Читать книгу Death By Email - Carol Hadley - Страница 12

The stack of assignments piled on my desk had grown. I was looking at an all-nighter if I wanted to finish them. Even though my life was down the drain, it didn’t mean the rest of the world cared.

I worked until Smith intruded upon my concentration yet again.

“So, Miss Ingalls, you say you told a friend about your plot to kill Mr. Twitchell and this friend actually committed the crime. Is that how it happened?”

“Hardly, but I have a feeling you wouldn’t believe anything but a complete confession.”

He nodded with a smug grin, “Who is this friend? Give me a name and number so we can confirm your story.”

“Wish I could help you there, but I don’t know who she is.”

“If that’s your story, I doubt any jury’d buy it. You’re such a hotshot author, I should think you’d come up with a better alibi than that,” he scoffed, rubbing his hands together.

He was right. That traitor could get away with murder and I had supplied the method. Does that make me an accessory? I didn’t tell her to kill anyone, but where was my proof?

“So you don’t know who your friend is? Okay, I’ll bite. Explain it to me.”

“She’s someone I met online. We’ve been sort of pen pals for nearly two years. To tell you the truth, I don’t even know if she’s a she or a he!” I tried to mask my uncertainty by rearranging some pens in an old broken handled coffee mug. What have I done? Even I wouldn’t believe that lame story.

“We both want to be professional writers and began a writing challenge online — to help improve our skills. She suggested that we try to get the short stories that resulted from the exercise published. All I know about this ‘Net friend is that I’d begun to think of him or her as her over the years and that she frequently publishes freelance articles. She never told me her name and I didn’t tell her anything about myself except that I write mystery novels.”

“So, if your friend published articles, you’d know her name, wouldn’t you?” Smith sneered.

“Normally I would, but she uses a pseudonym. Something about her family not approving her work as an investigative reporter. They think it’s a dangerous occupation.”

I studied Smith, trying to measure his level of conviction. He shifted in the chair next to my desk and signaled for me to continue, his expression told me nothing.

Slightly encouraged, I continued, “We met in a chat room, sort of a support group for writers. We’d post our stories or poems or whatever and others’d read them and send feedback. I had a bad first experience and she rescued me from the sharks who only wanted to impress each other with their literary prowess by attacking me.”

That last earned me a raised eyebrow.

“Just how would I go about contacting your ‘friend’?”

“Same way I did, I guess. Go to artist-and- writer.com. Her screen name is GossipQueen. If you do make contact, don’t tell her anything personal about me, okay? We’re not supposed to know anything about each other until we meet in front of a camera on national TV.”

“Pht! Weird bunch, you artists.” He stood, stretched and wandered away. “I’ll be in touch,” he said to no one in particular.

Was that police jargon for “Don’t leave town?”