“Okay, boy,” I said as I shut down the laptop and put it aside. “Let’s go downstairs, and I’ll see if I can find you a morsel or two.”

The cat leapt to the floor and disappeared before I could get off the bed. I smiled as I followed Diesel downstairs. I knew he would be waiting in the utility room by his food and water bowls.

After I saw to the needs of my poor starving kitty, I rooted around in the fridge for my own snack. Azalea had baked a ham two days ago, and there was enough left for a sandwich.

Sandwich in one hand and a can of diet cola in the other, I climbed the stairs, intent on further research on the Internet. I might as well see what I could find about my host for the evening, Winston Eagleton. With such a distinctive name to search, I figured I would get far fewer results, and those that I did retrieve would be on target.

I was right. My search on Eagleton yielded only seven pages of hits. There were even images this time, not simply text.

I took a bite of my sandwich and clicked on one of the images, and there was Eagleton, beaming like a cherub into the camera lens. The next image contained a surprise. Eagleton, radiant smile in place, had his arm around none other than Gordon Betts, who looked more than a bit uncomfortable.

The chummy pose appeared staged to me, and I wondered what the occasion for it was. I clicked on the link to visit the page where the image resided, and the resulting explanation gave me another surprise.

According to what I read, Gordon Betts was a major investor in Eagleton’s publishing concern.

If that were the case, I wondered why Eagleton appeared so desperate to get his hands on Mrs. Cartwright’s unpublished manuscripts. I remembered Eugene Marter’s allegations that Eagleton threatened his grandmother over them.

With Betts’s alleged millions behind him, surely Eagleton could offer Mrs. Cartwright enough money to clinch the deal.

Unless Eagleton and Betts had fallen out, and Betts had withdrawn his support from the publishing venture.

Interesting fodder for speculation, but could any of it be connected with the murder of Carrie Taylor?

TWENTY-THREE

Stewart was pottering about in the kitchen when I came through on my way to Winston Eagleton’s dinner party early that evening. Diesel trailed hopefully in my wake, unaware that he was destined to remain home tonight.

“What ho, Sherlock.” Stewart shot me a mischievous grin. “Whither art thou bound? And to what fell purpose?”

“What on earth have you been reading, to spout dialogue like that?” I shook my head in mock sadness. “Such a good mind he had, once upon a time.”