Free Huckleberry Fiend by Julie Smith Page B

changed into a caftan sort of thing— kind of azure and mesmerizing— and she had a bottle of wine. “Go dry off and I’ll open this.”
    I hate being easy. But I confess that a sudden desire for a couple of drinks and a talk overwhelmed all inner resolution to get back at her by withdrawing my incredibly sterling self. Anyway, it wouldn’t have worked. Sardis just laughed when I got tough with her.
    “So tell me,” she said, as if nothing had happened, “what was the big deal about the Post-It?”
    Striving for maximum drama, I’d told her the whole yarn except for that. I produced the yellow note: “Just have a look at it.”
    “Pamela Temby. You could get saccharin poisoning just from the name.”
    “Look at the other names. Carefully.”
    “I never heard of Wolf and Kittrell. Sarah Mary Williams could be anybody.”
    “Listen to this.” I got my new copy of Huck and turned to the relevant passage.
    * * *
    “What did you say your name was, honey?”
    “M-Mary Williams.”
    Somehow it didn’t seem to me I said it was Mary before, so I didn’t look up; seemed to me I said it was Sarah; so I felt sort of cornered, and was afeared maybe I was looking it, too. I wished the woman would say something more; the longer she set still, the uneasier I was. But now she says:
    “Honey, I thought you said it was Sarah when you first come in?”
    “Oh, yes’m, I did. Sarah Mary Williams. Some calls me Sarah, some calls me Mary.”
    * * *
    It sent Sardis to Memory Lane. “That’s when he disguises himself as a girl,” she said. “But then he gives himself away because he can’t thread a needle, right?”
    “Or throw or catch like a girl.”
    “So, really, when you get right down to it, it’s another name for Huckleberry Finn . Like a code name.”
    “That’s what I think. Beverly wasn’t any fluffbrain— or if she was, at least she was one who’d almost certainly read a major work like Huck. I think she picked the name to appeal to Twain collectors. Look here.” I pointed to the way she’d repeated variations of it on the Post-It. “I think she was doodling while she made her phone calls, trying to figure out which version would go down better.”
    “Ah. And you think the people on the list are collectors— potential buyers for the manuscript.”
    “That’s right.”
    “But— Pamela Temby? ”
    I shrugged. “Just because she can’t write doesn’t mean she can’t read. Anyway, I shouldn’t say she can’t write. I’ve never read a word of hers.”
    “Lifestyles,” said Sardis, making a face, “of the rich, famous, dissolute, and revolting. But anyway— assuming she’s a collector— what about the other two? Have you ever heard of them?”
    “No, but I’m an ace reporter, remember?”
    “Just for the sake of interest— how does an ace reporter track down a name out of the blue?”
    “Easy. Gets someone else to do it.”
    The someone I had in mind was Debbie Hofer, who really was an ace, and more important, was currently employed, with access to clips. If Wolf and Kittrell were rich enough to buy the Huck Finn holograph, they’d probably made news at one time or another. I had a lot more confidence that I’d find them than that I’d find the manuscript.
    Sardis was still with me when Blick turned up the next morning. It would have been a good excuse not to invite him in, but she threw on her caftan and fled. Stepping over my threshold, Blick let his potato face take on a sneer. “Nice place.”
    Dammit, it was a nice place, but the words didn’t go with the sneer. Was he actually trying to be polite (and failing), or was he being sarcastic about my furniture? “Can I make you some coffee, Howard?”
    “You can tell me what you know about Beverly Alexander.”
    “I already told you. Nothing and zero. Zip and doodley-squat.”
    “What’s this?” He picked up the Post-It from the coffee table.
    “None of your damn business.”
    “Pretty fast company you’re keeping. Pamela