What about Yancy Thigpen? I felt chagrined that I had forgotten about the agent until this moment. Had Eugene killed her because she somehow stumbled into the middle of all this?

I could only hope she was alive and unharmed, perhaps being hidden as a prisoner of Eugene and Marcella. Like the real Mrs. Cartwright. The Marters had a large house, with more than enough space to lock two women away upstairs and out of sight.

What was at the root of the deception in the first place? That was a significant question, and one I should have considered earlier.

The quick answer to that was money. The Marters were desperate for cash, and thought they could make some quick bucks by hawking the manuscripts and collecting fees from fans like Gordon Betts willing to pay outrageous sums to get a signature. A spurious signature, that is.

I thought about those manuscripts. I would love to get my hands on them. It would be wonderful to see them in print, along with the original Veronica Thane books.

An appalling idea brought me up short, however.

What if they were spurious as well?

THIRTY-EIGHT

I hated the idea that the five manuscripts might be fakes, but there were more important things to consider.

First, though, I had to call Kanesha. I pulled out my cell phone and punched in the number.

After two rings her voice growled in my ear. “This better be good.”

“Did I wake you up?” I felt bad about that, considering how tired she had looked this morning. But this couldn’t wait.

She ignored my question. “Why did you call?”

“I know who the murderer is.” I paused for a reaction. None came right away. I plunged ahead. “Mrs. Cartwright is an impostor. It’s her grandson, Eugene, pretending to be her. He killed Carrie Taylor because I’m pretty sure she had evidence in her files that would have exposed him.” I paused again.

Kanesha snorted in my ear. “If I didn’t know you better by now, I’d swear you were drunk out of your mind to come up with a far-out tale like this.”

I decided the wiser course would be not to respond to that sally and wait for her to continue.

“But I do know you better. You wouldn’t make such an outrageous claim if you weren’t sure you could prove it somehow.”

“I believe I can,” I said, vastly relieved. “It would be easier to show you, though. I can’t really do it over the phone.”

“Give me twenty minutes, and I’ll be there. That okay?” She sounded more alert, less aggravated.

“That’ll be fine.” I ended the call and immediately started agitating over the best way to present my evidence. I grabbed the pad of paper I was using earlier to make notes from my research, found a blank page, and started outlining.