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you think Eppie Diamond was killed because she would
have told who sent me the shoes? And this was all some-
how connected to Mackey s murder? Therefore, she
knew who the murderer was?
Maybe.
Well, I can t see Andrew as a murderer.
Why? Because he s a writer? Really, Oliver, you be-
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lieve all writers are essentially good people because they
are artists? I happen to know they re a crazy, drunken lot,
capable of the same kind of behavior as the general pop-
ulation.
Yes, but Harry, listen to this: Andrew kills his pretend
mother because she knows he sent me the shoes? That
doesn t make any sense at all. The shoes are frivolous.
Killing for a frivolous reason is not a motive
Oliver, what makes you think people kill for logical
reasons? Most of the time when people kill it s personal,
it s in the heat of a particular passion. Love, hate, greed,
anger, jealousy. I m out of gin.
So am I. And Ainslee s, Edward just informed me, is
probably going bust, so they can t pay me for the last two
poems I sold them.
My billfold s in the bloody file cabinet. When Ding
Dong gets back I ll have him pick up a couple of bottles.
Ding Dong s at yer service. Rubber, get Sherlock his
gin.
See what happens when you leave your door un-
locked, I mumbled.
Harry laughed. Just means I don t have to repeat my-
self.
The room quickly filled with acrid cigar smoke from
the weed that Ding Dong had in his mouth. My eyes
smarted and teared. I could have left but I was not about
to, not until I heard what Ding Dong had found out about
Andrew Goren. I lit another cigarette in self-defense.
No one on Moicer anywheres ever hoida him, Ding
Dong said. Maybe he don t live dere.
Yeah?
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Is that all you have to say, Harry? I demanded. He
told me he lived on Mercer.
He told you a lot of things, mostly lies. Harry didn t
seem nearly as upset as I was.
He wanted me to go with him to his place on Mercer.
I refused.
Good tinkin , Olwer, Ding Dong said.
Yeah, Harry said. Good tinkin , Olwer.
I wanted to hose the layer of irony from his face with
cold water.
Ya want ta look some more, Sherlock? Dis Goren is
a guy wit sometin ta hide. Wad he look like?
They both looked at me expectantly. Late twenties,
maybe. Tall, thin, dark hair, dark eyes. Poetic looking.
Like finding a needle in a haystack, I d say.
Don t hurt ta take anudder look, Ding Dong said.
Where s dis go? Rubber demanded. He came into
the flat carrying a distinctively marked case of Booth s
gin and set it down on Harry s desk.
Direct from our generous Canadian neighbors? I
murmured.
Jeeze, Rubber, a whole case? Harry said reverently.
Why not?
Harry laughed. How much I owe you?
For you, Sherlock, on da house. Come on, Rubber.
Harry and I exchanged glances. I took a bottle from
the case and caressed it lovingly, then opened it and
sniffed. The real thing. I gave it to Harry to sniff.
Mother s milk, he said.
Would you care for a martini? I said.
Just what I need.
I ll go up and get the fixings. Don t go away.
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After going through the ritual of unlocking and re-
locking my door, I ran up the stairs. Mattie?
In the kitchen.
Where else, I thought. The oven door was open and
she was bent over a roasting pan. I counted six crispy
brown bird legs. You never cook like this for me. I m
quite jealous. Jealous, meaning envious, not jealous
meaning murderous. Words are so wonderful, are they
not?
Were you able to find the shoes?
I watched her baste the birds, thinking what a lovely
motion it was, what an enchanting color the juices of the
chickens were as they glazed the succulent, mahogany
birds.
No. The man who makes them wasn t able to get
there. But your nice Gerry Brophy and I did find the mur-
der weapon.
A towel protecting her hands, Mattie slipped the pan
back in the oven and shut the door. Straightening, she
looked me in the eye and said with determination, I wish
you wouldn t be so flip about all of this, Olivia. Our
home has been broken into, we re not safe anymore. Not
until this madman is caught.
I set the bottle of gin on the worktable, caught her
shoulders and hugged her. Mattie, honest, I may sound
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