Free Cloudland by Joseph Olshan Page B

spare a few minutes to continue searching for the Wilkie Collins, I was nevertheless unable to untangle myself from the hand that fed me until I heard the knock on the sliding glass door that led into my sunroom. “The dogs are barking because the cops are here,” I announced. “Sorry, but I got to go,” and was finally released from my editor’s burbling bondage.
    When I met Anthony and the short, squat detective at the door, I noticed Prozzo wore the same sharkskin suit he was wearing when he came to my house six weeks before in the company of the other Staties. “I’ve been on the phone with my editor in New York,” I told them. “Go on into the kitchen and give me five minutes. I’ve got basement crud all over me,” I added, patting the dogs to calm them down.
    I rushed upstairs to wash and change into a button-down shirt and a pair of tan slacks. I did a quick scan of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf in my bedroom for the missing Wilkie Collins and once again came up empty-handed. I gathered my thoughts and returned to find both men sitting at the kitchen table, Prozzo patting the big head of Mrs. Billy, my bullmastiff. Anthony was also dressed in a suit, but his was a loosely cut lightweight gabardine. I wasn’t used to seeing him so spiffy and couldn’t help wondering if it had something to do with Fiona. During the last six weeks since Wade told me about the affair, I’d been keeping an eye out but hadn’t spied her VW Beetle tootling up Cloudland.
    “What’s baking?” Prozzo said. “Smells heavenly.”
    “Canine heaven,” Anthony told him. “Dog biscuits.”
    I said, “They’ll be out of the oven in ten minutes. You’re welcome to try one. They’re actually not bad. Just a bit bland. Salt isn’t especially good for dogs.”
    “So you try out all the recipes and remedies?” Prozzo asked, crossing his legs at the ankle.
    “Have to. At least the ones that I can. One of my most popular prescriptions turns out to be what to do when your dog gets skunked. You squirt your pet with Massengill vinegar disposable douche. I didn’t have the opportunity to test it before it was published, but my readers say it does an amazing job reducing the odor.”
    “No kidding,” Prozzo said, laughing. “That’s good to know.”
    “And get this, a guy sent me the formula. I wrote back to him and asked, ‘How did you stumble upon that little miracle?’”
    Both men laughed.
    “But then I have readers who have nothing better to do than find something wrong with my concoctions. They send complaints to the newspaper syndicate, who, when they believe I’m mistaken, feel obliged to publish my errors.”
    “Even if you’ve already tried it yourself and it works?” Prozzo wondered.
    “Then I tell my editor; more often than not he backs me up. But I have been wrong a few times. And it isn’t fun to have four hundred newspapers print your failure.”
    “My wife and my daughter read your column,” Prozzo told me. “They love it. Especially those great cake recipes.”
    “Believe it or not, most of those recipes come from far-flung readers. Not some San Francisco gourmet. Sorry that I don’t have a cake on hand to offer you. Something to drink, though, either of you guys?”
    Prozzo waved his hand to say he was fine. Anthony said, “What do you have?”
    “I was about to make some hibiscus tea.”
    “Sounds great,” he said.
    “Good for cognitive brain function, apparently,” I said, again dogged by thoughts of the missing book.
    “No kidding … speaking of which,” Anthony went on. “As I was saying on the phone, Marco would like to ask you a few questions.”
    I reached for a cornflower-blue ceramic teapot, poured in water that I’d heated in an electric kettle. Facing them again, I said, “I’m dying to know whom you’re investigating.”
    Anthony and Prozzo exchanged a glance. Anthony said, “It won’t make you happy.”
    “It’s okay. My day is already getting punky.”
    Prozzo