Free Edited to Death by Linda Lee Peterson Page B

this story.”
    “Straight arrow? In what way?”
    “Oh, I don’t know, as if he could be corrupted by the story—which is too weird for
     words, because we don’t even know what it was about.”
    Inspector Moon shrugged. “I don’t know. The story may be relevant, it may not. We’ll
     continue to look into it.”
    “You’re sure it wasn’t a stranger? Some intruder?”
    Moon shook his head. “Doesn’t seem likely. Whoever it was, Mr. Hart let him, or her,
     in.” He reached into a breast pocket and pulled out his card. “If you get an idea
     about anything—the music, the story—please call me.” He looked at me closely. “Let
     me emphasize that. Call me. No amateur detecting.”
    “I wasn’t.…” I protested.
    “No, but I can tell you’re interested.” He sighed. “Journalists always are. This isn’t
     a game, and it isn’t the movies. Someone out there, a specific someone, was very,
     very angry. Angry enough to commit murder. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
    I watched Moon make his way to the door. He stopped to shake hands with Michael on
     the way out. I watched them together. They seemed stiff and formal, not like two guys
     who skated together every week, joked over beers after games. At the same moment,
     they looked back into the room and caught me watching them. Inspector Moon put his
     hand on Michael’s shoulder, and leaned in close to say something. Then he was gone,
     and Michael had wandered away.
    Moon was right about my desire to meddle. I was curious and more than a little unsettled.
     Despite what Moon said, it seemed at least possible that my hot “breakthrough” story
     had something to do with Quentin’s death. Serves you right, Maggie, I thought. You
     couldn’t be happy with those fluffy little cooks-and-books stories, could you? You
     couldn’t stay on the straight and narrow path with your perfectly lovable husband,
     oh no. Let’s just see what trouble we can get into.
    I looked around the room. Beautiful people, beautiful food, lots of flushed cheeks
     and laughter as the sake and Chinese beer washed out the more sombre feelings engendered
     at the Unitarian church.
    This whole affair felt like a cross between Noel Coward and Hitchcock, and it didn’t
     feel good. Was I, or was I not, sitting in my ex-lover’s flat, wearing the hat he
     bought me, angling to retrieve my diaphragm from the bedroom, and wondering who, just
     who, among all these well dressed, well educated, well-spoken people had hated Quentin
     enough to kill him? And was there some perverse reason in the universe that the homicide
     cop investigating the murder had to be a hockey chum of my husband’s?
    I eyed the bedroom door, which opened off the living room. It was closed, and I couldn’t
     see any conceivable way to get in there and retrieve my diaphragm without calling
     attention to myself. I stirred and set out in search of Michael, and promptly ran
     into Calvin and Andrea Storch. Both wore coats and were clearly on their way out together.
    “Where are you two off to?” I asked innocently.
    “Calvin picked a fight with me about New England cooking,” said Andrea. “I’m taking
     him home for dinner to teach him a thing or two.”
    Calvin struggled without success to wipe a gloat off his face.
    As I hugged Calvin goodbye, I whispered in his ear, “One small victory for you, one
     major setback for Ms. Saks Fifth Avenue.”
    He had the decency to look embarrassed.

9
    Decisions in the French Room
    If breakfast is served in heaven, it must be catered by the Clift Hotel.
    I parked at the Union Square Garage, early enough to beat out all the professional
     shoppers, the ladies who lunch who would later prowl through Neiman Marcus, Saks,
     and Macy’s. It was five after eight by the time I hurried up Geary to the Clift. Uncle
     Alf and Claire Hart were already sipping coffee at a white linen–covered table.
    My single friends swear by the Redwood Room; all dark panels and discreet