Wanda turned to the others. “Shall I give her the bad news about Santa while I’m at it?”
But then something dawned on Officer Holly. “Wait a minute. So the books I read when I was a childweren’twritten by you?”
“Nope.”
Holly beamed. “Youaren’tthe author of Compendium Cathy. Not the Compendium Cathy I knew and loved. When did you take over the series?”
“Number 47, as I recall.”
“Good. I’ll read my kids the Compendium Cathy books only up to Number 46,” said Holly. “That way, you won’t enter into it.” It looked like a weight had been lifted from Holly. It was a gentle soul, the teacher from Maine, who had shaped her childhood, and would shape her own children’s childhood, not this bitter, pill-popping boozehound before her now. “You are absolutely right. You are not Wanda Stobol. Not the Wanda Stobol who was a beacon to me when I was young and unsure of myself. Not the real Wanda Stobol.”
Miranda recognized the mixed emotions that come from meeting someone you thought was your idol only to realize that they were, in fact, deeply flawed human beings like the rest of us and not demigods. Miranda herself had seen that look on many a fan’s face.
And now Penny Fenland joined them in the reception hall. She had come down in flannel pajamas and slippers, holding a piece ofpaper in her hand. She had a perturbed look on her face. “I thought I heard people down here,” she said. “Can anyone explain this?”
She held up the page. It had been ripped in half, and though she wanted to appear calm, Penny was clearly rattled by it.
“What is it?” asked Holly.
“A handwritten note. I found it under my door just now. It saysvirgin wolf.”
The tear in the page ran right along the end of the words.
“That was my nickname in high school,” said Owen McCune, coming down the stairs behind Penny, grinning.
“Owen!” said Miranda.
“What are you doing here?” Officer Holly wanted to know. “I thought you went home long ago.”
“I did, to get some stuff. Came in the back way,” he said. “There’s stairs to the second floor out in the rear, didn’t want to disturb anyone by barging in the front door. Inez had some questions about LOJIC, was thinking of joining, even though I did make it clear that our lodge is mainly bingo and potlucks, with very little worshipping of Satan and his minions. I thought I’d drop off some of our, uh, brochures.” His hair was even more mussed up than before, and dark lipstick was tattooed across his face like a panel in an Archie comic. His silk sash with the tassels had disappeared.
Inez followed moments later, breezily descending the stairs as she adjusted her skirt. “A conclave!” she said on seeing the gathering below. “Summoning the forces of darkness, are we?” She seemed to suppose that any midnight gathering was, perforce, a séance of some sort.
Officer Holly came over to look at the note Penny had brought down. “Wolves and virgin forest maybe?” she hazarded. “But there are no wolves in Happy Rock. Bears up in the hills, maybe, but no wolves.”
“Bears?” said Inez, perking up. “Fanged creatures of the night?”
“Shy bruins that want to be left alone.” Officer Holly studied the handwriting, held it up for the others to see. “Recognize it, anyone?”
It had been penned in blocky capitals, as though the person writing it were trying to hide their identity.
“Could this note be from Fairfax DePoy?” Officer Holly asked, pressing the matter. “Anyone?”
“Perhaps we could get a sample of Fairfax’s writing,” said Miranda, “from when he signed his books at the store earlier.”
“He doesn’tsignbooks, remember?” said Wanda. “The fop melts wax and uses a signet ring instead of signing his name. He’s insufferable.”
“He is a bit of a prat,” Penny conceded. It was one of the few things she and Wanda agreed on.
“Not the autograph,” said Miranda. “The personalized messages he wrote in the books. He must have written something for Harpreet.”
It was too late to call her, though, and Miranda hardly imagined Fairfax DePoy would have personalized his message to her in all caps.
“We could conjure the souls of the dead,” Inez suggested. “Ask them for guidance?”
Summoning the forces of darkness? Yes, you could say that, thought Miranda. That’s exactly what we are doing. A regular rogue’s gallery had been assembled. Was a killer amongst them? The only person missing was—
“Evening, everyone.” It was Ray Valentine, coming down in a bathrobe, with a vaguely disapproving look on his face. He peered at them over his glasses. “It’s 0100 in the morning. Why is everyone still up?”
