She laughed. "No. I'm just an author. In my research I've met with a number of crooks."

"Oh."

Did I believe it? I didn't have much choice, so I decided to go with it—for now, anyway.

"You think they will pick up Mario?" Sabrina asked, maybe to change the subject?

"No. He'll be long gone. If nothing else, his name is now on record related to this stuff."

"Back to the hotel?"

"Yeah, we can figure out what we're going to eat, and find out how many Simpsons live in Fairfield, Iowa. Tomorrow we talk to them. Hopefully we won't hit a brick wall."

"Even if we do, I'm determined to continue this"

"Me too. Otherwise it means I'll have to start job hunting. Oh, please let there be a Simpson who knows something about that gallery or the painting."

Chapter 14

We made love again that night, and again Sabrina clung to me like I was the last man on earth. Could this possibly be the same person who didn't think twice about crushing a man's kidney? It was dawning on me how little I knew about her.

After breakfast the next morning we looked up Simpson in the phone book and found six of them. We decided it would be better to go see them in person, rather than calling, and we wrote down the six addresses. It was a beautiful morning, warm and sunny, so our raincoat disguises weren't necessary. We weren't worried, seeing as how Mario's men had been arrested. There was no way he would have anyone else watching us, so we felt pretty safe.

The first two visits were washouts—in both cases people who had recently moved to Fairfield—and the next two weren't home. The fifth turned out to be the one. An old guy answered the door. He was limping badly, most likely a bad case of arthritis, and seemed to be in a fair amount of pain. Despite the obvious discomfort, he was pleasant as he greeted us.

"Mr. Simpson?" I asked.

"That would be me. I'm Harry Simpson. If you're selling me religion though, I already have one, thanks."

Sabrina and I looked at each other. Sheesh! Did we really look the part? Even without the raincoats? I was seriously starting to wonder.

I gave him the friendliest, non-religious smile I had and said, "No. My name is Del Honeycutt, and this is Sabrina Spencer…"

"Like the mystery writer," he said, interrupting me.

"Actually, one and the same, Mr. Simpson," said Sabrina. "Nice to meet you. We are tracking down an old mystery and were hoping you could help us."

"Seriously? You're the mystery writer?"

"I am."

I may as well have disappeared.

"Yeah, you look like your book cover." He turned toward the inner part of the house. "Edna. Get out here. There's someone you have to meet."

A large woman of about the same age waddled in from the kitchen.

"Edna, This here is Sabrina Spencer, the mystery writer."