“Her first book,” I said.
“Possibly one of the few she ever signed.”
Mrs. Mc-Tigue beamed. “I believe Joe got it through Mr. Harper. Of course, there’s no other way he could have gotten it.”
“Do you have any other signed editions?”
“Not of hers. Now, I have all of her books, have read every one of them, most of them two or three times.”
She hesitated, her eyes widening. “Did it happen the way the papers depicted?”
“Yes.”
I wasn’t telling the whole truth. Beryl’s death was much more brutal than anything reported by the news.
She reached for another cheese biscuit, and for an instant seemed on the verge of tears.
“Tell me about last November,” I said. “It was almost a year ago when she came to speak to your group, Mrs. McTigue. This was for the Daughters of the American Revolution?”
“It was our annual author’s luncheon. The highlight of the year, when we have in a special speaker, an author usually someone quite well known. It was my turn to head the committee, to work out the arrangements, find the speaker. I knew from the start I wanted Beryl, but immediately ran into obstacles. I had no idea how to locate her. She didn’t have a listed telephone number and I had no idea where she lived, had no earthly idea she lived right here in Richmond! Finally, I asked Joe to help me out.”
She hesitated, laughing uncomfortably. “You know, I ‘spect I wanted to see if I could take care of the matter on my own. And Joe was so busy. Well, he called
Mr. Harper one night, and the very next morning my telephone rang. I’ll never forget my surprise.
Why, I was almost speechless when she identified herself.”
Her telephone. It hadn’t occurred to me that Beryl’s number was unlisted. There was no mention of this detail in the reports Officer Reed had taken. Did Marino know?
“She accepted the invitation, much to my delight, then asked the usual questions,” Mrs. McTigue said. “What size group we expected. I told her between two and three hundred. The time, how long she should talk, that sort of thing. She was most gracious, charming. Not chatty, though. And it was unusual. She didn’t care to bring books. Authors always want to bring books, don’t you know. They sell them afterward, autograph them. Beryl said that wasn’t her practice, and she refused the honorarium as well. It was quite out of the ordinary. She was very sweet and modest, I thought.”
“Was your group all women?” I asked.
She tried to remember. “I think a few members did bring their husbands, but most of those who attended were women. Almost always are.”
I expected as much. It was improbable Beryl’s killer had been among her admirers that November day.
“Did she accept invitations like yours very often?” I asked.
“Oh, no,” Mrs. McTigue was quick to say. “I know she didn’t, at least not around here. I would have heard about something like that and been the first to sign up. She struck me as a very private young woman, someone who wrote for the joy of it and didn’t really care for the attention.
Explaining why she used pen names. Writers who mask their identities the way she did rarely venture out
in public. And I’m sure she wouldn’t have made the exception in my case had it not been for foe’s connections with Mr. Harper.”
“Sounds like he would do most anything for Mr. Harper,” I commented.
“Why, yes. I ‘spect that’s so.”
“Have you ever met him?”
“Yes.”
“What was your impression of him?”
“I ‘spect he may have been shy,” she said. “But I sometimes thought he was an unhappy man and perhaps considered himself a bit better than everybody else. I will say he cut an impressive figure.”
She was staring off again, and the light had gone out of her eyes. “Certainly my husband was devoted to him.”
“When was the last time you saw Mr. Harper?” asked.
“Joe passed away last spring.”
“You haven’t seen Mr. Harper since your husband died?”
She shook her head and left me for a private bitter place I knew nothing of. I wondered what had really transpired between Gary Harper and Mr. McTigue. Bad business deals? An influence on Mr.