82 Desire

manipulated in a way that didn’t serve her—because, of course, she was being manipulated; she’d known that from the first. The tradeoff—information in return for being the tipster’s pawn—had seemed fair enough at first. But maybe the thing was spinning out of control.
    She snatched up the phone when it rang, ready to hit the tipster with a big piece of her mind. But it was an unexpected announcement from below. “Skip Langdon to see you.”
    “Not again,” she almost said, but her heart beat a little faster. This ought to be enlightening. “Tell her to meet me on the second floor.”
    Skip was grinning. She had on a pair of black drawstring pants and a taupe T-shirt: Ms. Non-Fashion as usual. “Hey there, culture vulture.”
    “Let’s get some coffee.”
    “Let’s talk poetry.”
    The T-P cafeteria was really pretty nice—lots of light and the scent of red beans and rice. Jane didn’t mind entertaining there.
    “So,” she said, when they were settled. “How’d you like the reading?”
    “Does it occur to you we’re bumping into each other an awful lot?”
    Jane nodded. “I was pretty surprised to see you last night.”
    “So was Cindy Lou. She got an anonymous call telling her to attend—the caller said she’d better be ready to defend herself. I got a tip myself. The Baroness claims she doesn’t know what we’re talking about.”
    Jane sipped, so she wouldn’t have to say anything, but Skip kept staring. Finally she settled on, “Umm.”
    “Could I ask why you were there?”
    “You could, but I probably wouldn’t tell you.”
    “In that case, I’m going to guess. Whoever told you about Cindy Lou and Russell Fortier summoned you to the reading as well. And because Cindy Lou and I received anonymous calls, I’m going to guess that you did, too. Unless you were both acting, The Baroness didn’t know who you were. Therefore, it wasn’t she. Moving on to another subject—you had all your i’s dotted and your t’s crossed in your Gene Allred story. You have Saturday off, don’t you? How’d you end up covering that story?”
    Jane’s armpits were clammy. The bad feeling she’d been having when Skip arrived was turning into something like nausea. She held both hands up in front of her chest. “Okay, okay. I got an anonymous tip.”
    “Ah. Now we’re getting somewhere. What did the tipster say?”
    “Just that there’d been a murder I might be interested in. Because of the other tips, I thought it might have something to do with Russell Fortier. That’s why I asked.”
    “And did you ask Ms. Wallis about that?”
    Jane nodded. “She denied all knowledge. Her agenda was to get in the paper. Period.”
    “Pretty interesting poem about her name.”
    Jane looked out the window, still undecided. “Yes, I might write something … I don’t know.” She fixed Skip with a glare. “Now I’m asking you—does Allred’s death have something to do with Russell Fortier?”
    “Off the record?”
    Jane wrinkled her nose. “Three little words I love to hate. Okay—off the record.”
    “Probably. I’m telling you because this thing’s nasty. Your tipster could be a murderer, Jane. You watch yourself.” Skip pushed back her chair and stood up. “Thanks for the coffee.”
    Jane was sweating again—and it wasn’t the coffee. The tipster knew her phone number. When she got home from the reading last night, there’d been a message on her machine: “Nice story this morning. I’ll have something good for you soon.”
    ***
    Mentally, Skip went over the faces of the white men she’d noticed at Talba’s reading—or tried to. There were probably ten or twelve and some of them were sitting behind her. Also, it was more dark than light in the restaurant, and a lot of the time she’d been surrounded by people she knew. It had occurred to her last night that the tipster was there, but no one stood out, even seemed worth watching. No one strange approached her or Cindy Lou or the poet.
    Of course, the man needn’t be white, but she thought he was—mostly because of his accent. It wasn’t foolproof, but it was playing the odds.
    She was disappointed in her visit with Jane Storey—she was pretty sure the reporter had told her all she knew, which was exactly how much Skip knew. Someone was manipulating both of them.
    On the other hand, the informant hadn’t lied. Skip had found out something by attending Talba’s reading—she’d understood the extent of the tipster’s