Leaning forward to tap an ash, Marino asked quietly, “What was Beryl’s book like, Doc?”
“It will break your heart and fill you with joy,” I said, my eyes welling. “It’s incredible.”
“Yeah, well, I hope it ends up published. It will sort of keep her alive, if you know what I mean.”
“I know exactly what you mean.”
I took a deep breath. “Mark’s going to see what he can do. I suppose new arrangements will have to be made. Sparacino certainly won’t be handling Beryl’s business anymore.”
“Not unless he does it behind bars. I guess Mark told you about the letter.”
“Yes,” I said. “He did.”
One of the business letters from Sparacino to Beryl that Marino had found inside her house shortly after her death took on new meaning when Mark looked at it after having read her manuscript: How interesting, Beryl, that Joe helped Gary out –makes me all the happier I originally got the two of them together when Gary bought that magnificent house. No, I don’t find it curious, at all. Joe was one of the most generous men I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. I look forward to hearing more.
That simple paragraph hinted at quite a lot, though it was unlikely Beryl had a clue. I seriously doubted Beryl had any idea that when she mentioned Joseph McTigue, she was stepping dangerously close to the forbidden turf of Sparacino’s own illicit domain, which included numerous dummy corporations the lawyer had formulated to facilitate his money laundering. Mark believed that McTigue, with his tremendous assets and real estate holdings, was no stranger to Sparacino’s illegal ways, and that, finally, the assistance McTigue had offered a financially desperate Harper had been something less than legitimate. Because Sparacino had never seen Beryl’s manuscript, he was paranoid about what she may have unwittingly revealed. When the manuscript disappeared, his incentive for getting his hands on it was more than just greed.
“He probably thought it was his lucky day when Beryl turned up dead,” Marino was saying. “You know, she’s not around to argue when he doctors her book, takes out anything that might point a finger at what he’s really into. Then he turns around, sells the damn thing, and makes a killing. I mean, who wouldn’t be interested after all the publicity he’s generated? No telling where it was going to end, either–probably with pictures of the Harpers’ dead bodies showing up in some tabloid….”
“Sparacino never got the photographs Jeb Price took,” I reminded him. “Thank God.”
“Well, whatever. Point is, after all the noise, even I’d rush out to get the damn thing, and I bet I haven’t bought a book in twenty years.”
“A shame,” I muttered. “Reading is wonderful. You should try it sometime.”
We both looked up as Rose walked in again, this time carrying a long white box tied with a luxurious red bow. Perplexed, she looked around for a clear area on my desk to set it down, then finally gave up and placed it in my hands.
“What on earth… ?” I muttered, my mind going blank.
Pushing back my chair, I set the unexpected gift in my lap and began to untie the satin ribbon while Rose and Marino looked on. Inside the box were two dozen long-stemmed beauties shining like red jewels swathed in green tissue paper. Bending over, I shut my eyes and enjoyed their fragrance; then I opened the small white envelope tucked inside.
“When the going gets tough, the tough go skiing. In Aspen after Christmas. Break a leg and join me,” the card read. “I love you, Mark.”