Mr. Murder

colorful traits by which Sherlock Holmes was characterized. "Do your daughters have pets, Mr.
        Stillwater?"
        "Charlotte does. Several."
        "An odd collection of pets."
        Paige said cooly, "Charlotte doesn't think they're odd."
        "Do you?"
        "No. What does it matter if they're odd or not?"
        "Has she had them long?" Lowbock inquired.
        "Some longer than others," Marty said, baffled by this new twist in the questioning even as he remained convinced that he understood the theory Lowbock was laboring to prove.
        "She loves them, her pets?"
        "Yes. Very much. Like any kid. Odd as you might think they are, she loves them."
        Nodding, leaning away from the table again, drumming his pen against his notebook, Lowbock said, "It's another flamboyant touch, but also convincing. I mean, if you were a detective and disposed to doubt the whole scenario, you'd have to think twice if the intruder killed all of the daughter's pets."
        Marty's heart began sinking in him like a dropped stone seeking the bottom of a pond.
        "Oh, no," Paige said miserably. "Not poor little Whiskers, Loretta, Fred… not all of them?"
        "The gerbil was crushed to death," Lowbock said, his gaze fixed on Marty. "The mouse had its neck broken, the turtle was smashed underfoot, and so was the beetle. I didn't examine the others that carefully."
        Marty's anger flared into barely contained fury, and he curled his hands into tight fists under the table, because he knew Lowbock was accusing him of having killed the pets merely to lend credibility to an elaborate lie. No one would believe a loving father would stomp his daughter's pet turtle and break the neck of her cute little mouse for the shabby purpose that Lowbock thought motivated Marty, therefore, perversely, the detective assumed that Marty had done it, after all, because it was so outrageous as to exonerate him, the perfect finishing touch.
        "Charlotte's going to be heartbroken," Paige said.
        Marty knew that he was flushed with rage. He could feel the heat in his face, as if he'd spent the past hour under a sunlamp, and his ears felt almost as if they were on fire. He also knew the cop would interpret his anger as a blush of shame that was a testament of guilt.
        When Lowbock revealed that fleeting smile again, Marty wanted to punch him in the mouth.
        "Mr. Stillwater, please correct me if I'm wrong, but haven't you recently had a book on the paperback bestseller list, the reprint of a hardcover that was first released last year?"
        Marty didn't answer him.
        Lowbock didn't require an answer. He was rolling now. "And a new book coming out in a month or so, which some people think might be your first hardcover bestseller? And you're probably working on yet another book even now. There's a portion of a manuscript on the desk in your office, anyway. And I guess, once you get a couple of good career breaks, you've got to keep your foot on the gas, so to speak, take full advantage of the momentum."
        Frowning, her whole body tense again, Paige seemed on the verge of precisely grasping the detective's ludicrous interpretation of Marty's crime report, the source of his antagonism. She had the temper in the family, and since Marty was barely able to keep from striking the cop, he wondered what Paige's reaction would be when Lowbock made his idiotic suspicions explicit.
        "It must help a career to be profiled in People magazine," the detective continued. "And I guess when Mr. Murder himself becomes the target of a muy misterioso killer, then you'll get a lot more free publicity in the press, and just at a crucial turning point in your career."
        Paige jerked in her chair as if she'd been slapped.
        Her reaction drew Lowbock's attention. "Yes, Mrs. Stillwater?"
        "You can't actually believe…"
        "Believe what, Mrs. Stillwater?"
        "Marty isn't a liar."
        "Have I said he is?"
        "He loathes publicity."
        "Then they must have been quite persistent at People."
        "Look at his neck, for Christ's sake! The redness, swelling, it'll be covered with bruises in a few hours. You can't believe he did that to himself."
        Maintaining a maddening pretense of objectivity, Lowbock said, "Is that what you believe, Mrs. Stillwater?"
        She spoke between clenched teeth, saying what Marty felt he