. Imagine my joy when an unknown bidder offered one hundred thousand dollars and sent us a bank draft the following day."
Morse or Dalgleish jumped into Robert's lap. He tried to leed the tabby a nibble of scone, but not content the animal pawed off a larger chunk.
"Shoo, Morse," Franklen said, ready to clap her hands.
"That's okay," DeClercq said. "I like cats."
"Since 1930 I've written hundreds of interactive mysteries, but none that prompted a response like this. Do you remember The Millionaire ? John Beresford Tipton?"
DeClercq laughed. "That goes back to what? Fifty-four?"
"Each week a different person inherited a million dollars out of thin air. None of them discovered whom their benefactor was, nor did the TV audience see his face. Well, here it seems we have the same whodunit. My plot was purchased for all that money and I don't know whom by. All I have is a set of instructions directing what I must do. Intriguing, don't you think?"
DeClercq sensed Franklen was overjoyed. No doubt the setup was a mystery-lover's dream. "So where does the fifty thousand dollars fit in?"
"I've been sent a list of "sleuths." All are West Coast thriller writers from Alaska to California. I'm to offer each the chance to match wits with a real detective for that
When Franklen smiled her face cracked into a thousand pieces. "Don't underestimate the resolve of Gray Power," she said. "At page 438 of Dame Agatha Christie's Autobiography, she suggests we use such people as human guinea pigs in research experiments. Tea, Chief Superintendent?"
Ushered into the living room where he was left alone to wait while Franklen was in the kitchen, DeClercq wondered if she was playing with him. PD. James slyly wrapped in Mickey Spillane.
The parlor was as crammed and cluttered as Holmes's and Watson's study. The sofa and overstuffed armchairs had doilies of Belgian lace, one with a cushion on which sat a suspicious Siamese cat. The overmantel and several tables scattered about the room displayed a complete collection of Coronation mugs, including one for Edward VIII who was never crowned. A portrait of Queen Elizabeth commanded the far wall, beneath which hung separate photos of the Prince and Princess of Wales. From marks on the wallpaper Robert deduced the pictures of Charles and Diana had recently been moved farther apart. What held his attention, however, was the gallery facing French doors that led to an English garden. Seventy-four headshots, all autographed.
"Very impressive," DeClercq said when Franklen returned. He helped her wheel in a tea trolley spread with fine bone china, a silver pot in a crocheted cozy, and enough Eccles cakes, scones, and crumpets to feed Special X.
"The one of Conan Doyle is my favorite. He signed it just before his death in 1930. Dame Agatha autographed hers when I had tea at Greenway in Devon. Of the moderns, I'm partial to Dick Francis and Ed McBain. I'm thinking of buying a dozen more cats and naming them after the Boys of the 87th Precinct."
DeClercq sat down beside Miss Marple, a feline Joan Hickson.
"The Queen drinks Poonakandy. Will that do?" Franklen asked. She passed the Mountie a delicate forget-me-not cup. Nodding, he munched a blueberry scone with clotted cream.
"So?" the old lady said. "Whom have you chosen for me?"
"Inspector Zinc Chandler," DeClercq replied.
Pleased, Franklen put down her cup and rubbed her hands. "What a surprise! A high rank when I expected a Corporal. The guests will certainly have their work cut out to win the money."
"Money?" DeClercq said.
"Fifty thousand dollars. Did you not get my letter detailing what's occurred?"
"I've been out of town. It must be on my desk."
"For goodness sake," Franklen said, pushing the trolley at him. "Gorge yourself while I explain the luck we've had. When the auxiliary planned the auction to aid the hospital, I hoped my Mystery Weekend would fetch a thousand dollars. Imagine my joy when an unknown bidder offered one hundred thousand dollars and sent us a bank draft the following day."
Morse or Dalgleish jumped into Robert's lap. He tried to leed the tabby a nibble of scone, but not content the animal pawed off a larger chunk.
"Shoo, Morse," Franklen said, ready to clap her hands.
"That's okay," DeClercq said. "I like cats."
"Since 1930 I've written hundreds of interactive mysteries, but none that prompted a response like this. Do you remember The Millionaire ? John Beresford Tipton?"
DeClercq laughed. "That goes back to what? Fifty-four?"
"Each week a different person inherited a million dollars out of thin air. None of them discovered whom their benefactor was, nor did the TV audience see his face. Well, here it seems we have the same whodunit. My plot was purchased for all that money and I don't know whom by. All I have is a set of instructions directing what I must do. Intriguing, don't you think?"
DeClercq sensed Franklen was overjoyed. No doubt the setup was a mystery-lover's dream. "So where does the fifty thousand dollars fit in?"
"I've been sent a list of "sleuths." All are West Coast thriller writers from Alaska to California. I'm to offer each the chance to match wits with a real detective for that
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