Wicked Deeds. Heather Graham

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      “I guess she thinks that she can contact Franklin Verne, too,” Alice said. She sighed softly. “She’s...okay. Really. You just need a lot of energy when she’s around.”

      “And she knew Franklin Verne?”

      “Quite well, yes,” Gary said, glancing over at his daughter and Lacey. “They both...had a lot of money. They gave to a lot of the same local charities. She always told me that she could get Franklin Verne in here.”

      “Do you think that she did?” Griffin asked seriously.

      “Do I think that she got him in here?” Gary asked. He seemed perplexed, and then his eyes widened. “Oh! I see. Do I think that she lured him here, that she plied him with wine...? Well, she’s a little bit of a thing. If she did lure him, she’d have had to have lured him, you know what I mean?”

      “She didn’t carry him down any stairs,” Lacey said flatly. “She’s ninety pounds, tops.”

      “Were they friends or acquaintances?” Griffin asked.

      Gary stood and stretched. He sighed deeply, putting his hands on his hips, then he looked steadily at Griffin. “We were all acquaintances. Over time, through festivals and readings and what have you—book signings—we all knew Franklin Verne. Liza had been talking to him about coming to a meeting here, and she could be a very good friend—I’m sure that she intended for him to endorse the restaurant.”

      “We didn’t know him nearly so well,” Alice said. “In passing, he might recognize us, and he might smile or wave. He wasn’t going to insist we come for Sunday coffee, or anything like that.”

      Lacey had a distant look in her eyes. She was holding one of the ravens she had unpacked and looking thoughtfully toward one of the walls. “He was all right,” she said softly. “I talked to him now and then. Of course, I carried his new books in the gift shop. But I would actually talk to him now and then. Sometimes he’d call me—just to make sure that I wasn’t having any trouble getting his work from the distributor or the publisher. Of course, no one had trouble getting his work. He was very popular.”

      “Like Poe,” Alice murmured.

      “Poe did gain a great deal more popularity in death,” Gary said.

      “As will Franklin Verne!” Alice said softly. “Sad, huh?”

      “Who do you think would have hurt him?” Griffin asked. “I mean, I realize that Liza was the one who knew him, but you were all in or involved with the society. Any ideas at all?”

      No one had a chance to answer him; they heard a hard pounding on the outside door, past the hostess station.

      “What the hell? I have a huge sign out there!” Gary said.

      “I’ll go,” Vickie volunteered. “It’s a bolt?”

      “Yes, several, actually, no alarm on. Just twist the bolts. We are not open!” Gary said.

      Vickie hurried to the door, leaving Griffin with the others.

      There were three bolts on the door—not easily opened. But she didn’t believe that Franklin Verne and his murderer had entered by the front, anyway.

      She unlocked and opened the door. And she stared into the face of Jon Skye, their young waiter from the night before.

      “Hey!” he said, obviously very surprised to see her there. “Um...what are you doing here? I got a call this morning... I saw the news. But I figured that Gary and Alice were here, and I felt that I had to help and...why the hell are you here?” he asked.

      “Griffin is with the FBI,” Vickie explained quickly.

      “Oh. Oh, the FBI! But...I’m so confused. So, he didn’t just die. He didn’t sneak in to do a suicide thing, huh? He was murdered. Like his wife says? Still, I don’t get it. Oh, but yeah, Franklin Verne was so well-known. It’s national news—worldwide news, really. Is that it?”

      “Actually, we don’t know anything yet,” Vickie said. “Any such death has to be investigated, and Monica Verne is very good friends with Griffin’s director,” she explained. She was still blocking the door. She hesitated, and then stepped aside. He’d come to lend support to Gary and Alice, much, she assumed, as Lacey had done.

      Or because he was curious. But Vickie decided she’d let the others sort that out.

      “Thanks,” Jon told her, entering. He nodded and strode ahead of her into the bar area.

      The group there all greeted him. Alice seemed to perk up, glad to see Jon.

      Griffin nodded at Vickie. Apparently, it had been the right thing to do, letting him in.

      “I came by to see if I could help in some way,” Jon said.

      “Sure, thanks. We’re all just sitting here a little shell-shocked. Appreciate you coming,” Gary said.

      “It’s terrible about Franklin Verne,” Jon said. He looked over at Griffin. He shook his head. “I do understand that any unexplained death has to be explained. But...FBI? Does this all mean that Franklin Verne was murdered? That he didn’t just sneak in to give it all up, go on a binge—and die?”

      Griffin didn’t answer the question but rather voiced one in return. “Do you know of anyone jealous of him? Someone who would want to hurt him—for any reason?” he asked.

      Gary, Lacey, Jon and Alice all looked at one another. Then they all looked at Griffin and shook their heads in unison—almost as if it had been rehearsed.

      “Whoever it was—if there was a whoever,” Alice said, “they hid what they were feeling. I mean, at least as far as we know.”

      “But you will want to talk to Liza,” Lacey said.

      “Yes, he’ll need to talk to Liza, of course,” Gary said.

      “Dad, what, you think she’ll rouse the truth with a séance?” Alice asked sarcastically.

      “She knew him,” Gary said, ignoring his daughter. “She can do her ridiculous séance. Who knows—maybe she’ll come up with something.”

      “Oh, it will be great,” Alice murmured darkly.

      “Liza is going to do a séance?” Jon asked. “I mean, they may want to talk with Alistair Malcolm and Brent Whaley, too. I’d say the three of them are the core of the Blackbird Society,” he said. “Others come...but not with the same passion and continuity. And Alistair and Brent were also friends with Franklin Verne,” he said, looking earnestly at Griffin.

      “Thank you,” Griffin said.

      “Yes! Special Agent Pryce will need to speak with Brent Whaley and Alistair Malcolm as well,” Lacey said, sudden energy in her voice. “Whaley is a writer! Part of the Poe society, but a writer, too. I mean, he actually writes for a living. He does a mystery series about a Baltimore detective. And, like Liza, he knew Franklin Verne! I’m sure Brent considers himself to be a friend of Franklin Verne—or, at least, he did,” she added awkwardly. “In fact, he СКАЧАТЬ