Right to Die

the other pointing to the book Andrus was setting on the table.
    The matron started to say something about the jacket being damaged and wanting another when I said, “Please?”
    Taking out a pen, I prodded the book to a centered position in front of me. Using the pen as a friction finger, I opened the book and turned the leaves until I got to the title page.
    There, under “by Maisy Andrus,” was a stickum mailing label with the cut-out words: “THIS CLOSE WHO-RE.”

    * * *

    “I just couldn’t tell you, Mr. Cuddy.”
    Olivia Jurick was behind her cash register, wagging her head as Maisy Andrus gamely signed the last few books for the faithful who had stayed on line. The offending copy was between Jurick and me in a plastic Plato’s Bookshop bag.
    I said, “Any way to determine who had access to the books?”
    “Not really,” said Jurick. “We put the poster up last Monday. Seven days of promotion is about the most our customers can tolerate. But copies of her book have been in the store for at least a month before that. I could check our invoices if you’d like?”
    “I don’t think that’ll make a difference. The woman who brought the book to Inés Roja—”
    “Mrs. Thomason.”
    “Mrs. Thomason said she got the book from the display table.”
    “Yes, well, I’m fairly certain that all of the books on the table came from the special shipment I ordered for the signing.”
    “And how long have they been here?”
    “On the table, you mean?”
    “In the store at all.”
    “Well, the boxes would have arrived about a week before the poster went up, meaning about two weeks ago.”
    “And on the display table?”
    “We wouldn’t have opened the boxes and set up publicly, you know, until the poster notice, so I would say early last week.”
    “Anyone on your staff mention anything odd about people hanging around the table?”
    “No. But then, you must understand, Mr. Cuddy, this is a bookstore. Our customers leaf through books in the process of deciding which to buy. Since that horrible message was already on a mailing label, someone could have stuck it there in five seconds or so. None of my staff would have noticed that.”
    “Even if the person was wearing gloves at the time?”
    Jurick shrugged. “It is December.”
    I looked over at the display table, nearly emptied of books now. All our boy had to do, anytime in the last week, was pick up a copy of Our Right to Die, stick the label in it, then bury the copy maybe halfway down one pile. To be sure it wasn’t sold pre-signing but would be brought to Andrus during the signing.
    Jurick said, “Will the book help at all?”
    “Excuse me?”
    She stopped just short of touching the plastic bag. “This copy. Will you be able to use it for clues?”
    “The guy’s been pretty careful so far. I’ll take it to the police, but there’s not much chance they’ll get anything from it.”
    Jurick shook her head. “Who would do such a thing?”
    “You find out, let me know.”

= 11 =

    I said to Alec Bacall, “How is Inés doing?”
    He gestured at the massive central staircase. “She went up to her room to lie down.”
    “Inés lives here too?”
    “Oh, yes. Maisy often likes to work at night, and this way Inés can be available for whatever.”
    Bacall said the last in a matter-of-fact way, no inflection or other indication of double meaning. We were standing alone in a ground floor parlor done in blue pastels. Bacall, Wonsley, and I had taken a taxi together, following another cab with Andrus, Tucker Hebert, Roja, and Manolo to the town house. Once there, Manolo exchanged hand signals with Andrus, then seemed to disappear while Andrus and Hebert climbed the steps to the second floor. Bacall and I had gone with Wonsley into the kitchen before he began opening cabinets and shooed us out the swinging door.
    On a mews at the flat of Beacon Hill near Charles, the town house was more truly a mansion. Fifty feet wide at the street, at least seventy feet deep. We were within blocks of the buildings where Daniel Webster, Louisa May Alcott, and Henry James spent their time.
    I said, “Just how big is this place?”
    “Well,” said Bacall, “I haven’t seen every nook and cranny, but the design is pretty typical for its vintage. The second floor front has a living room or library, the rear a large study. The master bedroom and bath are on the third floor, with a studio for painting or needlepoint or whatever the hell Mater and Pater did