Free Edited to Death by Linda Lee Peterson Page A

that.”
    “Quentin loved Crane,” I said, “major and minor stuff. Plus, I always thought that
     poem was Crane’s premonition about his own death.”
    “Stung to death by ‘bees of paradise?’” offered Glen.
    “No,” I said. “I had come all the way here from the sea.” I sipped my drink.
    “He drowned,” said Orlando. “Under odd circumstances. Too young. A pity.” The group
     fell silent.
    I drew Gertie aside, “Who is that guy?”
    She shrugged. “Illustrator friend of Quentin’s and Glen’s. Weird little guy. Sounds
     like a bad episode of Upstairs, Downstairs whenever he opens his mouth.”
    I sensed someone in back of me and turned around. It was John Moon. “Inspector Moon,”
     I said, “Can we have a word?” He nodded and we sat together on Quentin’s buttery,
     cream-colored leather sofa.
    “I was surprised to see you at the service,” I said. “Detecting, I guess?”
    Moon gave me a non-committal smile. “Actually, I enjoyed hearing about Mr. Hart’s
     life. It made me wish I’d known him. Although that seems an unlikely thing to have
     happened.”
    “Why do you say that?”
    Moon gestured at the room, “Ms. Fiori, does this look like the kind of crowd that
     socializes with ‘the boys in blue’?”
    “I don’t know,” I said. “You’re the only ‘boy in blue’ I’ve ever met.”
    He smiled. “My point exactly.”
    Great, I thought. A cop with angst about his place in the social order. Where’s Columbo
     when you need him? “Actually.…” I began.
    “Yes?”
    I looked him up and down, from his polished loafers to his gelled and slicked back
     hair.
    I reached over to touch his sweater vest. He didn’t move.
    “Cashmere,” I said, “very nice.”
    “Point taken,” he said. “I have a weakness for good clothes.”
    “You ought to talk to Calvin Bright,” I said. “Maybe the two of you can cook up a
     threesome with his personal shopper at Saks.”
    He smiled, “My wife is Hong Kong Chinese and says she has a culturally-based passion
     for bargain-hunting. She keeps me well-dressed.”
    “So,” I said, “getting back to the case. What do we know so far?”
    “We?” said Moon.
    “Okay, you.”
    Moon cleared his throat. “Well, what have you read in the paper?”
    “The police are following leads.”
    “That’s about the size of it. The medical examiner puts the time of death at around
     11 a.m. The weapon was the walking stick, and it’s likely that the murderer was of
     medium height and right-handed. No evidence of forced entry, so our assumption is
     that the murderer was someone Mr. Hart knew. That’s the bare bones we’re releasing
     to the public, which includes you. Now, your turn to answer questions. Any new ideas
     since we talked?”
    I reported my confusion over the heavy metal music theory. Who turned it on? And why?
    “We don’t know. That’s the simple answer,” said Moon. “Mrs. DeBurgos mentioned it
     to us, and I’d wondered the same thing. But who knows? Maybe Mr. Hart decided to give
     the music a fair hearing.”
    I shook my head. “That wasn’t Quentin. There was music he liked and music he didn’t.
     Heavy metal wouldn’t merit a hearing, fair or otherwise. I think the music must mean
     something. It must be a clue.”
    “A clue? Perhaps. We’ll have to see. Meanwhile, did you find any more information
     on that story Mr. Hart wanted you to do?”
    “I never had anything,” I said. “I told your colleague that the other day. Did you
     ask Gertie? There’s not much she didn’t know about what Quentin was up to.”
    “Mr. Hart’s assistant? We did. And we’ve searched his office.”
    “The only other thing.…”
    “Yes?”
    I replayed what Stuart had just told me, that Quentin had wanted to find out more
     information about Calvin before assigning him the Cock of the Walk story. “Stuart
     said it was as if Quentin needed to know that Calvin was really a straight arrow before
     he got him involved in