BESTSELLERS & BEST FRIENDS
My book publishing blog, with murder mysteries woven through it.
If this is your first visit, be sure to start with “1. Let’s do it!”
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I did posts on Mailer, Wouk, and Shirer.
In another post I recalled the words Doyle screamed at me.
I also mentioned I was going to Ligonier. Doyle correctly figures I’d visit the town’s bookstore. He’d then swings by the store. Probably mentions to Laurie that he knew me or worked with me. She’d kindly say in that small town way, “Oh you just missed Jess. But he’ll be by first thing in the morning to sign more copies of his latest book.”
Doyle was last known to be working not far from Ligonier.
And the rumor for years is that Doyle was weirdly working on the final draft of the long ago published Under the Rose.
Damn it, Doyle did it!
In some perverted and insane way, he killed Laurie to get back at me.
I’ve solved this!
And holy shit, I’ve also just figured out that the killer is reading what I’m typing here. My head is spinning again. I’m calling Police Chief Jim as soon as I finish typing this.
So...
Hey Doyle! You dumb, sick, loser writer!
It’s over!
And meanwhile, you sicko, know that I’m safe in Manhattan.
I’ve told building security all about you. And hey, I know the delivery guys from both Chelsea Liquors and the Excellent Dumpling House. So don’t try to pull that old trick on me. I could safely live in my apartment here for as long as, well, a global pandemic.
I phoned Ligonier Police Chief Jim who then called that detective. The Pennsylvania State Police are after your ass, Doyle, and will probably have you in handcuffs by the time I post this.
This is cause for a celebration.
I call the liquor store for a bottle of Dorothy Parker and the Excellent Dumpling House for a delivery of their Shanghai Style Pork Fried Noodle.
Half an hour later my door buzzes. Must be the gin or dumplings delivery. I open up the door and there’s a guy wearing an Einstein shirt. I think I screamed. I know I nearly wet myself.
But it’s just Sammy from the Excellent Dumpling House. “You OK Mr. Brallier,” he asked.
“Your shirt. Your shirt,” I catch my breath,” Well the hell did you get that?”
“At the Salvation Army on Eighth Avenue. You like it?”
I grab the food and give Sammy a huge tip of relief.
I’m a wreck.
Sammy
Tomorrow (Back to the publishing stuff…really, I must.): My innocent son and the dark underbelly of publishing.